*****
December 8, 1419, Shire Reckoning
For nearly a week and a half, just to be with her was enough.
To be loved by the light of her eyes, in the embrace of her arms--for a short while Frodo knew true happiness and peace, and thoughts of the Ring and the darkness ahead failed to touch his mind; he was filled totally with her starlight, her laughter.
But time was nearly out; watchers had reported that scouts were returning; Galdor's party, which included Turil, had been spotted only a day or two's ride away. It was time to say goodbye to Mornenêl.
He was going to lay with her one more time--they had both agreed--they *needed* one more time to fully lock into their minds for all time. No more than that one time for farewell, though--if he grew accustomed to sharing her bed he would never be able to leave it. Once more. And he would cherish it.
Legolas knew too; Frodo had made it a point to be open and honest with him in all his dealings with Mornenêl, and it surprised him how well the elf responded to this. He could not say that they were friends exactly, but there was a bond between them now. Frodo no longer doubted the elf would do his all to protect him now, on the quest.
Sam fretted over him that evening, knowing perfectly well what he intended and trying his utmost to keep Frodo's spirits up about the whole thing. They both knew it was a hopeless gesture, but if it helped Sam deal with Frodo's pain, that at least was something. Somehow, though, the thought of leaving did not trouble Frodo quite as badly as it had before. The mending of their relationship had soothed his troubled heart. If he was going to leave, at least he could leave with a pleasant picture of her in his mind. Best not to think to the future, to his fate. He was going to die out there; he was almost sure of it, but he fervently hoped he could at least complete his quest first. Mornenêl was just one more reason to succeed--her safety and the safety of Rivendell against the black tide of Mordor.
Frodo would have liked to have their last tryst in a proper bed, but he certainly wasn't going to visit her chambers she shared with Turil, and it was hardly appropriate for her to visit his where anyone could see her, so they had once again decided to meet in the study room. If it had been summer, perhaps a night under the stars would have been appropriate . . . Frodo sighed. He wanted perfection in an unperfect world.
He arrived early, hoping to be first. She had apparently been by--the fire had been started in the fireplace, and blankets were folded on the chair, but she must have stepped out, hopefully for a while.
Frodo had brought a basket with a few things. On the previous two visits here, she had set the place according to her tastes. He deemed it was time for him to do his best to show her just how special she was to him, thank her for the time they had shared.
He set and lit candles around the room--Merry and Pippin had "donated" them and he was afraid to ask where they had procured them, but as he hadn't heard any complaints from Elrond yet, he hoped it was safe to use them.
Sam had created a bouquet of--well not flowers, as it *was* the eve of winter--but holly, pine, oak and maple leaves, and berries and nuts arranged as only the poetic gardener could arrange things in a splendid wreath. Frodo had little to give as a love mathom but this. He hoped it was enough.
He did not trust himself to pick a wine Mornenêl would find pleasing--hobbit tastes would never match the delicate palettes of the elves--but Bilbo had baked his famous mushroom puff pastries--well, this gift was probably more for Frodo than Mornenêl, but he would try to sway her to the delectable art of enjoying mushrooms.
He was setting up a few other treats Aragorn had gathered for him—elven love foods, he'd said with a conspiratorial wink--and was just about to arrange the blankets to his liking when Mornenêl returned. A soft blush and a wide smile came to her face at the sight of the candles and lover's picnic. Frodo felt his own cheeks grow warm. "I thought to make this time special."
"Every time is special. But thank you," she replied, and her eyes were moist, but she was smiling as she swept forward to kneel before him and take his face in her hands, leaning in to kiss him. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, lost in her soft touch, the delicate smell of her perfume--rose and something else, something woodsy. Her fingertips made light circles at the sides of his face, through his curls. He raised his hands to let her long silken strands fall through his fingers. A sudden pain tore through him. Almost the last time he would feel her lips, her hair, her scent. She pulled back and gazed at him and he could see his thoughts mirrored there.
Her voice was bleak. "How will I endure the ages without you? I envy the children of Luthien and their choice!"
There was little Frodo could say to that; the best he could do was gather her in his arms and hold tight to her, kiss her hair, as she rested her head on his small shoulders.
