Light from the West

by Armariel

Synopsis: This collection is a companion-piece to "Bear Me Away!" and "Anemone," which recount Frodo's adventures in the Blessed Realm. In "Bear Me Away!" Frodo speaks of writing letters to Sam and reading them aloud by the light of his star-glass. Here are excerpts from some of those letters.

I. Luminescence

Dear Sam,

Bilbo is asleep at last—I had to turn him on his side so he wouldn't snore. I doubt an earthquake could awaken him now. And it's not as if I had to shout into this glass to make you hear me! Is it?

Yes, I'm certain you can hear me, with your heart if not with your ears; I can tell by the way the glass glows golden when I talk to you. Normally it glows a bright silvery white, as you well know, and only when I speak the words to make it do so. But when I talk to you, it glows a pale warm amber, not nearly so brilliant, more like candle-light, very easy on the eyes, and such a sweet comfort; I feel as if you were very close at hand. So I thought I would write down these words and read them to you just as I would write you a letter.

Dear Sam, I know you are angry with me sometimes. I can tell by the tint of bright red in the glass, and then I feel I am not reaching you. I cannot blame you. I know I kept some things from you and perhaps I was wrong in doing so, but I prefer to think I did so for your sake, wishing not to spoil your happiness, although deep down I knew I was only putting off what was to come. I was far sicker than even I realized when I left. Lord Elrond said I did you a tremendous favor by leaving, and I hope and pray that I can make you see that. I think you see it already, but cannot help feeling anger just the same. But I am determined not let it keep me from trying to reach you.

I have been here I think about two weeks, maybe more. I'm not allowed to get out of bed except to go to the privy. They've rigged up a little chair on wheels so that I don't even have to walk there; I merely climb in and Bilbo or whoever is handiest pushes me down the hallway. You would not believe the privy; it is a thing of wonders. For one thing, it is inside the house; I thought Bilbo would faint when he first heard that! The pot is half full of water and when you're done you pull on a chain and the water and, ahem, other matter is sucked down into a hole at the bottom! I dare not ask where it all goes. Then the pot is refilled by means of some sort of hidden piping. I can only wonder how such a contrivance would go over in the Shire?

But enough about that! It can get very tiresome lying here in bed all the time, even though they wait on me hand and foot and I can lie outdoors on the terrace as much as I please during the daytime. It's very bad and ungrateful of me to complain, and I'll try not to do too much of it, but I hope you don't mind if I bother you with my grumbling occasionally. And there are books here to read, perhaps hundreds. The library is right next to our room, and I've barely made a dent in it yet. But I'm getting quite an education, learning of birds and beasts and plant life and people and customs and lands I didn't even know existed. (Did you know that some people eat horses?? Insects?? Bird's nests???) They won't let me read for long, but someone will come in and read to me when I've exceeded the time allowed to me to do my own reading, and they are happy to discuss what we've just read, and answer my questions, and impart some of their own knowledge to me. I have to admit, that when it's Lady Elwing reading to me, I find it very hard to concentrate on what she's saying for listening to the sound of her voice!

I don't think I've described this room, have I? The floor is tiled in a way that never ceases to fascinate me. It is made of white, ivory, rose-colored, dark-grey, silver-grey, and bluish stone, along with some that are white with a black veining. They are arranged into large starry patterns and it makes me dizzy to think how much work must have gone into laying the floor alone. And they are polished to a high gloss and when the candles are lit in the evening, it looks as if the floor is full of stars and I am floating amongst them. There is a small fountain in the middle of the room, made of the same sort of stone interspersed with gems of a rose-cream color and others of a deep red. There are pots of flowers and small plants set about it, and Bilbo and I both enjoy sitting beside it and dangling our feet in the water. But if we keep too still, there are little gold fishes in it that come and nibble on our toes! Bilbo got a shock from this at the first also; it made him rather angry, in fact, and he wondered if gold-fishes were good eating! They are much too beautiful to eat, however, and I told him so, emphatically, and he laughed at me.

The walls are made of wide panels of a white stone with a silver sparkle in it when the light shines brightly on it, inlaid at the edge of each panel with some of the rose-colored and bluish stone and the black-and-white marble. At the top of each panel is a fan-shaped carving of leaves and flowers, inlaid with a few of the same gem-stones in the fountain. Below each carving is a candle-sconce of filigreed bronze with a crystal shade, and from the ceiling hangs a chain with a large round chandelier also of bronze, with prisms hanging down that catch the light in dancing colors.

On the side where the back wall should be, there are only columns, in white marble also inlaid with gems and mosaic tiles; a white lace curtain hangs there and also a heavy drape of crimson velvet that you can draw if you want privacy. I seldom have it drawn at night, however, because I like to gaze out at the sky before falling asleep. The wall that is not a wall faces north-west and sometimes there are colored lights in the northern sky that take my breath away completely; I wish you could see. Green, gold, dark blue, turquoise-blue, scarlet, rose, orange, and silver-white. Some are as clouds and some are as light-beams radiating downward or upward; others are as streaks or swirls or giant flowers, and they move and shift and drift about with entrancing slowness. I wonder sometimes if they can be the souls of Gandalf's fireworks!

