Faint Now and Far by Arveldis  

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Faint Now and Far

Written for Tolkien Horror Week 2026 day 4: “out of the mist | awake and asleep.” While this is inspired in large part by Tolkien’s poem “The Sea-Bell/Frodo’s Dreme,” included in The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, you don’t need to have read the poem to understand this, although it would add more meaning.

This takes place the year after the destruction of the Ring, during which time Frodo is troubled by “dark dreams” on the anniversaries of Weathertop and his time in Shelob’s lair.

The damp grass of the downs bent beneath Frodo’s feet as he roved beneath the night. A mist crept over the hills, shrouding him in a mantle of cold. He moved without purpose, and yet found, as always, that his feet led him to the sea and the silent docks at its edge.

Shadows of spires loomed from the mist, and a bell began to peal, clear and ringing, undimmed by cloud or distance. Frodo could not tell if it rang from above or from over the sea, carried over the leagues by the stillness of the night. But it called to him, beckoning, throbbing in his ears and in his heart, and he followed it to where a boat bobbed alone against the docks, waiting.

He stepped inside and cast off the rope that lashed it to the dock. No oars lay within, but as he sat down a breeze lifted, and the boat slipped from its holding and set its prow over the murmuring waves. Around him, the mist washed into the sea, thinning but not wholly dissipating.

A silent wind, cold, cleaving, sent the boat skimming over the waves. Frodo shivered beneath its chill and wrapped his cloak more tightly about him, but it could not keep out the searching cold that seeped from skin to bone like the dripping of ice. The wind swelled, silent and yet keening in his heart, and the boat strode over the waves, casting spray from its bows and shaking off the clinging mists.

Frodo huddled in his seat, hearing still the throbbing of the bell in his heart, drawing him over the endless sea. Around him, the mists thickened, muffling even the thump and thwack of the waves against the hull. 

Shapes rose suddenly out of the mist, like mountains drifting rootless upon the seas, and blotted out the night. As the mists thinned, Frodo caught the jutting limbs of spars, rising like arms lifted to forbid entrance. Broken hulls lay swollen upon the rocky beach, like creatures dragged from the deeps and flung ashore, left to bloat and fester upon the sand. Torn sails, still despite the wind that drove the boat ever onward, hung from splintered masts in silent warning. Come no further.

Somewhere, Frodo thought, there must lie the bones of those who had foundered—broken on the rocks that heaved out of the sea or strewn on the shore, bound in the cold ribbons of the tide-wrack, or else tumbled against the roots of the island far below, flung ever against them by the endless tumult of the sea.

He turned, chilled, and was grateful when the boat set its prow away from the isle. But other shadows caught at his eyes as the boat hurried over the waves: spars outstretched in supplication, their wrecks broken upon half-sunken islands, far from the ensnaring isles, and yet not far enough. The waves beneath him seemed suddenly too shallow, lapping over teeth of stone unseen, and yet fathomless, for who knew how far below lay the roots of the sea, and what currents stirred beneath the surface?

He held himself very still and scarcely dared to breathe as the boat sailed on.

Suddenly, great cliffs, bone-white in the night, loomed out of the mist. Caught in the froth of the waves, the boat scurried toward them until Frodo thought he might wreck upon the cliffs, timbers and bones alike falling to their white feet far below. But at the last minute, the boat turned and slipped along the cliffs, until Frodo glimpsed a crack within them, and the boat slipped within. The cliffs rose on either side of him now, high and white and utterly insurmountable.

And faintly, as if he heard it from a distance, or—stranger than anything he had seen yet—as if it came from underwater or within thick stone, he heard a rising chorus of cries, and the beating of metal, as of blade upon shield, or pick upon stone. He turned and craned his head in search of the sound. But try as he might, he could see only the sheer face of the cliff, white and blank and sealed fast.

He had a sudden vision of hands beating bloodily upon rock, of rusted swords and shields splintering upon stone, of voices silenced beneath the heaving bulk of the earth. Where are you? he cried, or thought he did, turning about wildly for the source of the sound. But the waves rose against the cliffs, drowning the cries and the clanging beneath the thunder of their voices, and he heard no more.

Troubled, Frodo gripped the sides of the boat as it lurched suddenly and dragged, and then stopped. Peering over the side, he saw that he had landed upon a beach, strangely glittering even in the darkness of the night, catching light that he could not see, for no moon shone upon the shore; no stars glinted above the hoary heads of the cliffs.

