Mechtild (mechtild) wrote,
Mechtild
mechtild

Gorgoroth Pt. II ~ The Eye bears down, with jan-u-wine's "Last Day".....

~*~

I intend to let the text and pictures do the talking for the remainder of these “Gorgoroth” entries (four in all).

I am also including a poem by jan-u-wine in each of the entries, since she has written a number of excellent pieces that depict Frodo in this section of his story.

Actually, I was inspired to make these screencaps because of reading her poem, Last Day (posted below the screencaps).

I have featured jan-u-wine’s poetry before, poems she wrote to go with Frodo Art Travesties. But of all her nuanced, deeply felt Frodo poetry, this poem may be my favourite of all. I have never read a portrayal of Frodo suffering on Gorgoroth that affected me more deeply or which lingered more in my mind.


* * *


The Tolkien Text.

It was a land in which it would be possible to creep from hiding to hiding, unseen by all but the most watchful eyes: possible at least for one who was strong and had no need for speed. For the hungry and worn, who had far to go before life failed, it had an evil look.

Thinking of these things Sam went back to his master. He had no need to rouse him. Frodo was lying on his back with eyes open, staring at the cloudy sky. ‘Well, Mr. Frodo,’ said Sam, ‘I’ve been having a look round and thinking a bit. There’s nothing on the roads and we’d best be getting away while there’s a chance. Can you manage it?’

‘I can manage it,’ said Frodo. ‘I must.’


* * *


For the hobbits each day, each mile, was more bitten than the one before, as their strength lessened and the land became more evil. They met no enemies by day. At times by night, as they cowered or drowsed uneasily in some hiding beside the road, they heard cries and the noise of many feet or the swift passing of some cruelly ridden steed. But far worse than all such perils was the ever-approaching threat that beat upon them as they went: the dreadful menace of the Power that waited, brooding in deep thought and sleepless malice behind the dark veil about its Throne. Nearer and nearer it drew, looming blacker, like the oncoming of a wall of night at the last end of the world.

There came at last a dreadful nightfall; and even as the Captains of the West drew near to the end of the living lands, the two wanderers came to an hour of blank despair. Four days had passed since they had escaped from the orcs, but the time lay behind them like an ever-darkening dream. All this last day Frodo had not spoken, but had walked half-bowed, often stumbling, as if his eyes no longer saw the way before his feet. Sam guessed that among all their pains he bore the worst, the growing weight of the Ring, a burden on the body and a torment to his mind. Anxiously Sam had noted how his master’s left hand would often be raised as if to ward off a blow, or to screen his shrinking eyes from a dreadful Eye that sought to look in them. And sometimes his right hand would creep to his breast, clutching, and then slowly, as the will recovered mastery, it would be withdrawn.

Now as the blackness of night returned Frodo sat, his head between his knees, his arms hanging wearily to the ground where his hands lay feebly twitching. Sam watched him, till night covered them both and hid them from one another. He could no longer find any words to say; and he turned to his own dark thoughts.


~ From “Mt. Doom”, The Return of the King.


































































































Last Day

~ by jan-u-wine


He can't.

No.

Not any more.

A sole thought,
stumbling

in the growing darkness,
stuttering

like his feet upon the
broken rock,

like the breath it hurt to draw,
like the pain that came and went,

like the grey mist of wanting
shadows,

advancing and retreating,
brand-hot,

cold as sheen'd death,
but surely not as welcome.

And he imagines he hears
water,

trickling,

though he does not know
longer

what that might be.

Only........

his mouth opens at the sound
and

a noise
which might have been

"please"
tears at his throat,

trickles red lacings from his lips.

Only yesterday

(though now yesterday,

today,
tomorrow,
might as well be but one

for all he knows),

only yesterday
he still remembered who he was

and where

and
why.

Yesterday,
the clothes he wore

chafed him,
body and mind,

with crawling filth.

Yesterday,
if he could but recall now,

some small pain
(for small it was, among all the others)

reminded him,
sharp as a tooth,

that,
wealth of water or no,

still
he must needs relieve himself.

And finds, shamedly,
that he already has,

scant dark moisture
trailing without note

down raw thighs,
legs grimed with worse than
this simple fluid.

And that small feeling,
the last in a vast land
of others,

is enough to send him
tumbling away from himself,

eyes shut
against flame-clouded night.

He can stand,
upon the morrow,

stand and move

step
and
step

and step
again.


And so he does,
the small voice

that whispers
'can't'

stilled at last
beneath a burden of gold.





~*~~*~~*~





Jan-u-wine's Lord of the Rings-based poetry can be found at LotR Scrapbook.


Forward to Pt. III of Gorgoroth caps.


Back to Pt. I of Gorgoroth caps.


Click HERE for table of other Frodo screencap entries.


~ Mechtild
Tags: frodo screencaps, jan-u-wine, return of the king
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