And I forget about the splendours of the house for a while; no Elven architect can even come close to the Divine one….

A lengthy description of the garden follows, along with a good bit of rhapsodizing over the beauty of the Ladies, during which Bilbo suddenly awakens a full five minutes before Frodo realizes. Thereafter he resolves to confine his outpourings to the Garden.

II. Yachting

Dear Sam,

They threw a great party in our (mine and Bilbo's) honor on the beach last night! At last I got to see the beach—it being early in the afternoon when it began and late at night when it finished. I am still not allowed to walk around much, although far more than I was, as you know already. But the Elves carried us out there in something called a "litter", which is a wide chair with a fringed shade atop, supported on long poles which are born along on the shoulders of four Elves—yes, much like a coffin, but we were open to the air, so don't be alarmed, Sam! I was horribly embarrassed about so much fuss being made over me in public, while of course Bilbo enjoyed every minute of it! I wish I were more like him sometimes.

We sat on big cushions piled on the sand for us, and Elf-children argued over who got to serve us. The one who served me was a little Elf-lass called Lyrien, who is the niece of our maid-servant, Tilwen—Tilwen's mother is the dearest friend of Lady Celebrían, which is how she came to serve us. I believe I've told of her to you already. Lyrien is considerably younger than the other children—she's actually smaller than I am—but she has no qualms about telling them that SHE will serve me and that's an end of it! But she does generously allow her best friend, Marílen, who is also her cousin on her father's side, to help. So there we are with two little Elf-maidens bringing us one dish after another.

"This is SQUID," Lyrien announces to me at one point, most importantly, waving the huge plate with the strange-looking whitish matter on it under my nose. "You will pos—posit—positively not BELIEVE how good it is! Taste it!"

I remember seeing a drawing of a squid in one of Lord Elrond's books. Remember that monster with all the arms, Sam, in the lake at Moria? This creature appears to be a distant relative of it—and it is eaten as a delicacy here?? Well, repressing shudders with every ounce of determination I have, I take a bite, which I have no choice but to do with the sweet child's lovely eyes watching me so intently for my reaction—perhaps I can send her off for some fruits and hide the squid in the sand when her back is turned—but it isn't nearly as bad as it looks! I don't know yet what they do to it, but it's quite palatable in fact. And, the fried clams and shrimp and buttery crab-legs that go with it are incredibly delicious. I had been fretting on the ship about whether Bilbo and I would like sea-food. Well, I doubt I shall ever fancy oysters, which the intrepid Elves eat raw here, but I must say they look—ahem--entirely unappetizing. I've not worked up the nerve to try them yet. And there are some fishes called "anchovies"—when I first bit into one, I spewed it right out again before I could even think, mortified at my horrible breach of manners afterward. But leave it to Bilbo—he tried one and found it entirely delicious!

I expect him to try raw oysters sooner or later!

Of course, we are not able to do much, Bilbo being old and I being "infirm", as they put it—but it is wonderful just to be able to get into the open air, and see the seashore, and so many Elves putting themselves out for our enjoyment. I had not known Elves could make so merry, or that they were so fond of dancing, and that their dances had so much variety and intricacy, such fire and passion, or that they ever danced for the entertainment of others. There is one, danced by three couples, in which the ladies wear a black silk gown with a white waist and a skirt that is quite full and a bit short (above the ankles! Have mercy on a poor old sick hobbit!), richly embroidered all over, and of course, brightly colored flowers and feathers in their hair. The waist leaves the arms mostly bare and the ladies wear many bracelets on both wrists and ankles, which jingle when they dance. The males wear dark tight leggings and a white tunic also, with black and gold embroidery. The music starts out slowly, very slowly indeed. At the first, the male-Elves stand quite still while the ladies move about them with a surprisingly sinuous strut, waving their arms with a sensuous grace, clutching at their skirts and shaking them a bit, showing colored ruffles underneath. Then the male-Elves will suddenly turn and catch them at the waist and lift them high into the air for a moment and twirl them about, while the music gets faster and faster, growing in fire and intensity. It has a dark and foreign sound to it, which is odd to my ears and a little disturbing, yet exciting, and the dancers move faster and faster with it, the ladies whirling until I think they must grow dizzy, then they leave the men and dance with each other, their hands lifted high in the middle and touching, as they skip in a circle with the males watching until they decide they've had enough and go after the ladies, seize them and begin dancing with an ardor that is almost frightening. Surely this sort of dancing might be considered a bit improper in Middle-earth—it would be shocking in the Shire, I know—but no one here seems to take any exception to it at all!

There is another dance with the males only—seven of them, all wearing the black leggings with a wide sash of scarlet and gold, and nothing above, save for broad gold bands on their wrists. Their faces are extremely serious as they dance, with their long hair flaring out, working up a sweat, and the only music played is on two drums, a big one pounded with clubs and a small one played with the hands. It is a powerful and masculine dance, and Bilbo whispers to me at one point that he doesn't think it quite seemly for them to dance half naked with ladies looking on; could I imagine hobbits doing so? But it seems to me that the ladies do not mind in the slightest, judging from the dreamy smiles on their faces!

