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It’s cold.
It’s cold and his stomach hurts and his innards are twisting in on themselves and the tears keep flowing down his cheeks. His breath heaves against the fog, the wet grass soaks his aching legs. His tongue tastes like vomit. There’s no moon, no stars, no light in the cold little copse where he sat.
It’s appropriate.
Quiet rustling breaks the silence. A light breaks the dark and death, a friendly smile barely visible under an enormous hat. “My lad.”
Frodo wipes his eyes. “... Gandalf.”
“‘Tis me.” Gandalf sits down, taking a long draw on his pipe and breathing out slowly.
Silence falls as Gandalf blows smoke-rings, the smoke flowing up and vanishing into the chill. Tears make a sad little river down Frodo’s round cheeks, vanishing into the dirt with nothing to show for their existence.
Frodo breaks the silence. “... Oh, goodness, I am… so sorry.”
“For?”
“I… Gandalf, I… I wanted to…” Sobs break from his lips. “I… oh, it’s unspeakable!”
Gandalf takes a minute, and a puff, before responding. “Would you try to speak it?”
Frodo grunts. “... I… oh, dear…” He shakes his head. “... I wanted to keep it. In… the end. I didn’t want to… let it go.”
“The Ring?” Gandalf’s voice betrays no emotion.
A barely audible yes echoes between the two and hangs there in the fog.
Finally, Gandalf sighs heavily. “Sam told me as much when I inquired about your finger. I was concerned that that would come to be. That, I suppose, is why the Fellowship was just that, a fellowship.”
“... I failed,” Frodo whispered. “... And I am… so, so sorry.”
Warm hands come down to caress against Frodo’s hair. “You were one little Hobbit fighting the weight of all the Shadow over Middle-Earth. You gave everything you had to give and more. No one would berate you for needing help, and if they would, I doubt that they know the weight of such a burden.”
Frodo falls bonelessly against Gandalf, and Gandalf lifts him into his arms, into warmth and safety and the smell of smoke and leaf. Seething insides quiet, and the sharp things in his chest soothe into something dull and soft. Pointy little ears ring against the silence.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s shaking.
“Let’s come inside,” Gandalf murmurs. “It’s cold out, I don’t want you to catch anything.”
Frodo only nods.
Gandalf picks him up on one arm, carrying him into the warmth of Nienna’s halls and laying him down on a large, comfortable couch in his quarters. A heavy, soft blanket drapes over him, wrapping him tightly. Panic wells in his small chest when Gandalf pulls away, but when the old wizard sits down next to him it quells.
“... You did well,” Gandalf murmurs. “You have done very well.”
Frodo grunts in reply. “... Thank you.”
Warm hands ruffle through Frodo’s hair affectionately. “Of course, my lad.”