The Breathing Sea by StarSpray

Chapter 7

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.