The Breathing Sea by StarSpray

Chapter 1

The quotation at the beginning is from "The Scouring of the Shire" chapter in The Return of the King. The title of this fic comes from Vienna Teng's "The Breaking Light".

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Saruman rose to his feet, and stared at Frodo. There was a strange look in his eyes of mingled wonder and respect and hatred. "You have grown, Halfling," he said. "Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you! Well, I go and I will trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell."

Frodo sat back, massaging his hand, especially the scar where his finger once was, and reread the passage again. He was not worried here about getting the details right: he would not forget Saruman's final moments as long as he lived.

He looked around the sunlit study, at the gleaming wood panels and the smooth new floors, and the old rug Aunt Dora had made as a birthday gift the year after Frodo had come to live in Hobbiton, that had escaped destruction by way of Crickhollow. The windows were open, looking out into the garden that was lush and green and filled with flowers.

It was a very different scene than the one that had greeted them upon coming back, but the image of Bag End turned into Mordor in miniature had stuck in Frodo's mind and he could not get it out. He dreamed at night of wandering through it, calling for his friends and hearing only the cackling of orcs, always just in the other room, or else of tearing through it in search of the Ring, panic rising in his throat so that he woke drenched in sweat and nearly choking on it.

At least on this sunny afternoon there were flowers outside and a sweet breeze to chase away the dark memories, and nightingales singing in the hedges, and none of the duties of Deputy Mayor pressing on him, at least for the moment. Rosie would be coming with Mrs. Cotton later to sit in the parlor with Sam's sisters to finish last-minute wedding planning. Frodo set aside his pen, turning his thoughts from fallen wizards' prophecies to the seed cake he intended to have ready for the ladies when they arrived.

"Mister Frodo!" Sam called suddenly, bursting into Bag End from the garden. "Mister Frodo, come quick!"

Frodo got to his feet as Sam reached the study door, out of breath and and red-faced—but not distressed, as Frodo had at first feared. "Come and see, Mister Frodo!" he panted.

"Come and see what, Sam?" Frodo asked. He pressed a hand to his racing heart.

"It's that seed—that little silver-grey nut that the Lady gave me! It's growing—and growing faster'n any tree I ever saw, but then so have all the other saplings I planted last autumn, with that dust of hers, and—"

"All right, I'm coming." Frodo followed Sam outside into the fresh spring day—not warm, but not chilled either—and through the garden, past the violets and daffodils bobbing their heads as they went by, and down to the Party Field. The Party Tree had been turned to timber, much of it used now for flooring and paneling in Bag End, and the rest for furnishings in the new-dug holes along New Row. Its stump remained, grass growing up around it, and moss creeping around the old roots.

Several feet away stood a new sapling, slender and silver-barked, with a crown of bright golden flowers. Sam stood beside it and just pointed, a look of wonder on his face, like when they had met Gildor near the Woody End, or when they had first beheld Cerin Amroth, or Lady Galadriel herself.

"It's a mallorn tree," Frodo said. He had more than half suspected, but it was a great delight to find that he had been right. "A little bit of Lórien here in the Shire."

"Oh, isn't it marvelous, Mister Frodo!" Sam burst out. "It wasn't here the other day when I came out to take a peek, except as just a little shoot, and now today it's near a foot tall!"

"If it continues to grow, perhaps you can be married beneath it," said Frodo.

"Well that'll be up to Rosie, really…"

.

As it turned out, the tree was tall enough by then—just barely—and everyone who attended the wedding left the celebrations with small golden petals caught in their hair. Folk came from all over the Shire to see and marvel at the elven-tree, and it wasn't long before they were telling stories saying that the seed had been given to Sam Gamgee far away over the mountains by an elven-queen with living flowers twined in her hair and stars caught in rings on her fingers.

By the time Sam and Rosie were married at the beginning of May, Frodo had very little to do as Deputy Mayor. The Shirriffs and the postal service were restored to their former numbers and functions, and largely managed themselves, and until the Free Fair there were no large parties or Banquets that he was needed to preside over, much to his relief, so he was able to stop making regular trips to Michel Delving, and stayed home instead to organize his notes for the book.

Merry and Pippin visited often that spring and summer. They claimed it was for Rosie's cakes, but they spent much of the time in the study with Frodo, all of them discussing the journey, and Merry and Pippin's adventures in Rohan and Minas Tirith. More often than not they took their long conversations out to the Party Field, spreading a picnic blanket out between the old Party Tree's stump and the new mallorn, with its silver-green leaves and tendency to sway gently in the breeze, like it was dancing.

They were discussing Lórien, and the Falls of Nimrodel, when a call went up from the lane, and a minute later they were joined by Fredegar Bolger and Folco Boffin. "Hullo, Frodo!"

"Fatty!" Pippin exclaimed. "Or must we call you something else now?"

"Hullo, Folco!" said Merry.

"Hullo, Merry and Pippin!" Folco sat down between Pippin and Frodo, while Fatty sank down beside Merry and picked up a scone. "Gracious, what's all this?" Folco picked up one of the papers Frodo had been referencing. "Is this another one of old Bilbo's songs?"

"No," said Merry. "It's an old Elvish song. A friend of ours sang it for us on our journey."

"Or part of it, at any rate," said Pippin. "He forgot the rest halfway through! I think it's because it's a rather sad song. Legolas doesn't much go in for that sort of thing. Do you remember Caradhras, he was making jokes? I thought old Gandalf would set him on fire!"

This led to them telling Fatty and Folco all about the Caradhras episode. Fatty was shaking his head by the end of it. "I'm more glad than ever I didn't go with you," he said. "Even with the Black Riders and the ruffians. Better plain ruffians than angry mountains!"

"I'm still annoyed with you two," Folco said to Merry and Pippin. "Leaving me out of your conspiracy! I could have at least stayed with Fatty at Crickhollow."

"What did happen at Crickhollow after we left, Fatty?" Pippin asked. "You mentioned it once before, but you've never told us the whole story."

"You should tell us now, so Frodo can put it in the book!" Merry added.

Fatty couldn't refuse that, although he told the story with great reluctance and a good deal of shivering and shuddering. And then Folco wanted to know what exactly the Black Riders were, because they did not sound like normal Big Folk to him, even like ruffians.

"They were Men once," Frodo said after a long pause, in which he and Merry and Pippin looked at each other, all of them remembering the darkness in the dell beneath Weathertop. It was a bright and warm day in June, but Frodo fancied that he felt a creeping cold down his arm. "Kings, I think, most of them at least. The Enemy ensnared them using Rings of Power, and they wore them for so long that they just sort of…faded out of the real world. They were called Ringwraiths." Folco shivered. "But—and I don't know why—it seems they were at a disadvantage here, in the Shire. Farmer Maggot could not have slammed the door in one's face were he in Gondor."

Merry laughed, suddenly. "I had forgotten about that! And Gaffer Gamgee, too, told one off. But they had power enough. You felt it, Fatty. Only they expected you to freeze up, like a rabbit in a trap, not to run and get help. That threw them off their game a bit."

"Did you meet them again on your travels, then?" Folco asked.

It was Merry's turn to shudder. He rubbed at his own arm, gaze going distant. "We did," said Pippin, glancing at Merry. "But they were all destroyed when the One Ring went into the fire."

Fatty looked at Frodo. "I hope you'll let us read your book when you're done," he said. "I would have liked to take a look at old Bilbo's."

"It is Bilbo's," said Frodo. "I'm only adding to it." He gathered up the scraps of paper. "I haven't written much yet," he added, "as there is so much to put in order first. If you would like to read Bilbo's story, the book is in my study."

Merry and Pippin got up with Folco to show him where it was, and to fetch extra plates and cups so Fatty could join their picnic properly. When they were gone, Fatty looked at the mallorn tree, and then at Frodo. "Are you all right, Frodo?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," said Frodo. "Sam and Rosie are taking good care of me. I daresay there isn't a hobbit in the Shire better looked after."

Fatty chuckled. "I could say the same for myself," he said. "One couldn't ask for a better sister than Estella. When she isn't making eyes at Merry, anyway." Frodo looked up, startled. "If you went out more often you might hear more gossip!" Fatty laughed. "Although I've noticed that you're left out of it, more often than not. When folk talk about the Travelers they mean Merry and Pippin and Sam Gamgee. It seems quite wrong, when they only left for your sake."

"I think the gossips have had more than their fill of me," said Frodo. "I don't mind in the least dropping out of notice. Once I give Will back the mayorship at the Free Fair, I'm going to lock myself in my study until this book is done."

"What's the hurry?" Fatty asked. "Bilbo took years to write his adventures down. You may not live to be quite as old as him, but you have more than enough time for writing."

Frodo rubbed at the white jewel Queen Arwen had given him, and thought of Master Elrond and autumn leaves. "I would rather have it done sooner than later, that's all," he said. Then he smiled at Fatty. "That way no one will complain about not being able to read it!"

Fatty only looked at him keenly, before Pippin came sauntering back to say that Rosie was wanting help in the kitchen, since there were more guests than expected for supper.

Chapter 2

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The Free Fair at Midsummer was as bright and successful a fair as had ever been held in Michel Delving. There were flowers everywhere, in overflowing gardens and growing wild along the roadside, where Frodo spotted a dozen hobbit children in various places gathering daisies to make daisy crowns and wreaths. Bill pulled a cart Sam had hired for himself and Rosie and the Gaffer, who had several large potatoes to enter into some sort of strange vegetable contest in which, as far as Frodo could tell, the participants mostly sat about with mugs of beer and laughed at tubers.

Frodo rode on Strider beside the cart, taking this chance to get a good look at the Shire as they passed through it, at the rolling fields of green and golden wheat, and the pastures full of clover and sheep and busy honey bees. In Michel Delving the air was filled with a myriad of smells of baking and roasting, of a hundred songs being played at once, and hundreds more voices shouting and laughing and singing. The Free Fair was always a strange mixture of chaos and order; in years past Frodo had loved it. This year he had expected it to be rather overwhelming.

But Fatty and Estella found the almost immediately, and once the cart and ponies were tended to, and the Gaffer left with his friends and their own odd potatoes and carrots, the Bolger siblings led Frodo and Sam and Rosie to a relatively quiet place near the edge of the town square, where they could sit and watch the goings on without being swept up in it. It wasn't long before Rosie and Estella left them to do some shopping.

"Are Merry and Pippin here yet?" Frodo asked, watching Pippin's sisters cross the square, all of them giggling.

"I haven't seen them," said Fatty. "I'm sure they'll be here soon, all dressed up as soldiers or knights or whatever it is they are."

"You mean a Guard of the Citadel," Sam said. "And an Esquire of Rohan. It's a pity we didn't get to spend more time in Rohan, Mister Frodo. I would've liked to hear some of their stories, told proper-like."

"There soon won't be anything stopping you from going back," said Frodo.

