Written By:
Aearloth LindirYou can Read the
Original Here: This work is credited to the original author
Playing with Fire
He was leaning on his elbows, looking out over the city, watching the play of coloured light on the white walls. Memory and more than memory drifted through his mind as the astonished gasps from the crowded streets signalled another explosion. Fire bloomed in the air, vanishing almost before it was seen. Silver stars wheeled and burst only just out of reach, or so it seemed to him as he watched the rockets explode over his head.
* * *
“Well, of course we must have Gandalf bring his fireworks!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Have I ever told you about the Old Took’s Birthday Party?”
He had, many times, but Frodo wasn’t going to say anything. He loved Bilbo’s description of the fireworks.
“They were the most brilliant things I’ve ever seen. He seemed to set the very air on fire with his clever contraptions. It was drizzling a bit, and I remember Gandalf worrying if the fireworks were going to light. But they did, and oh, the colours, Frodo-my-lad! Every spark lit the raindrops and made a thousand faceted rainbows go scattering over the air.”
Frodo had to smother a smile behind his hand. Bilbo had a dreamy expression on his face, lost in memory of beauty.
* * *
Another explosion shivered the air as sparks of a thousand colours sprang into the night like stars against the blackness. A fountain of fire coated the sky as if the very air was ablaze, and more fire-flowers blossomed across the sky in multi-colours.
Could he touch one? Reach one? What would it feel like to be soaring so high over Middle Earth, lighting the sky with your dying blaze of glory?
* * *
He was dancing with one of the Bolger girls when the first rocket exploded over their heads, showering the awed hobbits with golden and silver sparks that never quite seemed to touch them. In amazement, he pulled his partner out of the dance and they stood together on the edge of the square, watching as rockets like phalanxes of fiery swans flew above them, as silver spears sprang up around them with a scream and extinguished themselves in the Water with a hiss, as fire-flowers blossomed sweetly only inches above their wondering, upturned faces. It was the most magical thing he had ever seen. The stars themselves were dancing.
* * *
Lost in the beauty, Frodo was more than a little surprised when his elbow slipped from the window ledge and his hand struck the lip of the sill with some force. It sent a spasm of pain up from the missing finger, and he had to wait for a few moments until it eased. In the light of the little candle standing on the table behind him, the scar seemed livid red.
* * *
“Frodo! Frodo!” It was Fredegar Bolger, with Folco Boffin and little Merry Brandybuck running behind him.
“Frodo, look what we’ve got!” called Merry excitedly. “Gandalf didn’t even see us take them!”
Folco was holding a handful of cylinders wrapped in various colours. There were two blue ones, three red ones and two greens. They were…
“Fireworks!” crowed Merry. “Frodo, will you light them for us?”
Just that morning, Bilbo had given Frodo a beautiful silver-and-gold striker set. “For when you get your first pipe, my lad,” he had smiled. “Not long from now, I shouldn’t think.”
Frodo had been itching to have something to light all day, and this opportunity had presented itself so conveniently that he wondered if it was indeed coincidence. Gandalf had brought a huge supply of firecrackers, squibs, elf-fountains, dwarf-candles, thunder-claps and goblin-barkers with him for the party celebrating Frodo’s twenty-fourth and Bilbo’s one-hundred-and-third birthdays, though none had been let off yet. Frodo had been waiting impatiently for Gandalf to set off the first one, and now it seemed that it would be he who had that honour. He grinned and took the first of the blue cylinders from Folco.
Tilting it on its end, he saw a couple of runes on the bottom, but couldn’t read them in the faint light. After a moment, he figured he should light the fuse and then drop the tube. Making sure that Merry, Folco and Freddy were standing well back, he lit the tape and jumped back as quickly as he could.
There was a terrific BANG and Merry shrieked in alarm as the tube exploded into the sky, shedding sparkling drops of sapphire fire behind it. Freddy and Folco were staring open-mouthed at the firework as it fizzled out and dropped to the ground.
