11. Bright like a star
I stood in the middle of a green field, as vast as the cloudless sky that arched over my head. There were homesteads scattered about on the wide plain, and a guarded wall with many high gates stretched before me. Behind it lay a city that gleamed white as snow in the bright sunlight.Please.
This had to be the Pelennor Fields, but there was no sign now of the scars of war. There were orchards, the fruit on them hanging ripe and rich, and between the orchards wheat fields stretched to the horizon, ready for harvest.
But of course – the battles were all over and there was peace, and Elessar reigned in Gondor. The road lay before me, across the Rammas Echor to Minas Tirith. It could not be a long way, and it was pleasant besides. I strolled towards the city, sniffing with pleasure the scent of ripe apples that filled the air.
Suddenly a white mist obscured the landscape, so dense that I could barely see my feet on the paved road. I felt my way forward, blind, and suddenly there was gravel under my feet. The mist broke up and drifted away in tatters, and I saw that day had become night. There was a pond before me, yellow and white lights reflected on its dark surface.
Oh no. No.
I turned instinctively and ran back, but the park behind me was gone, and gone also was the sun-drenched Pelenor. A wall rose before me, solid and black, and in the midst of it was an immense iron gate. The metal glowed silver, highlighting intricate fittings that looked as if they were formed of delicately wrought Elven runes. I banged on the gate with all my strength, but it didn't budge and I stood breathing heavily, leaning against the cold metal.
No, please.
I threw myself against it once more, beating on it with the flat of my hands and then with clenched fists, screaming.
"No! Don't do this to me – please don't do this to me!"
Damrod was behind that wall. The knowledgw was like a blow to my heart.
"Let me in! Oh please let me in –" But the gate did not open, and there was no answer, only silence.
*****
"Noerwen?"
I sat up in bed, streaming with sweat and only half awake. The violent shiver that ran through my body made the wooden bedframe vibrate.
Slowly I understood: I was in my room in the Houses of Healing. I was still in Minas Tirith, still in Middle Earth.
And thank the Valar, Damrod was still here too.
With a shudder that was nearly a sob, I sank back into his embrace, my bare skin against his. I turned and clung to him convulsively, burying my face against his chest.
"What is it, my love?"
Slowly the shivering eased and I breathed more evenly. "It was a dream," I said softly. "Only a dream…"
"Of what?" He sounded hesitant, the dark voice I loved still a little hoarse with sleep. "The attack by the Gate?"
Several times in previous nights the memory of my tormentor had returned to haunt me, but I had not been alone; always I had found myself safe in Damrod's arms. His body was the best of cures, chasing away the brutal images. But now I shook my head; I could not tell him about this dream. It would raise too many questions, and I had no answers.
"Don't be afraid." He sighed and stretched under the light woolen blanket. "I'm here."
But for how long?
"I know. I know you are, my love."
In a few minutes he slept once more; I could hear the deep rhythm of his breath and feel his arms around me, heavy with sleep. I lay rigid, trying not to wake him again, listening to the slow, steady heartbeat close beneath my ear and staring into the darkness with my eyes wide open.
*****
Damrod had to leave after breakfast to spend the forenoon with the Rangers of Ithilien. Watching him go, I realized suddenly that soon he would return home, to Ithilien. I followed him with my eyes, noting the easy grace of his walk, the straightness of his back and the set of his shoulders. His body was painfully familiar, as if I had known him for years, and yet it was as if I saw him today for the very first time.
Weeks had passed since the unforgettable evening when he stood in the doorway of the herb storeroom. Spring had given way to summer and Mid-Year's Day had passed, the King's wedding day. Minas Tirith had burst into flower in every colour of the rainbow, and even with so much damage from the battle, the stone city was beautiful. And my arm was nearly healed; several days ago I had gone back to work in the Houses of Healing.
As long as Damrod was in Minas Tirith he served in Faramir's guard, accompanying the young Steward and riding out with the patrols. But each evening he returned to the sixth circle, and I stood in the entrance of the Houses and watched him coming through the gardens. And still he took my breath away, every time.
