Interlude:
(September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning: )
Several moments of silence passed before Sam realized Frodo had stopped speaking. He looked over at him; Frodo was staring out the window, into the garden, his face an unreadable mask, but his hand—his poor left hand—clutching at the white gem at his breast. Sam's own eyes were damp; he took a moment to wipe them and clean away the plate of cheese and to bring tea for both of them; it had slipped into afternoon without him even noticing.
"You must be hungry, sir."
Frodo nodded, his focus still elsewhere, so Sam set about the kitchen putting together a plate of fruit and cold cuts, his own mind trying to wrap itself around this large portion of history he'd never really known about Frodo. He knew what happened next, he thought—this was why Frodo had been so eager to leave the Shire with Bilbo, even before the discovery of the power of the Ring and the terrible evil it brought. What a shock it must have been, when Bilbo had left and not taken Frodo, Sam thought. And then of course when Gandalf had come and the whole story of the Ring revealed . . . he wondered if Frodo had ever wrestled with the notion of abandoning the quest and leaving instead to find Mornenêl in the vastness of Mirkwood.
Luckily that question had become moot when they'd reached Rivendell with Aragorn. She had been there; living there with her new (in elven figuring) husband, living halfway between her home of Mirkwood and his in the Grey Havens. Sam had witnessed at least one meeting between her and Frodo, but he wondered if he had missed a few others.
He served his master and they both ate of the cold cuts and drank down their tea with biscuits, neither one speaking. Finally, Sam had to speak up.
"What else don't I know? Was there more at Rivendell than I happened across?"
Frodo finished his plate and sat back to smoke a pipe.
"A little," he said.
****
October 26, 1418, Shire Reckoning:
He had never imagined that she would be living in Rivendell.
Frodo had only just recovered from his wound of the Morgul blade; only the day before he had been to the Council of Elrond and volunteered to take the Ring to the Cracks of Doom to destroy it. Life was suddenly a precious commodity that was soon to be thrown away; he knew he would most likely not survive his quest. After the night on Weathertop, it didn't seem a loss; each day he lived was a blessing, for he should have died that night. He was free from fear of his own mortality; he looked around at the elves quietly strolling the grounds in their long gowns and their long faces, and felt glad he would know oblivion after he died; to live forever must be a terrible burden.
The only thing that mattered to him now was his friends' happiness and the survival of all things innocent and good.
He came upon her sitting by a fountain along one of the many paths into the forested cliffs overlooking Elrond's house; she was doing beadwork on a fine gown of sapphire blue and black velvet, working glass beads along the seam of the hem in a pattern that looked like constellations of stars on the dark fabric. The water of the fountain behind her made a soft music, and she hummed to it, her eyes intent on her work. Frodo's foot brushed a leaf and she glanced over at him. Her hands stopped their work.
"Mornenêl," he said; it was all he could say past the sudden tightening in his chest. A faint breeze would blow him away; he felt as fragile as a withered leaf. Since the wound he'd felt only distantly connected to the world, as if he were in a dream, but with a rush now everything felt solid; it was only he that was made of mist, and if she should not recognize him, he would fade away.
"Frodo," she said, and he could breathe again. "You have recovered from your wound, I see. Won't you sit down for a moment?" She patted the space next to her along the rim of the fountain.
His legs obeyed him; they felt rubbery and weak, but they got him as far as the rim before failing utterly, he sat down hard, gripping the hard stone to keep his balance and remind him that this was all real. She was dressed in olive green; a very simple gown with long pointed sleeves and a golden belt just around her hips; her rich dark hair tucked back from her ears by a clip fashioned to look like a sprig of holly. Her eyes were just as deep and dark as he remembered them; not a day had passed for her, except she seemed too still, too quiet. She studied him and he fought the urge to blush like a youth. Her eyes wandered to where the Ring hung round his neck on a chain. His skin seemed to burn beneath it; from either its presence, or her gaze, he could not tell. Silence hung in the air between them.