A dance for ladies follows, as feminine as the other is masculine: they wear gowns in light colors and, of course, garlands of flowers in their hair, and their feet and ankles are bare. The music is brisk and very gay and graceful, harps and flutes and zithers and female voices singing, and the dancers seem to greatly enjoy themselves, in great contrast to their male counterparts, who seem almost sullen in their intensity. The ladies seem to be celebrating both their own and each other's beauty, brushing their fingers lightly over each other's hair and faces at times, and as you may imagine, I cannot take my eyes away from them. Neither can Bilbo. When I glance sidelong at him at the end of the dance, he has the look of one who has passed to the Other Side and is beholding the most beautiful thing imaginable, and I can swear he is glowing all over. I wonder do I look the same?

Then comes a dance for children, and Lyrien and Marílen both take part in this. They line up with the smallest elflings on one end and the largest on the other, girls in front and boys in back, and the dance is lively and intricate, the music rather hobbit-ish, and I worry that some will forget the correct steps and will be greatly embarrassed before all, but this does not happen. The music, played on flutes and harps and pipes and tabor, is most delightful and joyous, with a sort of spin to it, hard to describe. It sounds the way sunshine on running water looks, or the way honeysuckle smells, and the girls all wear short white silk dresses and their hair is curled, and they wave colored streamers about, and I have tears in my eyes at the end of it all and so does Bilbo.

Lyrien, after being hugged and congratulated by her parents, dashes up and throws herself almost into my lap, enquiring breathlessly, "Was I good?" Thinking to myself that calling her "good" is like calling the Island "pretty," I tell her, "You were the best one of all." She giggles saying, "That's just what my daddy said! But I think it isn't true." She takes my injured hand as the next set of dancers comes along, caressing it and beaming with happiness. She has hair of the loveliest copper color, a very unusual hair-color for an Elf. Her aunt and mother and grandmother all have it, in varying shades, Tilwen's being much lighter, while Niniel's is considerably darker. But her grandmother's is the most striking of all, a blazing fiery color. I have never seen such hair before. It can be seen on a sunny day a mile off. I wonder if perhaps they are descended from the red-haired Elf Maedhros—I must remember to ask them later on. Meanwhile I watch Lyrien and Marílen from time to time, as Marílen fondles Lyrien's hair, seeming as fascinated with it as I am, and at one point she takes a lock of her own and intertwines it with a lock of her cousin's, then holds up the resulting strand of copper and dark brown hair interestingly twisted together and knotted at the end, and Lyrien grins as though Marílen had accomplished some amazing feat of artwork, and they remain so joined for a good deal of the party, although I am a bit worried that they will forget about it and jump up and Lyrien will be hurt by having her hair pulled.

Later there is boat-racing, in which I am allowed to participate, in fact I am practically forced to do so. Galendur insists I ride with him in his boat, saying he is sick and tired of watching me sit on my backside being petted to death by elflings, it's a disgusting sight and high time I got in on some action. I truthfully tell him I would very much like to do so but don't like to leave Bilbo sitting alone. Gandalf, or Olórin as he is called here, comes to my rescue, together with Ríannor saying they will sit with Bilbo, who tells me yes, I must run along and have some fun before I get too old. Galendur scoops me right up and slings me over his shoulder like a feed-sack, ignoring my threats to let the boom smack him overboard if he doesn't put me down right away, and plops me into his dinghy, and sails us over the formation, where other Elves wave and shout greetings to us. It looks to be about three dozen boats besides ours. I've sailed with him before, although not at racing, and it's quite different from being in a ship. It's rather like flying, or how I imagine flying to be. And Galendur's is a right pretty little craft, with a silver star-burst on her dark-colored mainsail and a striking pattern of gold crescents painted around her hull. She's called the Lady Vana after his mother, who died when he was a lad. Fortunately it's very breezy, but I'm hoping no whales will create any monster waves that might toss us both into the sea….

Sam, I sincerely hope I'm not making you sick talking of boats! (is it my imagination or does this glass look a tiny bit green?) There are no whales about, although we do see a sizable marlin, longer than the boat in fact, and Galendur regrets his lack of a harpoon--as if this little boat would hold that big fish and us too, but knowing Galendur, he would figure a way! And we narrowly avoid a jagged rock that we missed seeing when a wave covered it, but he skillfully maneuvers around it. We come in third, with Lord Elrond coming in first. Well, his father was a mariner, after all! Lady Celebrían was riding with him—she loves boating more than he does, in fact. The boat was hers originally, but she gave it to him when he returned. I can hardly describe how she beams with pride at him as he helps her out of the boat. The second-place winner is named Halidor, who is a sailor from way back. I think I can't bear him. He is a swaggerer and a braggart, and seems miffed at Elrond having beaten him for all he pretends otherwise. (Yes, Sam, I KNOW I thought the same of Galendur when I first met him, and now we are great friends and so on and so forth, but…but…but! Well, you never know, but I think not, somehow. Even Halidor's wife seems aloof with him. Is she angry with him for not coming in first? But I think he's too old to change.) He and Elrond reluctantly shake hands with each other, then with us—or rather, Halidor shakes hands with Galendur; he scarcely looks at me. But Galendur keeps his arm across my shoulders as he exchanges congratulations and greetings with them, saying what a fine jolly crew I would make if he could just get me to stop singing bawdy ballads while we are racing; who could hope to come in first with such a distraction? I am, of course, well accustomed to his sense of humor by now, but it doesn't sit well with Halidor, who appears in a bit of a huff as he and his missus take their leave of us. Then Tilwen comes up smiling proudly, and we are pounced on by Lyrien and her parents also, and Gandalf.