"Noerwen?"
I turned my head in surprise and saw Gandalf standing beside me. I hadn't heard him coming.
"Lord!" I bowed to him, beaming. "I have barely seen you these last weeks – you must have been very busy."
"So to speak." A faint smile played about his mouth. "I had to take care of certain affairs with King Elessar."
I simply couldn't resist the temptation. "You haven't accidentally found a sapling of the White Tree?" I asked innocently.
Gandalf cleared his throat. "Quite accidentally," he said. "Indeed." He shot me a sharp glance. "I think it is time we had a talk."
"Now?"
"That is what I came for. I want you to come to my house. The Hobbits are away today, and we shall not be disturbed."
I followed him without arguing. The old wizard moved with astonishing speed, and by the time we reached the house he shared with the Hobbits I was out of breath. Gandalf opened the door and stood aside for me to enter.
The corridor was floored with stone tiles; on the left side someone had put up a row of clothes hooks low on the white plastered wall, but they were empty at the moment. Gandalf led the way into a large kitchen, sunlight streaming into the room through wide windows. The fireplace was cold and clean, a kettle waiting on the hob for tea time. The center of the room was filled by a huge wooden table, well scrubbed, surrounded by half a dozen stools. In the middle of the table was a brown clay bowl full of June apples.
"Sit down, Noerwen."
I perched on one of the low stools and he sat down opposite me, propping his elbows on the table and looking at me. As he had done the first time we met, he plumbed my heart and soul with his eyes, and once again I knew it would be useless to resist. After a while he drew back, breaking eye contact, and sat silent for a long time with his head bowed. Outside a cart rolled by,and the shrill, sweet song of a blackbird came through the window along with the rattling of wooden wheels on the stone street.
At last he looked up. "It is a dangerous game you are playing, child. You do know that?"
I felt my body tense. "What do you mean?" I asked guardedly.
He sighed. "You are an astonishing woman, Noerwen." he said. "You have assimilated yourself to our world so thoroughly, it is almost as if you were born here. You make it easy for people to forget that you have no past, that no one actually knows where you came from. And in the terrible time that we hope is over now, you have rendered outstanding service. I spoke to Oroher, to Ioreth and the other healers; there is hardly anyone in the Houses of Healing who does not feel the greatest respect for you."
"Thank you," I said with a faint smile. "But surely you did not bring me here to sing my praises."
"No," he said. "I have brought you here to warn you."
"Against what?"
"Perhaps against your own heart." The wizard got up and began to pace back and forth. "You have made yourself of use here. You have helped me, as well, and that more than once. But regardless of the service you have rendered, what you are doing now is dangerous."
"You are speaking in riddles." I stared down at my hands resting on the table, clenched so tight that my knuckles shone white. With agonizing certainty I knew what he would say next.
"I am speaking of Damrod, as you know." Gandalf's voice was soft but penetrating. "You must not bind yourself to anyone here, Noerwen. We do not know that you will be allowed to stay in Middle Earth. As I could find time during these last weeks, I have studied the ancient writings, trying to find out if there have been cases like yours before. I have found no record of such a thing – only you, and of course the Pengolodh."
He stopped pacing, and his hand, aged-looking but strong, took me by the chin and raised my head to look him in the eyes. I stared blindly, desperately; there was deep pity in his gaze, but also truth, naked and deadly as a sharpened sword.
"You will have to go back," he said. "Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week… maybe not for a year or more. Will you leave a grieving husband behind you, his wife vanished without warning, and who knows why or where? And perhaps not a husband only; perhaps children…
"The Pengolodh has a family, I know. Perhaps this is why he can go back and forth so effortlessly between the worlds. He is rooted in his world; he knows where he belongs. But you, Noerwen…"
He squatted down before me, sitting back on his heels, and I heard the soft creak of protesting joints. "You put yourself in danger, and not yourself alone. You have one single opportunity. Put an end to it as quickly and painlessly as you can."
"Painlessly?" I stared at him, torn between rage and helplessness. "Do you think I could do that to him? Do you really believe it would end without pain?"