She murmured into his neck, "If you die, I shall leave for Aman."
"And Turil?" Her words dismayed him; he had not known the true depth of her heart. He felt rage, first at the Ring, this terrible thing come between them. Sorrow also for Turil who had a jewel but would never truly enjoy its sparkle.
"He could always choose to stay or go. He would not be the first to lose his spouse to the Undying Lands early. Nor the last, I imagine."
"Come, let's stop this dark talk. Tonight is for joy, for happiness. I want to introduce you to a particular pleasure of hobbits. Try one of these," Frodo said, brushing the wetness from his eyes to fetch a mushroom puff. Mornenêl smiled at his attempts at humor, spreading out the blankets on the floor and arranging her gown to sit down on them. She wore simple white tonight, in stark contrast to the rich mahogany of her hair and the pale blush of her skin. Frodo drank in the sight of her before holding out the puff to take.
She grinned mischievously, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth.
Frodo's breath caught in his throat. His hand trembled as he held the morsel to her soft red lips, felt the brush of her teeth against his skin as she took a bite. She chuckled in pleasure as she chewed, opening one eye to peek at him in mirth. He took the other half and with a wink, popped it into his mouth.
Mornenêl smiled. "I don't believe I got *nearly* a good enough taste of that." Before Frodo could think of a retort, she leaned forward and tasted his lips instead. He almost forgot about the mushrooms.
When he could breathe again, he pulled back. "No, no, not even *you* can stop me from having my fill of Bilbo's mushroom puffs. Let me bring you another. There are other treats as well--something from the South called 'dates', sugared almonds, pickled olives, and something else Aragorn called 'chocolate'.
He set up the picnic on the floor and they took turns feeding each other and very soon Frodo found his favorite of the elven love foods was that delightful substance called 'chocolate.' After they had devoured most of that, they made a game of the others; one would close their eyes and the other would tease them with what they were offering--perhaps let them smell almond but then give them an olive. They laughed and played at eating until suddenly they found food just wasn't interesting any longer, not compared to the sweetness of each other's lips.
Stretching out, they lied back against the soft woolen blankets. Frodo traced the shape of Mornenêl's face with his fingertips, trembling even ash she mirrored the gesture on his own face, her violet eyes intent on him. "You are so beautiful," she whispered in wonder, tracing one cheekbone with her finger.
Frodo chuckled--it was ludicrous to think *him* beautiful next to a spirit of the earth like her. Elves always seemed to be described as ethereal, airy. Not Mornenêl. He could imagine the earth itself giving birth to her, as the soil brought forth a rose, or as the Withywindle River had somehow produced Goldberry for Tom Bombadil.
"There are not words to describe the light in you. I will need my entire life to write one worthy poem."
She blushed and ducked her head from his caress. "A most cunning tongue you have, Frodo."
Frodo could think of a retort or two to that, but instead he simply kissed her.
They made love slowly and reverently, adoring each other's bodies, whispering endearments and tender wishes. Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms huddled in the blankets by the fire, limbs heavy with satiation and sleep.
"Please, take care on your journey. I have heard it is a desperate quest, that the chances of success are slim, but do not throw your life away needlessly. I will wait here for you. If you return, I will find a way to stay with you, even if I must openly defy my husband." Mornenêl's voice broke at the end, and a hot tear splashed on Frodo's hand where it rested in her lap.
He breathed in her pain, felt it merge with the pain already within him. Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his head on her shoulder. "Do not destroy yourself for me, Mornenêl. Whatever happens . . . live."
Her hand rested on his brow. "If you die, I will die too. An elf *can* choose to die of grief."
"But you will not meet me in the Halls of Mandos," Frodo tried to control his voice, but it shook nonetheless, revealing his despair.
"Not until the end of Time," Mornenêl's voice was barely a whisper.
"I will love you until then," Frodo said.
The fire was burning low; the night was growing old. Soon they would have to leave. He held to her tighter. Another hot tear, not his own, splashed onto his cheek.
"As will I," Mornenêl said.
After that, there was nothing else to say.
