The Ultimate Sacrifice

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Primrose didn't think there would ever be a more beautiful day than the day her son was born. Night after night she and her beloved Drogo loved each other until dawn, whispering sweet words and becoming one in ways no pen could describe. The child that was born, was the seal of their love, their future, their joy. 

But the child didn't bring joy to Primrose. 

The day it left the womb, something dark took its place. Something roaming through her veins, squeezing her heart and filling her head with terrifying images. And the nightmares... The nightmares were horrible. Bloodcurdling, frightful, horrifying. Every night Primrose woke up in sweat, her chest heaving, eyes full of tears. 

She was grateful to the cries of her little baby, for it was him who chased away the awful images by his insatiable hunger for her breast. 

It was a flaming eye which showed itself in the darkness; a ruthless, wicked eye hissing and whispering words in the darkest language on Middle Earth. And there were horses, pitch black with blood red eyes, with unearthly riders existing of shadows; making frost crawl across the ground wherever they went. 

For years, these images were torturing her. Primrose kept them to herself, afraid of the response of the others. What would they think of her? There was no room for the horrors plaguing her in the warm hobbit community, where fires were always going and meals were prepared all day long. Where young lovers danced and little kids stole pies from the table, claiming with their chocolate covered faces that they hadn't taken anything.

And so, Primula remained silent. She sequestered herself in green meadows, staring at the sky, hoping for someone to explain the darkness inside her, which poisoned her mind, extinguishing all joy. 

It was during one of those days that a white flash blinded her. Primrose fell on the ground, closed her eyes and hundreds of images flashed by. She saw a battle, a ring, two hobbits staggering through the wasteland, a monstrosity crawling behind them on hands en feet. Elvish hymns surrounded her, sad and accompanied by beautiful but sad faces, the light in their eyes slowly extinguishing. And she saw a hobbit hole. There, Bilbo was sitting, a distant cousin of her husband. He was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the fire, telling the little Frodo about his adventures. A smile was drawn on his innocent face and his eyes were sparkling, while he was clapping his hands in admiration. 

That was the image that was painted the most vividly in her mind when she sat up again. She rubbed her wet eyes. Suddenly she felt cold. A chilly breeze swirled around her, and right when a shiver crept down her spine, the wind became warm and whispered:

Frodo has an extraordinary destiny. The continuation of the world like you know it, will depend on him. But your fate is no longer intertwined with his fate. Your husband and you have to follow another path, far away from here. 

The words repeated themselves, hour after hour, day after day, year after year. They were hidden in every thought crossing her mind, in every breath leaving her lips, in every glance she caught of her growing son. 

. . .

Drogo had loved his wife, more than anything else in Middle Earth. But somewhere in time, he had lost her. She was only a ghost of the woman she used to be, and the hope that she would find back the joy of life, had evaporated more than once. 

But never for good. Always there had been that spark of hope; hope there was still something left of the woman he had loved so much, but who had turned into a stranger along the way. It was during one of these hopeful days that she grabbed his hand. A rare brilliance was in her brown eyes, and immediately his love for her seeped back into his heart. 

"Let us make a boat trip," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "You and me, just like the old days."

Hesitating, Drogo glanced through the window. They had just finished their meal; it would be dark soon. "Now?"

"Of course, my love. What can happen to us on the Brandywine? Nothing, right?" She laughed – for the first time in years, it seemed. 

Drogo squeezed her hand. He wanted nothing more than spending time with her. Maybe the fragments of their marriage could still be glued together. And if not –  maybe he would finally be able to discover what had changed her so much. 

Primrose's niece offered to look after Frodo, and with hands laced Drogo and Primrose strolled to the river, getting into the boat. Drogo felt delighted, surprised by the sudden change of his wife's behavior. As he rowed to the middle of the river, he told her about the party his third cousin would celebrate within three days and he described the cakes he planned to bake. 

The more distance they covered, the quieter Primrose became. A nasty feeling flared up in his chest, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. Was this his fault? Was he doing something wrong? He let go of the paddles and looked his wife in the eye. 

"Please tell me what's weighing so heavy on your heart, my dear."

She bent over, covering her delicate face with her hands. "It's our son, Drogo." She started to sob. 

Drogo didn't understand a thing. What about their son? Frodo was a good boy, he wouldn't hurt a fly. Why would she worry about him? 

"It's all right, my love." Wobbly, he stood up. He wanted to sit down next to her to comfort her, but suddenly she got up and pushed him backwards. Drogo fell overboard. 

Suddenly, the water was everywhere around him. He was lashing out, trying to grasp something. His groping fingers found something soft and wet. It was his wife. She wrapped her arms around him. 

"I'm sorry, my sweet Drogo," she whispered, crying. "But there's no place for us in Frodo's story. It's someone else who will guide him through life. If we remain a part of his life... he will never become the man he is destined to be."

Primrose's embrace was suffocating. Because of her extra weight, they soon disappeared under water; neither of them could swim. They sank deeper and deeper. Drogo was squirming, fighting to reach the surface, but the arms of his wife around him were like an unbreakable chain and the darkness surrounding them became darker; ever thicker, ever more definitive. 


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