The Breathing Sea by StarSpray

Chapter 8

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…"