"The Lady Vana is still the prettiest boat," Lyrien reassures us. "None of the others have stars on their sails. But Lord Elrond's should have a jewel on the prow, what do you think?"

I agree that would be a nice touch, although I privately think a jeweled sailboat a bit of a stretch. She whispers into my ear that she doesn't like Halidor, and I giggle. And Galendur says, "Well, we came in third, that's not so bad, what?" That is good of him, for he very much likes to win. And he is a much younger and far less experienced sailor than the others; in fact, before coming here he had never even seen the sea before, let alone sailed upon it. So, really, it's as if he did come in first. "We did ourselves proud, old chap!"

"'We'?" I say. "You did it all. Yours is a single-handed dinghy, you scarcely needed me. I don't even weigh enough for ballast yet, I'm sure, despite the way your adorable niece stuffed me like a pillow all afternoon."

I wink at Lyrien, who winks back, to my surprise and amusement.

"Ah, no," he says, looking deadly serious, which for him is positively phenomenal. "YOU did it all, Ringbearer. But for you, we wouldn't be here now. We'd be dead or enslaved. You're the founder of this feast, and don't you forget it, or I'll keelhaul and hang you out to dry until the crows laugh in your face."

Well. What can I say? Can hardly even retort that his boat doesn't have a keel, only a centreboard—let alone a yardarm for hanging!

(Sam, I was NOT singing bawdy ballads--I was praying!)

III. Outrage

Dear Sam,

You may have been wondering if I've met any famous personages yet. Well—I have! And I am studying with one of them now!

At first I wasn't allowed to have visitors; now I am, but I am consulted first to see if I want to meet them. Lord Elrond told me one day that the great poet Rûdharanion wanted to meet me! Welllll!! I nearly fell over flat, at the thought of such a great honor! Well, you probably have not read his poetry; it isn't of your sort, and I've not read it all myself. Even Bilbo hasn't read so much of it. But, needless to say, when I heard he had requested to meet me, I dove into the library and found a volume of his epic poems and read well into the night. I was quite fascinated, although admittedly some of it is rather dry stuff, and I might not have kept at it so hard if he were not coming to meet us the next day. But I ploughed through as much as I could, hoping I could keep an intelligent discussion going, and he would be impressed with me.

In the city is something called a "college" which is a school for big folks, which I may attend someday. Rûdharanion teaches there. And of course Lord Elrond told him that Bilbo and I both write poetry, and he might consider taking us both on as students. Tilwen was as excited as I—for she writes some verse too, and Lady Celebrian told her she was welcome to stay and meet the great poet as well. Of course we had to get all spruced up and everything, and took an inordinate amount of time about it, but in the end we looked quite dashing, and Tilwen looked lovelier than ever in pale rose.

Our guest of honor arrived a bit early for dinner. He was, as you might expect, tall, imposing, dressed in a robe of brown velvet trimmed and embroidered with gold, his tunic and leggings underneath of a lighter shade, his ebony locks very smoothly combed down and braided. When introduced he looked most startled to see me. I imagine he was expecting me to be small, but not this small, surely! But he got his bearings quickly enough, looking at the Ladies with admiring eyes—very admiring, I must say—then remembered himself and wrenched his attention back to me and my uncle.

I had prepared a little speech of greeting to him, and had practiced it on my good-natured uncle several times that morning, and he'd told me it was very fine and touching and poetic too…but I could not remember a word of it now.

"This is such a great honor for me," I could only stammer out. He bestowed a kindly, and it seemed, amused, smile upon me.

"I have heard a great deal about you from my old friend," he said with a glance toward Lord Elrond. I was puzzled; Elrond said he had only met him before once, briefly, and that was a very long time ago—very long indeed. I looked to him, and his mouth twitched a little, and I thought I saw his eyes twinkle. "And not only did he tell me of your magnificent deeds on behalf of Middle-earth, but he says also that you are a poet of no mean abilities. Has your work been published in Middle-Earth, or do you write under an assumed name?"

"I have only written since coming here, really," I admitted, ducking my head in embarrassment. "I only wrote a few little things before then. In fact I think I only wrote one poem of any real merit at all. But I was ill when I first arrived and was confined to my bed, so I wrote a good deal to pass the time, and I think I am starting to show a bit of improvement…perhaps."

