Cold, cold the mountains: bare, snow-lined under a cold blue sky.
Little orphan, you are not snow-blind, light-blind, though you see nothing but darkness.
Parents lost in a dark tide, you were claimed by another, and for many years in the sun you breathed light. Then a flash and he was gone, the wily adventure, seeking old roads, magic and quiet. Still, Gandalf remained to you: master of fire, teller of tales, bearer of foreign tidings--the affection of a grandfather. Fit mentor, the old man, for a preternatural young hobbit.
Now all is despair.
He fell in shocking, heroic death--you saw it all. You screamed, screamed until your voice, too, was eaten by the darkness. Your vast, layered agony echoes
still through the bones of Moria.
As from another world, the servant-king calls. "Frodo!"
Yes...that was your name. Long ago, in the light, that was your name.
Now you are Ringbearer.....a christening of doom.
Like the lost little lamb you were and are, you turn at the sound, slow with blank despair, unseeing. You answer with whimpers of pain too deep to bear...with tears which reflect no light.
The night has already fallen.