"Well, there's Rosie," said Sam doubtfully. "I don't know that she would be keen on a journey like that."

"You'll be able to take proper roads, I mean," said Frodo. "The Gap of Rohan is open again, and I'm sure the Greenway won't be so green anymore before long."

As it turned out, Merry and Pippin were not dressed in uniform, although they did dress in southern styles instead of proper hobbit clothing. Frodo had wondered why, but then he saw beribboned heads turning in their direction as they crossed the square. Pippin was very close to strutting, though Merry handled himself better. Fatty elbowed Frodo and nodded in the direction of a stall where an old gammer was displaying delicately-knitted shawls, and where his sister had paused to do her own staring after Merry. "I told you," he said in a low voice. "Making eyes."

"Has Merry noticed yet?" Frodo asked.

"I don't think so. But I'm certainly not going to say anything. Estella would toss me back in the Lockholes."

"Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo!" A gaggle of children appeared suddenly, as though sprung out of the grass. Many of them had grass-stains on their knees and bits of it stuck in their hair, and many more wearing daisy crowns. "Will you tell us a story, Mister Frodo?" asked one of the older children, Aric Rumble—one of Widow Rumble's many grandchildren. "Tell the one about old Mister Bilbo and the three trolls!"

"No, tell the one about escaping the Elvenking's castle!" said another.

"Tell us about your adventure, Mister Frodo!" pleaded yet a third, and this received overwhelming support—as it meant a new story, instead of a well-worn one.

Frodo stared down at them, startled. Fatty laughed, and even Sam chuckled before getting up to get the three of them some beers. Frodo tried to think of a part of his journeys that could be tamed for an audience of children, but came up empty. He looked helplessly at Fatty, but Fatty was still too busy laughing at him to be of any help.

"My own journey was not quite so exciting," he tried, but this was met with a storm of protests, including one question about how he'd lost his finger then. Frodo covered that hand with his other one. "But," he continued, raising his voice a little, so that the children quieted, "I did hear quite a lot of stories when I was in Rivendell. Elvish stories."

The children seemed to consider this, murmuring among themselves. "Are they elves like the Elvenking that Mister Bilbo fought?" asked one small child.

"Mister Bilbo never fought no elves!" Sam exclaimed, indignant, returning just in time to hear this remark. "Who's going about saying that?"

"I think Bilbo's stories have changed a bit in the tellings," Frodo said. "But there are lots of stories about many Elven kings from the Elder Days. Shall I tell you about Prince Fingon the Valiant, who journeyed into the Enemy's fortress to rescue his cousin Maedhros the Tall?"

This was agreed upon as suitably exciting, much to Frodo's relief, and by the time he finished it was nearing lunchtime, and the children scattered, some of them already arguing over who was going to play Prince Valiant and who would play Prince Tall in their games. Frodo sat back and sipped at his beer. "I remember Bilbo telling that story," said Fatty. "He used rather more poetry, though."

"His translations of Elvish songs, most likely," Frodo said. Then he looked at Sam. "You know, Sam, I didn't realize until the middle of the telling just how familiar that story is." He smiled as Sam turned bright red. "I think Samwise the Stouthearted would get along quite well with Fingon the Valiant!"

"Oh don't tease, Mister Frodo," Sam protested.

"I'm not teasing!"

"Samwise the Stouthearted, eh?" said Fatty as he got out his pipe. "I like that. No, don't get up, Sam. I'll get us lunch. Storytelling's hungry work."

When they were alone, Sam said more quietly, "I am glad we're coming to better fates than those Elf princes, Mister Frodo. Mister Bilbo never told it, but I read about the Battle of Tears Uncounted. And about what happened to Maedhros, at the end."

Frodo rubbed absently at the place where his finger had once been. He, too, had read to the end of Maedhros' story: he had reached his goal, and it had not been at all like he had expected, and he could not hold onto it. It was a familiar sentiment. "I'm glad too," he said.

"It makes me wonder about that Maglor, though," said Sam. Fatty returned with meat pies and apples for all of them, with Estella and Rosie in tow. "Is he still out there wandering about, do you think?"

"Anything is possible," said Frodo. "How is the Gaffer doing?" he asked Rosie as she sat down by Sam. "I thought I heard shouting."

"Someone brought a potato they said shriveled over the winter to look precisely like Will Whitfoot's head," Rosie said. "The shouting was them calling for him to come over so they could compare."

"It really is uncanny," Estella remarked. "By the way, Frodo, they're nearly done setting up the stage for the ceremony."

"Will I be returning Mayorship to Will or to the potato?" Frodo asked. Fatty nearly choked on a bite of apple his apple.

An hour later, Frodo did in fact return the mayorship to Will himself, although the potato made an appearance much to the delight of everyone in attendance. The ceremony itself consisted of a handshake and a speech from both of them; Frodo used his only to thank everyone for their hard work over the past year, and to say that he was very pleased to see Will return to his role. Will's was much longer, of course, as suited the Mayor of the Shire, and he accordingly got a great deal more applause. It was a relief to step off of the stage and, hopefully, back into relative obscurity.

Before he could retreat fully, though, he was surrounded by well-wishers, many of whom wanted to know why he hadn't decided to run for Mayorship himself—Will Whitfoot was a fine Mayor, of course, but Frodo had done quite a good job himself—perhaps in seven years' time…?

Frodo laughed off the suggestions. He had no desire to run for Mayor—he hadn't before the Troubles, and having spent time as Deputy Mayor, he wanted the position even less. The Mayor was in demand for far more than presiding at banquets and wrangling the Shirriffs, as it turned out—Frodo had mediated half a dozen disputes that family heads had thrown up their hands at, some of which had taken days to sort out, and signed so many wills that he never wanted to see his signature in red ink again.

His speech given, Will followed Frodo back to his seat at the edge of the square. He still needed a cane when doing a great deal of walking about, as he was that day, and he was still quite thin, with hollows in his cheeks, but there was color in his face again and a twinkle back in his eyes. "Hullo, Frodo!" he said, shaking hands warmly. "Have I thanked you properly yet for all the work you did? Things were in a right state after all that business with Sharkey and his Big Men. I made the speech, of course, but that's different. So, thank you very much, Frodo."

"It was the least I could do," said Frodo. Sam made a noise behind him that sounded a little incredulous, but Frodo ignored it. "But I'm very glad to see you up and about again."

"I'm very glad to be up and about!" Will laughed. "Oh, and before I forget, the missus has instructed me to invite you to dinner sometime soon. Perhaps next week? And of course Master Samwise and Mistress Rose, you are invited as well!"

"That's very kind of you, Mister Whitfoot," Sam said, apparently startled at the invitation. Rosie accepted the invitation for all three of them.

The rest of the Free Fair was taken up by games and competitions, and several more requests from an ever-growing group of children for Frodo to tell stories. By popular demand he told several stories of dragon-slayings, including Bard's killing of Smaug at Laketown, and Eärendil's defeat of Ancalagon the Black during the War of Wrath long ago. No one really believed the stories, but that didn't bother Frodo much.

On the way back to Hobbiton, in a cart piled modestly with Rosie's purchases, which included several bolts of cloth and something beneath them that looked suspiciously like a cradle, Rosie asked Frodo, "Is that Eärendil you talked about really sailing around the skies in a magic boat?"

"Yes," he said. They had come to the New Row at twilight, and as Sam helped the Gaffer inside his hole, Frodo pointed to the purpling western sky. "There he is, just there."

"Oh, that's just the evening star," Rosie protested.

"But why do you think it doesn't act like other stars?" Frodo asked, smiling. "That's Eärendil on his ship with the Silmaril on his brow. All the Elven songs say so. And Sam and I met Eärendil's own son, Master Elrond in Rivendell. I think if the songs had gotten it wrong that he would say something about it."

"Sam, is he having me on?" Rosie asked as Sam rejoined them. "The evening star's really an elf with a great big diamond on his forehead, and you met his son?"

Sam stopped and scratched his head. "Well, it sounds a bit odd when you put it like that," he said. "But Master Elrond did say that Eärendil was his sire. And then the Lady Galadriel gave the star-glass to Mister Frodo, that's got the Silmaril light inside it. Saved our lives, that star-glass did."

Showing the star-glass to Rosie had to wait until the cart was unloaded and the ponies taken to the stable down the lane. Frodo had it tucked away with the rest of his things from their journey, including Sting and the mithril shirt and the clothing he had worn in Gondor. "Here it is," he said, pulling it out of a small pouch. They had not lit any lights in the parlor, and the starlight blazed out of the glass as it nestled comfortably in Frodo's palm. It lit the room with pale light, and shimmered in Rosie's eyes as she leaned forward to peer at it, mouth open in a small o.

"Well that's a marvel, and no mistake!" she said. "Oh and look, it's catching in that jewel of yours, Mister Frodo!" They all looked down at Frodo's chest, where the queen's white jewel did indeed seem to be shimmering like a star itself, doing more than only reflecting the light from the star-glass, even after Frodo put it away and Sam turned up some proper lights. And when Frodo touched it, it felt comfortably warm.

That night he dreamed again of the sea, and of a ship faintly gleaming in the starlight bobbing on the waves, its sails unfurled and its anchor weighed, only waiting for him to step on board.

Chapter 3

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Frodo had begun to feel, in the days leading up to the Free Fair, that perhaps he was getting better after all. It was as glorious a summer as anyone could ask for, and he had been making good progress in his book, and taking walking trips about Hobbiton and Bywater, revisiting his favorite haunts, some of them much changed now, others still the same as they had always been.

But afterward he started having troubled dreams again—most of them featured the sea, but all of them left him feeling cold and listless, and often with a headache. Two days after returning from Michel Delving, Frodo retreated to the Party Field early in the morning, when mist still clung to the fields like a silver veil, and pooled over the Water. It was a cool morning, but refreshingly so, and Frodo settled himself on the increasingly mossy stump of the old Party Tree to watch the sky brighten and the mists burn away. In a nearby field a cow lowed, and sheep were baaing contentedly in another, their bells clanking gently. Frodo tugged his cloak more tightly around himself. His shoulder ached faintly; those days of cold and damp and fear between Weathertop and the Ford of Bruinen were weighing heavily on his mind, as they sometimes did, and as the sun brightened and burned away the mists it was with relief that Frodo perceived the lush greens of the fields, and the yellow lights in the windows of Hobbiton, and the ever-increasing blue of the sky. At his feet bloomed little buttercups and dandelions, and on a nearby fencepost perched a robin, singing merrily as its breast flashed ruby-red in the dawn.

His worst dreams were the ones in which he was trapped in the wraith-world, succumbed to the Witch-king's knife.

As though it could tell the direction of his thoughts, the mallorn tree swayed a little, leaves rustling even though there was no breeze. And a moment later a handful of children came running through the field, cutting through it on their way to the Water for fishing. Their fishing rods swayed with each step, and clacked together when they halted upon seeing Frodo. He couldn't help but smile at their sheepish looks. "Good morning!" he said.

