Chapter 4: Beneath The Sun

Never again would they set eyes upon Lothlórien.

The days they had spent walking the white paths beneath the glorious golden boughs of the mallorn trees were gone, the nights spent sweetly under the starlit skies that seemed somehow closer, nearer to the touch than any skies beyond the grace of that Elven land were past. All of it was behind them now and would belong to them again only in their dearest, deepest dreams. They left the Golden Wood. It had seemed to them as they dipped their paddles into the water and drove their boats into the stream that Lórien was slipping away, like a bright ship masted with enchanted trees sailing on to forgotten shores, while they sat helpless upon the margin of the grey and leafless world. Even as they strained to catch the last glimpse of the haven the Silverlode passed out into the currents of the Great River and their boats turned and began to slip southward. The River swept round a bend and the banks rose up on either side, and the light of Lórien was hidden. The travellers turned now their faces to the journey; the Sun was before them, and their eyes were dazzled, for all were filled with tears. Despite the ache of their departure, each had vowed within their hearts to continue on and see the quest to its end, but none left that fair shore without regrets, without a backward glance at the joy they left behind.

That had been nearly two days ago and the dull grey hours had since passed without event. The stream flowed with a constant rush and few bird voices and animals interrupted the stillness. Bare woods lined both banks, and they could see naught of the lands beyond. It was as if the outside world did not exist, that in stepping from the dream that was Lothlórien they lingered still in a maddening half-sleep. At first they strove with song and speech to keep the fair enchantment of the land they left behind alive in their hearts and in their minds, but it was gone now, and they were wakening from the peace they had found to face the uncertainty of the path that lay ahead.

Lord Celeborn gave to them the gift of light boats and in these they travelled, Frodo and Sam with Aragorn, Merry and Pippin with Boromir, and Gimli with Legolas. They crouched within the subtle canoes and let the current sweep them along as leaves tossed and taken by the stream.

During the first day, the forest rose up from the banks of the River still and they were surrounded by the tall, grey trees, standing as sentinels to shield them from unfriendly eyes as they passed. Now they journeyed further on and the trees began to grow sparser and more ragged, the land less secure. The forest was gradually giving way to what would become The Wold, a bleak and barren countryside through which the Anduin meandered listlessly, biding its time ere the roar and the rush took it over the heights of Rauros and off to find the sea.

Frodo watched the failing trees slide silently past them on either shore and sighed. Sam was asleep, curled up tightly upon the floor of the boat. Aragorn had not spoken for some time and his eyes were distant. Frodo noticed that the Ranger's hand hovered oft at the emerald brooch at his throat and the hobbit did not wish to intrude upon his reflections. The Company had been quiet for much of their journey upon the water this day; all attempts at conversation were in vain, for most of them were dreaming or lost in thought.

Frodo found the silence hard to bear. He was restless; he wished to be doing anything but haplessly sitting, waiting for the River to deliver him to his fate. The boats given to them by the Galadhrim rode upon the water smoother than any other, and yet this afternoon he felt every ripple roll beneath him and his stomach protested another day spent bobbing upon the current rather than walking upon dry land. Miserably, he wondered which would conquer him first, the pangs in his stomach or the pangs in his heart. He felt the loss of Lórien almost as deeply as any longing he felt in quiet times for the Shire; it was as if he were leaving home all over again, only this time he knew he would never be back.

His lips were dry from the wind and the sun beating down upon him; he rummaged through his pack at his feet for his water flask. He came up instead with the phial given to him by Galadriel and he lifted it to his eye. The light sparkled within and Frodo tipped it gently in his hands, watching the clear water inside flow and swirl against the crystal glass.

He stared long within its depth until the shimmering light made him blink. He listened to the gurgle of the River as it lapped at the tree-roots and the driftwood upon the shore. He murmured:

Sing us yet more of Eärendil the wandering,
Chant us a lay of his white-oared ship.
More marvellous-cunning than mortal Man's pondering,
Foamily musical out of the deep.*

From over his shoulder came an answering voice, flowing so smoothly that he thought it at first to simply be the words inside his head.

Sing us a tale of immortal sea-yearning
The Eldar once made ere the change of the light,
Weaving a winelike spell, and a burning
Wonder of spray and the odours of night.

Frodo turned to find Legolas guiding his boat steadily near theirs. Gimli lay asleep before him, his back resting against the curve of the bow with his strong arms crossed over his stout chest. His cloak was wrapped about him and his breathing was lusty as he slumbered in the Sun's rays.

The Elf brought his gaze from the phial to the hobbit's face.

"'Tis a priceless gift, Frodo," said Legolas. "You hold the very light of the stars within your hands." He stayed the sweeping strokes of his paddle and he propped an elbow on his knee, his chin upon his hand. "Tell me... does it help to look upon it? Gimli grieves that Lórien will become nothing more than a memory for him, though I admit I do not understand mortal dreams, nor the nature of your memories and why this should make him so sad. Yet I see the same sorrow in your eyes. Is it even thus for you?" Legolas's brow furrowed and he asked tentatively, "Are mortal memories so fragile? Are they so fleeting that you would forget even such as Lórien?"