Leaning over the side of the boat, he trailed his fingers through the sand and drew up a fistful. It glimmered in his palm like flakes of adamant, soft and sharp and shimmering. He cast it into the lapping waves, where it glinted like the sun upon water, even in the shade of night and mist, then sank.

The sand clung cold and clasping to his feet as he clambered out and crossed the shore. Still in his heart he heard the throbbing of the bell, leading him over the gleaming sand and beneath the long shadow of the cliffs. Dark mouths opened at their feet, from which flowed the voice of the sea, echoing strangely upon the walls, as if splintered. Frodo hurried away. It reminded him too much of the voices trapped within the cliffs.

A grassy hill rose before him, its crown lost in the night and mist. From its summit came the clear ringing of a bell, as if calling out the hour or drawing in ships from the sea. Frodo set his foot upon the grassy slope, drawn as a moth to a candle.

As he drew nearer to the crown of the hill, it seemed to gleam in the night, as if crowned with light. A light pulsed through the night, shining out to the sea below. This, Frodo thought, was what had illuminated the sand, though he wondered why he had not seen it shining down.

White spires rose into the mist; white walls rose up to surround them, and stairs, clear as crystal, appeared beneath his feet and led him to the gates of the city, many times the height of a man. A white road led through the city, beneath terraces garlanded with flowers he could not name and past fountains of falling silver. Towers rose ever higher, coroneted with gold and silver, and at their feet flowed silent streams that fell from terrace to terrace. Far above shone a silver light that fell like rain upon the city beneath, netting the trees and lawns with silver.

No breeze stirred the leaves of the trees; no wind walked through the grass; no birds danced or swooped among the towers. All was silent and frozen but for the trickle of the streams and fountains, falling endlessly in sprays of silver.

“Hello!” Frodo called and heard his voice echo back to him, like the striking of hammer on steel. “Is anyone there?”

No voice answered but that of the bell, ringing still from somewhere above. And yet Frodo’s skin prickled, as if unseen eyes watched him. He felt suddenly that he had done something very wrong, and resolved to keep his silence, unless he should meet another.

He followed the voice of the bell ever higher, over bridges that leapt high above the falling waters beneath and up curving tower stairs that took him above the mists so that he could look out over the dark lands beyond that slept beneath white shrouds, dim and distant.

But wherever Frodo went, following the toll of the bell, he saw no sign of inhabitants—no voices spilled from the open windows; no footfalls echoed down the streets; no light shone from window or lamp but for the silver light that fell over all. For all of the beauty of the city and all the frozen splendor of its towers and gardens, Frodo could not shake the chill that had formed about his heart. He found himself looking over his shoulder or peering down shadowed streets, expecting to see someone—something—slinking in his shadow or scurrying out of sight.

But the shadows stood as if pinned to the white walls of the towers, and his ears caught no sound but the frightened puff of his breath and the endless toll of the bell.

A great square opened before him, its gates framed between the stone boles of two trees, their branches joining over his head in a lacework of gold and silver. Gold and silver leaves lay in drifts about his feet, and he saw that they drifted down from the boughs overhead. Catching one in his palm, he saw that it was indeed made of gold, thin and supple, and etched with many veins, as if it had its life from the stone roots of the tree. He bent and gathered more from the ground, stuffing them within his pockets.

The bell tolled, louder, and Frodo looked up. 

A white tree stood within the square, its leaves and branches limned in silver, and a great mansion, many-pillared and gilded with gold, rose behind it. And behind the mansion rose a tower taller and mightier than any Frodo had yet seen. Its light went out over the city, and all the square about the feet of the tower was lit as if it were day, but for where the shadow of the tower lay like night.

Frodo darted into the shadow of the tower, feeling as if he stood beneath a great, searching eye as it cast its light out over the city and onto the silver swell of the sea. He felt very small and out of place, as if he had stepped into some place forbidden.

The bell tolled suddenly, fulminous.

Frodo started and nearly cried out. The bell’s voice echoed, reverberating against the walls of the square and the walls of his heart. He cast himself to the ground, clapping his hands over his ears.

A voice cried out in an ancient tongue, grieved and full of wrath. Shadows like the fluttering of torches danced upon the white walls of the courtyard, and voices rang out in answer to the first like drawn steel, fell and filled with fury.

Doom, doom, tolled the bell.

The ground trembled beneath Frodo, as if an army smote upon the walls of the square, or many hundreds of feet pounded through the streets.