"Good morning, Mister Frodo," said one of the children, a little girl with unruly dark curls. "What are you doing sitting there?"

"Oh, just watching the morning come up," said Frodo. "The Shire is quite beautiful today." At this the children looked around, standing on their toes, as though they'd never even thought to stop and look around them, or thought that the Shire was something worth stopping and looking at. Of course, Frodo thought with a pang, he'd never thought much about it either, until he'd had to leave. "A good morning for fishing, too," he added.

The children brightened at this and nodded, apparently relieved that they were in no trouble for using the Party Field as a shortcut. They bid Frodo another good morning and trotted off, except for the smallest, who stood shuffling her feet and looking from Frodo to the mallorn tree. "My cousin said Mister Pippin told him an elf queen gave that tree to Master Sam," she said, "because he's the bestest gardener in the whole Shire. Is that really true, Mister Frodo?"

Frodo chuckled. "Yes, it's true."

"Did she give you a gift, too?"

"Ruby!" one of the other children called. "Come on!"

"Yes, she did," Frodo said. "But go on, now. Those fish won't catch themselves."

As Ruby raced to catch up with her companions—Frodo thought they were siblings, but couldn't be quite sure—he turned so that he was facing Bag End. Its grassy walls and roof seemed to glow like an emerald in the sun, and the sunflowers Rosie had planted near the kitchen window bobbed their heads in the breeze that picked up to scatter the remaining vestiges of the morning's mist. He stopped to look at it for a while. It looked the same as it always had, or nearly so. Frodo rubbed at his arm, and wished that he could write to or go to visit his Aunt Dora. He loved Bilbo, but for practical advice, or even just someone to listen as he teased out a problem for himself, there was no match for Dora Baggins. He did not think he would have told her about Queen Arwen's words, or Master Elrond's—she would have thought, as any sensible hobbit would, that sailing into the West was an absurd notion for anyone but elves—but she had been exceedingly practical, a comforting counterweight to Bilbo's poetry and eccentricity, and talking to her about anything, even just the weather, would have been exceedingly comforting.

He went back to Bag End, where Rosie was putting together breakfast. She greeted him cheerfully and put him to work kneading dough for bread as she pulled the first couple of loaves out of the oven. The kitchen was filled with the smells of bread and working yeast, and with Rosie's cheerful chatter, as she passed on the latest Hobbiton gossip, and shared her plans for turning one of the spare rooms into a nursery. Sam had left already, and would be gone for the next few days as he tended to parts of the South Farthing that were not flourishing as well as had been hoped.

After breakfast Frodo went to his study, but realized as he began to assemble his notes for the next chapter that it concerned the aftermath of the breaking of the Fellowship, and Boromir's death. The Fellowship had spent a long time together sitting in Minas Tirith beside the White Tree, in the days before Arwen's coming to the city, and they had talked of many things, Boromir not least. Aragorn and Legolas had sung their lament, so that Frodo could take down the words, and they had drawn an audience, after which the song had spread quickly throughout the city. No doubt it was known throughout Gondor by now.

Frodo wondered where Legolas was, with his quick laughter and boundless cheerfulness. Perhaps he was still wandering through Fangorn, or maybe he and Gimli had made their way by now north to Mirkwood or the Lonely Mountain. He had received letters from Glóin, talking of the rebuilding efforts and asking after the Shire and after Frodo himself; he had not mentioned Moria or Balin, and so Frodo had also avoided those things in his replies—that was news for Gimli to tell in person, not to learn from a paragraph in a hobbit's letter.

He stared out of the west window for a while, before shaking himself and setting to work.

.

He made steady progress as summer waned and autumn began to peek around the corner. September brought golden leaves and a quiet Birthday Party, with a dinner just for the Travelers—and the Gaffer and Rosie, of course, as well as Merry and Pippin's parents. It was a pleasant evening, full of cheer and good food and drink. With Rosie and Sam expecting, in addition to Frodo and Bilbo's birthday, there were a great many toasts, and Merry and Pippin had to carry Paladin to bed when it got late.

But September swiftly slipped into October, and with October came the second anniversary of that dark night under Weathertop. Frodo's shoulder ached fiercely, and his arm felt cold and numb down to the fingertips, and he couldn't muster the energy to do anything but sit by the hearth and stare out the window. It was a rainy day, as well, the world outside turned flat and grey, distorted by the drops running down the glass.

Afterward he only vaguely remembered Sam coming in. He'd said something—more truth than he had wanted Sam to know—but by the next morning he felt much better, able to at least appear to be his old self. But that year had been worse than the one before.

He made his way down to the Party Field at evening. The mallorn tree was quite tall by then, lithe and graceful as a dance when it swayed in the breeze. Its leaves were bright gold, just as the whole forest of Lothlórien had been when the Fellowship had come to it. To Frodo's surprise, as he neared the tree he saw someone standing in the growing shadows just beyond it. He didn't stop until he reached the tree, and laid a hand on its trunk as he said, "Hello?"

"Well met, Ringbearer!" It was Gildor Inglorion. He stepped forward and bowed; it seemed to Frodo that he bowed to him and to the tree. "How wonderful to see a mallorn growing in the fair Shire!"

"What brings you to Hobbiton?" Frodo asked.

"I bear a message from Master Elrond. A belated happy birthday, and a suggestion, if you so desire, you make your way toward the Woody End to celebrate next year." Gildor smiled, eyes alight. "I will be there also."

Frodo nodded. "I will come," he said. "Thank you."

Gildor bowed again, and melted away into the evening. After a few minutes Frodo heard the unmistakable sound of Elven voices singing away in the distance. He looked west, where Eärendil's star shone brightly over the horizon.

Chapter 4

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The rest of autumn passed in a riot of color, and with winter came just enough snow to cover the grass and delight all of the hobbit children. The first snowy evening of the season, Frodo, Sam, and Rosie spent in front of the fire with hot drinks, while Sam told Rosie about their failed attempt at crossing the Redhorn. He made it sound far less frightening than it actually was, focusing mostly on Legolas and his teasing of Gandalf, which had Rosie laughing so hard she nearly spilled her tea.

Spring came with a great deal of mud, but also with flowers and green grass and the trees all bursting into leaf and flower seemingly overnight. It brought illness and dark thoughts, but also little Elanor Gamgee, with wispy golden curls and big dark eyes. The first of many children, Frodo was sure. Bag End had been built for a large family; he supposed Bungo and Belladonna had been thinking optimistically of the Old Took's brood, rather than the smaller families typical of the Bagginses. But now at last those rooms would be filled, and Frodo was glad, even though he would not be there to see it.

He finished the book that summer, or as much as was his task to write. There were more pages to fill, but that would be left to Sam, and maybe one day even to Elanor. By Midsummer he had all of his affairs in order, and had written letters to friends abroad, in Gondor and the Lonely Mountain and Mirkwood, which he set aside to send just before he left.

His shoulder ached more often than not, and his hand started to hurt off and on—or rather, the finger he no longer had.

As the muddy season subsided, he went out on pony trips with Fatty, to visit Crickhollow and Brandy Hall, and to the Great Smials to visit their Tookish relatives. Often they were accompanied by Merry or Pippin, or sometimes Sam when he went out on his forestry errands. They were leisurely journeys, with days begun late and ended early, and always at an inn with comfortable beds and good food. Frodo visited all of his favorite haunts, one last time. Fatty noticed, of course. There was not much that Fatty Bolger missed. "Where are you going this time?" he asked as they rode slowly back through Bywater. "To live with the Elves, like Bilbo?"

"Well—yes," Frodo said. "I can't stay here, Fatty. I've tried to hide it from Sam—I don't want him to worry—but I'm not well. I was sorely wounded, more than once. The worst was at Weathertop, before we even reached Rivendell." He rubbed at his arm, which had been feeling cold and numb off and on all day. "Please don't tell Merry or Pippin," he added after a moment. "I don't want them worrying, either."

"It's a bit late for that. We were talking the other day about how you don't look well." At Frodo's grimace, he chuckled. "You are still very bad at hiding things from your friends! But if it makes you happier, I don't think Sam has noticed, but only because babies are rather distracting."

They reached Bag End just in time for dinner, and found Sam coming in from the garden with a handful of small yellow flowers. "Look, Mr. Frodo!" he exclaimed, holding them out. "They're growing down around the mallorn, and there's niphredil too!"

"What are they?" Fatty asked, peering at the flowers.

"Elanor," Frodo said, smiling. He remembered Gildor down in the Party Field on an autumn evening, looking pleased, and thought that he knew how the elf flowers had gotten there.

"Oh!" said Fatty. "Would you look at that! Elf trees and elf flowers. What next, I wonder—Elf visitors?"

"I hope so," said Sam. "I would like to see Legolas again."

.

Finally, September arrived. The harvests were good, and all of the trees turned brilliant golds and reds and oranges; the days were warm and the nights cool, perfect for traveling. Frodo organized the last of his things, and rechecked his bags. He wasn't taking much with him into the West, only what he could fit on his pony, and so he'd chosen very carefully. It was clothes, mostly, and a cookbook, and his favorite pipe, though he didn't smoke much anymore. And rolled up in his bedroll was the rag rug Aunt Dora had made, and that had lain in front of the fire in his study for such a long time.

It was easier than he'd expected, at the last, to say goodbye. He stood at the stern of the ship holding Lady Galadriel's star glass aloft until the Grey Havens faded into the shadowy evening. Elrond stood beside him, leaning on the railing. After some time they left the Gulf of Lhûn and entered the open Sea; by then it was full night, clear and moonless, and it seemed to Frodo as though they were sailing through the sky, with all of the stars reflected on the dark water. Only the gentle rocking of the ship and the sound of water lapping against its sides told them otherwise. "It's beautiful," Frodo said.

"It is," Elrond agreed. "But tell me if you feel ill. For some the movement of the water is disagreeable."

Frodo considered. "I think I'll be all right." At least, he did not think he would get seasick—but October 6th was fast approaching. He rubbed at his arm, though at the moment it felt fine. He turned away from the back of the ship and went looking for Bilbo. He found him in a cozy little cabin just below decks, fitted out perfectly for hobbits. There were two beds on either side of the room, built out of the walls. Frodo found his things tucked neatly underneath one, and Bilbo was snoring lightly in the other. Frodo covered him with an extra blanket, and went back up to the deck. He wanted to sit under the stars.

He found Gandalf sitting near the middle of the ship, underneath the mast, his pipe glowing gently in the darkness. "I hope they have pipe weed in Valinor," Frodo remarked as he sat down on the bench beside him, swinging his feet a little.

Gandalf chuckled. "Sweet galenas, I am sure they do. But I rather doubt the Valar or the Elves have cultivated anything like your Old Toby. But I thought of that, and have some seeds tucked away. Merry got them for me; he was very amused by my request, I think. And then he gave me a shockingly long lecture on how to properly grow them."