Frodo smiled inwardly at the quizzical expression upon the Elf's fair face, and he was pleased to have someone willing to talk to him. He nodded.

"Yes. I suppose we will forget, Legolas. In time, Lórien will be nothing more to us than a recollection of light upon leaves, snatches of words and vague faces. It will not happen all at once, for something as marvelous as Lórien is not an easy thing to forget, but it will happen. We live so short a space in Middle-earth, Legolas, compared to your people, and I think maybe we are worn by the passing of time as a hill is worn away by the wind and the rain, whereas the Elves are like mountains and time tears at you much more slowly. Or so it seems to me." Frodo dissembled a little. He had pondered the essence of the Elves with Bilbo many times as they sat about the fireplace at Bag End, but it was quite another thing to be discussing the matter personally with one of the Firstborn. Legolas seemed not offended, and so Frodo continued:

"In your mind, people and places live on for so much longer because time does not take them from you," Frodo told him. "For us, even those things we hold most dearly in our hearts fade all too soon. I cannot now recall the sound of my father's voice or my mother's hands, though I thought once that I would always remember them."

Legolas was silent. He lowered his head for a moment to stare at the water, his strange eyes thoughtful, and then he looked again to the hobbit. "Forgive my ignorance, Frodo," he said finally. "I have been told such things and I know that change and growth is not in all people and places alike, but this... I cannot guess what it must be like for those of you whom the running years o'ertake so easily. I find continually, to my shame, that I know so little about you. Only as I travel with you all do I begin to understand what it must mean to be mortal."

Frodo laughed at the sympathetic tone of the Elf's voice. "It is not so bad, Legolas! It all depends upon one's perspective. I find it impossible to fathom how Elves can live thousands of years without becoming wretchedly bored by all that goes on around them."

Their conversation was interrupted by a particularly loud snore emanating from Gimli. The Elf cast a fond, withering look at the Dwarf sleeping before him. "Always there are unexpected surprises," said Legolas.

The hobbit held up the phial and let the sunlight sparkle through the glass, casting rainbows over his arms and face. "I only hope that such - unexpected surprises - do not prove more than we can handle in the coming days." Frodo bit his lip and lowered his voice. "Legolas... Does the creature follow us still?

Aragorn roused himself at this and exchanged a knowing look with the Elf, then addressed Frodo. "Ah! So you know about our little footpad, do you? He slunk after us all through Moria and right down to Nimrodel. Gandalf knew. Legolas and I have tried once or twice to catch him, but he is slyer than a fox and slippery as a fish. I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since we left the Golden Wood."

"Nor have I," murmured Legolas, "though I fear he is not so easily left behind. But we have not been unaware of him; were it so, you would have done well to leave us back in Rivendell! Foxes and fishes and fiendish little tag-alongs had best be wary. I promise to keep a sharp eye out for your shadow."

"Aragorn!" Boromir called from far up ahead. He and the younger hobbits had kept their boat at the forefront, skimming down the River at the lead. If Frodo was restless, he dreaded the decision that waited for him and he had no desire to hasten towards new perils, whatever course they took in the end. Boromir, however, was the first to wake when the Sun graced the sky and ever he pressed his vessel a little ahead of them, and each night he was the last to accept Aragorn's proposals to stop and camp. Now once more they had fallen behind the pace set by the son of Denethor and he beckoned for them to close the gap.

Aragorn stretched stiffly and buried a yawn with the back of his hand, then reached for his oar. Frodo tucked away the phial once more, carefully padding it amongst his shirts in his pack. As Aragorn dipped the paddle into the flowing River, the Ranger sang with a clear voice:

Who now can tell, and what harp can accompany
With melodies strange enough, rich enough tunes,
Pale with the magic of cavernous harmony,
Loud with shore-music of beaches and dunes,
How slender his boat; of what glimmering timber;
How her sails were all silvern and taper her mast,

And silver her throat with foam and her limber
Flanks as she swanlike floated past!

Legolas flicked his vessel forward to match Aragorn's sudden surge of speed and they raced to catch Boromir. Aragorn chuckled and tried to keep up, but the Elf's voice echoed back as he coursed easily past them.

The song I can sing is but shreds one remembers
Of golden imaginings fashioned in sleep,
A whispering tale told by the withering embers
Of old things far off that but few hearts do keep!

Frodo gripped the sides of their little boat and envied Sam his ability to sleep through almost anything. He wondered if Eärendil had ever gotten seasick.


*Excerpts from Tolkien's "The Bidding of the Minstrel from the Lay of Eärendil",The Book of Lost Tales 2, pp 270-271.