I hoped and prayed he would not ask me to show him my work—at least, not in front of all.

"You are modest," he beamed, as Tilwen filled his glass…and, I don't know, but I am reasonably certain Galendur would not have liked the way he looked at her just then. It seemed to me his eyes strayed just a little too far below her collar-bone, and lingered a bit long on her form when she moved away from him to serve Gandalf. "Shy and unassuming, I find that charming, particularly in relation to your accomplishments. Such courage, such selflessness, such daring, such unflinching sacrifice in the cause of all helpless humanity! You've no idea how inspiring it all is to me, how, how humbled I am in the presence of it all. As a matter of fact, I am seriously thinking of writing an epic, based on your deeds. So I was wondering if you could be of assistance to me. I'm sure I know very little of the actual tale, and if you could supply me with the details? In return I would be greatly honored to tutor you in your own writing. Perhaps you could even join my class? Yes, I can see you've been ill, but when you've fully recovered your health…what say you to this?"

I glanced at Lord Elrond and could see he had not been informed of any such plan for an epic about me. Yes, in Middle-earth I'd had a ballad written of me, which was embarrassing enough, but an epic poem? Couldn't they just wait until I was dead?

And even if I had liked this fellow better than I did, there was much I was still loath to disclose.

But I could see Bilbo preening beside me. What a great delight it would be for him, surely, an epic about his favorite nephew, written by one of the great poets of all times? Perhaps if I were as selfless as Rûdharanion claimed, I should do it for the sake of Bilbo if nothing else…or should I?

Tilwen came and sat down on the settee beside me, smiling shyly. Rûdharanion looked surprised to see that the serving-maid would take such a liberty as to sit by me as if she were my sister, and he looked equally astonished to see me not only allowing but welcoming such presumption. I tried not to smirk at the emotions I could see wrestling behind his eyes: at first distaste, then puzzlement, then a vague amusement, as though he had mulled it over and decided the matter was rather charming after all. Or, at least, he had better think so, if he wanted my assistance and cooperation with his epic.

"Tilwen writes some poetry also," Lady Celebrían spoke up with obvious pride and fondness, at which Tilwen blushed delightfully. "She wrote a very lovely piece that she recited at her wedding recently—you may have heard about that, and everyone loved it. Even I was surprised; it brought tears to my eyes. I think she has a great deal of potential. Perhaps she could sit in on the lessons too?"

I smiled a little, reached over and took Tilwen's hand and pressed it. Rûdharanion looked taken aback.

"So you were married recently?" he said, looking at her, then at me, then at her again. Surely not…?

"Oh yes," she said radiantly—even her gown glowed, it seemed. "About two and a half weeks ago. I wish my groom were here to meet you tonight, but he gives sparring-lessons to young lads, and has two of them today. Perhaps he will drop by later this evening if he gets finished in time."

I grinned to myself. I could just imagine what Galendur had thought of the idea of meeting a great epic poet.

"Ah," Rûdharanion looked relieved to know that someone else was the lucky groom, yet a little disappointed that there was one, "let me offer my congratulations, then, my dear. It may surprise you that I have never known wedded bliss, myself, although I came close a time or two. But as for poetry…well, yes, I have heard a bit of verse written by ladies here and there, and very pretty stuff some of it. However, quite frankly, I truly do not believe that members of the fair sex are capable of turning out works of any real consequence, and would do much better to devote themselves to the work they were originally fashioned for. Not that there is any harm in turning out occasional trifles as a pleasant diversion, but—"

Can you believe the nerve of him?! I could feel my face literally burning. I glanced at Tilwen and saw her sitting stunned, her cheeks flushing, then tears starting in her eyes…and that did it for me.

"Sir," I stood up, my fists clenched beside me, "how dare you speak so insultingly to a young lady in this house? If I were lord of the manor, I would ask you to leave—and if I were big enough, I think I would toss you out myself!"

Everyone gasped. Rûdharanion flushed and then paled. Ai…he had done it now, I could almost hear him thinking. So much for his epic.

"But…but I meant no offense," he stammered. "Truly. I am most fond of ladies and have the utmost respect for them, and have gone to battle in their honor many a time. I would never dream of deliberately insulting even the most lowly of them, and I greatly apologize if I have inadvertently done so. If you would please allow me to make it up to her…"

"I?" I actually laughed. "Why do you speak of her as if she isn't here? She is a guest in this house and my friend. If you have things to say to her, then say them to her, not to me. But I think you would do better to leave right now. I assure you, if her bridegroom were here now, he would take his sword and slice the fine garments off your body, exposing you before all!"

I distinctly heard Bilbo smack his palm with his fist.

"And if I had my blade with me now, I would do likewise," he spoke up, jumping up to stand beside me. "Now see here, my friend, if you've as much regard for the fair sex as you say you have, you'll take yourself off this minute, and NOT steal any more such glances toward any of the ladies of this house as I've seen you dealing out. I may be old, but I'm neither blind nor stupid, my fine fellow, and I've seen more respect for ladies out of a drunken hyena!"