"Merry's going to write a book about it, I think," Frodo said. It had something to do with missing the opportunity to sit with the king of Rohan and talk herb lore; as far as Frodo had gathered, however, the Rohirrim didn't have much to do with books. But it was a project Merry was very excited about, and Frodo was only sorry he wouldn't get to read it.

"Yes, that's why I asked him for the seeds." Gandalf blew a smoke ring up into the air, and they watched it float up towards the sails before scattering in the breeze. "Lady Goldberry sends her greetings, by the by. She was sorry not to see you before you left."

"I would have liked to visit Lady Goldberry and Tom Bombadil," said Frodo. "But there was a great deal to do."

"Yes, I heard all about it." Gandalf sighed, and blew another smoke ring up onto the breeze. "I was quite impressed with the way you handled Saruman."

"He was killed," Frodo said. "I did not want that. Especially right on the doorstop of Bag End."

"It was not a hobbit that killed him," Gandalf said. "That is something. I'm afraid Wormtongue was too far gone for you to save." He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully before leaning back with a sigh. Before Frodo could argue he asked, "And how is your shoulder, Frodo?"

"It's all right just now," said Frodo.

"Good. I should warn you now, the novelty of sailing will fade rather quickly into monotony. Best prepare yourself."

"I don't mind monotony," said Frodo. He'd had more than enough excitement.
"You haven't spent very long at sea."

.

The journey was not quite as monotonous as Gandalf had predicted. There were whales and dolphins to watch, in the distance or right up alongside their ship. Some of the mariners could speak with the dolphins, who chattered and chirped as they jumped high out of the water for the sheer joy of it. Frodo asked one mariner what the dolphins were saying, and was treated to a surprisingly detailed recounting of all the local sea life's gossip, none of which he properly understood, except that apparently dolphins knew all of it.

October 6th came with dark dreams and a great deal of pain in his shoulder and in his chest, but Elrond and Gandalf remained by his side the whole day long—out on deck, in the bright sunlight—and though it was difficult and painful, it was easier to get through the day than Frodo had expected. That evening Elrond gave him a clear liquid that tasted sweet and spread warmth through his whole body as soon as he sipped it, and Frodo slept easily and without dreams, waking late the next morning, but feeling more rested than he had in a very long time.

That day a pod of whales surfaced alongside the ship. Frodo leaned over the railing beside Elrond as one of the smaller ones—yet still bigger than any creature he had ever seen before—came up to blow a burst of air and water high into the air like a breathy fountain. Some of the mariners laughed when both Elrond and Frodo jerked back in surprise. "Those aren't even the biggest kind," one said as they watched one a little farther away breach, lifting nearly its whole body out of the water. "The great blue whales, they're bigger than anything, on land or in the sea."

"Goodness," said Frodo. "What do they eat?"

The mariner laughed again. "That's the best part! They eat the tiniest creatures in the sea, smaller than you could see, Master Frodo."

Frodo leaned over the railing again, peering into the water as it flowed swiftly past their ship. The wind was strong that day, and they were making quite good headway. Beneath the water he spotted another whale, keeping pace for a few minutes with them before dropping away, down and down into the depths of the sea.

.

When he was not learning surprising and sometimes alarming things about what lived in the water beneath them, Frodo was sitting with Bilbo, when he wasn't napping, or with Gandalf, who wanted to hear about all of what had been going on in the Shire, down to the smallest doings of the smallest hobbit child. They did not speak much of Valinor, except when Bilbo sat with them and wanted to know just which of the heroes of the old stories he was likely to meet. This question spread throughout the ship, and there was a great deal of laughter and speculating about the reaction of various princes and heroes to Master Bilbo and his songs. This came with many compliments to Bilbo on his poetry, and on his translations of old songs into the Common Speech, which in turn led to the performance of those songs by Lindir and Gildor and others. Bilbo was half embarrassed, half pleased, and then started an argument with Lindir about scansion.

"What about you, Frodo?" Gildor asked. He had settled on the deck in front of the bench where Frodo was seated between Elrond and Gandalf. "What sort of songs do you write?"

There was a crumpled bit of paper at the very bottom of Frodo's pack that held the only song he had composed after returning to the Shire. He'd found it while packing, and hadn't had the opportunity to burn it as he had the other copies, before Sam could find it; but he was certainly not going to share that with Gildor—or anyone. He shook his head. "You want Sam for composition," he said.

"There was that nice song you wrote for me after Moria," Gandalf said mildly. He was not smoking this evening, reluctantly rationing his remaining leaf.

"The exception that proves the rule," Frodo said, "and it's rather outdated now—" It was no use. Now that word was out that Frodo had in fact written a song himself, everyone called for him to perform it. Especially Gandalf, who seemed to find it extremely amusing to get to listen to a lament for himself.

The day after this impromptu evening of performances, it rained, steady and grey and cold. It continued into the night, and as evening fell Elrond called both Frodo and Bilbo up onto the deck. There was a change in the air, Frodo found as he stepped outside—a sweet fragrance came down with the rain. "Mm," Bilbo murmured, "smells like elves!"

As he spoke Frodo looked out over the bow toward the western horizon, and the rainclouds rolled back, like the silver curtain in his dream in the house of Tom Bombadil so far away and long ago, and beyond was sunshine on bright waters, and a green country glowing beneath the sunrise. He gasped, and beside him Bilbo made an exclamation of wordless delight. Elrond stood with his hand on Frodo's shoulder, and his grip tightened just slightly.

They sailed out of the rain onto a wide sea leading into a bay, where dozens of ships of all sizes floated or raced about, with sails bright as butterfly wings, manned by silver-haired mariners. The closest to them called out loud glad greetings, and on the island ahead of them came the sound of many bells chiming.

Gandalf laughed out loud, an outpouring of joy as sudden and bright as one of his fireworks. Lady Galadriel stood beside him, looking grave in her gladness; Gildor and his folk burst into song, and the mariners up in their rigging shouted and laughed. Frodo could only stand and stare, wide-eyed at legends and stories made solid—somehow more solid and more real than even the Shire. Gulls wheeled over the bay, and far above them Frodo thought he glimpsed an eagle.

As they sailed toward Avallónë, a great figure of a woman rose up out of the water, her hair streaming sea foam, her eyes bright as stars. She called out a welcome to them, reaching out her hands. Nai hiruvalyë Valimar. Nail elyë hiryva!

Chapter 5

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The first word that came to mind when Frodo got a proper look at Avallónë was bright. The buildings were mostly of stone, but it was not merely grey or white. There were many shades of both, sprinkled with red and brown and other shades besides, and banners and flags seemed to hang from every window. Lanterns, unlit but still glinting like brightly-colored gemstones, were strung between buildings on chains or braided ropes. Gandalf pointed out Alqualondë in the distance across the water, glimmering like a pearl nestled between beaches of rainbow sand. The figure that had risen out of the water to greet them had sun beneath the waves again, though he could hear a voice not unlike hers, singing a song without words that reminded him, almost, of Tom Bombadil far away in the Old Forest.

The harbor was busy as they sailed into it. Most of the ships and boats were small and quick, darting in and out, many passing between the island and Alqualondë, or other parts of the coast. On the docks, Frodo saw, a crowd had gathered. Around him the other passengers on the ship pressed against the railing, leaning out over it to wave and call to loved ones standing on the shore. On the other side of Bilbo stood Elrond, gripping the rail with white knuckles as he scanned the crowd. There was an urgency in him that Frodo had never seen before, even at the Council.

As soon as the gangplank was lowered Elrond was racing down it, and running to meet him was a woman who had broken away from the crowd. She was barefoot, clad in a sleeveless dress of shimmering blue-green fabric, with pearls twined in her silver hair. "That must be Lady Celebrían," said Bilbo beside Frodo. He was much more alert since they'd passed through the rain curtain, his eyes sharp instead of hazy, and he had stood beside Frodo for quite a long while without needing to sit down or go take a nap. "Master Elrond's wife," he added, seeing the look on Frodo's face.

Frodo frowned. "Celebrían," he said. "I know I've heard that name before." He looked up at Lady Galadriel, who still stood with them. She was dressed all in white again, and her hair was unbound and falling in gentle waves about her shoulders. "Aragorn spoke of her to you, my lady, didn't he?"

She smiled. "Celebrían is my daughter," she said. "To her I gave the Elessar stone, and she gave it to Arwen, who returned it to my keeping until the day should come that her beloved was ready to claim his own."

"Oh!" said Frodo. He looked back at the dock, where Elrond and his wife were caught up in a tight embrace. He looked away again, back toward Gandalf, who was laughing again, leaning on his staff although Frodo was certain he didn't need it any longer. "Where are we going to go now?" he asked. He had not actually thought of very much beyond getting on the ship. Now that they were here, he was not at all sure what to do.

"You are going with Elrond and his household, for the moment," Gandalf said.

"Aren't you coming, too?" Bilbo asked.

"Why, certainly! But not yet; I shall be leaving straight away to go to Taniquetil. No, Bilbo—you cannot come, not yet! I won't be long, or at least I hope I won't be. The Timeless Halls, you called them in your song, Bilbo, and I'm afraid the Valar and the Elves sometimes forget that time is a passing thing, even here." He turned and whistled, short and sharp, and Shadowfax came up out of another doorway to the hold, where he and one or two other horses had spent the voyage stabled in relative comfort, if horses could be comfortable on a rocking ship.

Meanwhile, Galadriel had disembarked, and Celebrían was greeting her with no less enthusiasm than she had greeted Elrond. As Gandalf led Shadowfax down the gangplank, Lindir came up from the cabins with Frodo's pack and Bilbo's in his hands. "Come on!" he said, smiling down at them both. "We are here at last, and I for one will rejoice to feel solid earth beneath my feet again."

The earth, Frodo found, did not feel at all solid. He nearly fell over when he stepped onto it, finding it pitching about like—well, like the deck of a ship. Lindir caught him before he could fall on his face, and Elrond appeared to steady Bilbo. "That will happen after a long voyage," said one of the mariners coming down behind them, a barrel on his shoulder. "You need to find our sea legs and then your land legs again. Master Elrond, where are we to take everything?"

"I can tell you!" Lady Celebrían said. "There's a wagon just down there that you can load up; the driver knows where to go." As the mariner and others left to find the wagon, she looked at Elrond. "Was that a barrel of Dorwinion?"

"Lalwen insisted," Elrond said.

"Aunt Lalwen! Where is she?" Celebrían spun in a circle. All around them was a cacophony of laughter and tears as the crowd from the shore met the one from the ship. In the distance Frodo glimpsed Shadowfax stepping on board another, much smaller boat. "Oh never mind. She's somewhere. Hello!" Celebrían turned back to Frodo and Bilbo. "Masters Bilbo and Frodo Baggins! I am Celebrían. Welcome to Tol Eressëa!"