Frodo fled, heedless of where he ran, intent only on escape. He stumbled and fell and scrambled up again, over bridges and down tower stairs, through gates and winding streets, until he found his way at last to the gates of the city and fell spent on the grass outside the walls.

Doom, doom, tolled the bell. But its voice was quieter, and it held no hold now upon Frodo.

He lay prone in the grass, catching his breath in heaving gasps, until the dew soaked through his cloak and coat alike, and he felt the chill fingers of the mist once again probing at him. He rose unsteadily, weary, and made his way slowly down the hill.

At the base of the hill flowed a slender rill, its voice bright and clear in the night, and he knelt and drank until the weariness fell from him, and his fears flowed away with the water. He rose, heartened, and set forth with renewed vigor. The land about the city rippled with hills, and Frodo climbed into meadows and pastures that slept beneath the mists and dreamed of summer’s warmth. He walked through shadowed woods, where breezes sighed and wept.

On he walked until he came to the shores of a pool, glassy and still, where lilies floated like many moons scattered upon its surface. Willows bent weeping over the banks, and alders slept beyond, dreaming the deep dreams of trees. Frodo knelt at the edge of the pool and looked within. The water shone clear, and fallen stars winked up at him from its depths. He felt somehow that the pool was much deeper than it seemed, clear though it was, and that if he dabbled his toes in it, he might find himself suddenly sinking, or else that he would drowse and wake only to find that many days or years had passed.

He hurried away from the edge of the pool. Many other pools lay nearby, some clouded with mists that beckoned him nearer. These he walked to as if in a dream, his thoughts melting into the mist and his feet moving without his willing them to, until suddenly he found himself on his hands and knees at the water’s edge, peering at his face as it slipped and melted away and left something hollow and unfamiliar peering back at him.

With a shudder, he scrambled away on his hands and knees, panting as if he had run a great distance, until trees rose up around him, shielding him from the enchantment of the pools. He walked into glades sweetly scented with night-blooming flowers, and the fragrance of them tamed the terror that had risen in his heart, until he walked unburdened, pausing here and there to sit at the foot of a tree and rest. Vines unwound themselves from the trunk of the yew, stroking his skin so softly that his head nearly nodded. He drowsed, or dreamed he did, and into his dreams came visions of fathomless pools he might lay beside and dream for a hundred years without waking, and flowers so sweet they stole all thought, and willows that held him within their roots and fed him dreams of light and water and the whispers of leaves.

He woke between the knobby knees of a yew, dreaming of roots that sank beneath the waters of the pools and drank the waters of dreams. He felt half-tree himself, stiff and parched and seeking the water of the earth beneath his fingertips, until he realized that his fingers were buried in the earth, nearly to his wrists, and his toes as well, and that he was held fast by the green fingers of the vines, clutching his elbows and ankles.

Thrashing, he freed himself and ran on. Paths shaped themselves before him, then split and faded, then appeared again in another direction, now faint and overgrown, now wide and clear. He stumbled through the trees, crashing through them gracelessly. He ran through gardens of willows and silver fountains, clawing through curtains of wisteria and jasmine so heady with scent that his head throbbed, and his mind strayed once more to the dreams of trees, slow and silent. 

Strange lights bobbed in the twilight, beckoning, as if they could show him the way out of the miasma of mists and scent, but when he followed them, he saw that they led into pools and the green veils of the willows, and caution at last overruled him, and he ran blindly away from anything that beckoned. 

The lights bobbed in the corners of his eyes and then winked out, one by one. Willow fingers brushed his hair, but he shook himself free. He ran until weariness at last overcame him, and he fell to the ground, senseless. 

When he woke, he lay in a hollow between two hills, and the mists again flowed over the ground. He rose, chilled, and shook the dew from his cloak, then stood and listened. A river burbled sedately through thickets of reeds and irises. And faintly he heard the echoes of song, trickling down from the hills like rivers of silver: flutes and pipes and voices clear.

He called out, and at the first word, the voices vanished, until presently they took up again on another hill, and he cried out again. But wherever he went, the voices fled before him, leading him endlessly through the mists until he found himself again by the reeds of the burbling stream, tired and spent.

A hot anger built within him, and he drew out the leaves he had taken from outside the city square and shaped them into a crown of silver and gold and a ring fit for a king. He pulled up reeds and weeds and made for himself a mantle of river-green. Thus outfitted, he strode forth into the hills, calling out a challenge. “Why do none speak, wherever I go?” His voice echoed over the empty hills, but he strode on undeterred. “Show yourselves!”