"No." He sighed. "It will not be painless. But the longer you wait, the worse it will be for both of you. This is not your home, child. If you continue to ignore that fact, you are going to rip yourself to pieces."
"I can't," I whispered. "I love him. I love him so much." I was shaking as with a chill, and he took my trembling hands between his for a moment, holding them firmly.
"My dear child," he said gently, "I have watched you caring for those who raved in fever, stitching horrible wounds, encouraging a hobbit far from home and nearly in despair. You held the hand of a dying warrior and sent him comforted to his fathers. You do not lack for courage." His hand rested briefly on my head, a swift, tender touch that brought tears to my eyes.
"I know you love him. And for that very reason you must send him away, quickly. It is the most merciful, the most loving thing you can do for him."
He got up and went out without saying anything more. But I sat where I was, staring at the wooden table without seeing it.
vvvvv
Damrod returned early in the afternoon. I had intended to wait for him as I always did, in the herb gardens, but found myself pacing up and down like a wild beast in a cage. So I fled to Mardil's storeroom, my refuge, and tried to calm myself by entering the new supplies on my list. Half an hour later he found me there.
"Every time I think of you, I imagine I smell the scent of herbs," he said, smiling. There was a bowl of dried lavender in front of me on the desk, and he reached in and rubbed some of the blossoms between his fingers before he laid his hand against my cheek. I sighed, turning my head to kiss his palm and breathing in the sweet fragrance.
"Every time I think of you –" I gazed into his face and whatever I had meant to say stuck in my throat. Lady of stars, how I loved this man! And soon, soon! how I would have to wound him…
"Don't look at me like that, my heart," he said suddenly, his voice very soft. "Or I will forget that I wanted to take you for a meal, and carry you away to somewhere else entirely." He laughed a little breathlessly, and I laid my hand on top of his for a moment. Then I drew away and closed my book.
"I must speak to you, Damrod." I got up. "It is time I told you something."
The expression on my face must have warned him that this was serious.
"Here?" he asked, but I shook my head.
"No, in the gardens. I need some fresh air."
We went out, and all the way up the stairs and through the corridor I could feel him looking at me from the corner of his eye. But he said nothing, and then we were in the gardens, walking over the freshly raked paths to the wall. I leaned against it and looked at him. My heart thumped heavily in my chest; I was afraid. But somehow I must do this thing, and I prayed silently that Gandalf was not mistaken about my courage.
"You must promise me something," I said. "That you try to believe me, even if it is difficult. That you don't cut me off. And…" I swallowed hard. "…that you do not leave before I have finished."
"Is it that bad?" A faint smile flashed in his eyes, but then it faded and he frowned with growing concern. He took a step toward me and I knew he wanted to take me in his arms, but I stiffened and shook my head.
"Bad enough," I said. "Help me, Damrod. Just listen to me. Please. And then you may ask me anything you want. Will you do this for me?"
"Of course." His face was attentive, waiting.
"You remember the day you found me, with your comrades and Lord Faramir?"
He nodded.
"Well… I had not lost my memory. That was as false as my miserable masquerade as a boy. I knew exactly who I was, and where I came from. What I did not know, is where I was…"
vvvvv
I don't remember how long I spoke. At first I stood close to the wall, but then I began pacing back and forth. When I described the first night conversation with Gandalf, Damrod leaned against a flowering chestnut that grew close to the wall. He crossed his arms across his chest, his face gradually losing all expression. My heart sank, but I went on talking while the sun rose behind me, warming my back. When I finished at last, a deep silence fell between us.
"You say Gandalf knew about this? From the beginning?" His voice was flat.
At least he believed me!
"Yes," I said. I was a little hoarse; it had been eternities since I held such a monologue. "He could read my thoughts. He saw my rage at Denethor, for how he treated Faramir."
Damrod raised his head and shot me a look. "Did you know that he was mad? That he would try to burn is son alive?"
"Yes," I said. My voice cracked and I cleared my throat. "And before you ask – I knew of the useless attack on Osgiliath, the siege and the battle before the Black Gate, and I knew that the Ring would go into the fire. I knew it all before… or at least most of it. As I told you – it was all written down."
