Disclaimer: *This chapter briefly quotes J.R.R. Tolkien poetry, LOTR, chapter titled "Three is Company" and chapter titled "Many Meetings." No disrespect is intended.

Chapter Rating: PG (disturbing thoughts)

Chapter title: O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!

The Next Week

Iris made it a point to call on Frodo at Bag End Friday afternoon at 2:00. They wandered along paths and farms without saying much. Frodo continued to tell her about the families living in the homes they passed, but he did not talk about his own history. Iris did not press the matter. She was content that he had agreed to continue their walks. It was an important step for him to even acknowledge that he needed the help. They did the same the next week. Again, Frodo talked solely about other people, not himself.

One snowy evening in February Frodo surprised Iris by calling on her at her house after supper. He was dressed for an extended walk, wearing his worn traveling cloak and carrying his walking stick. The night sky was thick with snow clouds and a few early flakes clung to his hood.

"Hello Iris," he smiled as she answered his knock at the door. "Care to go on a night walk with me?" His eyes were bright blue without their customary shadowing of pain. Something was definitely up.

Iris grabbed her cloak and walking stick and headed out into the hoary night air with him. She sensed he was ready to start talking about himself now. Tonight was the night. She had to prepare herself for anything.

Frodo took Iris down past Bywater and the newly rebuilt Mill. They hiked along country paths and through fallow fields for a couple of hours as the snow finished falling and the waning moon appeared in the midnight sky. They stopped and sat under the shelter of one of the remaining old oak trees near a little brook that was half frozen, but still gurgling with running water. After a few minutes, Frodo started talking quietly, looking off into a distant stand of trees.

He told her of the time when he and Sam and Pippin spent the night with the Elves who were passing through the Shire on their way to the Grey Havens. It was at the beginning of their quest, even before they had left the Shire. This was the first time Frodo had ever talked to anyone in the Shire about any of his doings in the War of the Ring. Iris listened quietly, not wanting to disturb the flow of his memory.

As Frodo finished his tale he began to quietly sing almost under his breath.

*Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!

O Queen beyond the Western Seas!

O Light to us that wander here

Amid the world of woven trees!

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!

We still remember, we who dwell

In this far land beneath the trees,

Thy starlight on the Western Seas.*

He stopped his singing, slowly bowing his head to his chest, deep in thought. Suddenly he heard an answering voice singing:

*A Elbereth Gilthoniel,

Silivren penna miriel

O menel aglar elenath!*

Frodo was stunned. It was Iris singing. Not only singing, but singing in Sindarin. Many hobbits knew how to read and write, but few bothered learning the Elvish languages.

"How do you come to know that?" he asked.

"I studied some Sindarin as part of my medical training. It was mostly words for herbs and treatments and such as are useful in medicines and healing," she confessed. "But then I sought out other writings in the Elvish language. I love the sound of them. I didn't find many Elvish writings in the medical library at Micheldelving, but that's where I learned all of what I know. I memorized some bits of poems I found in the Mathom House. I understand some words, but I really don't understand all of what I just sang."

Frodo translated for her, and then sang a few more lines of the lay.

As quiet returned they heard other fair voices continuing the song. A small group of Elves were on their way West to the Grey Havens at that very moment. They would have passed by without being noticed, except they heard the singing. The golden-haired slender Elves stopped to acknowledge the two hobbits. One by one, the Elves bowed deeply to Frodo, and sang to him their blessings as the honored Ringbearer.

Iris had never seen an Elf before, and was abashed at their beauty and gracefulness. She tried to hide her plain hobbit features by blending in with the oaken trunk. When she looked at Frodo, he seemed to be glowing with some of the same inner radiant beauty as the Elves.

"Surely it is only the moon glow on his pale features and dark hair," she thought.

The leader of the travelers, a stately male with a silver band about his brow, asked if Frodo was joining their journey into the Blessed Realm of the West. The Lord Elrond had indicated that should the Ringbearer desire it, he was to be escorted to the Grey Havens with the greatest of honor.

