Relieved, Frodo lay back, listening to the footsteps going down the hall. While he waited for Sam to return, he studied the ceiling – the arches, carvings and slim star-windows more familiar to him now than the ceiling of Bag End. He tried to remember exactly how his old room had looked, but the details eluded him, slipping and shifting out of focus. He realised again with an accustomed lurch that he had spent more than half his life on Tol Eressëa. How many days, how many nights? The years had blurred and time had passed him by. Days slipping easily into each-other. What did I do a week ago? Two years ago?
A few events glimmered in his memory – his arrival, the sight of Aman from the top of the Tower of Avallonë, exploring the island, building the house, the first fruiting of his garden – and in between, stretches of peaceful routine and quiet pleasure. Sixty years in pleasant stasis. Waiting. And yet the memories of the Quest of the Ring burn bright as ever. Horrible as that time was, I lived more in that one year of hell than in my sixty years of peace. Why? Was it that here he had had no purpose giving meaning to his days? But the elves find meaning enough – pursuing knowledge, creating things of beauty… Had he not done this? Yes, he had spent uncounted hours perusing books of lore. He had gained knowledge beyond that of Middle Earth. Songs and poems he had written, and by his labours had created a beautiful garden. And yet…
It is not enough to pursue knowledge for its own sake, he thought. Songs must be heard. Beauty must be shared. The elves themselves were ready companions in the search for learning, and ever-eager to appreciate works of craft and labour. They see the artistry, the skill – beauty that calls to their shared memories. But though Frodo had derived pleasure from sharing his work with a coterie of high-minded aesthetes, there had been something lacking. Art is more than just creating something for strangers to admire. It's a baring of the hidden self. "See, this is what I have done. This is what I am." But for the elves, my art is a mirror. They don't see me. How could they? Immortals as they are, how could they ever understand the desires, fears and strivings of a short life?
Frodo rolled onto his side, facing the long arched windows at the end of the room. A salt breeze stirred, and the curtains moved like ghosts. The boat of the moon sailed in the east, casting a path of radiance across the water. Everything I've done here – everything I've created, has been done in the hope that one day he would come and I could show him the parts of myself that I've never been able to express in words. "See, this is who I am – this is what I want to share."
And now the time of waiting was at an end, finally. The stasis was over. Sam was with him again, for good. But what was the weight of sixty years? Before the reunion, Frodo had feared that the memories that burned so vividly in his own mind would have dimmed during the course of Sam's eventful life on Middle Earth. He had feared they would be – not strangers, but unfamiliar to each-other. But it had not been so. From the first moment, Sam had looked into him and recognised everything that Frodo had wanted to say. His love had not changed, rather Frodo understood it better for what it was – infinite, unshakeable and unchanged by time or distance.
Alone in the bed, Frodo trembled, then wondered at himself. The knowledge of Sam's unconditional love filled him with a kind of fear. No matter what I do, he'll love me. Whether I'm worthy of it, or no. Strangely, the removal of all doubts was frightening. It was freedom. It was nakedness. He stood at the brink of an immensity that awed him, and felt his last defences torn away to nothing like a veil in a high wind. No limits. No need to withhold. Was he prepared for it?