Frodo stirred beneath light linen covers, feeling empty and dull. There was a refreshing breeze, filled with sweet scents, that lifted his hair, and close by, a tune of the Shire was being sung. The voice had the quaver of the old, and he recognised it as Bilbo’s. From a different direction came the smell of pipe-smoke. He opened his eyes, and there was Gandalf silhouetted against the sunshine. There was no mistaking the profile with its hooked nose. No elf looked like that, and no elf smoked pipe-weed from the Shire.
He was in a room open to a balcony on one side. Out in the sunshine, terracotta pots were filled with bright flowers. A climbing plant twined about a post that supported the overhanging roof, and deep purple flowers cascaded down over the roof edge. Bees passed from trumpet-like flower to trumpet-like flower, making a low background hum. The flowers, and even more so the bees, were reassuring. They gave the feel of a land where hobbits could live.
He turned his attention back to Gandalf, relieved that he was there. ‘Welcome to Tol Eressëa,’ said Gandalf, coming to stand over him. ‘You missed the first feast of welcome, but I am sure there will be others.’
‘Will you go straight on to Valinor, Gandalf?’ said Frodo, voicing his concern; he did not want to lose Gandalf’s support yet.
‘There is no hurry, my dear Frodo,’ said Gandalf. ‘I will go when the time is right.’
‘When will that be?’ asked Frodo.
‘Don’t you know?’ said Gandalf gently, and Frodo shook his head. The wizard sat beside him and stroked his brow. ‘I will stay here while you are here, Frodo. You will not need me close by, or not for long I believe, but I will be on this island while it is your home.’
Frodo sighed, reassured, and turned his head to Bilbo.
Bilbo came and sat at the foot of the bed, and positively beamed at him. ‘Hullo, lad,’ he said. ‘This is a fine place.’
‘Where are we?’
‘In the city of Avallónë,’ said Gandalf. ‘This is your home for as long as you want it to be. Yours and Bilbo’s. But if there is anywhere else you would like to live, either here in the city or elsewhere on Tol Eressëa, you only have to say.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Frodo.
‘No, my dear Frodo, I know you don’t. I meant, when you know the island. In any case, this can always be one of your homes.’
Frodo looked around and realised that while the dimensions of the room were Elven, the furniture was not. It was disorientating, but better than having to live with furniture that was too large to be useful. It spoke of a degree of preparation for his coming.
‘We were expected?’ he asked.
‘Yes, we were expected.’
‘Oh.’ He pushed back the light cover and swung his feet onto a cool stone floor. It was good to feel the ground was steady beneath his feet. He looked around more carefully; in addition to the wide bed he was sitting on and other bedroom furniture, there were chairs for taking ease in. The walls were white and hung with paintings that seemed to be splashes of colour, rather than proper pictures. The thought that all of this room was his bedroom made him feel small and lost. What would Sam say? Rattling around like a pea in a pod. The empty feeling inside increased, and he hunched over, staring at his feet resting on dark tiles.
‘Would you like some breakfast?’
He rubbed his hand over his face and looked up at Bilbo’s question. ‘Is there any lembas?’ he asked.
‘On the table,’ said Bilbo. ‘There’s some fruit juice as well. Very interesting. Tastes fragrant.’
‘Tastes fragrant?’ asked Frodo, and was reminded of Sam asking how a song could be like a light. Sam! I love you!
‘Well, try it and see.’
Frodo looked where Bilbo pointed. On the balcony there was a low table with chairs set about it, and on it had been placed a jug and tall glasses, along with some sort of sweet cakes, a bowl of fruit - most of which he did not recognise - and wafers of lembas wrapped in mallorn leaves. He walked out into bright sunlight and found himself looking down a steep alley with white houses on either side. Most had pots, on steps and balconies, similar to those that surrounded him; the effect was a riot of colour down to the blue of the sea beyond. The sunlight on the white walls was dazzling.
Bilbo came to stand at his side and handed him a wafer of lembas and a glass of golden liquid. ‘Try it,’ he suggested.
The liquid was thick and syrupy. Frodo swirled it around his mouth. ‘It tastes fragrant,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ said Bilbo, with satisfaction. ‘Eat that lembas, lad, and then we can go and look around. I’m just unpacking a few of your things.’
Frodo nodded, and turned back to see the leather tube lying on a chest of drawers. He put down the half eaten lembas and hurried to take it up. He had made a good guess at what it contained, but had resisted the temptation to open it on the ship. Now he broke the seal with hands that shook a little, and pulled out a roll of paper. A small envelope fell to the floor, and he stooped to rescue it.