In spite of my outrage I had to smile. Bilbo was wound up now. This was his chance to make a Speech, and leave it to him to make it a good rousing one—even if the only place he had ever seen a hyena was in Lord Elrond's books. Poor Rûdharanion could only stand there, taking it. It scarcely needed a blade to bring him low now. My uncle was doing plenty of that with words. I could see Gandalf trying hard to suppress loud laughter as he came forward to our guest of honor.

"Come, I think I had better show you to the door," he said, "while there's still anything left of you. I've a feeling if I don't get you away from here, Sauron will not be the only one almost literally embarrassed to death by hobbits."

"So…this means you will not help me with the epic?" Rûdharanion looked pleadingly at me.

"When balrogs go ice-skating," I said, hardly able to believe his audacity.

I was really rather relieved to see Gandalf escorting him out the front door, even as he looked back and stammered out another apology to me and Tilwen, who looked more composed now. Lord Elrond apologized to us both also, and I told him there was no need. Tilwen smiled gratefully at me and Bilbo.

"But please tell Galendur nothing of this," she pleaded. "He'll just go out and make a big scene, and stir up a lot of unpleasantness, or end up making a fool of himself. I'd rather he just didn't know anything about it. And he's right, you know—Rûdharanion, I mean. My poetry isn't very good. And it's certainly no great calling for me; it IS just a pleasant diversion, and of no consequence."

"So it is with me," I said. "If I had a great calling, it has been fulfilled, and nothing is left to me now but pleasant diversions. At least, as far as I can see."

A couple of days later, Elrond told me another great poet wished to meet me. The one known as Dûndeloth. I had not even been aware that he was still living. And he was a far greater poet than Rûdharanion had ever even dreamed of being.

And I am studying with him now! And so is Tilwen.

But more later; I think they're coming to tell me to put the lights out…

IV. Picking Faults

Dear Sam,

I have a confession to make. I did not say "When balrogs wear ice-skates" or whatever I told you I said to Rûdharanion that night. That's just what I wished I'd said later on. What I actually said was "I'm afraid not" in my most icy withering tones. Whether or not he stayed withered, I don't know, for he seems to have disappeared.

Lady Galadriel threw a fit when she found out what happened. She wasn't there that night; she was in the City on some official business—did I tell you she is to be crowned Queen? And it turns out she has met the great one before on more than one occasion and was, ahem, slightly less than enchanted with him. I wonder why! Anyway, Lady Galadriel in a fit is truly something to see; I wish you had been there. I almost expected her to bring down thunder and lightning all around her! Truly she is every inch a queen. Dûndeloth told us Rûdharanion would never have dared take such a patronising attitude toward us if she had been there, for he is terrified of her. Sam, I'm just awful, but when he told us about that I positively could not stop laughing!

"Why's he terrified of her?" Bilbo asked, when I finally showed signs of calming down. "What'd she do to him? Did he ogle her daughter once too often and so she put ass's ears and a pig's tail on him? I'd have given half my fortune to see that."

"I don't know precisely," Dûndeloth chuckled. "Perhaps he heard some wild stories about her and supposed them to be true. Then again, maybe it's her very presence. That gaze of hers can be quite intimidating if one has dark corners that fear the brightness."

Yes, I remember that well, at our first meeting with her. Yet somehow, for all my own dark corners, I have never found her at all intimidating. On the contrary, the greater my darkness becomes, the more I seek her light, and feel at one with her. I wonder why this is? And why should Rûdharanion fear it? He is flawed, certainly, but evil?

"Well, for someone who delights to sing the praises of heroes and their brave deeds and so on, he's not the bravest of souls himself, is he?" Bilbo sniffed. "I should have delivered a good swift kick to his shins. I think I would have, if Gandalf hadn't whisked him out."

"You would probably have broken a few toes, uncle," I said smiling, giving him a little nudge with my elbow. "I think that's why Gandalf saw fit to usher him out so quickly. He feared you'd end up doing far more damage to yourself than to him."

When Lord Elrond informed me that Dûndeloth wished to meet me, you may imagine I was feeling some trepidation about the prospect. Dûndeloth had told Lord Elrond that Rûdharanion had spoken of his meeting with me to some colleagues, saying that I was "impertinent" and had let my "success" go to my head. Sam, if you could only have seen the look on Bilbo's face! "Priceless" doesn't even begin to describe it. Dûndeloth said that was when he decided he must meet me, all the more so when Elrond told him in detail about our encounter.

"Does Dûndeloth wish to write an epic about me also?" I asked Lord Elrond. "I sincerely hope not. The last thing I wish to be is a bone of contention between two rival poets!"