*****
December 8, 1419, Shire Reckoning
For nearly a week and a half, just to be with her was enough.
To be loved by the light of her eyes, in the embrace of her arms--for a short while Frodo knew true happiness and peace, and thoughts of the Ring and the darkness ahead failed to touch his mind; he was filled totally with her starlight, her laughter.
But time was nearly out; watchers had reported that scouts were returning; Galdor's party, which included Turil, had been spotted only a day or two's ride away. It was time to say goodbye to Mornenêl.
He was going to lay with her one more time--they had both agreed--they *needed* one more time to fully lock into their minds for all time. No more than that one time for farewell, though--if he grew accustomed to sharing her bed he would never be able to leave it. Once more. And he would cherish it.
Legolas knew too; Frodo had made it a point to be open and honest with him in all his dealings with Mornenêl, and it surprised him how well the elf responded to this. He could not say that they were friends exactly, but there was a bond between them now. Frodo no longer doubted the elf would do his all to protect him now, on the quest.
Sam fretted over him that evening, knowing perfectly well what he intended and trying his utmost to keep Frodo's spirits up about the whole thing. They both knew it was a hopeless gesture, but if it helped Sam deal with Frodo's pain, that at least was something. Somehow, though, the thought of leaving did not trouble Frodo quite as badly as it had before. The mending of their relationship had soothed his troubled heart. If he was going to leave, at least he could leave with a pleasant picture of her in his mind. Best not to think to the future, to his fate. He was going to die out there; he was almost sure of it, but he fervently hoped he could at least complete his quest first. Mornenêl was just one more reason to succeed--her safety and the safety of Rivendell against the black tide of Mordor.
Frodo would have liked to have their last tryst in a proper bed, but he certainly wasn't going to visit her chambers she shared with Turil, and it was hardly appropriate for her to visit his where anyone could see her, so they had once again decided to meet in the study room. If it had been summer, perhaps a night under the stars would have been appropriate . . . Frodo sighed. He wanted perfection in an unperfect world.
He arrived early, hoping to be first. She had apparently been by--the fire had been started in the fireplace, and blankets were folded on the chair, but she must have stepped out, hopefully for a while.
Frodo had brought a basket with a few things. On the previous two visits here, she had set the place according to her tastes. He deemed it was time for him to do his best to show her just how special she was to him, thank her for the time they had shared.
He set and lit candles around the room--Merry and Pippin had "donated" them and he was afraid to ask where they had procured them, but as he hadn't heard any complaints from Elrond yet, he hoped it was safe to use them.
Sam had created a bouquet of--well not flowers, as it *was* the eve of winter--but holly, pine, oak and maple leaves, and berries and nuts arranged as only the poetic gardener could arrange things in a splendid wreath. Frodo had little to give as a love mathom but this. He hoped it was enough.
He did not trust himself to pick a wine Mornenêl would find pleasing--hobbit tastes would never match the delicate palettes of the elves--but Bilbo had baked his famous mushroom puff pastries--well, this gift was probably more for Frodo than Mornenêl, but he would try to sway her to the delectable art of enjoying mushrooms.
He was setting up a few other treats Aragorn had gathered for him—elven love foods, he'd said with a conspiratorial wink--and was just about to arrange the blankets to his liking when Mornenêl returned. A soft blush and a wide smile came to her face at the sight of the candles and lover's picnic. Frodo felt his own cheeks grow warm. "I thought to make this time special."
"Every time is special. But thank you," she replied, and her eyes were moist, but she was smiling as she swept forward to kneel before him and take his face in her hands, leaning in to kiss him. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, lost in her soft touch, the delicate smell of her perfume--rose and something else, something woodsy. Her fingertips made light circles at the sides of his face, through his curls. He raised his hands to let her long silken strands fall through his fingers. A sudden pain tore through him. Almost the last time he would feel her lips, her hair, her scent. She pulled back and gazed at him and he could see his thoughts mirrored there.
Her voice was bleak. "How will I endure the ages without you? I envy the children of Luthien and their choice!"
There was little Frodo could say to that; the best he could do was gather her in his arms and hold tight to her, kiss her hair, as she rested her head on his small shoulders.