Bilbo replied cheerfully, but Frodo could only bow, struck with a shyness rather like what he had felt upon meeting Goldberry, although thankfully he did not embarrass himself with clumsy verses this time. Celebrían was bright-eyed, silver haired, with freckles on her face and arms, and a beaming smile. "I hope there is a cart for us as well, Lady Celebrían," Bilbo was saying. "Walking is all well and good for elves, but not elderly hobbits!"

Celebrían's laughter was like silver bells. "Certainly there is a cart! It awaits us just down the quay."

The cart carried them quite comfortably through the city. Celebrían pointed out various buildings of interest, including several libraries, and the homes of folk that until now had been mere names in old stories. "Gil-galad lives near the center of the city," Celebrían said, "and he's in Tirion just now. But there is Uncle Finrod's home, and Uncle Orodreth's beside it. Down that street is where Idril and Tuor live, Elrond."

"Are the stories about Tuor true, then?" Bilbo asked. "I thought that was just wishful thinking."

"They're true, but don't ask me how. I'm sure Ulmo had a great deal to do with it." Celebrían leaned against Elrond's side, but addressed both him and Galadriel. "There's a long line of people who want to visit you, but I've managed to talk them out of all descending upon us at once. Uncle Finrod helped, but on the condition that he got to see you first—he's probably waiting for us at home, now."

"Is it us he wants to see, or the Halflings?" Galadriel asked, laughing.

"You most of all, Mother!" Celebrían replied. "He was very quick to reassure me about that. But the hobbits are a close second."

"Goodness gracious," said Bilbo.

Elrond laughed. "You are more famous than you realize, Master Baggins. There are many here eager to meet you, I am sure."

"Well, that's all right," said Bilbo, "as I am quite eager to meet them!"

Celebrían's house was just outside of the city, so close to the water that the sound of the waves washing gently up on the beach permeated the entire house. A room had been made up specially for Bilbo and Frodo, and in all the rooms Frodo saw on their tour there were tables and chairs suitable for hobbits. Lady Celebrían and her household had not neglected a single detail. There was the usual bustle and flurry of activity, of people coming and going and bringing things in and out, that came with arriving in a new place, and after it died down Frodo was quite relieved to retreat to the small portion of beach just a few steps down from the house's wide patio.

The water was cool but not cold, and the sand smooth and warm. Frodo sat just above the water and stretched out his legs so that the waves washed over his toes, and stared out over the bay. He could see the distant shore of Valinor proper—the coast itself was merely a dark, hazy line. The Pelóri, of course, rose like great towers to reach into the clouds, taller than the Misty Mountains could have ever hoped to be. Frodo squinted at them, trying to gauge how much higher they went after they hit cloud, but he couldn't tell.

It was late in the afternoon by this time, edging towards evening, and there were fewer boats out on the water now, though it still seemed to Frodo like quite a lot, and he wondered how they kept from crashing into each other. He wiggled his toes in the water, and then lay back on the warm sand to stare up at the cloudless sky. So this was the West, he thought, watching gulls circled overhead.

There was a soft splash, and he rose up on his elbows to see the same figure of a woman that had risen out of the bay to greet their ship, although now she was much smaller—nearly hobbit-sized. He sat up fully. "Hello?" he said, a little uncertain. Did the Ainur speak Westron?

It seemed that they did. "Hello!" the woman said, and walked up out of the water, her legs apparently forming as she moved. Her gown shimmered like sea foam in moonlight, and was girded with leafy brown kelp. Her skin was dark as ink, or perhaps as dark as the deep waters where the sunlight did not reach; her hair was silver like Lady Celebrían's. Her eyes shone like stars on smooth water, and her smile was kind. "It is my honor, Frodo Baggins, to welcome you to Valinor." She sat on the sand beside him, skirts spreading like a puddle about her.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm honored to be permitted to come here."

"I hope you will find the rest and healing that you seek," she said, and took his hand in both of hers—his right hand, with its missing finger. She pressed something cool and wet into out, before rising and bowing deeply. "Farewell for now, Frodo Baggins." And with that she walked back into the waves, vanishing like mist in the breeze.

Frodo looked down at the gift she had given him, and gave a start. It was a seashell, a small white conical thing that nestled comfortably into his palm. It was the same sort of seashell that he had dreamed and written about, though he hadn't thought anyone knew it but himself. He closed his hand around it and got carefully to his feet, brushing the sand off as best he could before making his way back up to the house.

Bilbo was sitting on the patio. "Hullo, Frodo!" he said cheerfully. "Are you hungry? It isn't quite supper time, yet, but there is a great deal of fruit that I've never tried before. It's all quite good! Try the pineapple."

There was a small round table with a plate of neatly arranged fruit, including pieces of some bright yellow, pulpy looking thing that Bilbo gestured to. Frodo picked one up as he sat down on the other side and took a careful bite. It was quite sweet. "Oh," he said. "That's quite good!"

"There's a whole new world of food before us, Frodo my lad," said Bilbo as he picked up a grape. "Was that Uinen you were just talking to?"

"Uinen?" Frodo looked back toward the water, slipping the sea bell into his pocket. "Is that her name? She didn't say."

"Well, Uinen and Ossë are the two Maiar that serve Ulmo who appear in the old tales," said Bilbo. "And it was definitely Uinen who welcomed us when we sailed into Eldamar—I asked Elrond."

"Oh, then yes, I suppose that was Uinen. She was welcoming me to Valinor."

"That's very polite," said Bilbo, nodding approvingly. "Though it will take some getting used to, having neighbors that can change size and color and everything at any moment." Frodo hummed in agreement before picking up another slice of the yellow fruit.

They sat for a time in comfortable silence, enjoying the fruit and the scene before them. In the house behind them Frodo could hear laughter and singing, and away in Avallónë proper a chorus of bells was ringing.

Chapter 6

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Contrary to Lady Celebrían's prediction, Finrod Felagund had not been awaiting them at the house. He did make an appearance about a week after their arrival, but only briefly—to see Lady Galadriel and others he had known in Middle-earth, and to meet Elrond properly. And to meet Frodo and Bilbo. Frodo found it more than a bit disconcerting to have a great elven king and Hero bowing to him—and wearing armbands that were oddly familiar-looking, with silver snakes twined about a crown and emeralds for eyes. After Finrod departed again Frodo went to ask Elrond about it. "It is the badge of his father Finarfin's house," Elrond said. "But you are thinking of the Ring of Barahir that Aragorn wears."

"Oh! Yes, of course," said Frodo. "But why would Aragorn have a ring with King Finarfin's badge on it?"

"Grandfather isn't king anymore," said Celebrían, smiling. "Uncle Fingolfin had barely set foot outside of Mandos before Grandfather renounced the throne in favor of him. But the Ring of Barahir was first the Ring of Finrod Felagund, who gave it to Barahir after the Dagor Bragollach as a token of thanks. And from Barahir it passed to Beren."

"Oh!" said Frodo again. "Yes, of course. I remember now."

They were sitting out on the patio again, overlooking the Bay of Eldamar. A gauzy piece of pale blue fabric had been stretched out as a sunshade, and beneath it they were sipping cool drinks made from fruits Frodo had never heard of before, but liked a great deal. He swung his feet idly in his chair; Elrond and Celebrían were stretched out on a cushioned divan, with Celebrían's head pillowed on Elrond's shoulder. Gulls circled and soared overhead, calling hoarsely to one another, and out on the water boats darted here and there like butterflies with their colorful sails. The singing of the mariners echoed across the waves and mingled with the bells ringing in Avallónë. Closer to home, songbirds called to one another in the garden among the bluebells and roses, and inside Lindir was playing his harp, accompanied by someone else on a viol.

The days passed leisurely. Frodo went out to explore Avallónë, sometimes with Bilbo and other times with Elrond and Celebrían, or with Lindir, or with Gildor. He met many figures out of old tales, often in unexpected circumstances. The most unexpected was coming upon Fingon the Valiant tripping over his own feet during a game of hopscotch with a gaggle of elven children who all piled on top of him as soon as he hit the ground, shouting and laughing. It was several minutes before anyone noticed Frodo staring open-mouthed at the scene, or Celebrían giggling beside him, and so it was a very dusty and red-faced Fingon who greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and who greeted Frodo with the usual deep bow.

The days turned into weeks, and there was still neither sign nor word from Gandalf. Frodo was not particularly worried, although his dreams were still sometimes troubled, and after those nights he woke with a stiff shoulder and tingling in his left hand. And at other times his right hand hurt, sharp pains that seemed to be coming from the finger that was no longer there.

There was little that Elrond could do to prevent the finger pains, only to ease them when they came. It was not unheard of, he said, in those who had lost limbs. "Mithrandir spoke of taking you to Lórien," he said one afternoon. They were sitting inside, for it was raining—the first grey and relentlessly wet day that Frodo had experienced here on Tol Eressëa, although it could still not be called exactly dreary. "Estë and her people may be able to do more."

Recently someone had discovered Bilbo's fondness for maps, and produced several of the island and of Valinor proper; Frodo was very keen to see Valinor's Lórien, if only because he had already seen its echo in Middle-earth. "Did he say when?" he asked Elrond. "Not that I'm in a hurry to leave here," he added quickly, glancing at Celebrían in the corner where she was embroidering something with thread that flashed and glittered like emeralds. "Only he said he would try not to be long, and I don't know how long or short that is, here."

"Mithrandir came and went as he ever he pleased, and rarely with any warning," Elrond said, smiling. "I don't see why that should change now that we're here. But I think he intends to fetch you sooner rather than later."

In fact, Gandalf returned only a few days later. "Hullo, Gandalf!" said Bilbo as the wizard came into the parlor where he and Frodo were reminiscing about the garden at home, and wondering what Sam was doing with it. "You look just the same."

Gandalf raised his bushy eyebrows. "Did you expect me to look different?" he asked.

"Well, yes, I suppose," said Bilbo. "I was under the impression that you could look however you liked now."

"So I can," said Gandalf as he took a seat beside Bilbo, "and so I have. I've grown rather attached to this body; it's very comfortable, like a well-broken-in pair of boots.
"And speaking of comfort, how are you getting on? Have you sung all of your songs for all of the greatest kings and princes of the Noldor yet, Bilbo."

"Not all of them," said Bilbo. "Though I would like to visit Tirion, if it's possible."

"Certainly it is. We can leave any time. Frodo, at least, I want to take to see Lord Irmo and Lady Estë in Lórien. It would not hurt you either, Bilbo."

"Yes, yes, to repair the harm done by the Ring," Bilbo waved a hand. "I never felt the worse for it."

"Indeed?" Gandalf's eyebrows rose again. "Then what was all that you were saying before you left Bag End, about feeling like a bit of butter scraped over too much bread? That was the Ring, Bilbo. Indeed, in time you would have become as thin and stretched as Gollum!"