I tried to meet his eyes, but he would not look at me. "I was so afraid of doing something wrong. I was afraid to start something that I would not be able to stop. I have never been so frightened in my entire life."
I saw the muscles in his cheeks harden. "Do I appear in the book this man wrote?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I said. "But only on a few pages, together with Mablung. The Pengolodh described how you guarded the Ringbearer and his companion in Ithilien."
Suddenly he laughed, but it was a bitter, angry sound.
"So I am on the margins of the story only; I merit no more than a short remark."
"Not for me," I said.
He took a deep breath, his fists clenched at his sides. "And the other man your Pengolodh mentioned on those few pages, he died in my arms. He was my friend. And now tell me one more thing: is it possible that you will vanish as suddenly as you appeared?"
I hung my head. "Yes."
I would have given a year of my life to have him come close at that moment and touch me, but he didn't move. "I would not think of it. I have felt so much at home here, so much in the right place! But Gandalf advised me… no, he ordered me… to tell you. He made me see how quickly I might be ripped from your side."
"He ordered you? Tell me one thing, Noerwen: if he had not ordered you, how long would you have waited to tell me?" Now he came to me, now I felt his hands – but not with the gentleness I had learned to expect from him. His hands closed around my arms like a vise, hard and merciless. "Look at me! How long would you have waited?"
I raised my head and looked him in the face, and if he had not been holding on to me I would have staggered backward. The icy anger and injury in his eyes were like a fist driving into my face.
"How long? Until I asked you to be my wife? Until I brought you home to Ithilien? Until you were carrying our child? Or would you have waited until it was born?" The words were like the strokes of a whip, and I stared at him numb with pain and horror.
Gandalf had warned me! And he was right; the old wizard was always right!
"And I would have asked you." He let go of me so abruptly that I swayed and nearly fell. "I am not the man for a little wenching in time of war. You have been more to me than any woman I have ever known, and I wanted you for my own. And you have encouraged me! You have kissed me, you have –"
He stared into my face and the rage in his eyes was mingled with a sort of contempt. "…you have taken me into your bed," he said flatly. "Was that a game? Is that the custom in your world?"I was nearly screaming. "No, Damrod, no! I love you! I am sorry, so terribly sorry… I didn't want to hurt you. And I was so happy, so glad that you were here by me. I was so afraid of losing you…"
"No!"
"Now…" His voice broke and he began again. "If you had told the truth from the beginning, I would have had some choice. But no, you said nothing, you let make a fool of myself.
He stepped forward suddenly and grabbed me a second time, pressing me against the wall. Then he kissed me, but this kiss was without tenderness, this kiss was full of rage and pain and despair. He forced my lips apart and in sudden terror I tried to duck my head, to push him away. He was like iron, unyielding, and I was helpless against him. And then he stepped back, panting, and we stared at one another. My wild horror was mirrored in his eyes, and my breath was as laborious as his.
"I had better go," he said hoarsely. "I don't want to do something I will be sorry for later. I don't want to hurt you as you have hurt me. I think I already have enough to regret, Noerwen."
He turned on his heel and left the garden, and I followed him with my eyes. He did not look back, and when he was gone my legs folded beneath me and I fell to my knees beside the wall.
vvvvv
I can't remember how long I knelt there in the grass. I was numb.
I had known it was a risk, telling him the truth. I had been anxious lest he not believe me, or even that he might be frightened at such a strange tale. Only one thing had not occurred to me: that this gentle, tender man would look upon me with such anger and contempt.
I don't want to hurt you the same way you hurt me.
At last I dragged myself to my feet, holding onto the wall. The Pelennor lay before me in the afternoon sun, already green with the young wheat bending in the wind, first fruit of the farmers' efforts now that peace was here.
I already have enough to regret.
A painful sob rose in my throat. He had walked away like someone who had no plans to return. I writhed in agony, clinging with both hands to the wall. For months I had basked in the dream that I had found a home, a refuge, and now this man dearest to my heart had destroyed my illusive safety in a single blow.