“Light another one,” begged Folco. This time, Frodo chose a green one that screamed into the sky before dying out into white flames. Merry’s eyes were wide as he followed the rocket’s flight.
“Try lighting more than one at once,” Freddy suggested. Frodo hesitated a moment, remembering how fast the first two had flared up.
“Give me two of the red ones,” he said at last. The fuse on these seemed to be slightly longer than the others, and he figured that if he was really fast, he could light the second one before the first one exploded, and still have time to jump back.
But the second fuse wouldn’t seem to catch. Realising that the flame was edging dangerously close to the first rocket, Frodo dropped the cylinder into the grass, where it exploded with a wave of red flame and a sound like a thunder-crack.
Folco and Freddy both yelled at the same time. Frodo suddenly saw that the fuse of the second firework had indeed caught, and tried to throw it to the ground. But he wasn’t quite quick enough.
A muffled boom, a flash of red and a terrible scream slashed the air like a knife. Gandalf, who had been growing increasingly suspicious about the various bangs coming from the edge of the field, was already coming over. At the sound of the scream, he actually began to run, realising too late what had happened.
When he arrived at the clearing, the first thing he saw was Frodo kneeling on the ground, cradling his right hand, mouth still open in the awful scream of pain. The remains of the squib lay in the grass - thankfully it had been damp, and so the effects had not been as cataclysmic as they could have been. Dropping to his knees, Gandalf easily picked Frodo up and carried him away from the clearing towards the better-lit food tents where Bilbo was looking up, worried, as the sound of a youngling’s pain died away into the blackness of unconsciousness.
“You were extremely lucky,” said Gandalf. “That firework wasn’t covered properly, and the powder inside was damp. Had it not been, you probably would have lost the hand and maybe the eye on that side as well. As it is, you’re going to have to be very careful with that hand for several weeks until the blisters are fully healed. No writing at all for three weeks and then for only a few minutes at a time until the skin has completely healed.”
Frodo and Bilbo both nodded, the latter determinedly, the former miserably. Frodo was sitting on his bed, his right hand swollen and livid red with blisters under the white bandages. It was the day after the party, and Frodo was seriously regretting lighting the fireworks. Gandalf and Bilbo had both been furious, and he had sat, white-faced and tight-lipped, through two lectures about how irresponsibly he had behaved. When at last he had summoned up the courage to murmur “I’m sorry,” Gandalf had just harrumphed, and carried on lecturing him.
“No writing at all?” Bilbo asked.
“Nothing that will use his right hand overmuch,” answered Gandalf. “It may be difficult for him to hold a knife and fork at first, so you may have to help him.”
“I’m sorry,” Frodo whispered again. “I really didn’t think…”
“No, you didn’t,” snapped Gandalf, still angry at the fright the youngster had given him. But Bilbo gave the smallest shake of his head when he saw Frodo bite his bottom lip.
“It’s alright, my lad,” he sighed. “In a couple of days, it won’t hurt so much. Didn’t you listen when I told you not to play with Gandalf’s fireworks?”
* * *
The largest firework yet roared into the sky and exploded in fire. In the ringing silence that followed, Frodo realised that he was falling asleep where he leant on the windowsill. He blinked and looked out of the window again. Drifts of grey-white smoke floated over the sky, lit from underneath by the bonfires with a yellowish glare. The air smelled of sulphur and smoke, sharpness that cut the back of the throat like a knife.
* * *
The air smelled of sulphur and heat, burning rock and melting earth. The sharp tang of Sam’s blood and his own. The choking fumes and smoke that had been all their air for so long. Yet for all the weight of the heat pressing into him from all sides, he felt curiously light. It was gone, forever. He was free.
He swallowed painfully and looked around. A stone, blazing as it erupted from the top of the fire-mountain, sprayed liquid fire into the air as it crashed through the molten rock spewing from the maw of the Mountain. Fountains of fire rushed into the air, rising red and falling in black strands back to the fire again. Red fire, black stone. Red blood, blackened skin. He blinked dazedly and felt his legs begin to give way. He was held only by Sam now, nearly collapsing into the darkness.