Frodo shuddered as Bilbo frowned. "Let's not talk of Gollum," he said. "Tell us how we'll get to Tirion."

"I can show you." Gandalf rose and went to pull a scroll off of a shelf full of them tucked into little nooks. This one, unfurled, was a map of Valinor proper. Bilbo's eyes lit up as he leaned forward to peer at it. All of the cities and roads were clearly marked.

"Hang on," said Bilbo, pointing to a dot just south and west of the Calacirya. "What's Menegroth doing there? I thought that was part of Beleriand."

"Well, all of the folk who lived there have ended up in Valinor, either by sailing or through the Halls of Mandos," said Gandalf. "And they did not all want to go to live in Alqualondë or Valmar or Tirion, and they missed their home that they could not return to. So a new Menegroth was built, and there dwells Elu Thingol once again, and his grandson Dior and his wife Nimloth. I'm told it is nearly an exact replica of the old Menegroth."

"I would very much like to see that!"

"And I am sure they will be happy to have you. And there is no hurry to visit all the places you want."

"Well, there's a bit of a hurry," said Bilbo cheerfully. "I am one hundred and thirty one, as you know. I've surpassed the Old Took, and I for one am looking forward to finding him on the Other Side and telling him all about it."

"Oh but not yet, Bilbo," said Frodo, feeling a little alarmed. Bilbo had seemed much more his old self since they had passed over the Straight Road—it was as though his age weighed on him less, here, although that did not match the tales Frodo had heard and read about Valinor before setting sail.

"No, not yet," said Gandalf. "You have as long as you want—not forever, for you are not Elves, and this blessing is not the same one the Valar gave to Tuor when he came, but long enough I think, for you to have your fill of Elven feasts and Elven tales. Yes, even you, Bilbo. But in the meantime, I will take you both for a holiday in Lórien. And after that you may visit Tirion or Valmar or Menegroth, or even the forges of Aulë or the forest haunts of Nessa and Oromë, if you so choose!"

"That all sounds wonderful," said Bilbo. "What do you think, Frodo?"

Frodo found himself rubbing at his missing finger, and made himself stop. "I've been rather looking forward to seeing Lórien," he said.

They left a week later. Elrond and Celebrían and Lady Galadriel went with them as far as Alqualondë, to see Galadriel's grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Alqualondë was large and sprawling, unlike any of the cities Frodo had ever seen, and all along the bay the beaches were not white sand but all the colors of the rainbow, bits of gems that the Noldor had brought for their friends so long ago, worn down by countless years of waves and wind into glittering dust. They said farewell to Elrond and Celebrían and Galadriel at the harbor, and Gandalf led the way to a stable where Shadowfax waited for them, munching contentedly on oats. There was a pair of ponies there, as well. Frodo's was a little brown thing with bright eyes that nuzzled at his shoulder, and Bilbo's was pale grey with a white mane. The elves who tended to the stable were happy to help Frodo and Bilbo with their saddles, and to help Bilbo up into it.

"On the road again with Gandalf!" Bilbo said as they set off, walking through the streets past silversmiths and bakers and fishmongers. "And with Frodo, too—how wonderful! All that's missing is a pack of Dwarves to grumble about everything." And as they left Alqualondë proper he started to sing one of the many traveling songs he had learned from the dwarves, which earned many startled looks from the elves that they passed on the road. It was a song Frodo knew, so he joined in on the chorus, and Gandalf, after he was done laughing, also sang along. So they passed the journey through the Calacirya, with the Pelóri towering over them higher even than the Misty Mountains. Frodo kept looking up and then worrying that he would tilt over backwards out of the saddle, and still he could not glimpse the peaks.

They came to Tirion at evening, when Eärendil's star was rising up out of the west. "Does he ever come down?" Bilbo asked Gandalf. "Like some of the tales say? Or does he really have to stay up there."

"On an errand that shall never rest?" Gandalf replied, chuckling. "No, he comes down often to see Elwing—those tales are true, and she can be seen sometimes flying out to meet him. And I am sure you will meet them both before long."

They stayed the night at a very nice inn near the edge of the city. It was not like the Prancing Pony that had rooms suited to hobbits, but the innkeeper and her wife put forth every effort to make up for it. It was a merry place, filled with laughter and light and music—and excellent food. The elves were delighted to have a new audience for their songs, and to tease Gandalf for his beard and bushy eyebrows. They stayed up late and slept late, for there was no hurry, and after a hearty breakfast they left Tirion, passing on through orchards and fields and pastures. There were many creatures and plants that Frodo did not recognize.

The journey was as pleasant as a walk through the Shire had ever been. They camped some nights, sleeping beneath the stars on soft grass, but most nights they stayed either at an inn or in someone's home; elves in Valinor loved guests, even (or especially) unexpected ones, and there was always room. But in spite of the warm welcomes, or perhaps because of it, Frodo preferred the nights spent under the stars. It was wearying to always be Frodo of the Nine Fingers, the Ringbearer, to be honored as a hero he did not feel that he really was. At least Gandalf and Bilbo had known him before all of that.

At last, the dark line of a forest appeared on the horizon. "There is Lórien," said Gandalf, gesturing with his pipe. "The realm of Irmo Master of Dreams, and of Estë the Healer."

It was another few days before they came to the edge of the forest. Beech trees towered over them, interspersed with slender birches and dark pines, and groves of mallorn trees, all silver but for the tops of the leaves that were pale green. There were many other trees—oaks, maples, yews, and many that Frodo did not recognize. And while the wood seemed mostly free of undergrowth there were thickets of sweet honeysuckle and berries of all sorts, most of which Frodo did not recognize. Birds called cheerfully to one another, and deer and rabbits paused in their foraging to look at the riders as they went by. And there were elves, walking together or sitting beneath the trees, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups. Some of them were singing, others were talking, others were silent. And other stranger figures flitted between the trees, not always in any recognizable form. Frodo supposed they must be Maiar, those who dwelt with and served Irmo or Estë.

There were many paths that twisted through the wood, and more often than not they followed little laughing brooks or streams that glittered with the dappled sunlight, lined with so many different kinds of flowers that it was like a rainbow had come to settle down for a nap on the forest floor. The canopy overhead was thick enough that the sunlight that came through had a greenish look to it, and it was cool and refreshing to just step in among the trees.

They came at last to a little fern-lined glade where a gap in the canopy above let in the golden sunshine. A little cottage had been built there, just the right size for two hobbits and also for any elven-tall visitors they might have. There was also a little shed for the ponies, and one of the little brooks flowed along through one part of the glade. "Oh, how lovely," said Bilbo. "They've even made the doors and windows properly round."

"Of course they have," said Gandalf. "I gave very detailed instructions. You should find the kitchen well stocked, as well. Shall we see about lunch?"

The ponies were let loose to explore, and of course Shadowfax did whatever he wished. Frodo had not known what to expect in Lórien, but a proper hobbit house, with as nice a kitchen as could be hoped for, had not been it. But it was the most comfortable place he had been yet in Valinor, though he never would have admitted such to any of the elves that had hosted them. "So what happens now?" he asked Gandalf.

"Now you rest," said Gandalf. He had his pipe out again, and was blowing smoke rings out the window. "Or go for a walk, or do whatever you like. Estë will find you sometime in the evening; she rests herself during the brightest hours of the day."

Bilbo decided to take a nap. Gandalf seemed to have settled in for a good long smoke, so Frodo went out alone to walk a little bit, examining the flowers and berry bushes that he did not know. He met no one on the walk, which both surprised him and didn't; it was as though Lórien itself knew that he wanted to be alone at the moment, though elsewhere he could hear faint sounds of talk and laughter and music. It was a very different place than he had imagined; in his mind he had been picturing the Lórien of Galadriel and Celeborn in Middle-earth, all silver and gold as he had seen it in the fading winter. This place was very different. But it was comforting to sit down beneath a mallorn tree; he had missed the one in the Party Field since leaving the Shire. He leaned back against the smooth bark and closed his eyes. Somewhere a bluebird was singing, and after a very short while he fell asleep.

Chapter 7

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It was twilight when Frodo woke, with the grogginess that came with unexpected naps, to find himself in the company of another hobbit. She was sitting a few feet away weaving together a garland of hawthorn and eglantine. It took several moments for it to occur to Frodo that it was a strange thing to see another hobbit here, because there was something about her that simply belonged in this place. And then he realized that she didn't really look very much like a hobbit—not any hobbit lass he had ever known. Her face was smooth and ageless (in fact she looked a little bit like his mother, in his hazy long-ago memories), but her hair was soft silver that shone in the evening light that peered through the leaves overhead, and she was clad all in soft grey. And there was something of starlight about her, as though it lived just beneath her skin.

Yes, soft seemed to be the right word for her. She looked up at Frodo and smiled, her fingers never stopping their work. "Hello, Frodo," she said.

"Hello," he said. It was not strange at all, somehow, to be speaking Westron to a mysterious hobbit in the middle of Lórien in Valinor. He sat up properly, expecting to find a crick in his neck and a knot in his back, but he felt as though he had napped on the softest of feather mattresses. "Good gracious. It must be nearing supper time. Bilbo will be wondering where I am."

"He knows there is no need to worry," said the hobbit as she finished her garland. "No danger will find you—not here." She set the garland aside and came to sit beside Frodo.

"May I see your shoulder?" she asked, and it was the most natural thing in the world for Frodo to shrug off his shirt and allow her to examine the various scars on his shoulders and the back of his neck. Her fingers were smooth and cool and very gentle. He had not been in any pain to begin with, but as he fingers prodded the scar left by the Witch-king's blade pain flared, icy and sharp and he hissed. That was when she began to sing, and after the first few notes the pain melted away, leaving soothing warmth behind. The same happened when she examined the sound left by Shelob's sting, and the scars left by the orc whips from Minas Morgul, although they had healed well and had not troubled Frodo since. Now it almost felt as though he had never been wounded at all.

At last, the hobbit allowed him to put his shirt back on, and she sat down in front of him and held out her hands. "And now for the worst one of all," she said. "May I see your hand?" Frodo held it out, and she took it in both of hers, running her fingers over his palm and then over the stump of scar tissue where once his finger had been. Frodo closed his eyes and grimaced, feeling the terrible pain of losing it all over again before she sang the pain away. It was a much longer song, longer even than the one she had sung over the wound in his shoulder. When Frodo opened his eyes as it ended, the stars were out overhead, and Estë—for that was who this must be—was getting to her feet and pulling him up to his. "I am the bringer of rest and healer of hurts," she said, as she placed the garland of on his head, so that the sweet scent of the flowers fell over him like a veil. "The wounds of your body will no longer trouble you, Frodo of the Shire, though you shall bear the scars the rest of your days. But I cannot ease all pains. That is the domain of others." She kissed his forehead, and then stepped back and to his surprise and embarrassment, dropped into a deep curtsy. Before he could say anything, or try to bow in return, she was gone, and he was alone beneath the mallorn tree with naught but starlight for company.