"Are you unwell? May I help you?"
Please no. Not now, not here.
"Merry." I tried to suppress the sharpness in my voice, answering without turning to face him. "No, you cannot help me. Not unless you have just realized that you do not know where you belong, that the way home seems as impossible to you as flying to the moon. Not unless your heart is torn apart with homesickness, and yet you are afraid to walk in your own front door. And none of that applies to you and never will, so please leave me in peace."
There was a long silence before he said quietly, "I think I can roughly imagine what you are talking about."
I turned slowly. It was not Merry.
He was a hobbit, but far shorter than the young knight of Rohan, and thinner. His hair was darker, too, but silver threads shone in his brown curls, catching the sun. He was older than Merry, that was clear, but his face was neither old nor young and his eyes were quiet and attentive. A half smile curled the corner of his mouth when he met my eyes, and I looked down to where his shirt was open at the throat, revealing a delicate silver chain that hung around his neck. I glanced at his hand then, and saw that his right hand was bandaged.
I felt the blood drain out of my face, and the ground seemed to rock beneath my feet. If I could have vanished on the instant by my own power, I would have done so.
This was Frodo Baggins, This was the Ringbearer, offering me his help, and my answer was ingratitude and incivility.
"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I thought you were Merry..."
"That explains everything, of course." The faint smile deepened to a grin. "Catch him in the right mood, and my cousin can be a real plague."
"Oh no," I said hastily, "not to me. On the contrary, he is clever and friendly. I like him very much."
He peered up at me, then nodded slightly. "You must be Noerwen . "Merry and Pippin both spoke of you, and Merry described you to me – and he described you in glowing colors, I might add."
"Really?" At the thought of Merry's strength and joy, his rollicking humour, my heart rose a little, in spite of everything. "That is one dangerous guy. I'll wager he stirs up plenty of trouble amont the lasses when he's at home."
He grinned again. "I can't speak for the Shire, but I've heard some stories from Buckland that are quite unsuitable for a lady's ears."
"Then you must tell me," I said at once, and we looked in each other's faces and began to laugh. And all the while some part of me stood to one side, hardly believing that this was happening to me. Stunned amazement for this precious moment had driven sorrow and fear out of my heart. Frodo. Frodo Baggins of the Shire! It was simply unbelievable that he was standing before me, solid and real and laughing.
Now I had the chance to look at him closely, I could see that he was really too thin, especially for a hobbit. And age was marked more explicitly in his face than I had thought at first. When he smiled, crowsfeet appeared by his eyes, and there were deep lines from his nose down to the corners of his mouth.
"Do I have dirt on my face?" he asked suddenly. "For you keep staring at me, as if I must have."
I felt myself blushing.
"I beg your pardon," I stammered. "I'm afraid that examining people is an occupational disease, Perhaps Merry told you that I work in the Houses of Healing."
He sighed. "Yes, he did – but please don't ask me how I am! Everyone does, constantly, and if it were up to my dear Sam Gamgee, I would spend my days packed into a chair wrapped in enough blankets to make me look like a cocoon." He glanced at me sideways in humorous resignation. "Would you do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Just sit down with me a little while, and if you want to carry your kindness to extremes, tell me first where I might find something to eat. My appetite still isn't what it used to be, but I think I've missed elevenses and lunch both, and I'm getting hungry."
I smiled at him. "I'll fetch you something. I have good connections in the refectory of the Houses. If I remember correctly, the cook made meat pastries and nutcake this morning; does that sound good?"
"More than good," he said, grinning. "I've heard about those meat pastries from Pippin. He's raided the refectory more than once already, and I expect he'll be banned from the kitchens before much longer."
"I'll be right back," I said.
vvvvv
When I asked about Pippin, the cook laughed.
