"And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise. – Tolkien, The Return of the King
The vision shimmered before him – lovely but indistinct, wrapped in veils of white mist that caressed Frodo's cheeks with cold as the ship bore forward – towards the faint music and the hills, glimmering with pale lights, which emerged slowly from the haze. As the sun rose behind him, Frodo saw the mist become tinted with touches of faded gold. He gripped the rail by the prow and felt it tremble beneath him as the ship scraped a sand-bar.
"We're almost there, lad!" Bilbo's excited voice was muffled by the mist, though he stood beside Frodo, gazing eagerly forward.
"Just think of it - Tol Eressëa, where no mortal has trod since the days of Earendil… Look at it, my boy – have you ever seen anything more beautiful? Words fail me." His hand came up and lightly squeezed Frodo's shoulder.
Frodo smiled distantly. The beauty of the Undying Lands was a cold tranquillity. Like a kingdom in an endless dream. Locked in perpetual rest. This is not how I had imagined Elvenhome. Although what he had imagined it to be like instead, when, an eternity in the past, he had spent countless hours lost in legends of the Elder Days – he could no longer recall. I must find rest here, for I will find nothing else. Here will I sleep – sleep until all the years have passed like water.
Unblinking, he watched as the pallid finger of the pier reached towards the ship. The vessel shuddered as they docked.
"Come Frodo – Bilbo –"
Gandalf was behind them, calling them to follow. Frodo was slow in turning. He felt curiously disembodied – his consciousness observing the movement of his limbs from a place of calm detachment. Is this what it means to live among the immortals? Is this how it will be for me?
His thoughts were like the cool skeins of mist drifting before his eyes – indistinct, floating; colourless.
The deck of the ship was silvery grey.
"Frodo – Frodo!"
There were hands on his shoulders, shaking him. He realised that he had stopped still, staring at the deck, unaware of time.
"Frodo, wake up!"
The hands were Gandalf's. The wizard knelt before him. His face was concerned. When Frodo stirred at last, he smiled, though the shadow did not pass from his expression. He laid fingers on Frodo's forehead then stood rapidly and took Frodo's hand, pulling him gently but firmly towards the gangplank, and hurriedly guiding him down to the pier. As Frodo stepped onto the pier, he stumbled slightly. Bilbo caught his arm.
"Are you alright lad?"
His cousin's face gradually came into focus.
"Of course, Bilbo," said Frodo. His voice seemed to be coming from a distance.
Bilbo frowned worriedly.
"I hope you are. You haven't been yourself since…"
"I'm just tired."
Bilbo patted his shoulder. "Of course, my dear boy. But come now – the elves tell me there is a feast prepared for us in Avallonë – and afterwards the most beautiful rooms and beds to rest in – and gardens and libraries and –"
As Bilbo chattered on, leading Frodo through the mist to where the pier met the white sands, Frodo was taken by the curious sensation that his body was fading at the edges – becoming one with the fog – spreading until his thoughts were spaced and formless.
He wanted to speak to Bilbo – do you feel this – do you feel it too – but his voice sank within him every time he opened his mouth.
Bilbo stopped suddenly, at the edge of the pier. His mouth opened wide and his eyes filled with tears of wonder.
"Look…" he breathed, gesturing to the shadowy foothills rising before them. "Oh Frodo," he whispered. "I have never seen anything – there has never been anything – in dreams or anywhere – to compare… The glory of it – the breathtaking –"
His voice choked and he grasped Frodo's hand.
Frodo found his voice with an effort. "I don't understand," he said.
Bilbo turned to him, face shining with joy.
"I don't understand…" Frodo said again. "What – what do you see?"
Now it was Bilbo's turn to be confused. "Why – Avallonë! The tiered gardens – the houses, each like palaces – the great golden trees – the light that shines from all things…"
Icy fingers reached for Frodo's heart. Cold pain stabbed at him.
"I don't see it," he whispered. His voice was dry as paper. Bilbo clutched at his arm. He was saying something urgent – Frodo could see fear on his face. But the white mist rolled between them, roaring.