Frodo
'Some days, I look up at the sky, and imagine the sea, with its endless blue waves and crying gulls. I remember him.'
Sometimes, all I remember about him is his eyes. The clearest blue I had ever seen, I'd always thought it was a little like the autumn sky. The exact colour of cornflowers upon the meadows.
Well, it's a pretty good thing to think about, as far as things go, but it's also a little – sad. Because I know I ought to have a lot to remember him by, except for his eyes, but I don't. Everything has faded, a fine summer mist, and only his eyes are as clear as ever – calm, quiet, intense, and they cut into me like sunlight through fog.
I do have a lot of memories with him. We were never anything passionate, much, but we loved like the breeze or clouds upon a summer's night : that was us. We were comfortable with each other, a drowsy corner of peace even in the Shire renowned for its peacefulness. If things had been allowed to run their course, then I reckon we'd have been married by now. I used to imagine batches of young'uns running around and squealing, youngsters with his blue eyes and my dimples, or my curls and his lanky way of moving.
But things happened, and that became a future that will never come to be.
Funny, that. Our parting was as comfortable as our meeting had been. No tears, no grabbing, no screaming. He said goodbye and I let him go. Just like that. It doesn't hurt when I think of him. No, not at all. I've been told that isn't how it usually is after you let a loved one go. So now I ask myself. Did I not love him at all?
I remember. Oh, there was so much that we'd shared. Small smiles against the rolling wildflower hills by the river, the sun setting on our backs, the smell of wild heather and fresh grass tickling our noses. Fishing, walking on the river-bank and across the springy leaves of spring, Long autumn nights upon the balcony, legs thrown carelessly across each other, cups of sweet drinks loose in our hands.
Secret tears we never showed anyone else, smiles that were never quite so bright when we weren't with each other. How he would read anything and everything he got his hands on, his quiet intensity and his long artist's hands, his quiet gaze that saw everything and nothing at once. How his lips would curl into a slow, indulgent smile, his upper lip never quite catching up with the lower part, that shy curve that made you want to smile as well. His gentle way with words that could coax the shiest hobbit-child to come out and play in the sunlight.
The thing is, I remember, and know that I'll never live through these moments again, know that he's gone for-ever and I'll never see him again – and it doesn't hurt. A dull, quiet yearning as if I'm feeling it from across a veil of dreams. Do I miss him? Maybe. Maybe not.
Do I love him?
I did. I think I do now, too. Maybe I do. Maybe I do not. But I know that I will probably never marry. I will never forget him. I miss him. But I do not ache for him. Oh, things are so confusing these days.
I remember our last goodbye. He'd called me to his hobbit-hole, long after dinnertime, and I'd known somewhere deep inside that this would be our last. So I'd taken out my best dress, straightened the skirt, and set off. And there at Bag's End, under the flickering light of the candle, we said our farewells.
He was just so tired, he'd said. I remember his eyes, wide, dark in the candlelight and oh-so-haunted. He was damaged somehow, so much it couldn't be fixed, leastways not here. He was leaving with the elves, he'd told me. He was sailing over the sea, the sea blue like the sky, with the crashing waves and the crying gulls. He was going to go.
In the low light of the room, stars shining through the round window and glinting off that fine skin of his, he almost looked like one himself. I'd looked at him, seen the hollows in his cheeks and the way his smile never quite reached his eyes.
I've always been good at understanding people. And I'd always been especially good at understanding him. I saw him, and again, I understood; so I let him go. A quiet goodbye, like a stream gurgling over a river-bed. Like the song of a nightingale deep in an old forest. A slow, sweet embrace, something that almost was a kiss but wasn't, quite. In that moment, he looked at me, deep and straight, and I figured : this time, he understood too.
I let him go.
Today, I stroll slowly across the village road, a basket full of freshly baked bread draped by my side. It is spring. The air is clear and sharp, but the sun is warm, and the sky is the bluest I have seen in a long while. Blue, like the sun on the river, blue, like cornflowers on the field – blue, like the sea, with its crashing waves and crying gulls.
It is on days like this that I remember. Still, it does not hurt; but it is clear and sweet, and I wonder – must it really be any different?
You must not have loved him, they say. Because to lose a loved one is to lose a part of your soul, and it hurts, it hurts like your heart is being torn in two. And no, my heart feels whole and hale in my chest, and it beats on, as strong as ever, and I feel no hole in my soul. So perhaps I did not love him. Perhaps I did not love him enough.
For I let him go.
Oh, but I remember. I have forgotten all else, all those sweet moments between us, the laughters we have shared. They have faded into sweet tatters, as comforting yet shapeless as an old patched quilt. Still, some days, I look up at the sky, and imagine the sea, with its endless blue waves and crying gulls.
And I remember him.
Next Up : Gimli
"Well, I didn't win," he admitted. "But I think I'm still the best choice."
"Fine, husband," she said, and pulled him in for the kiss.
The matter was pretty much settled after that.
A/N : Thank you all so much for reading! :D As always - review, and you have my undying love.