"Such a nice little fellow, and always so hungry!" She admitted she had gotten in the habit lately of baking an extra tray of the pastries so highly appreciated by the hobbits. And when she understood that the Ringbearer was sitting outside in the garden hoping for a snack, she didn't stop with a simple tray. I carried away a big willow basket full of meat pastries wrapped in paper, fresh nutcake and small apple pies, nicely glazed with sugar icing. Besides that she put in fresh dark bread and creamy butter in a clay pot, a large piece of cheese, and a crock of jam. And somehow in the crevices that were left she wedged a bottle of wine and a jar of chilled beer, with a couple of mugs. By the time I had lugged the laden basket up the stairs and out to the garden, my arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets.
Frodo was leaning on the wall, looking out over the Pelennor. I dropped the basket with a thump, caught the beer jar before it tipped over, and collapsed on the grass. He turned around with a smile, and I gazed up at him almost in awe; the afternoon sun surrounded his head with a corona, shining and golden like the gloriole in a Byzantine painting.
"Now then, Frodo Baggins," I said breathlessly, "the cook is clearly concerned that you need feeding up."
His eyes twinkled. "She may be right at that."
The Ringbearer sat down across from me, stretching his legs out comfortably on the cropped grass and inspecting the contents of the basket. The next quarter hour was very quiet, as he enjoyed the pastries with a blissful expression. Neither did he despise the beer, and afterwards he moved on to bread and cheese and jam. Only then did he notice that I had eaten nearly nothing.
"Have some nutcake while there's still any left," he said.
He uncorked the wine carefully and filled one of the mugs. He handed it to me, and I drank obediently. The wine was white, cool and faintly spicy, strange and wonderful at the same time. I bit into the cake, and he watched me pensively.
He must wonder why I was drooping against the wall like a portrait of lost love – before I nearly bit his head off. But whatever he was thinking, he said nothing; he only watched as I sipped my wine and slowly finished my meal.
Finally I emptied the mug with a single gulp and looked back at him.
"I had an argument before, with someone I care for very much," I said. Frodo deserved some explanation for my rudeness. "I had kept a secret from him for a long time, and today I told him. He didn't take it very well."
"You didn't part in friendship?"
"No, not in friendship, let alone in love." Suddenly my eyes were burning.
"Oh." He poured himself some wine, and I wondered if he really understood what I was talking about. He had lived alone all his life, and when he sailed to the Undying Lands a little more than two years from now, he would not leave behind any family of his own.
"Sometimes you have to be silent," he said thoughtfully, "not to hurt the ones you love. The truth is a sharp sword. It can cause terrible wounds."
I looked at him in amazement; it was as if he had read my thoughts.
"How…?" I stopped when our eyes met. For one small moment I saw behind that calm face, and he didn't move, but then he looked away as if I had caught him out. "Is it hard for you to be silent?" I asked finally.
"Well…" The corners of his mouth rose in that half smile that I already recognized. "Probably easier than to speak, at least with those I love."
I waited.
"They are so concerned, all of them," he said suddenly, and now the lines of exhaustion were clearly to be seen. "If I have a bad night, if my shoulder aches, or my neck – I try to hide it, if only to keep them from constantly asking me how I am. But I know they're watching me, every step I take, every word I say; if I eat a lot, or little, or nothing."
He looked down at the remnants of the cook's picnic, which made a still life on the lawn before us. "To be honest, this was the first time in weeks that I've been really hungry," he confessed.
I took the bottle and filled his mug before I served myself. I could feel the wine slowly going to my head… I was not drunk, certainly, but it was as if we sat inside an iridescent bubble, Frodo Baggins and I. His amazing frankness with me, a stranger… the fact that no one came to disturb us, even though the gardens normally were rather crowded at this time of the day… it all seemed as unreal as a dream.
"Do you dream sometimes?" he asked, and once more it was as if he had read my mind. "And do you remember your dreams?"
"Rarely," I said. "Except the dream I had last night – that one I remember."
"Tell me." He looked at me intently. "Tell me yours, and I will tell you mine."
"I dreamed of a gate," I said. "And I stood on the wrong side of it. I was outside, and I wanted to get in, but I couldn't, not anymore. I screamed and beat against the gate, but no one heard me."
"And I…" He bowed his head for a moment, but then he looked up and met my eyes. "I rode my pony into Hobbiton and around the hill, the hill with Bag End, my home."
