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A/N:  I would like to thank those of you who are gutting through this and reviewing for me.  Even if you write "thumbs up" or "thumbs down" I don't mind.  I just like to know what my readers think and if my writing is or isn't going down hill.  Thanks everyone!

And the tale continues . . . .

Chapter 21

A VOW OF VENGANCE

            Glorfindel watched the body burn.  To any observing, the elf's eyes seemed hard and cold, uncaring and unmoved.  He did not cry nor weep nor do any such mourning as all outward appearances would show.

            Many of the elves whispered that Glorfindel was in shock, for countless and more remembered those days so long ago when he and the young Maia would walk the gardens, doing not save talking for hours.  Sometimes one could spy them running about but only rarely and when the two didn't think they were being watched.  And indeed none saw save Elrond, and occasionally the Istari, Gandalf, and the elf and Maia would spend countless days in the woods whenever Mithrandir and the child would stop at the Last Homely House . . . .

            "I'm leaving tomorrow," she told him.  "I think it's time I return to the Periannath."

            "You miss them?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant but not entirely succeeding.

            She peered at him out of the corner of her eyes but made as if she did not note the slight catch in his voice.  "Very much," she replied.  "It's been a long time . . . I think . . . nearly fifty years, I believe."

            Glorfindel looked up into the blue sky.  "Fifty years isn't so long."

            "Not for you or I," she smiled at him, "but for a Periannath . . . well, I should say some of my small friends are all but gone," and she gave a quiet sort of sigh.  I should not have been gone for so long . . . but, then, there are so many lands and I come when Nienna calls."

            "I am glad you came here," Glorfindel said suddenly and Atira smiled. 

            "So am I," she said truthfully.  "It's so very peaceful here.  I almost like it better than Lórien.  It's . . ." she sought for the right word ". . . different.  More real, I suppose.  Not like the West."

            Glorfindel chuckled.  "That is why my kind likes it."

            Atira frowned.  "Yes, I suppose you are right."  She peered at her friend intently.  "But do not let that which is out of reach cloud your vision.  Open your eyes and see what you have right within reach before you try for that which is beyond your grasp."

            "Not forever, though."

            Atira shook her head in agreeance.  "No, not forever."  She reached over and grasped his hand within hers.  "You'll get there someday, my friend, and when you do I know you will love it.  Just don't be too eager.  Stick around a while."

            The elf looked at her sadly, then embraced her.  "I wish you would heed your own advice," he said softly.  "I wish you wouldn't go so soon."

            "Come with me, then," she breathed.

            He brushed a strand of wavy brown hair back behind one of her pointed ears and sighed inwardly.  Sometimes it was so easy to forget that she wasn't elven.  Only her hair indicated such and Glorfindel often times even forgot that trivial detail.  It wasn't her looks that he loved so much though.  Had it been possible to love her openly . . . tell her how he felt.  How could she not suspect?  She must.  But then, she was a Maia and those like him where beneath those of her kind.  That was enough to put an end to anything. 

             Slowly, Glorfindel pulled away.

            "You know I can't," he said.  "Elrond would have me here--"

            "And Gandalf would have me with him," she said, a hint of anger in her voice but it was gone almost immediately.  "But I have my own path that I must take--we all do."

            Glorfindel opened his mouth as if to say something but she just shook her head.   "I cannot stay and you cannot go.  It looks like once again we will have to say goodbye." 

            "I guess so," he agreed reluctantly.  "So . . . I suppose I ought say it, huh?"

            Atira smiled.  "Why say it now when we will only say hello again?  We always do."

            "Aye," Glorfindel nodded.

            "This is only one more goodbye," she smiled and her eyes alighted in that mischievous way of hers.  Glorfindel couldn't help but grin.  "Let's not say it this time," she said, "Let's pretend I'm not leaving that way when I come back it will be like I was always here."

            "Alright," he agreed.  "No goodbyes."

            Atira nodded.  "I shall be back before you know it anyhow," she promised.

            "How long will you be gone," Glorfindel wondered.

            Atira's grey eyes twinkled.  "But I won't be gone."  And she kissed him lightly upon the cheek . . . .

            But she had been gone and she hadn't come back.  None knew for certain what had happened on her journey to the Halfling's land.  All anyone could say was that Sauron had somehow intercepted her--some said she ran into a band of orcs--others said, and this number was few, that for some reason none could fathom Atira went in search of Sauron, and from there history unraveled itself.

            Glorfindel didn't know and neither did anyone else.  They only thought they did.  Glorfindel didn't even think that much.

            The flames licked high and the fire's smoke blotted out the blue sky.  Glorfindel could no longer see her and he was glad, for he was suddenly sick.  Without a word, without a break in his carefully constructed mask, he turned and left.