She broke it first. "I heard about your adventures, and that you are leaving on a great quest to destroy an artifact of evil. When I heard you had arrived I wanted to see you, but they said you were near death. You have grown into quite a valiant young hero, dear friend. You . . . amaze me. I did not know the strength of your kind."
She was holding something back; he could feel it. They were being so formal with each other, as was proper, but Frodo wanted to throw himself into her arms, hold her and tell her everything—how he had found out about the Ring, his decision to leave the Shire, his grief that he had not found a way to see her sooner, his fears, his hopes—but he had no hopes, did he? Only the destruction of the Ring. But he had time, here, now, that he could spend with her before he left. Another precious gift—almost too precious. How would he be able to leave knowing she was here?
"I seem to be the only one who can take the task--it is not strength, only necessity." He thought about Legolas at the council and wondered how much the elf remembered of the last time they had met. The elf had hardly looked at him until his announcement that he would take the Ring. Even more he wondered about Mornenêl, how she had fared. He tried to tear his gaze away from her face, but he could not. His heart was beating so hard, it hurt. "And you? How goes it with you these days? Have you been in Rivendell long?" She must have been; her accent in Westron was faint now.
"I have been here for ten of your years, not long. Turil says this is the best place for us; he can travel to Cirdán if the need should arise, or to Thranduil, and in the meanwhile he spends his days in learning with Elrond. There is so much more here than in Mirkwood, such a variety of elves. The High Elves are a vastly different people; scholarly, intellectual . I too am learning a great deal."
That did not answer the chief part of his question. And he must know; if he was going to leave for his death, he had to know. "Are you happy?" He looked boldly into her eyes, leaning forward. At his breast he felt the Ring stir sluggishly, as if urging him on. He tried not to think of it.
Whether because of some unseen power or his own earnestness, she answered promptly. "No, I cannot say that I am. I miss my mother. I miss Mirkwood. They do not dance here, not like they did in the forest feasts of Thranduil. Here I am considered common and low born." She looked away.
Frodo drew her into an embrace; he could not help it. The notion that anyone should think her low was laughable to him; she was grace personified, and he could imagine her happy, as happy as she had been when he'd first seen her, laughing at his discomfort at the stream. There was a great difference in the elves here, he agreed--they were tranquil and dignified instead of wild and free as the Mirkwood elves had been. "Is there anything I can do, my lady? I too have known hurt now; I am not so innocent any more. But I have love; a good measure of it. If it can make you happy, it is yours."
Her heart beat strong and fast at his cheek; her head was bowed over him, and her arms slowly came to encircle him, holding tightly. He closed his eyes and savored it, breathing in her scent, taking in her warmth. She raised one hand to run lightly through his hair; his scalp tingled where her fingers touched. She drew in one breath then quickly expelled it--almost a sob, then drew in another. Drawing away, she spoke, looking hard at him and gripping his arms. "I can give you nothing; you know that." She released him and her features softened. She almost smiled. "But yes, you do make me happy. You are so . . . good. So pure. I would like nothing more than to spend time with you, while you are here."
"Then let us do so," Frodo said, already planning his days around what needed to be done for the mission and what spare time he would have. "Is this area often used?" He did not want to make her situation worse; what would they think of him speaking to a married lady, alone?
She took his hint. "As winter approaches, it will be less and less used; the wind begins to bite here already and the leaves on the trees grow thin. But do not fear what others think. You are a hobbit; I am an elf. They will think I indulge a child with friendship. Only you will know that I feel otherwise. You are wise beyond your years. I think I could love you."
With that, she rose, and in a swirl of fabric stepped away from the fountain, heading down one of the paths. He opened his mouth but knew not what to speak; she could *love* him?!
Before she left, she turned once and smiled at him; a true smile, which lit up her eyes. "Tomorrow, then? I will see you here. Same time." Then she turned and left.
Frodo stood and watched the leaves falling, dancing in the wind--before he knew what he was doing he was dancing as well, kicking up great piles of leaves just like a childling and laughing as he hadn't laughed in weeks. Though it was fall, the forest was suddenly full of light
She could love him!