I nodded.
"It was spring in the dream, and all the trees were blooming… I rode up the path to the garden gate." His voice was very soft now and I had to lean forward to hear him. "I dismounted and tied the pony, and I went through the garden to the door. The door of Bag End is round and green, and it was opened just a crack. And just as I was about to enter, a hobbit came out, and it was someone I had never seen before. He stared at me, and I realized he didn't know me any more than I knew him."
He drank, and I poured the rest of the wine into his mug. Now he didn't look at me anymore; his eyes followed the images in his mind. "I said, 'Who lives here?' And he stared at me as if I were mad. 'Well, me,' he said. 'Me and my family.' – 'But didn't this smial belong to Bilbo Baggins once, and then to Frodo Baggins?' I asked. He thought for a while, and then his face lit up as if he had remembered. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'But that was a long time ago, mister. That was more than a hundred years ago.' And then I woke up."
He looked down, picking at the grass absently with his good hand, the one that was not bandaged. For a long time neither of us spoke, and I looked at him with sorrow as the shadows grew longer around us and the sunlight turned the color of molten copper.
"I'm homesick," he said at last, and I could hear the pain in his voice. "All I want is to get back to the Shire and pick up the threads of my life. I'm longing for my old familiar paths, the smell of the books in my study, the clattering of Sam's clippers in the garden… the sound of rain on the grassy roof, and the scent of the honeysuckle that hangs down over my bedroom window…" He sighed. "I want to go home."
"I know." I closed my eyes. Never had my knowledge burdened my heart so heavily. I knew he would never again be truly at home in the Shire. I knew how his shoulder would pain him, and the scar on the back of his neck, which he had not shown me. I knew even the very dates when his soul would wander in the mist, forlorn, yearning. I saw his way before me, a way that led out of the dreadful quest of the Ring and into the agonizing realization that of them all, he in the end would be the only one left with empty hands. The Ringbearer, who was most worthy of reward…
And then a sunbeam fell between us, and the silver chain lying against his chest flashed.
"What is that around your neck?"
He started, as if my question had called him back from a long way off, but then he slipped the chain over his head and handed it to me… a glittering rivulet of silver trickling into my palm, and at its end a great white jewel. The setting was crafted like a net of woven flowers, unbelievably delicate, and when the sun caught it the gem blazed between my fingers like a star fallen out of heaven.
"It is beautiful," I said in awe.
"A gift from the Queen," he said. When I gave it back to him, the jewel caught the light for a second time and sprayed a shower of rainbow sparks over our hands and faces. I felt a comforting warmth lingering where it had touched my skin.
"I can only speak for myself," I said finally, "but if I have learned one thing since I have been here, it is this: comfort and hope are often to be found where you do not expect them. This afternoon I have found both, and I want to thank you for that."
He looked at me in surprise, and then he smiled. He had a beautiful smile; it changed his face in an instant from shadow to sunshine, and this time the light came not from the wondrous Elven jewel but from somewhere deep inside himself.
"And I would thank you also. Farewell, Noerwen." He got up and bowed before he turned toward the gate, and I stood watching him until he vanished behind the hedge. A strange mix of joy and sadness filled my heart, and suddenly I recalled the words of Arwen when she gave him the gem.
But in my stead you shall go, Ringbearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed.
„Farewell, Frodo Baggins." I said softly. „Namarië, Iorhael."
******
I collected the mugs and plates and cutlery into the basket, and went back to the house. I would not be on duty any more this day, but the evening stretched empty before me, and I would be alone. Perhaps I could lie down for a few hours and then offer to take over the night shift for someone else.
I passed down the long corridors to my room. Usually during the day Ioreth made sure that someone made my bed and dusted, and she never forgot to put a vase of fresh flowers on my desk. This afternoon it was a little blue jug of tea roses, and their sweet fragrance came to meet me as I opened the door. Beside the lush bouquet of yellow flowers was a plate of small cakes.
And then I saw that the room was not empty after all. Someone sat beside the desk, and as I closed the door behind me, he rose to his feet.
It was Damrod.