Frodo gravely answered, "Now is not my time. But the blessings of Elbereth Gilthoniel be with you on your journey."

The Elves passed into shadow and continued on their way, turning one last time and raising their hands high overhead in a final gesture of peace and blessing before disappearing into the night.

Iris came out of her awestruck trance. "Frodo, why did the Elves called you Blessed?"

"Perhaps another time I will explain, but not right now," he said. The moment had passed, and he was locked away in his own cold thoughts again.

Iris replied, "I am patient." They walked hand in hand in silence back to Bag End. The moon was near setting and it was well past mid-night.

At Bag End Frodo invited Iris inside to warm up and share some tea. They removed their soaked cloaks and hung them up to dry in the hallway. Iris noticed Frodo's grimace as he struggled to remove the left lacing from his backpack. She helped undo the offending brace without a word, trusting Frodo to volunteer information in his own time. She was patient, as she had said.

She couldn't help but wonder at him as he built up the fire in the great fireplace in Bilbo's old study. Who exactly was Frodo Baggins? Why do the Elves honor him when his own people do not? Frodo went into the kitchen to ready some tea. Iris took a careful look around the room, trying to gather information which would help her unravel this mystery called Frodo.

Stacks of papers lined the old creaky writing table. Quite a few books lay in piles on the floor and around the table. Scrolls and maps were scattered about on a bookshelf. Most of the writing was in a thin, wavy script – evidently these were Bilbo's notes. On the table was a stack of blank paper, pen, inkwell and blotter. It didn't look like they had been touched in many weeks. A light film of dust covered the parchment.

"So," she thought, "he isn't writing down his memories like I asked him to."

Frodo returned with the tea. They stood in front of the fireplace, sipping the wonderfully fragrant mint tea. Frodo stared into the fire. His mind seemed to be far, far away.

He remembered another fire in this same fireplace. One where Gandalf cast the Ring into the midst of the flames to reveal its secret writing. It seemed so long ago. Or perhaps it was beginning to happen all over again. The longing to reach into his vest pocket and take out the non-existent Ring momentarily overwhelmed him. He sighed and a single tear rolled down his cheek. It was gone forever. But no, It was with him always. The fire was always with him as well.

Iris gently laid her hand on Frodo's shoulder and he suddenly came back into the present. He turned around and looked deeply into her green eyes. What would be there? Pity. He hoped not. A voice in his head whispered, "You do not deserve pity. Remember what you did."

She was not afraid of him. Her eyes could not lie. Nor could Frodo see any of the shameful pity in her face. Only concern and something else. Something deeper. Something he remembered seeing in Sam's eyes before. Love? He couldn't remember love. He could only remember fire.

"You don't deserve love," the harsh voice whispered in his mind. "You know what you deserve. Do it and end this charade. This farce. You are evil. You know what you have to do to evil. You did it once. Do it again."

"No!" another voice answered. "I do not choose to do this thing. I shall stay. I reject the fire. I will feel again."

"Then feel the pain," the first voice hissed. His missing ring finger suddenly ached.

Frodo placed his teacup onto the mantle, mastering his shaking hand. Iris placed her tea cup onto a nearby table. He hesitantly stepped into her open and inviting arms.

They remained locked in a hug for a long time. As they separated, Iris reached her hand up to his jaw line, bringing his mouth to hers for a gentle kiss.

Something was different. Frodo felt as if he could momentarily set aside his hurts and weariness, and just be a simple hobbit in the arms of someone who cared for him.

"A healer," he thought, "Iris is a healer for me." Or perhaps it is love itself that makes hurt and weariness bearable. Could he even remember how to love anymore? How could he bring himself to love anyone else when he could not love himself?

Iris asked to be escorted home, as it was now very late. They donned their cloaks again and walked in silence hand-in-hand back to her place. As she stood on the stoop of the converted shed, she hugged him another time. Iris went inside without a word.

Frodo headed back out into the night, aiming for the old oak tree again. He stayed there contemplating the various voices in his head until the moon and stars were a memory of the dawn. He returned to his bedroom at Bag End and slept soundly for the first time in many months.