---
(tbc)
(September 20, 1421, Shire Reckoning: )
Several moments of silence passed before Sam realized Frodo had stopped speaking. He looked over at him; Frodo was staring out the window, into the garden, his face an unreadable mask, but his hand—his poor left hand—clutching at the white gem at his breast. Sam's own eyes were damp; he took a moment to wipe them and clean away the plate of cheese and to bring tea for both of them; it had slipped into afternoon without him even noticing.
"You must be hungry, sir."
Frodo nodded, his focus still elsewhere, so Sam set about the kitchen putting together a plate of fruit and cold cuts, his own mind trying to wrap itself around this large portion of history he'd never really known about Frodo. He knew what happened next, he thought—this was why Frodo had been so eager to leave the Shire with Bilbo, even before the discovery of the power of the Ring and the terrible evil it brought. What a shock it must have been, when Bilbo had left and not taken Frodo, Sam thought. And then of course when Gandalf had come and the whole story of the Ring revealed . . . he wondered if Frodo had ever wrestled with the notion of abandoning the quest and leaving instead to find Mornenêl in the vastness of Mirkwood.
Luckily that question had become moot when they'd reached Rivendell with Aragorn. She had been there; living there with her new (in elven figuring) husband, living halfway between her home of Mirkwood and his in the Grey Havens. Sam had witnessed at least one meeting between her and Frodo, but he wondered if he had missed a few others.
He served his master and they both ate of the cold cuts and drank down their tea with biscuits, neither one speaking. Finally, Sam had to speak up.
"What else don't I know? Was there more at Rivendell than I happened across?"
Frodo finished his plate and sat back to smoke a pipe.
"A little," he said.
****
October 26, 1418, Shire Reckoning:
He had never imagined that she would be living in Rivendell.
Frodo had only just recovered from his wound of the Morgul blade; only the day before he had been to the Council of Elrond and volunteered to take the Ring to the Cracks of Doom to destroy it. Life was suddenly a precious commodity that was soon to be thrown away; he knew he would most likely not survive his quest. After the night on Weathertop, it didn't seem a loss; each day he lived was a blessing, for he should have died that night. He was free from fear of his own mortality; he looked around at the elves quietly strolling the grounds in their long gowns and their long faces, and felt glad he would know oblivion after he died; to live forever must be a terrible burden.
The only thing that mattered to him now was his friends' happiness and the survival of all things innocent and good.
He came upon her sitting by a fountain along one of the many paths into the forested cliffs overlooking Elrond's house; she was doing beadwork on a fine gown of sapphire blue and black velvet, working glass beads along the seam of the hem in a pattern that looked like constellations of stars on the dark fabric. The water of the fountain behind her made a soft music, and she hummed to it, her eyes intent on her work. Frodo's foot brushed a leaf and she glanced over at him. Her hands stopped their work.
"Mornenêl," he said; it was all he could say past the sudden tightening in his chest. A faint breeze would blow him away; he felt as fragile as a withered leaf. Since the wound he'd felt only distantly connected to the world, as if he were in a dream, but with a rush now everything felt solid; it was only he that was made of mist, and if she should not recognize him, he would fade away.
"Frodo," she said, and he could breathe again. "You have recovered from your wound, I see. Won't you sit down for a moment?" She patted the space next to her along the rim of the fountain.
His legs obeyed him; they felt rubbery and weak, but they got him as far as the rim before failing utterly, he sat down hard, gripping the hard stone to keep his balance and remind him that this was all real. She was dressed in olive green; a very simple gown with long pointed sleeves and a golden belt just around her hips; her rich dark hair tucked back from her ears by a clip fashioned to look like a sprig of holly. Her eyes were just as deep and dark as he remembered them; not a day had passed for her, except she seemed too still, too quiet. She studied him and he fought the urge to blush like a youth. Her eyes wandered to where the Ring hung round his neck on a chain. His skin seemed to burn beneath it; from either its presence, or her gaze, he could not tell. Silence hung in the air between them.