Distantly, he heard himself speaking, but wasn’t absolutely certain of the words. He heard Sam’s entreaty to move further down the path, and knew he replied, for Sam began to make his way down the mountain, leading Frodo. His mind seemed to be gradually detaching itself from his body, and the only thing he really noticed was the play of the red light on the black rock as stone melted and earth gave way in the fury of the Mountain.
“Mr Frodo, what are you looking at?”
“The fire-fountains,” he murmured faintly. “The fire-fountains, Sam… they look like Gandalf’s fireworks…”
* * *
It had been Merry and Pippin’s idea to pester Gandalf into making a fireworks display for the crowning of King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, though Frodo and Sam had played their part. When at last he had relented and begun to assemble the components he needed, Frodo had realised that the fireworks would never be ready in time. He was right, and it was in fact several weeks after they had arrived in the Citadel when Gandalf had announced that the fireworks were at long last ready for firing.
Frodo caught himself yawning and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. From the increasing number of bangs and loud reports above the White City, he guessed that the display was coming to an end.
The Rohirrim, whose only experience with exploding powder had been at Helm’s Deep when the wall was blasted apart, were shocked and amazed to see the beauty of the fires that trailed across the clear night sky. Frodo found himself wondering anew how ones such as Saruman and Sauron managed to turn such power for good to such potential for evil. Cupping his chin in his hands, he let his mind drift again as he watched the fireworks build towards their spectacular finale.
A white fountain of fire shot up with a sound like singing birds, and spread over the whole sky like a great tapestry with fire for threads and stars for pins. A pillar of dark smoke roiled up, reaching for the perfection of the crackling white sheet but failing at the last moment. The blinding silver light fell downwards, engulfing the dark pillar and destroying it completely. Then, as the pillar became white as snow, it seemed to splinter at the top, breaking into branches, twigs, leaves, flowers - the White Tree bloomed in fire over the city of Minas Tirith, shining in the rejoicing that at last its King had come.
And Frodo’s heart soared with the flames.
* * * Epilogue* * *
“Frodo? Frodo my lad, come and see this!” Bilbo sounds very excited, and Frodo wonders what could have made the old hobbit so enthusiastic. Making his way carefully over the beach to his uncle’s side, Frodo stares down at the Sea lapping his feet. Small sparkles seem to be threaded into it.
“Frodo, watch this!” Bilbo picks up a stone and throws it far out into the water. Where it falls, little sparks twinkle in the depths. Frodo picks up his own stone and does the same, watching in curiosity and astonishment as the same thing happens.
“What is it?” he breathes, watching the green lights fade.
“The Elves call it water-fire, loosely translated. Lord Elrond tells me that there are little creatures that make this light when you disturb them. Look, it works even better when you skim a stone over the waves.”
Frodo crouches down and runs his hand through the cool water, marvelling as tiny green flames seem to gather around his hand. “What would happen if you tried swimming in it?”
The moment Frodo ducks under the water, green and silver flames erupt around him as his own Light answers the shining of the Sea. Sparkles trail in the wake of his passing and he lets out an exhilarated laugh as he breaks the surface. Waves roll past him to crash on the beach, lighting the Sea to answer the heavens high above. Frodo turns and dives back under the water, not knowing how the glory of his passage has caught the attention of several Elves, who stand on the beach by Bilbo and watch as the shining Ringbearer Iorhael seems to dance through the waves, surrounded by fire the colour of new leaves. Trails of green follow him and trace paths through the water.
As emerald glints catch in Frodo’s hair and surround his whole body, he suddenly knows what it feels like to be one of Gandalf’s fireworks, lighting the sky with a blaze of glory made of your whole being. And he revels in the wonder of it all, a firework of his own making, a star fallen to earth in emerald and silver fire, dancing on the Sea.