"He did not say," Elrond said, "but I think not. If he had any such plans, I think he would have told me immediately. When he wrote his great work of the battle with Sauron's forces, he did not ask me for my side of it. Yet somehow I found myself telling him of my struggle with Isildur at Mt. Doom. I told him all, of my failure to make the King yield up the Ring, and asked if he would put that in his epic. He said not unless I insisted upon it, and I asked him not to change the facts. If you've ever read Rûdharanion's version of the story, you may remember he changed some of the facts around to suit himself, and had Isildur fall nobly in battle rather than ignominiously slain by orcs—among other discrepancies. There was even some romance about an Elf-maiden who supposedly was betrothed to Sauron but fell in love with Isildur, and died protecting him on the battle-field. And he left out the part about Mt. Doom completely."

"Yes, I noted that when I was reading it," I said, "and found it disturbing. But I supposed that whoever commissioned him to write it insisted upon it, or something."

"That may well be," said Lord Elrond, "but he prided himself on writing a version of the story that, as he put it, 'would not offend the gentler sensibilities of the more civilized folk of the present age.' Dûndeloth was never one to tamper with the truth, and he took great exception to Rûdharanion's version, even while praising the lyricism of his verse, and Rûdharanion accused him of lacking 'sensitivity' or some such nonsense. I think Dûndeloth would have declined the commission rather than change the facts to suit someone else. Therefore, I believe he has absolutely no designs and truly wishes to meet you for your own sake, and not for his own selfish glorification."

"Please tell him," I said smiling, "that I would be delighted to meet him, and so would Bilbo."

Dûndeloth is not so tall as Rûdharanion, but every bit as imposing, and he uses his imposingness in a far less intrusive way. His eyes are dark and remote until they focus on you, and then they are seemingly not far above you at all, but on your level without being so, as the stars, distant and yet somehow inviting you into their glory. His attitude toward the Ladies—of all classes—would fairly bring tears to your eyes. Only a dolt like Rûdharanion would ever accuse him of lacking sensitivity!

But Dûndeloth says very little more of him to us, and nothing disparaging. Clearly he has not come to discuss his rival at all, and within an hour we feel as though we had known him a long time.

"So tell me," he says to Bilbo at one point, with twinkling eyes, "has this nephew of yours no faults at all?"

For Bilbo has been blathering on about me at length—sometimes I think he just loves to watch me squirm—and perhaps Dûndeloth is beginning to have doubts…or perhaps he just thoroughly enjoys our connection and wishes to be part of it.

"Well," Bilbo wrinkles his forehead, seeming not at all surprised by the question, "apart from stubbornness, which is a Baggins trait and therefore is not entirely his fault, and I might say it even worked to his advantage on the Quest…well…" he wrinkles his brow even more, until I think his face will disappear entirely— "…sometimes he falls asleep in the sun, and someone has to move him into the shade. I can't seem to break him of that, and he burns so easily. But apart from that, no—he has no faults."

Dûndeloth laughs loudly, as do all others in the room, and I chuckle almost gratefully. Then Dûndeloth looks to me and says, "And what about your uncle, Iorhael? Is he nearly faultless, as well?"

"Well, apart from stubbornness…" I refrain from looking straight at Bilbo, who looks abashed at the moment, "…which is a Baggins trait and so on, …well, often when he has finished looking at a map, he does not fold it the same way that he unfolded it. It's hard to describe exactly, but it can be a bit…distracting. Apart from that…no, he has no faults either."

More laughter, except from Bilbo, who looks at me in puzzlement, and I take his hand and press it. There is much more conversation, about poetry and other matters, some recitation, some tasty delights from the kitchen that Tilwen brings on a tray, until Gandalf notes that Bilbo seems to be getting sleepy. So Dûndeloth takes his leave, saying how honored he is to have met us, and when he comes to Tilwen he tells her that her wedding poem touched him deeply, and I can see that he means it.

I think all the Ladies are reluctant to let him out of their sight!

ooooo

Much later, as we are getting ready to retire for the night, Bilbo asks me, "Do I really do that?"

"Do what, uncle mine?" I am feeling light-headed and just a bit silly, as though I'd had too much to drink, although I have had only one glass. I loosen my cravat and fling it toward the back of a chair with a dramatic motion, but I end up hurling it into the fountain instead, and stumble when I go to retrieve it.

(Perhaps that wine was a little stronger than I thought.)

"That with the maps," Bilbo says with a glance toward my desk, on which lies one of the parchments in question.

Now I've done it. I'll hear about this for days on end.

"No, uncle, you don't," I say. "I was having you on. I assure you, that you have never folded a map incorrectly in your whole life. And even if you did do so, I would live with it somehow. Surely I have more important things to do with my time than worry over how someone folds a map?"

"Now you surely don't think you can pull your old uncle's leg?" He shakes a bony finger at me. Yes, I'm in for it now. "After all this time? If something I do bothers you, my lad, then out with it! Don't try humoring me along like some old mother hen."

I sigh as I unbutton my shirt. Actually, I think the really irksome thing to me is Bilbo's whole preoccupation with maps. Where could he possibly go from here? Except…Perhaps, deep down there is the feeling that he is unconsciously getting ready to leave this world…and what will I do then?

