The Breathing Sea by StarSpray

Chapter 9

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.