Deliverance
It was the scents of the evergreen groves of Valinor that first told her that the quest of the Ring-bearer had been fulfilled. She stood amid the tall, upright boughs of her mallorn trees and breathed in the cleansing, invigorating breeze of the Blessed Realm, the fragrance of her long lost home, with tears coursing down her face.
She closed her eyes and turned her face toward the sky, feeling her awareness unfurling like petals of flowers, expanding and soaring beyond the confines of Caras Galadhon, sharp yet delicate, sensing each needle of sunlight that penetrated the golden, closely-woven roof of her gardens. She felt a sudden isolation from all that surrounded her, as though an all-encompassing power had gently disengaged her from her body, lifting her away from the land of her exile, hallowing her for deliverance. Her mind was awash with visions of intense clarity that there was no mistaking the message told by what she saw.
She would see Celebrian again and find her healed and joyful.
Finrod, her brother, would be there in the harbor to greet her and the first words he whispered as he embraced her were: "My little golden bird, my little golden bird, it has been a long wait."
Her father would bid her to stand when she knelt before him. He would kiss her on the forehead and place his hand on her hair the way he blessed her when she decided not to heed Manwè's edict, forsaking the land of her birth and her people, choosing instead to brave the ice bridge of Helcaraxe.
The sea. It would stand between her and her love. Celeborn would desire to stay.
She shook under the weight of her sorrow, her mind reaching out to find Celeborn, seeking refuge in the reassuring convergence of her music and his, when suddenly she was aware of another change.
For days her dreams had been riddled with images of a harsh land of stone and ash under a black sky. She felt suffused with a great sense of weariness that refused to dissipate even after a long sleep. Even in the sanctuary of her gardens she sometimes felt the air filled with hot ash and suffocating smoke. But what alarmed her the most was the glimpses of two battling wills, one becoming infinitely stronger, the other—once brilliant and steel-hard—now falling apart. She knew she had witnessed the suffering of the Ring-bearer and her heart was filled with dismay.
Twelve days previously she suddenly felt a great tide of terror, followed by a violent, blinding pain that drove Celeborn to hasten to her aid, abandoning his council with the border captains of Lorièn. The pain subsided presently, replaced by a cold, forlorn thought: The Ring is taken, this is the end of everything. She had taken Nenya off her finger then.
Now she slipped the ring on again and felt its power pervading her, magnifying the strength and reach of her mind. Still she was troubled by the complete disappearance of all the sensations she had felt since the Ring-bearer left Lothlorièn. She poured all her might, weaving the forces of Nenya and the power born of the long ages she spent in defiance of the shadows, into sending strengthening, healing thoughts along the tenuous bond that linked the minds of the ring-bearers.
Then, faint and erratic, so muted she nearly missed it, glimpses of the Ring-bearer's mind drifted into her consciousness.
She saw a green land bordered by trees; gentle hills that raced into the curtains of mist in the horizon; curls of smoke coming out of brick chimneys protruding from the grass-clad slopes; flowers rioting in an obviously well-tended garden; a green round door. She sensed loss and sadness, but they were submerged under a far stronger resignation and surrender. Then she heard the Ring-bearer speak, and this time the voice of his mind was clear and steady, no longer garbled and drowned in the dissonant whispers of the Ring.
I wish you could go home, Sam, and see the Shire again. I cannot anymore. But it would ease my heart if you could. Still, I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things.
Tears glimmering in her eyes, she reached out and wrapped all her power around the flickering, diminishing light of Frodo Baggins, striving to shelter it, even as she knew that all her efforts would come to naught, praying that the eagles espied hurtling from the north a few nights ago would arrive in time to rescue the hobbits out of Mordor.
Glorfindel was singing. The Hall of Fire was deserted, and the elf was standing by the window, pouring the liquid, golden notes of an ancient song into the air. It had been raining since dawn, but the drizzle had presently stopped and the sun had reappeared from behind the clouds. Rainbows arched over the rooftops and the trees wore strings of diamonds where the sun kissed the raindrops dappling their leaves. The birds should have come out of their nests now that the outpouring had ceased, but all appeared stilled, watchful, listening. Even the music of the waterfalls seemed subdued; a low, pleasant undertone to the elf's powerful voice.
The Lord of Imladris came to stand beside the High Elf and watched the land he cherished spread in all directions, thinking how, even in times of turmoil, there could be such artless beauty to beguile him from the fear that daily grew in his mind. He thought of how long he could preserve this loveliness, how long the defenses of Rivendell would hold against the tide of darkness should it be unleashed, should the remnants of their hopes founder.
Both his sons had spoken to him in the early hours of morning, before they started the last leg of the march to Morannon, and he basked in the glow of their resolve and daring. Now he stared at the crystalline droplets that fell from the drooping tips of the beech leaves outside the window, and wondered whether he would be able to sense it when his sons were slain. How would he know it? Would their distinctive notes in his music suddenly falter and fade away? Would he be able to feel their pain? He glanced at the Eldar beside him: one who had seen the face of death, one who knew the silent Halls of Mandos. He was surprised to see tears glittering in Glorfindel's eyes and the glow of joy in his beautiful face.