He did not feel tired, so he began to walk again, though with no particular destination in mind. It was not hard to find his way even as the night deepened. The moon rose, its light dappled silver on the path before Frodo, dancing as the breeze whispered through the trees. The wood changed to pine after a while, pungent and deeply shadowed. Fireflies danced beneath them, and sometimes Frodo thought they came together to form the figures of elves or of hobbits, to wave to him or to bow as he passed by—but in a blink they were only fireflies again, and he was not sure it wasn't just his own fancy. Owls swooped down over his head every so often, or perched out of sight in the trees to hoot at one another, their calls eerie in the otherwise quiet wood. Frodo began to wonder if he had strayed out of the Gardens of Lórien, or if they were truly as safe as Estë had said. But as soon as he began to feel afraid the trees opened up into a meadow of pale night flowers and sweet soft grass, where a stream flowed by sparkling in the starlight. A small stone bridge arched over it. The water was clear and cool and refreshing, and Frodo sat for a while bathing his feet after drinking his fill. He hummed a few snatches of old Shire songs, not thinking about anything in particular, except that the stars were very bright, and that he did not see any of the old familiar constellations.

After a while he got up and crossed the little bridge and continued on down the path. The fir trees faded away into birch woods and aspen groves all a-quiver in the breeze. Somewhere out of sight someone was singing a song to Elbereth—or rather, to Varda Elentári. He passed on and the wood fell silent again, until the path turned down a slope and he heard running water as he followed it down to a hollow among some low hills, where the trees towered overhead, beech and elm and mallorn all mingling together. A spring bubbled up among some pale stones at the bottom, overflowing into a little brook that burbled away into the tree shadows winding between the hills; the ground was soft and mossy and cool. Fireflies winked around the water, until Frodo blinked and they were gone, in their place the figure of a man. He was tall and slender and fair-haired—or short and dark-haired, or perhaps not there at all, as his appearance shifted and changed like rainbows in mist.

"Hello, Frodo Baggins," he said, in a voice like moonbeams and a smile like summer rain. "I hope you are enjoying my garden."

"I am, very much," said Frodo, with a polite bow. "It is very lovely. And Lady Estë is very kind."

Lord Irmo—for that was who this strange figure must be—beamed, looking for a flicker of a moment precisely like Sam Gamgee when speaking about Rosie. "Her domain is the healing of hurts and of weariness," he said. "And mine is of sleep, and of dreams; I have been watching yours for some time. But come! Your mind needs rest as well as your body; your spirit has work to do before it too can be fully healed, but that is the domain of my sister." He plunged a cup into the spring and held it out to Frodo, who stepped forward to take it. The water was very cold as it spilled over his fingers, but it flowed down his throat like sweet wine, and though he had not felt particularly tired before, as soon as Irmo took the cup away he was yawning, and from somewhere a blanket appeared, and Irmo tucked it around Frodo's shoulders as he lay down, the moss softer than the finest feather bed.

Chapter 8

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Frodo slept long, and did not dream. When he woke the world was covered in mist, an all was grey and shapeless and dull. He pulled the blanket back up over his head, pressing his face into the soft wool. His shoulder felt cold, edging toward numbness. It was hard to tell if outside of the blankets the world was only blanketed by mist, or if he was the one fading out of it. The world seemed dark and empty and the feeling welled up from deep within him that it was because It was gone, destroyed and lost for ever. He shuddered, and reached into his pocket—where he found the seashell Lady Uinen had given him. It was cool and smooth in his palm, and brought to his mind a memory of the Bay of Eldamar, its warm waters washing gently up the sands, whispering rather than roaring. With that memory he felt strengthened, and the world seemed a little less empty, and he sat up.

It was still misty, but the sky was clear, with the promise of warm sunshine burning the rest of it away before long. He remained in the hollow by the rocky spring, which bubbled up cheerfully and flowed away in its tiny stream. The trees around the hollow were tall and dark and a little menacing, as they had not been the day before. Frodo examined the blanket. It was thick and soft, of wool dyed dark green, and unfamiliar. Someone had taken care to wrap him up after Irmo had set him to sleep. Someone, perhaps the same person, had also left a basket beside him, a proper picnic basket that he might have found in anyone's pantry in the Shire. He opened it with one hand, unwilling to put the shell back into his pocket, and found bread and cheese and fruits—apples and berries, ripe and sharply sweet. He felt slightly better after eating a slice of soft brown bread and a handful of the berries, and better still after he found the jug of pineapple juice nestled in the bottom.

Once he had eaten his fill, Frodo tucked a few apples into his pockets, folded the blanket, and left it and the basket placed neatly beside the spring. The crown of flowers that Estë had placed on his head had been set on one of the stones, and the flowers were still blooming and fresh, and he picked it up but did not put it on. He peered around, unsure of which direction he was meant to take. He could not even now remember which way he had come from. There were several paths leading out of the hollow, all in different directions. It was as though this place was where many ways converged, in this part of the wood.

He picked a path at random and began to walk. In this strange land the paths would lead him wherever he must go, he thought, regardless of which he chose. It took him up out of the hollow and then onto a stretch of flat land, and the trees changed from leafy mallorn and beech to tall and stately firs, their trunks like pale grey pillars with their branches stretching up and out high overhead. The air smelled strongly of pine, and needles lay over the ground like a thick carpet, warm and brown in the morning sunlight. There was birdsong, but it was distant, and once he left the hollow the sound of water faded, so the only noise was the wind whispering through the branches, too high for him to feel it. There was no undergrowth, and he could see for a long way to either side of the path.

But even in Valinor, Frodo thought, he should not stray off the path. He continued on, hands in his pockets, humming a walking song as the skies grew brighter. He was thinking about his friends left behind in the Shire, and in Gondor, and wondered if there was anyone in Valinor who could give him news of what was happening back across the Sea.

As he was wondering how little Elanor was getting along in Bag End, he heard another voice singing up ahead of him on the path. The song's cadence was like a walking song, though it wasn't a tune that he knew, and the words were strange. Frodo stopped and waited until around a bend appeared a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with long dark hair swinging loosely down his back. He wore simple traveling clothes and no ornaments or jewels. He stopped singing when he saw Frodo, and raised a hand in greeting. "Well met!" he said as he approached, and gave a courtly bow. "Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor, at your service, Master Baggins."

"Oh!" Frodo blinked up at him, before realizing his rudeness and bowing in return. "Frodo Baggins at yours and your family's! I do beg your pardon, I did not expect to meet you…here."

"Or at all?" Celebrimbor smiled.

"Well, no. Or—" Frodo fumbled for the right words. "I have met several great heroes and kings from the old tales, who died and then came back," he said, "but it's a surprise every time, if you know what I mean. It's one thing to read about it, but quite another to meet—well, someone like you! Begging your pardon, Master Celebrimbor, I mean no offense."

Celebrimbor laughed. "And I take none. And if it makes you feel any better, you are as much of a surprise to the Elves here as we are to you—a wonderful surprise. I am sure my cousin Finrod is particularly delighted."

"He and Bilbo got along splendidly, before we left Tol Eressëa," said Frodo. They started to walk again, falling into step together. In spite of his height Celebrimbor matched Frodo's pace with ease. "I am glad to meet you, though," Frodo went on after a little while. "We passed through your old country, you know. Hollin, I mean. Though I never would have known people lived there once. Legolas said only the stones remembered."

"Yes, it was a long time ago," said Celebrimbor. "Alas that you could not have seen it at its height. Ost-in-Edhil was precisely the city I had dreamed of building all my life."

"We did see the doors of Moria," said Frodo. "With your name on them, and Narvi's, and the Star of Fëanor there in the middle. I'm afraid they were destroyed, though."

"I am surprised they lasted as long as they did, after Khazad-dûm fell," said Celebrimbor. "But I am glad that you got to see them, and that Narvi's name has not been wholly forgotten." He spoke more of Narvi and her skill and the beautiful things she had made, and that she and Celebrimbor had worked together on, and of Eregion and Ost-in-Edhil at its height, and the splendor of Khazad-dûm. Frodo remembered the faded echo of that splendor from his own journey through Moria, though it was overshadowed by the darkness and the horror of what had happened while they were there, and he was glad to hear tales of the halls filled with light and song and merriment.

Eventually they fell into companionable silence. Slowly the land around them changed. Rocky outcroppings began to appear, some nearly as tall as the trees, and around them grew ferns and grasses. Streams trickled through the trees and springs bubbled up cheerfully out of some of the rocks. A hart darted across the path in front of them and bounded away, almost silent on the springy carpet of needles. Frodo asked, "Where does this path lead?"

"You have left the Gardens of Lórien behind, and are traveling west," said Celebrimbor. "Few travel this way to find Lady Nienna; she will come to you be for you reach her halls that look out onto the Walls of the World."

"You are traveling this way," Frodo said.

"I have dwelt long in Nienna's halls. There is no call for crafting there." They came to a dip in the road, where a little hollow at the base of a particularly large tree offered shelter. Frodo looked up at the sky and was surprised to find that it was nearing evening. They made camp together, and dined on the apples Frodo had in his pockets and on some bread and beer that Celebrimbor had brought with him. There was a space for a fire and plenty of dead wood to be found, and by the time twilight fell they had a merry blaze going.

Once they had eaten, they sat in silence for a while, while the stars came out and the breeze died down. It was not so easy as when they had been walking, however. Frodo had noticed the way Celebrimbor's gaze kept staying to his missing finger, so that now the Ring—and its maker—hung between them, unspoken but in every thought. Frodo wrapped himself up on his cloak and rubbed at his wounded hand. There was no longer any phantom finger to ache or itch, thanks to Estë's arts, but there was still the memory of it—of the mountain, of Gollum, of losing himself entirely.

Celebrimbor spoke abruptly. "He took my fingers too." Frodo looked up. Celebrimbor stared at the flames without seeming to see them, his gaze far away. "He took great pleasure in breaking my hands beyond repair—so even if I escaped him I could no longer be a maker." He flexed his hands, rubbing at his fingers in a way that made Frodo shudder, remembering the way that Gollum, too, had rubbed them. "I cannot imagine what it was like to enter the Sammath Naur and holding the Ring."

"It was terrible," Frodo said. "But it was Gollum who bit off my finger. After I claimed the Ring." It was difficult to speak the words aloud—he wasn't certain now that he had said them aloud before, though he had written the scene, helped by Sam whose memories were clearer. Frodo's mind had been all smoke and flame and confusion. "I think…I think he didn't realize we were there until it was too late. Aragorn and Gandalf and the others had drawn him off and all of his thought was focused on the Black Gate, until I put the thing on. And then Gollum was there and once he had it, he tripped and fell—so really neither of us destroyed it on purpose."