‘What is it, lad?’ asked Bilbo. Frodo turned it over in his hands and there was Rosie’s careful, rounded script. A lock of Elanor’s hair, for her dada.
‘Oh!’ He sat down suddenly in one of the chairs, holding the envelope to his chest, holding it tight against the pain. But there was the rolled paper still to look at, Sam! and he handed the envelope to Bilbo. He hardly heard Bilbo’s exclamations of delight at the bright golden curl of hair. He slipped onto his knees to pin down one end of the picture he knew was there, and unrolled it on the floor. He held the top corners in his hands and stared for a moment, before hastily letting go and stumbling back into the chair. Immediately, the paper sprang back into a roll.
‘This is my room?’ he asked in a whisper, the pain locking his throat.
‘Yes,’ said Gandalf softly. ‘This is your room.’
‘Leave me alone... Please.’
Gandalf nodded and turned to the door, while Bilbo looked from one to the other in distress. ‘Bilbo!’ said Gandalf. ‘Come away!’
‘Oh, but...’
‘Come away! Frodo has had little enough privacy since he parted from Sam.’
Bilbo sighed and hugged Frodo; slipping the envelope into his hand, he followed Gandalf from the room.
Frodo stood unsteadily, his breath coming in hard gulps, his chin and mouth quivering with the effort to control his grief. He returned picture and envelope to a place of safety and then lay down slowly on the bed. He pulled the cover over himself, curled into a ball and gave his feelings full expression: keening for his lost love until he lost all touch with time and place and self.
Gradually he became aware that he was lying on a drenched pillow, that he was Frodo whose heart was torn apart, that he was shivering and that he was thirsty, that he would have to find what provision there was for relieving an over full bladder. Like a climax, his body was shaken with aftershocks of grief, but he struggled up, wiping his face with the sheet, and staggered onto the balcony for the warmth of the sun. He poured himself some juice with shaking hand and sat cradling the glass in his hands.
Voices drifted to him on the still air, and he realised the balcony ran along the length of the house with other rooms opening onto it. Taller plants made screens between each area to give privacy.
‘But Gandalf, he’s gone quiet.’
‘That does not mean that we should return.’
‘I knew he was hurting, Gandalf. I didn’t realise it went so deep. Are you sure he’s all right? Maybe we should just look in...’
‘Give me a little longer, Gandalf. I’m all right.’
‘We will give him a little longer, my friend, and then maybe take him to the baths.’
Frodo relaxed and tilted his face to the sun. He sipped the drink and became aware of a familiar scent nearby. As well as the hanging flowers, the bees were busy on tall spires of grey-green that carried miniature trumpets of palest mauve. The paired leaves clustered along the length of the stem, each one no more than a tiny strip. He broke off a tip and inhaled deeply, transported back to the Shire and Bag End’s garden. Rosemary for remembrance.
The painter in the distant Shire had captured Sam as he stood smiling at Frodo with lightly parted lips and soft, shining come-hither eyes. But more than that: somehow he had caught the love that shone from Sam. Kneeling over the picture, as he had knelt over Sam in the past, Frodo had been overcome by the sheer need to feel strong arms reach up and pull him down into a kiss.
He looked into the room and noted that the pictures there were all mounted and framed. Somewhere on Tol Eressëa there was an Elf who could do this for him, and with all their fine jewellery there must be someone who could make a fitting housing for the lock of Elanor’s hair. In his eagerness to see Sam’s portrait, he had not looked properly at the curl of hair; he finished his drink, wiped his face again, and fetched the envelope. Carefully, he lay the curl on his palm; shades of gold gleamed in the sunshine, from the palest yellow to rich red-gold. He kissed this small memento of his daughter, blessing Rosie for her thoughtfulness, and returned it to the safety of the envelope. He could hear Bilbo, still agitated about his welfare.
‘You may come back, now.’
‘That is good, I do not think I could have held Bilbo back much longer.’
Frodo remained where he was, feeling drained but calm. It was as though a great storm that had been brewing for days had roared and crashed its way through his small frame, and now, in the aftermath, all was quiet. Others would come, and even the calm was sorrowful, but for the moment he felt better able to face a new day and a new land.
Bilbo came hurrying in, and Frodo was engulfed in his cousin’s arms. Bilbo let him go after a moment and patted his hand. ‘There’s my boy, there’s my boy,’ he said. ‘Get dressed and I’ll show you around.’
The house was pleasant enough, light and airy, with sea breezes to moderate the heat of the day. The kitchen was rudimentary, but it seemed that the Elves loved to gather together for feasting and merriment rather than cook in solitude. In addition, Bilbo reported that their breakfast had been brought in and left for them, with a request that they make their likes and dislikes known.
