The ground swayed beneath Frodo's feet. The air was filled with a confusion of voices and a rushing sound, as of wind or waves. Light and shadows blurred together. There was movement all around him, but he could not comprehend it. He closed his eyes against the dizziness. The ground fell away. Where was he? Was he back on the ship? Yes, take me back – let me go back… This is all wrong. If I am to die, let it not be here like this. Not like this.

The cold was taking him, at last. Ever since the night at Weathertop, he had felt it, a wound in the spirit, a constant reminder of his weakness – of his first surrendering. Only in Mordor, when the fire of the Ring had consumed his thoughts – had he felt himself entirely free of it. But after the Ring's destruction it had returned. At first a small, ever present coldness in the shoulder, possible to ignore. Then as the months passed – a dimming of the sunlight and a dulling of the senses. A sense of detachment – a growing emptiness – a stretch of frozen ground within his heart. Attacks of dizziness and frozen pain that would leave him blind and gasping, filled with a sick longing and self-loathing. He had thought it would pass, but it had not. The times of quiet between the attacks had grown shorter, and his illness more severe. He had seen the cold spreading out from him – a malevolent presence, threatening the warmth and happiness of those he loved. Who I loved. Gone now. I tried to protect you. Even the images were fading. Without you, I am nothing. When they were gone, there would be nothing left of Frodo Baggins.

It's too late, he thought. There are some wounds that will never – can never – be healed. But don't let me disappear. Don't let me lose this last part of myself. I've lost so much, so many memories. Let me die before I forget him.

There were arms beneath him, and he felt himself lifted and carried upwards. He moved his head and felt a hand laid against his cheek. Cold. It's almost taken him. Was it his own thought, or a voice from outside? There was silk against his face. Stay strong Frodo. Something was pushed into his hand – something hard and smooth. Reflexively he curled his fingers around it and felt the cold diminish slightly in that hand. With difficulty he opened his eyes to the whirling shreds of mist, and saw a light – kind and steadfast – shining between his fingers. He drew it close, willing the light and warmth to melt the ice in his chest.

They were ascending. Hold on, dear Frodo. Not long now. But Frodo had lost all measurement of time and the journey was endless through the ragged mists and through it all he felt the cold growing - seeping out from him into the body of the one who carried him. I'm so sorry, he tried to say, but words would not come. With his free hand he groped for the hand of his bearer – trying to sense by touch who it was. A slender arm, swathed in silk. A hand, delicate but strong, with a ring on the third finger. Galadriel, he thought, in a daze.

She held him close and Frodo heard within the ceaseless tumult assailing his ears, a quiet melody, threading together the pieces of his dissipating self, bringing him back within the boundaries of time. And her song was taken up by other voices, and by the swelling music Frodo knew that he was being carried amongst a whole company of elves. He let himself be taken by the music, and though the cold smote him until he could barely breathe with the pain of it, he surrendered the fragments of himself into the music and it was a promise – you will be found, you will be saved.

At last Frodo felt himself being laid down upon a bed or couch, and for a moment he lurched untethered, blind and fearful. But the music did not cease and the song took him up again, and he lay waiting for he knew not what, while half-heard speech eddied around him. The language was Sindarin, but Frodo understood some of the words.

Spiritual – possibly missed – internalising – why we brought him to – Olórin with Estë together might be –

There were shadowy forms bending over him. Gentle hands were on his numbed flesh, baring the shoulder.

The cold mark here – spreading from – must be a fragment left – Lord Elrond assured – search for it in the unseen

The hands went away and there was a murmur of voices in the distance. Then suddenly there came a hush in the song, as though all singers had collectively drawn a breath in awe. The music returned, and it was louder and more glorious and filled with a great hope, nearly drowning out the thundering in Frodo's ears. Two figures approached Frodo as he lay hearkening, lost in the sound. Mere shadows were they against the mist, but their voices were familiar.

"Do not fear, Frodo."

"We are going to heal you completely this time."

Gandalf. Elrond. Frodo would have spoken, but there was a weight on his chest and he could only lie still, seeking for them futilely with his eyes. He was afraid, though he trusted them more than nearly anyone. They could not heal me before. It is hopeless.

Then out of the mist appeared a third figure, and this one was not a shadow a great light, almost unbearable in its beauty. Then the mists about it were torn away like veils of gauze, and Frodo saw a figure like a woman robed in a grey mantle that shimmered like water. Her hair and skin were dark as night, but her face shone, and in her expression was infinite compassion. She fixed her luminous eyes on Frodo's face and spoke in a language unknown to him, yet the sound of her voice was so sweet and gentle it wrung his frozen heart, softening it to sorrow. He caught his breath, and tears started in his eyes. Then, slowly, the emotion drained away, and the cold returned. She stepped forward and laid a shining hand on Frodo's shoulder. For a long moment she stood, looking down at the white scar and the flesh as cold as marble, then she gestured for Gandalf and Elrond to step beside her, and spoke to them in a low voice.

After a moment Gandalf bent close to Frodo and laid a hand on his forehead. Frodo could almost see his face…

"Frodo," said Gandalf. "I am going to have to ask you to be brave once more. Contrary to what Lord Elrond and I had thought after Weathertop, the shards of the Morgul blade were never entirely removed from your wound. There was a large fragment that we retrieved, but the blade splintered when it entered you, and we now know there were several pieces, small as dust, that had already entered your blood. By now they have lodged in your heart. You have fought their influence for years, but their power has grown with time, and with your exposure to the Ring. You walk half in the wraith-world now, Frodo. This is why you can see but dimly here in the Undying Lands."

Gently Gandalf smoothed the lines of fear from Frodo's brow.

"Do not despair, dear hobbit," he said. "While we could not, alas, heal this wound on Middle Earth, there is a power in Valinor that the world below has not."

At these words the shining woman raised her head and looked Frodo in the face, and in her gaze was power immeasurable. And Frodo knew that he looked upon one of the Valar – Estë, the Lady of Healing. And he desired to do her honour, for her beauty and glory was beyond anything earthly. But his limbs were stone, and his voice had died. Mutely he stared into her face – into those eyes which had been witness to the making of the world.

Gandalf spoke again. "Estë will heal you as a boon to me. This I asked in payment for my services rendered to the Valar on Middle Earth. But Frodo, even with the power of the Valar, this healing will be hard on you. It is not a matter only of a physical wound that may be treated while the patient sleeps. For you, in this, the physical and the spiritual are connected. Both must be healed together. You must be conscious. You must – feel the pain. I am sorry."

Frodo felt the dizziness sweep over him again. He closed his eyes and struggled to breathe evenly. With his numbed hand, he tried to grasp the phial tightly, but his fingers would barely move. He opened his eyes. There was nothing but the mist and the shadows and the face of Estë, and she wept. And at the sight of her tears, Frodo found his voice. In a dry whisper he asked her: "Can you promise me – can you promise –"

And Estë replied "I will not let you go."

"I am afraid…" he said.

"I know."

Frodo swallowed. He cast his gaze to the shadowy figures and back to the Lady, as if seeking reassurance. At last he shut his eyes. Help me, help me please, my love. But the memories were faint – so faint. No, I will not lose this. I will not lose you. Opening his eyes, he looked the Lady in her terrible, beautiful face.

"Do it," he said.