October 29, Third Age 3019
I revisit The Prancing Pony and fall asleep again
Gandalf, Merry, Pippin, Sam, and I returned to Bree and have been staying at the Prancing Pony inn since yesterday. The place awakens memories in a most peculiar way: Mr. Butterbur's agreeable chatter, the friendly warmth of the atmosphere, the easy welcome of the company; talking of Elessar the King as Strider, the weathered, darkly mysterious Ranger sitting in the shadows in the corner of the common room (and Butterbur's unawareness that he was anything else); Sam's overjoyed reunion with his dear once-companion Bill; the questions about my 'book' on hobbits living outside the Shire that I invented out of desperation, as I thought I knew desperation more than a year ago. Perhaps returning here feels so strange because it was the last bit of civilization I saw before taking the wound of the Morgul knife at Weathertop. This inn stirs recollections of a time before I knew pain, a time that now seems so remote that it might as well have been another life, and another hobbit who lived it. How could I know, when last I saw this place – naïve, careless, and unworldly hobbit that I was – what dark paths my journey would lead me along? And had I known, how could I have imagined that I would return to look back wistfully on my lost naïveté? It has been so long since I last tasted something so homey as the beer brewed here in the Northwest, near my own country. It tastes to me sweeter than the miruvor of Imladris, yet at the same time more bitter than the foulest draught brewed by orc, for I can never taste it with the same uncomplicated satisfaction that I once knew; there will always be the conscious thought in my mind that such simple pleasures are truly miraculous, and thus they will never be simple again.
Like the piercing, crystalline beauty of Rivendell, the familiar, earthy comfort of this place is like an entirely different world from the hell I lived in Mordor – surely they cannot exist in the same reality; surely one or the other must be a dream. And it must be the one in which there is no pain. I am falling back into the cradle of sleep, returning to my pleasantly lethargic dream, but taking with me the shreds of my harshly vivid waking hours: the bright armor and shields of Gondor and Rohan that two of my companions bear, mighty, warlike, and terribly incongruous in this relaxed and peaceful setting; the finger gone from the hand curled around my ale mug; the ghostly ache in my left shoulder; the ever-present memories of thirst and darkness and unending weariness; the surreal feeling itself.
And yet, I must remind myself, not all that I found in the waking world was cruel and painful. It grieved me to part with Aragorn, and Legolas and Gimli as well, for they were all true companions; I was sorry when the Lady Galadriel had to leave us sometime in September – a parting which made clearer to me that I was slipping back into a smaller, humbler world – for her grace and wisdom and beauty are surpassed by none. I am sorry that I will likely never see Lothlórien again, or ever in the golden spring whose praises Legolas sang so ardently; Rivendell, too, with its something of everything but the Sea, I will miss. But still, the Prancing Pony is a comforting dream to return to – especially because, as it is so close to the Shire, and so much like the Shire in its congenial familiarity, being here makes my own home feel, at last, to be within reach. For much of the Quest, the Shire was the foothold meant for other feet than mine, the one place that would remain safe no matter what dangers I wandered into, and returning there was the distant hope I clung to; as I neared Mordor, the Shire became to me little more than a bittersweet fond memory and an ideal of what was to be saved with the defeat of the Enemy; in the heart of Mordor, it was a half-forgotten whisper in my mind, fading with every step; and after the War, though I knew I would soon be on my way home, I still only half believed that such a wondrous thing might be true. Now, it truly becomes clear to me that I am going home, because I can see it here; and the people will be just as silly and provincial and self-important as they are here, and their hearts will be as warm and simple, and I will know, having seen what I have seen, that it is a dream, but Eru knows I will be smiling in my sleep.
Author's Note: Poor Frodo – doomed to be disappointed.
Hurrah! Next one's already written! And the one after that, and the one after that… So how is it that I've gotten my act together so quickly after four months of stalling? Well, it probably has something to do with the fact that The Return of the King is coming out in theaters a week from now and has rekindled my obsession – and made me truly anxious about the changes that the filmmakers made! As in what did they screw up this year? And what's all this about Frodo telling Sam to go home…? No, can't think about it, too painful. Ah, well, I'm sure it will still be epic and powerful and beautiful, and I will still be in tears at the end.
Thank you, all you steady readers who are still coming back to review! All the waiting has not been in vain (I hope)!