            Morgainne had no more tears.  She had used them up the night before and all that morning when she tried to calm the small hobbit.  If she hadn't known any better she would have thought him mad.  He would not let anyone near him, not even his cousin, Meriadoc, or the stout little halfling, Sam, but would scream and flail about or when none threatened to get close, curl up upon the bed and mutter unintelligibly and sob.  Though his eyes were open they were not alive but glazed and seemed not to look upon the world around him but note a time or place far different from the waking world.  He was not aware of anything, save his grief and pain.

            She had tried everything but it was to no avail.  Finally, in defeat she had left the hobbit child to his fellows, not having the heart nor patience to deal with such.  It was not until she left them that she recalled Frodo and realized he had not been there with the others.  She asked around but none had seen him and she thought that odd for he was the Ring-bearer and all would note his passing.  None did however.  And then a sudden, horrible thought had come to her but she had immediately dismissed it.  Mithrandir had told her of the Ring and its power.  She knew its abilities plus a lot more . . . but he would never . . . he wouldn't possibly . . .

            That's what she told herself, anyway.

            It was late afternoon and though the sky was not yet beginning to darken the smoke took care of what light the sun was offering.  She watched the body burn until she couldn't see it anymore but never took her eyes away.

            Sauron, you will pay. 

            An elf standing next to her turned began to make his way through the crowd and she noted his passing only because he brushed up against her as he turned to leave.  She recognized him of being one of Lord Elrond's elves and she wondered at his departure.  But he left her mind nearly as swiftly as he had come, for a hand slipped into her own.  She squeezed it briefly and her gaze fell back to the flames.

            Sauron, you will pay. 

            She had no reason to doubt herself.

*     *     *     *     *

            Hobbits weren't known for their climbing ability but that made no matter.  If you found the right hobbit then you could have found a hobbit that could climb trees.  In the case of Frodo Baggins you'd have found the right hobbit.

            The gift of climbing had come to him when he was young, about the time when his parents had died.  At the time it had seemed like people were always trying to find him, to comfort or offer condolences and at first Frodo could find no way to escape.  Eventually, however, he had sought out the trees and indeed they had been the perfect solace.  He'd doze in their branches all day, far away from life below, and find the comfort that he needed. 

            Only one had ever guessed his hiding place and that had been dear old Sam Gamgee.  The lad had been young at the time, nowhere near his tweens and he had wondered curiously at his master's odd behavior.  But he never asked nor told a soul.  He kept it to himself for that's what he figured Frodo wanted.

            Oftentimes Frodo was tempted to tell Sam, or Merry, or even little Pippin, but in the end he never would.  He always liked to imagine their faces:  Sam would probably be a little disapproving but otherwise wouldn't say much; he never did.  Merry would tell his cousin to get down before he broke his neck but have an envious glint in his eye the entire time.  Pip would laugh and look at him appraisingly and probably climb right on up. 

            Frodo sighed.

            He loved them so much but there were some things you couldn't even share with your closest of friends.

            Especially if you don't even understand it yourself.

            He didn't understand the tears that ran down his cheeks nor the sudden emptiness in the pit of his gut.  He didn't even know Apryl, not really.  She had been a goal at first.  Something he had strived to find and then to save.  Sure, she had been kind to him and he had fun talking with her but he hadn't known her.  Not like Morgainne, or Gandalf seemed to.

            But he had a right to be upset, for he had known her however short a time that was and now she was dead.  Of course he had a right to mourn for someone who had just died.  Didn't they all?

            Suddenly, he laughed.  It was a sick sort of laugh--bitter and cold.

            I tried so hard to find you, Apryl, but I never did.  Not really.

            The wind whispered in the boughs of the tree and the leaves rustled softly.

            None of this is going as planned, he thought mournfully.  Adventures sure aren't what they're cracked up to be.  I'm glad I'm going home.  I'm tired, so very tired.

            He glanced around, sniffled.  I wonder what's to become of the Ring? he mused, pulling the chain from beneath his tunic.  The golden band glinted brilliantly in the rays of the moon.

            So beautiful . . . .

            He held it in the palm of his hand, gazed at it longingly.

            I'm so tired . . . my head hurts . . .

            Frodo dropped the Ring and put his head in his hands.  His temples throbbed and he rubbed at them but it was to no avail.  The pain lasted until dawn and then weakened and, finally, was gone.

            He was tempted to sleep in the tree but knew the outcome of such a stunt.  The hobbit climbed down, curled up at the trunk's base.

            Perhaps today I will finally be rid of this accursed thing . . . was his last thought before he fell into a fitful sleep.