The last notes of the song of the High Elves vanished and Glorfindel turned to look at his silent companion. "This is the hour of doom," he said, his voice soft and solemn. "This is the moment when all paths meet and the designs of the Valar are revealed. We have taken a great risk but now the shadow is overthrown, and there shall be peace at last."
Glorfindel reached and placed cool fingers on Elrond's temple as he began to sing another song, a softer one, not the song of profound joy and sincere praises that he previously sang. This was a song to calm, a song to ease a heart distraught.
Elrond felt a powerful sense of peace saturating his thoughts, relieving it of all the knots of fear and doubt. A surge of memories burst in his mind, countless shades and tones, He saw Celebrian, sculpted beauty and perfect grace, whirling before him and laughing as they danced on the day of their wedding. He saw Celebrian riding with Elladan on her white horse, her arms draped lovingly around her son. He saw Celebrian teaching Elrohir to play the harp; her fingers, ivory white and nimble, holding the little one's dimpled hands, guiding them. He saw Celebrian's face, radiant as she cradled Undomiel in her arms, and remembered thinking that his home was blessed with the silver moon and the frosty stars. It was then he knew that he had been granted the gift to see her again, to meet his beloved again, and renew the song that the orc blade had torn.
When he opened his eyes, he felt a power such as he had never felt before, as though the song had strengthened him, filling him with vigor and might, preparing him for a purpose. He stared at Glorfindel and asked, "For what am I given this blessing?"
The Eldar did not answer and looked outward instead. Elrond followed his gaze and his elven eyes descried a small figure standing alone in one of the lower terraces.
"Does the perian know?" he asked Glorfindel.
"He will wish to know," came the reply.
Elrond raised his hand, letting Vilya fill with the rays of the sun, feeling his consciousness opening, expanding, questing, probing. Mithrandir's despair, tinged with guilt, seeped into his mind, mingled with the softer-toned grief of Galadriel, but he knew there was little he could do for them. Their minds had already retreated into the path they had taken for myriad reasons during the long ages of their exile in Middle-earth: the mourner's walk. Elrond knew they would emerge from that path with their souls stronger and wiser, as he himself had so often experienced. But he also discerned something within this overwhelming sorrow, another current held in the waves of Mithrandir's and Galadriel's minds. It was no more than weak eddies of a rapidly drowning consciousness, but something told Elrond that he had to grasp that withering light and do all in his power to save it. Even as he wondered what to do, the glow fluttered and dimmed.
Bending his will and mind to pursue those glimpses of dying fire, Elrond suddenly found himself in an endless bare plain under a sky of haze He could see a lone figure with him in that barren, bleak desert; a small, bent, naked figure. It was Frodo.
The hobbit's skin was a scene of devastation, an appalling patchwork of burn marks, bruises and bleeding cuts, draped over the sharp angles of fleshless bones. His hair, the raven curls on his head and the downy fur on his feet, was horribly singed. Nothing remained of his dignified and confident stance, he stooped now, hunched, and still, very still.
So this is what becomes of a spirit that dares to defy the One Ring: scorched by Its might, flayed by Its malice, and ripped by Its fury. But what power do I have to heal so deep a wound to the soul? Even if I can stop the bleeding of his will, what chance has he to return to his life of old, with nothing but scars where his heart was?
The elf gasped in horror when he was finally near enough to see the hobbit more closely. The Ring-bearer's eyes spoke most eloquently of the price he had to pay for challenging the heart of the Dark Lord's power. Once, a mere few months ago, those eyes could glow with joy or laugh with mischief; they could capture and hold and daunt, they could soothe and comfort. Once the hobbit's eyes reminded Elrond of the water of Bruinen, at times mild and playful, only to suddenly turn icy cold and darkly powerful, a calm surface that belied a swift undercurrent. But now there was nothing in those eyes but a silent, endless void.
Like the eyes of the dead.
Like Celebrian's eyes.
Elrond felt his mind sway under the memory of grief, but he was not allowed to waver. The courage-kindling sparks of Narya and the consoling glow of Nenya were immediately around him. Remember Celebrian without guilt and grief, they spoke to him, but let the memory guide you to aid the perian.
Is this then the meaning of my failure to heal her, something that I gain from losing her?
There was a song that he used to sing to Celebrian whenever the memory of her captivity distressed her. Letting its delicate sweetness swathe the Ring-bearer's battered spirit, the elf slowly lowered himself to the ground so that the hobbit could look him in the eyes. "Frodo," he called, keeping his voice soft and low, wondering if Frodo could still recognize it.