He seized for himself another reed to use as a staff, and then paused. A circle of light burned upon the stump of his finger. He lifted his hand to the level of his eyes. Beneath the sheen of its light, his fingers were shadows, and the land about him fell into dim darkness, for no beauty he had yet seen, or dreamt he had seen, could compare to the luster of its light. 

He lifted reed-mace and ring aloft and cried out again. “Here now I stand crowned and fitted with kingly things, and shall make myself king of this land. Answer me, if you would challenge me!”

The mists thickened, swallowing his words, and it seemed that night fell in an instant, deeper and darker than when he had first set foot upon the shore. No light illuminated the ground before him now; no path lay gleaming before his feet. He stumbled in the darkness, crawling on hands and feet. The ring gleamed dully on his finger, and upon his back his mantle grew heavy and dripped with river water. He crept into a barren wood, where the branches clacked and creaked overhead, and the dead leaves shivered. 

Drawing the tatters of his cloak about him, he sank between the roots of an oak. He cradled the ring in his hands, turning it this way and that so that it might burn again with light, and lead him out the darkness he had brought upon himself. But it only glinted dully, as if wrought of tin rather than gold. His hand cradling it seemed as thin and vaporous as the mists that flowed about him, tugging at his cloak, his hair. A chill crept beneath his clothes, seeping into skin and sinew, if skin he still had. He was hollowed, he saw now, hollowed like a cliff carved by wind. Were there light, were there a sun that shone upon this distant land, it would shine through him. But there was only the mist, seeping, swelling, and he disappearing within it, no more than strands of shadows held within the tatters of his cloak.

He cast the ring aside, horrified. A great weariness came over him, and he felt himself suddenly shrunken, as if age had set upon him and worked the wearing of many years in a moment. His mind wandered from him, witless in fear, and he trembled. 

He could not return over the sea, could not even make his way to the boat beached upon the shore, for the night was too deep, and he too bent with sudden age. He curled between the roots of the oak, huddled beneath his tattered cloak, and hid from the night and the withering wind that shook the branches above. He slept and crept beneath the barren wood, making his home with spiders and beetles alike, until cobwebs clouded his hair and mold grew upon his cloak. 

For countless days, he slept beneath root and briar, until at last the light fell upon the barren wood, and he rose, worn and weary, and smelled the sea upon the wind. Wearily, he stumbled out of the wood into a rain that tasted of the sea and a wind that drove through the husk of his skin. Down cold, dead grass he stumbled, through barren pastures and withered meadows whipped by wind.

Through the swell of the wind he heard the voice of the sea, rising, and he hurried toward it, threadbare and footsore. The cliffs jutted like broken teeth from the sea, and the sea snarled and hissed at their feet. In the cold caves beneath, voices rose and cried in torment, until the thundering of the waves battered them into silence. Frodo hurried past, turning his head from the sound.

Ahead lay the cleft in the cliffs, and within it bobbed the boat, tossed upon the choppy waves of the bay. Ice lay upon the wale and the seats, but Frodo clambered in nonetheless and lay down wearily as it set its prow upon the waves. Ice gathered in his hair. He tucked the tatters of his cloak around him and shivered.

Snow blew over the seas, pale in the shadows of night, and fell upon him. He did not stir to shake it off, nor did he look to see what the boat bore him past, but lay senseless within as it treaded over the shadowy seas.

When at last he sat up, the boat had slipped into the silent docks. He rose and picked his way back, stumbling down empty streets and past shuttered windows and doors barred against the night. The wind muttered about him, or else he muttered to himself, like the drip of rain about his ears. Beneath the eave of his door, he sagged and cast off at last all that he had borne with him over the sea: withered, shriveled leaves that had once been gleaming gold and silver; reeds and rushes that had made threads of river-green; the grit of sand that had once shone like shards of adamant. 

“No more,” he said. “No more.” He kicked the leaves from his door and went within and shut all the windows fast, no more to look upon the sea, nor tilt his ear for the sound of the bell. And he spoke no word of what he had seen.

Chapter End Notes

The spooky things Frodo encounters, in order: The Enchanted Isles and the wrecks of the Elvish mariners (or Amandil, if you prefer) who tried to sail past them, Ar-Pharazôn and his men in the Caves of the Forgotten, a memory of the Oath of Fëanor, and the gardens of Irmo.

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