Mood:
irritatedTopic: "Sauron's Scythe" (4)
Frodo has often been asked to define "love." Similarly, "hatred," "despair," "fear," "pride," and even "jealousy" are terms which he has occasionally been challenged to verbally describe. It is, indeed, probable that every emotion has at some point in time been the subject of a defining poem, story, or song, except, as best he can herein recall , for "worry." It is, in his mind, that which corralls our joys and sadness into trepidation and sorrow, magnified by the future and the past. Frodo can worry about everyday problems like money, or he can make up things to worry about. The worst part of worry is the fact that its end is a reflection of the possible, the likely, or certainty.
Frodo may, for example, worry about his own demise. Surely, it will come, and it will have an impact, not only on Frodo, but to those whom he holds dearest. So Frodo worries about himself, his Fellowship, his menagerie, and it all may be about something which will not occur for a, hopefully, long, long, time. (EDITORIAL NOTE: The Incomparable Moron certainly must worry that Frodo's demise fails to occur soon enough.) In fact, Frodo's demise may be so far off that all of those and that about whom he cares may precede him, and his worry about them or that will thusly prove to be totally inane. "Worry" is, indeed, a quality which defies description.
Except when it comes to Sam. Three times has a cloud hung over the horizon, carrying the possibility that something inevitable was prematurely swinging a scythe that would strike Frodo's companion. Three times has the demon been cast aside by the technical skill of those who treat illness, and the early detection that constant surveillance can prevent. Three times means only that a fourth shall come, and every chill wind that blows causes Frodo to worry.
It may be nothing, and it may not. It may bring about great pain, or blessed relief. It is that which brings us all, in our nakedness, to the windows which disclose the darkness, and little else.