"Yet it was destroyed, and its maker with it," said Celebrimbor. "You carried it as far as you could—farther than anyone else could, I daresay—and that was enough. You have my thanks, for taking up the task. And I am more sorry than I can say for the part I played in its creation. Better that there had been no Rings of Power at all than to have helped him perfect the art for the One."

"Sauron would have still been, though," said Frodo, "and it was your Rings that kept Lórien and Rivendell safe and fair, and helped Gandalf to achieve his tasks—though all we knew in the Shire was that he made really remarkable fireworks."

Celebrimbor smiled, though his eyes were sad. "I am glad. But that is enough of old hurts and dark thoughts for one evening. Tell me of the Shire, and of your people!"

"Well," said Frodo, feeling as though a weight had lifted off of him with the changing of the subject, "my people in particular are the Bagginses of Hobbiton, though my mother was a Brandybuck of Buckland…"

Chapter 9

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Celebrimbor walked with Frodo most of the next morning. The woods continued as they had the day before, unchanging except that as they went on the trees grew taller and thicker—showing greater and greater age. They did not speak more of rings or of Middle-earth; instead Celebrimbor talked of the things he was making now—things that were beautiful in themselves, with little other purpose.

At last they came to a fork in the road, and Celebrimbor bowed to Frodo. "Here is where we part, Ring-bearer," he said.

"Before you go," said Frodo, "may I ask you one more question?"

"Certainly," said Celebrimbor.

"Do you regret it?" Frodo asked. "I mean, letting Sauron into your city in the first place."

Celebrimbor pursed his lips, and tilted his head back, gazing at the tree boughs far above as he thought. "No," he said finally. "I regret what came out of it in the end, but I do not regret extending my hand to Annatar when he first came. There was a time, I think, where he stood upon a knife's edge and could have chosen differently than he did. Alas that he chose Mordor over fair Eregion!"

Frodo considered this, and then nodded. "Thank you," he said. "I'm sorry if that was terribly rude."

"No! It wasn't. You are not the first to ask, nor will you be the last—and you of all people have most right to ask rude questions of me. It was a question I wrestled with long in Mandos." Celebrimbor bowed. "Farewell for now, Frodo Baggins. I hope we shall meet again very soon."

"Likewise!" Frodo bowed. "I know Bilbo would be delighted to meet you, as well."

He watched Celebrimbor stride down the right hand fork, dark braid swinging with each step, until the path went around a large close stand of trees, and he was lost from view. Frodo turned left and continued on. It was very quiet. He did not hear any birds, or any wind in the branches far over his head, or even the sound of flowing water until he came suddenly upon little rills running along between the great tree roots. The path descended a little, into a narrow cutting in the earth so that the trees loomed even larger overhead, and their roots reached across the road over Frodo's head like arches.

When he emerged from the dip he found another stream, this one crossing the road beneath a low bridge of dark stone. Beside the path just his side of the water stood a bench, and on that bench sat a figure clad all in dark grey, with long silver hair down their back, and a veil over their face. Like Lady Estë, this figure had taken on the stature of a hobbit, if one slightly taller than usual. They raised their head as Frodo approached; he stopped and bowed deeply.

"Come, sit with me, Frodo Baggins," said the figure. Her voice was a woman's, but deeper than most. She sounded a little like Galadriel. Frodo joined her on the bench; beside him she sat a little taller than Merry, but not by much. Beside them the stream flowed along, dark beneath the trees, and quiet. "You have come a very long way," said the lady after a while.

"Yes," Frodo agreed, for lack of anything else to say. The lady turned and lifted her veil. He had guessed she must be Nienna, and now he was certain. Unlike Estë, she had not taken on the cheerful, round features of a hobbit. Her face was dark and slender, her features a little sharper, and tears slid continuously from her dark eyes. Where they went when they dripped from her chin was impossible to tell—none of her robes or her veil were at all damp. Her hair was long and silver as moonlight. "Why am I here, Lady?" he asked after a moment.

Nienna regarded him in silence for a while before answering. "You carried a heavy burden, Frodo," she said, "for a very long time, and were wounded in both hröa and fëa. For such hurts there is no healing in Middle-earth." Frodo did not answer. "Arwen the daughter of Elrond first proposed that you come to us to find healing and peace. Gandalf agreed that it should be so, and Galadriel and Elrond also—and so too did Manwë give his willing consent."

"And I am very grateful," said Frodo, "only—I didn't really—I failed my quest, in the end. I couldn't throw the Ring away." He remembered suddenly Elrond's words at the Council, when he said that Frodo should be accounted among all the great heroes of the Edain—Beren and Húrin and the rest. It seemed wrong now—and rather presumptuous—since they had all succeeded in what they had set out to do, more or less. He didn't deserve half of what had been done for him since the Ring went into the fire.

"Did you fail, truly?" Nienna asked. "You were the Ring Bearer, and your task was to carry it—and carry it you did, to the very heart of the Cracks of Doom where it was forged. That is no small feat."

"Yes, but it was meant to be destroyed there," said Frodo.

"And so it was." Nienna reached out and took Frodo's hand in hers—the one with its missing finger. Her hands were cool and soft. "Even my brother in Mandos could not have foreseen how the Ring was to be destroyed," she said. "It would have been too much for anyone to resist the will of Sauron himself in the heart of his realm, the very center of his power. Would you fault someone thrust to the bottom of the sea for drowning?"

"That's…" Frodo paused, and frowned. It did not feel like the same thing. "But I chose to put on the Ring," he said.

"But not freely," said Nienna. Her tears continued to fall. "You bore the Ring of Power and you resisted unto the last moment, and because of your courage and resilience, Sauron was defeated, and shall trouble the wide world no more. For this we honor you." We she said, speaking of the very Powers themselves. Frodo ducked his head, feeling rather as he had upon waking in Cormallen and finding all the great lords and kings there ready to bow to him. He also felt, rather suddenly, that he was going to start to cry—and then realized that he already was.

Frodo sat there, with his hand in Nienna's hands, and wept for a very long time. The shadows were growing long by the time he stopped; he felt tired and rather drained, as one did after a long cry, but he also felt somehow refreshed, perhaps cleaner. It put him in mind of walking through the Nimrodel back on the borders of Lothlórien, as though the water had washed away more than just the dirt of Moria and the mountains.

Nienna's smile was soft and small, and she leaned down to kiss Frodo's forehead. A few of her tears dropped onto his face to mingle with his own. "Go now, back the way you came," she said. "Bilbo is waiting for you." Frodo rose from the bench and bowed very low; when he straightened again, he was alone.

For a few minutes Frodo stood where he was. It was very peaceful in that dark wood. Then he knelt by the water and splashed his face, and drank a little. It was cool and clean and sweet. Still thinking of the Nimrodel, he bathed his feet, and then turned back down the path in the direction he had come. He walked for a while, and then came around a bend past a particularly large tree to find himself back in the ferny glade in Lórien at twilight. The cottage windows glowed warmly; fireflies flickered among the trees at the far edge of it. Smoke was curling out of the chimney, and Frodo could smell cooking mushrooms.

He crossed the clearing and opened the door. Bilbo and Gandalf were in the kitchen; smoke curled around Gandalf's head as he blew smoke rings, before it drifted lazily to the hearth and up the chimney. There was fresh bread and butter on the table, and a large bowl of mushrooms fried with herbs. "Frodo lad!" Bilbo exclaimed. "You're back just in time! Look at these mushrooms. A young elf lad brought them to me just this morning. Very charming fellow. What was his name, Gandalf? Sit down, Frodo. You look a bit peaky. Are you well?"

"I'm very well, Bilbo," said Frodo. "I just had a rather longer walk than I expected." He sat down as Bilbo served up a heaping plate of mushrooms, bacon, roasted potatoes, and buttered bread.

Gandalf blew another smoke ring and peered closely at Frodo; whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, as he did not say anything, only settled back in his seat and turned to Bilbo. "That young charming fellow was Caranthir, son of Fëanor—and you are the first person in the history of the world, I would wager, to call him charming."

"I don't see why," said Bilbo. "He was very polite! We talked of dwarves for quite a long time," he said, turning to Frodo. "He had a lot of business with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, back in the day. He was even acquainted with Telchar—that's the fellow who made Narsil, if you remember. Fascinating stuff!"

"Bilbo shall be writing another book before long," Gandalf said.

"Well, why not? I must do something with myself while I am here. I doubt there are many good translations into Westron in Valinor."

Frodo ate his mushrooms—they were even better than Mrs. Maggot's—and listened quietly to the talk of books and translations. When he went to bed afterward, he fell asleep almost immediately, and dreamed of quiet forests and running streams.

Epilogue

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When they left Lórien Gandalf did not take the hobbits back to Tol Eressëa, but to the house in the mountains that Celebrían had made in memory of Imladris; Amon Imrath it was called, and was nestled in a high-up valley scooped out of the mountainside, where streams flowed merrily down from the much higher peaks of the Pelóri, and sheep grazed happily on the green slopes, and goats frolicked on the sheer cliffs higher up.

A feast was held in celebration of their arrival, and of Frodo ’s recovery. Elrond was greatly relieved to see the brightening of Frodo’s spirit, and the easing of its wounds and those of his body. The long sojourn in Lórien had done him a great deal of good; Elrond suspected that Frodo himself was unaware of just how deep-seated his wounds had gone. They were not fully healed, and perhaps they never would be—but the difference surely must feel to Frodo as if they were.

At this feast, Frodo and Bilbo were seated at the high table with Elrond and Celebrían, and with Gandalf and other guests of high honor, including Celebrimbor, who had greeted Frodo as a friend upon their entry into the hall

During the meal Bilbo pestered Gandalf, seated beside him, with many questions about Amon Imrath and its construction, until at last during the dessert course Gandalf lost his patience. “I was not here for its construction, Master Baggins!” Gandalf finally cried. “Have mercy on an old tired wizard and go to Lady Celebrían instead!”

“You,” Bilbo said, pointing at Gandalf with his fork, still with a strawberry pierced upon it, “are not at all tired now.”

“But I am old,” said Gandalf, beard twitching only a little. “And anyway, Lady Celebrían will be much happier than I to endure your questions. Worse than young Peregrin, you are! I never should have brought you to Valinor.” Bilbo laughed, but he did cease his questions.

Elrond smiled at Gandalf, who took a large sip of wine. “Bilbo is right,” he said. “You are much lighter now than you were.”

“I am!” Gandalf replied, and laughed. “Too light, almost—as though a stiff breeze might pick me up and send me tumbling through the skies if I’m not careful. And perhaps one of these days I shall let it!” He glanced down the table, and Elrond followed his gaze. Frodo was laughing freely, conversing with Erestor and with Celebrimbor. His spirit shone like the light of Eärendil in Galadriel’s phial, to those who could see it. “The last of my burdens has been eased,” Gandalf said, more quietly, “and now we may all find our rest!”