This was written because by fabulous Beta jodancingtree thought that the first epilogue wasn't enough to explain what happened to my heroine. This second epilogue is for her.
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Epilogue 2
A dream of Spring
December 2003, shortly before christmas
The first snow of the season has fallen; the wheels of cars driving past the hospice have a muffled sound, and the steady scratching of the janitor's snow shovel on the icy pavement follows the monk as he climbs the stairs to the mansard.
He takes the key to the apartment from the pocket of his robe. Sabrina Steinenberg's former apartment is well-aired, the furniture polished; it is as if the resident had left only recently, for a short journey.
He switches on the reading lamp in the living room and settles into Sabrina's wing chair. The chair is one of the few heirlooms she brought from her parents' house; she told him once how her mother used to sit in it to read her bedtime fairytales.
He never told Sabrina, but he admired her greatly for her ability to let go of the past, to make such a radical change in her life. He watched her closely at first, to make sure that she could cope with such a total chjange in her circumstances... but all he saw was a human being who left behind everything that had become burdensome, devoting herself with a whole heart to a new task, a new life. As far as he could tell, she had never looked back.
Sabrina.
So much courage. So much pain; such great longing...
Not long before her disappearance, she had changed once more. He had always been aware of her yearning for that strange world he knew only from Tolkien's books and from her passionate descriptions. He understood her desire to go back, and during the two years of their friendship he has watched, torn with compassion, as she struggled to accept the fact that it was never to be.
But soon before that fateful, second evening's walk, he saw a new light in her eyes, as if something were changing her opinion. She had an air of unbelieving amazement, and several times he found her in the hospice chapel, totally silent with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes wide open as if she stood before the unexpected solution to an insoluble problem.
He had not asked her to explain; he had been confident that she would confide in him, as she ad done without fail ever since the night he found her in the church at midnight, soaking wet and desperate, at the end of her rope. But this time she did not come to him with her thoughts.
There is a shelf on the wall beside the chair, filled with Tolkien's books, all in a row. The monk takes down the collection of letters; the volume is relatively new, not so worn as the trilogy with its marks of being read and re-read over many years. The book in his hands opens of itself to a page marked with a slip of paper.
It is a letter to Mrs. Eileen Elgar, a long letter dated sometime in 1963, and deals with Frodo and his decisions at Mount Doom, about his way into the West, and there are no less than three footnotes. In the last one a few sentences are underlined lightly in pencil.
Her renunciation and suffering were related to and enmeshed with Frodo's. Both were parts of a plan for the regeneration of the state of Men. Her prayer might therefore be specially effective, and her plan have a certain equity of exchange. No doubt it was Gandalf who was the authority that accepted her plea.
The monk lets the book sink to his knees, frowning into emptiness. Then he reads the passage a second time, his lips moving soundlessly. At last he leans back with the open book in his lap; for a long time he sits motionless in the warm circle of light from the lamp. The room is silent, no sound but the soft ticking of an antique wall clock. After a while his eyes close and his breath slows. The book slips from his hands and falls unnoticed to the carpet.
Winter is over... at least in this place, where he finds himself in his dream. He is standing on the bank of a river, its water running high and fast, and flowers bloom beneath the trees: winter aconite and the last snowdrops, wild daffodils... The air is fresh and cool, scented with the new green of springtime.
He backs away from the riverbank, the damp grass soft under his bare feet. Sunlight comes through the interlacing of branches over his head, warming his face, and the new little leaves tremble slightly in the breeze. He walks a little way, and a clearing opens before him; on the other side of it stands a house. He knows he has never seen it in waking life, yet it seems familiar nonetheless.
And now he knows where he is; he knows who lives in this house. There is a sound of rustling behind him, and he steps back among the trees, his heart pounding with -- what? Excitement? Trepidation? The brown of his habit melts into the shadow of the trees.
The woman walks toward him, her red hair loose down her back, her simple gown, just the same pale green as the spring leaves, trailing over the grass. She is enveloped in a loose traveling cloak. When she comes into the clearing and sees the house, she stops abruptly, giving a soft, high cry and instantly muffling it with both hands over her mouth. She takes a few more steps, hesitating, and then Brother Anselm hears the sound of a horse approaching.
He turns in time to see the horse trot into the clearing. The rider is wrapped in a short cloak of dark blue above soft leather breeches and high boots. He dismounts in front of the garden gate and strokes the horse's neck as he guides it into a small stable to one side of the house. For a few moments he is out of sight.
The monk looks back at the woman. Her face is drained of color, but even so it seems to him more vivid than at any time during the two years he has known her. She moves slowly across the clearing toward the stable, one hand held out before her as if she felt her way in a dream. He hears the stable door opening.
The man steps out, ducking his head slightly under the low lintel, and straightens up. His hair falls in dark waves to his shoulders and his face is beautifully shaped, his eyes clear. But the monk has spent long years caring for the souls of men; he sees the marks of deep sorrow around the corners of the mouth and eyes. He knows who this is; he remembers the love and sorrow in her eyes when she spoke of him. Sorrow that mirrored the pain etched in the man's face also.
"Damrod!"
The man freezes, then looks in the direction of the stifled call. His eyes grow wide and he pales; the woman is barely three meters away, her arms stretched out toward him, her face wet with tears. Then, as if some spell of immobility has been broken, he makes four long steps to reach her.
She runs to him, her skirts caught up out of her way; they come together in front of the garden gate and he catches her in his embrace. He touches her cheek, incredulous and gentle; they kiss, and he holds her tight with both arms, as if she might get away again. And the monk watches, standing quietly in the shadows, his smile as warm as the sunlight. Patiently he waits, until at last they draw apart, their hands still clasped, gazing into one another's faces. Hand in hand they turn and walk through the gate, through the garden, to the house. The man opens the door, and closes it behind them.
Brother Anselm wakes with a start. It takes a few minutes before he understands where he is; then he leans down to pick up the book from the floor, and slides it back into its place on the shelf. He switches off the reading lamp and steps over to the window. The chaste coldness has painted the glass with ice flowers, glittering in the light of the street light outside, and fat, soft snowflakes are falling. The monk lets his eyes rest on the peaceful scene, sighing and then smiling: he still carries a warmth inside his heart that lets the impression of the wonderful spring day of his dream linger in his mind.
"For the mountains may depart and the hills be removed, but my steadfast love shall not depart from you, and my covenant of peace shall not be removed, says the Lord, who has compassion on you,"(1) he quotes softly, and the memory of what he has been allowed to see fills him with awe and deep joy, unclouded by any doubt. "Deo gratias, (2) my dear girl. Deo gratias, indeed."
He goes out on the landing and locks the apartment door behind him. Downstairs he passes the Christmas tree in the entrance hall and glances up at Sabrina's portrait with a smile. Under his breath he repeats the words of the man in his dream, when at last he took his beloved by the hand and led her into his house:
"Welcome home, Noerwen."
THE END
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(1)From the Bible (Old Testament, Isaiah 54, 10)
(2)Thank God