If the hobbit heard the call, there was no sign of it in his lifeless eyes. The elf repeated his greeting, this time reaching out to lightly touch the hobbit's bare shoulder. His skin was cold and coarse with sand and ash, the scar from the morgul blade standing out pale and puckered under the grime. Elrond let his hand linger on the hobbit's shoulder, pouring all his knowledge of easing pain and giving strength into that touch. But the hobbit was a vast abyss of emptiness that swallowed all the light and warmth that Elrond could offer and remained an icy maw of shadows.
The elf shivered as he moved his hands to cup the hobbit's sunken cheeks. He sensed pain and the recognition jolted him to the remote past.
Elendil's face was contorted by pain, white under the blood; his eyes wide with terror. But when death descended upon him, touching him, releasing him, there was a look of relief and peace in his face. Even the emptiness in his eyes was a welcome sight.
The hobbit closed his eyes.
"I envy Men their gift," whispered Celebrian. "When they can no longer bear their pain, they die and leave the hurt behind."
Tears welled on the Ring-bearer's eyes and ran in twin rills on his parched and dusty skin.
"Where the knife of darkness had cut, there is now a mark that stains my spirit," Celebrian said, stroking Elladan's bent head. "The light of my soul may shine as bright, but the gloom will stay and remind me of the ordeal. It will forever be a shadow that dims not only my world, but yours, my dearest." She reached and wiped the tears that glimmered on Elrohir's cheek. "I must seek to restore the wholeness of my spirit. While this may cause you pain, I hope you will find solace in the thought that I shall be healed and whole in the Blessed Realm." She kissed Undomiel softly. "I shall be waiting for you."
"How long do I have to wait?" asked the hobbit hoarsely, opening his eyes.
Elrond found himself staring at a sea of pain in the hobbit's face.
"How far is there to go?" the hobbit asked again, his voice fainter.
"Where do you wish to go, my friend?"
"Death," answered the hobbit. The succinct finality of his word made Elrond shiver.
Elrond fought hard to keep his mind from swaying from horror and pity. "It is not in the design of the Valar that you die now," he said softly, gathering the hobbit's hands in his. "You have done a great deed, and you shall see the fruit of your labor before you come home."
The hobbit's eyes flashed with a raw and poignant longing at the mention of home.
"Do you not wish to see the land of your birth again? Do you not desire to return to your home and meet again the ones dear to your heart?" inquired Elrond
The hobbit trembled as he peered questioningly at the elf. "I have no one to come home to…" he stammered. "My friends… I have led my friends…to death…" The last words were drowned in tears as he sagged despairingly to the ground and gave way to his grief, hiding his face in his hands as he wept brokenly.
Elrond gathered the hobbit into his arms, stroking the dirt-smeared face and whispering, "Your friends are spared. By the grace of the Valar they have been given the chance to witness the downfall of darkness and live in this new world of peace that you helped create. They await you now, doubtless with a remarkable tale to tell."
"Sam?" the hobbit whispered, disbelief and wonder warring in his eyes.
Elrond nodded.
"Merry?" urged the Ring-bearer desperately. "And Pippin?"
To each question Elrond gave an emphatic nod, before adding, "And there is an old hobbit who is anxious to hear from you."
A burst of naked emotion, soft and vulnerable, flared unguarded in the hobbit's face. "Bilbo," he murmured, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"Will you return for him?" asked Elrond carefully.
The hobbit looked wistfully around him. "I want to go home," he said. "But it is a long way to travel and I am weary."
"Then rest here now," Elrond offered, feeling a welcome ease in his strained mind. "It is safe; all the lands are safe now."
It was with very little effort that he surrounded the hobbit with the memories he once glimpsed in Bilbo's mind: a meadow, carpeted in wild blossoms and edged with a thick copse; a scattering of trees in their new coats of green; a thin silver thread of water in the distance.
The hobbit looked around in silence.
"Bilbo said you used to visit this place in early summer," said Elrond.
The hobbit nodded. "We waited to meet the elves here," he spoke softly. "This is where Bilbo taught me the names of the stars." Then he slowly lay down on the grass and closed his eyes.
Elrond sat beside the hobbit, watching the tension in his muscles slacken and listening to the deepening and slowing down of his breathing.
He is resting now, Mithrandir. Tell Aragorn that he can move Frodo now to better tend to him. I will stay here and help him to remain asleep until he is strong enough to wake.
Elrond felt a touch that was distinctly Elladan and Elrohir, a glow of gratitude and relief that gave him comfort. He opened his eyes and saw that it was dark outside. He was alone in the Hall of Fire. Glorfindel had left.
His eyes found their way to the terrace where he saw Bilbo hours before. Under the light of the lanterns the hobbit was sitting on a stone bench with an open book on his lap. Beside him sat Undomiel, her dark hair hiding her face as she leaned to listen to the hobbit.
He had long known that Elladan and Elrohir were most content in the company of Men, always finding fulfillment in succouring those who were in need of comfort and safety. But it was the blinding glow of happiness in Undomiel's spirit that told Elrond with a chilling clarity, that it was neither the malice of the Dark Lord nor the hurt of a long struggle, but love and the healing sea that would sunder him from the music of his children.
-fin-