She broke it first. "I heard about your adventures, and that you are leaving on a great quest to destroy an artifact of evil. When I heard you had arrived I wanted to see you, but they said you were near death. You have grown into quite a valiant young hero, dear friend. You . . . amaze me. I did not know the strength of your kind."
She was holding something back; he could feel it. They were being so formal with each other, as was proper, but Frodo wanted to throw himself into her arms, hold her and tell her everything—how he had found out about the Ring, his decision to leave the Shire, his grief that he had not found a way to see her sooner, his fears, his hopes—but he had no hopes, did he? Only the destruction of the Ring. But he had time, here, now, that he could spend with her before he left. Another precious gift—almost too precious. How would he be able to leave knowing she was here?
"I seem to be the only one who can take the task--it is not strength, only necessity." He thought about Legolas at the council and wondered how much the elf remembered of the last time they had met. The elf had hardly looked at him until his announcement that he would take the Ring. Even more he wondered about Mornenêl, how she had fared. He tried to tear his gaze away from her face, but he could not. His heart was beating so hard, it hurt. "And you? How goes it with you these days? Have you been in Rivendell long?" She must have been; her accent in Westron was faint now.
"I have been here for ten of your years, not long. Turil says this is the best place for us; he can travel to Cirdán if the need should arise, or to Thranduil, and in the meanwhile he spends his days in learning with Elrond. There is so much more here than in Mirkwood, such a variety of elves. The High Elves are a vastly different people; scholarly, intellectual . I too am learning a great deal."
That did not answer the chief part of his question. And he must know; if he was going to leave for his death, he had to know. "Are you happy?" He looked boldly into her eyes, leaning forward. At his breast he felt the Ring stir sluggishly, as if urging him on. He tried not to think of it.
Whether because of some unseen power or his own earnestness, she answered promptly. "No, I cannot say that I am. I miss my mother. I miss Mirkwood. They do not dance here, not like they did in the forest feasts of Thranduil. Here I am considered common and low born." She looked away.
Frodo drew her into an embrace; he could not help it. The notion that anyone should think her low was laughable to him; she was grace personified, and he could imagine her happy, as happy as she had been when he'd first seen her, laughing at his discomfort at the stream. There was a great difference in the elves here, he agreed--they were tranquil and dignified instead of wild and free as the Mirkwood elves had been. "Is there anything I can do, my lady? I too have known hurt now; I am not so innocent any more. But I have love; a good measure of it. If it can make you happy, it is yours."
Her heart beat strong and fast at his cheek; her head was bowed over him, and her arms slowly came to encircle him, holding tightly. He closed his eyes and savored it, breathing in her scent, taking in her warmth. She raised one hand to run lightly through his hair; his scalp tingled where her fingers touched. She drew in one breath then quickly expelled it--almost a sob, then drew in another. Drawing away, she spoke, looking hard at him and gripping his arms. "I can give you nothing; you know that." She released him and her features softened. She almost smiled. "But yes, you do make me happy. You are so . . . good. So pure. I would like nothing more than to spend time with you, while you are here."
"Then let us do so," Frodo said, already planning his days around what needed to be done for the mission and what spare time he would have. "Is this area often used?" He did not want to make her situation worse; what would they think of him speaking to a married lady, alone?
She took his hint. "As winter approaches, it will be less and less used; the wind begins to bite here already and the leaves on the trees grow thin. But do not fear what others think. You are a hobbit; I am an elf. They will think I indulge a child with friendship. Only you will know that I feel otherwise. You are wise beyond your years. I think I could love you."
With that, she rose, and in a swirl of fabric stepped away from the fountain, heading down one of the paths. He opened his mouth but knew not what to speak; she could *love* him?!
Before she left, she turned once and smiled at him; a true smile, which lit up her eyes. "Tomorrow, then? I will see you here. Same time." Then she turned and left.
Frodo stood and watched the leaves falling, dancing in the wind--before he knew what he was doing he was dancing as well, kicking up great piles of leaves just like a childling and laughing as he hadn't laughed in weeks. Though it was fall, the forest was suddenly full of light
She could love him!
---
(tbc)