She murmured into his neck, "If you die, I shall leave for Aman."
"And Turil?" Her words dismayed him; he had not known the true depth of her heart. He felt rage, first at the Ring, this terrible thing come between them. Sorrow also for Turil who had a jewel but would never truly enjoy its sparkle.
"He could always choose to stay or go. He would not be the first to lose his spouse to the Undying Lands early. Nor the last, I imagine."
"Come, let's stop this dark talk. Tonight is for joy, for happiness. I want to introduce you to a particular pleasure of hobbits. Try one of these," Frodo said, brushing the wetness from his eyes to fetch a mushroom puff. Mornenêl smiled at his attempts at humor, spreading out the blankets on the floor and arranging her gown to sit down on them. She wore simple white tonight, in stark contrast to the rich mahogany of her hair and the pale blush of her skin. Frodo drank in the sight of her before holding out the puff to take.
She grinned mischievously, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth.
Frodo's breath caught in his throat. His hand trembled as he held the morsel to her soft red lips, felt the brush of her teeth against his skin as she took a bite. She chuckled in pleasure as she chewed, opening one eye to peek at him in mirth. He took the other half and with a wink, popped it into his mouth.
Mornenêl smiled. "I don't believe I got *nearly* a good enough taste of that." Before Frodo could think of a retort, she leaned forward and tasted his lips instead. He almost forgot about the mushrooms.
When he could breathe again, he pulled back. "No, no, not even *you* can stop me from having my fill of Bilbo's mushroom puffs. Let me bring you another. There are other treats as well--something from the South called 'dates', sugared almonds, pickled olives, and something else Aragorn called 'chocolate'.
He set up the picnic on the floor and they took turns feeding each other and very soon Frodo found his favorite of the elven love foods was that delightful substance called 'chocolate.' After they had devoured most of that, they made a game of the others; one would close their eyes and the other would tease them with what they were offering--perhaps let them smell almond but then give them an olive. They laughed and played at eating until suddenly they found food just wasn't interesting any longer, not compared to the sweetness of each other's lips.
Stretching out, they lied back against the soft woolen blankets. Frodo traced the shape of Mornenêl's face with his fingertips, trembling even ash she mirrored the gesture on his own face, her violet eyes intent on him. "You are so beautiful," she whispered in wonder, tracing one cheekbone with her finger.
Frodo chuckled--it was ludicrous to think *him* beautiful next to a spirit of the earth like her. Elves always seemed to be described as ethereal, airy. Not Mornenêl. He could imagine the earth itself giving birth to her, as the soil brought forth a rose, or as the Withywindle River had somehow produced Goldberry for Tom Bombadil.
"There are not words to describe the light in you. I will need my entire life to write one worthy poem."
She blushed and ducked her head from his caress. "A most cunning tongue you have, Frodo."
Frodo could think of a retort or two to that, but instead he simply kissed her.
They made love slowly and reverently, adoring each other's bodies, whispering endearments and tender wishes. Afterwards, they lay in each other's arms huddled in the blankets by the fire, limbs heavy with satiation and sleep.
"Please, take care on your journey. I have heard it is a desperate quest, that the chances of success are slim, but do not throw your life away needlessly. I will wait here for you. If you return, I will find a way to stay with you, even if I must openly defy my husband." Mornenêl's voice broke at the end, and a hot tear splashed on Frodo's hand where it rested in her lap.
He breathed in her pain, felt it merge with the pain already within him. Wrapping his arms around her, he rested his head on her shoulder. "Do not destroy yourself for me, Mornenêl. Whatever happens . . . live."
Her hand rested on his brow. "If you die, I will die too. An elf *can* choose to die of grief."
"But you will not meet me in the Halls of Mandos," Frodo tried to control his voice, but it shook nonetheless, revealing his despair.
"Not until the end of Time," Mornenêl's voice was barely a whisper.
"I will love you until then," Frodo said.
The fire was burning low; the night was growing old. Soon they would have to leave. He held to her tighter. Another hot tear, not his own, splashed onto his cheek.
"As will I," Mornenêl said.
After that, there was nothing else to say.
*****