"I just didn't want to tell your real faults in front of him," I say, truthfully enough. "Even though I suppose you wouldn't have hesitated to tell mine, if he had pressed you hard enough."

"Hah! What real faults?" he says, drawing his white eyebrows almost together over his nose.

"Well…for instance…you're hot-headed," I say, sitting down hard on a chair, knocking a few papers to the floor as I gesture toward my desk with one hand. "You, you fly into rages over things. You snore. You slip off without telling anyone. You do things other people don't do…just because others don't do them. You…you exaggerate, when you tell your stories, you embroider, you, you listen in on things that aren't your business, you eavesdrop…."

Maybe I did drink more than one glass.

"Well, you—" he points a finger at me—"you're vain, that's what you are. You've always got your nose to that dratted mirror these days. 'Modest and unassuming,' hah! You're about as, as modest and unassuming as that blasted rackety pea-fowl out there in the garden, you are. He's going to end up in the middle of somebody's dinner-table one of these fine days, wait and see!"

I glance at the floor. It's true I've been looking into the mirror a good deal lately, but I don't think it's vanity. I think it's more an attempt to become reacquainted with myself. To try and reconcile the being I was when I first came here with the image that looks back at me now, to search for any signs of accusations, for the being trapped deep inside, for the light I'm told illuminates me but which I never can see myself, for the door to open to allow that light to escape until the reflection and I change places and my own light and the Great Light are one.

"Well," I say, "at least, I'll never allow myself to become a preening fop like you. You may not have whole rooms full of clothes any more, but deep down, you're still the dandy you always were, and always will be." I turn and stare at my uncle in mock derision, which fazes him not in the slightest.

"Piffle," he says. "Let me tell you something, my charming lad, I wasn't so bad to look at in my younger days, either. Never so pretty as you, perhaps, but I turned a few heads in my day. You needn't think you got all the looks in the family."

"Well, even if I did, they wouldn't do me much good here," I say. Ah, I shouldn't have said that, but it's out now. My head feels strangely clear of a sudden. "I wouldn't call myself vain. I'm not amiss for a hobbit, I suppose, but by Elf standards, I can't be so much to look at."

"Hah! You can hold your own with any of 'em," my uncle says warmly. "Your head just doesn't come so high up as theirs, is all."

"True. It doesn't." I hope I don't sound sad. Strange, how much depends on height.

"But you stand taller than all of 'em put together," he says taking my incomplete hand.

"If someone would just tell that to the Ladies," I say softly. Yes, I've had more than one glass. My tongue would not be so loose otherwise.

Lord Elrond has told me that my ability to father children could be restored if I wished it. He said it would be a long and painful process, the details of which I will spare you, but I think I would have it done if there were any point to it.

But Sam, it was rather stupid of Sauron to neuter me, for if he hadn't, I would surely have married, and would probably not have gone on the Quest, and the Ring would likely not have been destroyed, and he would have won. Why did he think he could protect himself by ruining my line?

Bilbo caresses my hand, saying nothing. Sometimes I think he knows more than he's letting on. Sometimes I think he didn't marry for the very same reason I didn't. He once told me it was because of a broken heart, and maybe that's so, but I think perhaps there's more to it.

"But do you know what?" I say with a bit of a smile after a moment. "Little Lyrien offered to marry me the other day. She said she didn't care if she was taller than I when she grew up, she'd rather marry me than anybody else on the Island. She said she'd do it right now if her mummy would let her. I hadn't the heart to tell her that by the time she was old enough to marry, I wouldn't be around any more…although I think her parents have explained to her about mortality."

"She'll have to knock 'em off her with a stick one of these days," Bilbo chuckles softly. "That one's got a pair of eyes that could melt diamonds."

I nod emphatically, then bend down to pick something off the floor. It's one of Bilbo's maps, that I knocked off the desk. I hand it to him. He takes it and looks at it for a moment, then holds it out to me.

"Do me a favor and chuck it into the fireplace, my boy," he says a little sadly. "What in blazes do I need with a map now anyway? I'm quite content right here with you, and even if I weren't, where could I possibly go? Except…"

"Now Bilbo dear," I say, "you should know by now that I'm no good at chucking things into the fire. Here, let me fold it for you…just watch and I'll show you the right way."

I fold it carefully, almost tenderly, and lay it in the drawer where his other papers are kept. Then I kiss him on the head and lay my cheek against his white curls for a moment, then extend my hand to help him up from his chair.

"I've another fault," I confess as I help him out of his clothes and into his nightshirt. "Sometimes I tell people I said things I really didn't. I embroider a bit, too. But I guess that's your fault; I get it from you."

"Of course you did," he agrees. "You're a Baggins, after all."

"We don't tamper with the truth though, do we?" I say. "Not deep down, I mean. We don't destroy the true, fundamental essence of it."

"Of course not. We Bagginses may be liars, but we're not damned liars."

"Precisely."

Sam, it seems to me the glass is glowing rose colored tonight and it is imparting a feeling of great joy...I may be wrong but I think Elanor will be getting a little brother soon?

----------------------------------TBC----------------------------------