‘Don’t look so worried, Frodo,’ said Bilbo. ‘I never cooked at Rivendell, and I never starved. Think of this as like Rivendell, just not under one roof.’
As they set off to the baths, Frodo felt the analogy was apt. The alleyways were like the passages in Rivendell, and there were just as many steps. Through arched gateways he caught glimpses of courtyard gardens, with fruit trees and fountains. Gandalf did not accompany them - he had other business - but his directions were clear, and it did not take them long to find the bath house. They were greeted with deference, handed towels large enough to wrap a whole smial full of hobbits in, and their clothes were whisked away before they could protest. The bath had steps down into it, which was ideal for hobbits, since they could sit on one of the steps when they were as deep in as they wished.
It was a familiar sensation to Frodo, from his time in Minas Tirith, and if those memories led inevitably to Sam, well, he could scoop the warm water over his face to hide all traces of his tears. There they had been met with more openly curious stares, while here the interest was more veiled, but it was not so very different. Everything they might need was provided, and he shifted to sit above Bilbo and wash his hair for him. The old hobbit leaned back into him and murmured his pleasure. Bilbo had seemed very alert through the morning, but the warm water was having its effect and he was getting sleepy.
Frodo washed his own hair, to remove all trace of salt. It was a long time since he had had to do this himself and he ached for the feel of Sam’s fingers kneading against his scalp, ached for Sam’s cheerful chatter or his murmured words of love. At least his red eyes could be excused as the result of getting soap in them.
The clothes that they were handed were not their own, although they were assured these would be returned when washed. The attendant knelt before them, but Frodo did not find this embarrassing, it seemed more a polite effort to come down to his level. He had some trouble following what was being said, but Bilbo seemed to be conversing with ease. The clothes were light and comfortable - trousers and tunic such as he had worn at Rivendell - and they fitted perfectly.
‘He said if they aren’t to our liking then more will be made,’ said Bilbo.
‘These are fine,’ said Frodo, not really caring what he wore.
On their return to their house - home, Frodo supposed, but it did not as yet feel very homely - there was more food set out for them. Walking up the hill had added colour to Bilbo’s cheeks and given him an appetite, but Frodo ate only a nibble of lembas and some fruit to please Bilbo. When the old hobbit retired for a nap, Frodo picked up his carved robin and went out again, alone. He had seen glimpses of the sea as they had walked to and from the baths, and he craved a closer look; the sea was his connection to Sam.
The white tower was dazzling in the afternoon sun, and he turned away from it to walk along the quayside. Picking his way over mooring ropes, he found a space on the quayside to sit and dangle his feet over the water. Gulls were calling above, and on a rock out to sea a dark bird stretched out its wings to dry them in the sun. It reminded Frodo of the last morning sitting with Sam above the Grey Havens.
I remember your warmth, Sam. I remember your arms around me and your breath on my cheek. I miss you, my love. If you were here now, you would put a hand on my shoulder and lower yourself down beside me. I would look up to greet you, and you would smile at me so sweetly, happy to be here at my side.
He rubbed his thumb over the robin’s breast and realised his clothes could be improved upon: there was no pocket to carry the robin next to his heart. He sat there in sadness - wondering if the sea would ever carry his love to him - and watched a white sail draw near, blurred by his tears. He realised suddenly that it was heading straight for him, drawing down its sail at the last moment and creeping on to nudge between the moored boats and nestle into the quayside, as gently as a bird coming to roost. An elf stood on the prow, holding a coil of rope, and as Frodo hastily stood, the elf called out to him. The rope came rushing to meet him; he caught it, but failed to understand the elf’s command. He looked about, saw that other moorings led to stout wooden posts, and looped the rope over one in a series of half hitches, as Sam had taught him on the Anduin. The elf secured the sail to the boom, pushed it out of the way, and others appeared to help him land baskets of fish. He ran lightly up the rope to the quayside and bowed to Frodo.
‘Hantanyel, herunya,’ he said.
This Frodo did understand. I thank you, my lord. He had no wish to be called “my lord.” ‘Iorhael,’ he said. ‘My name is Iorhael.’
The elf nodded. ‘Hantanyel, Herunya Iorhael,’ he said. He pulled on the mooring rope, nodded again in satisfaction, and with a gesture invited Frodo to follow him. Puzzled, Frodo did so, and they walked along the quay to where the buildings merged into cliffs framing a series of low caves. Here, it seemed, the fisher folk had their stores. Several sat around mending nets, and they all stood and bowed low to him, murmuring greeting.
‘Elen sila lúmenn’ omentielvo,’ said a voice behind him, and he jumped round.
‘Gildor!’
‘Well met, Elf-Friend. It fills me with joy to see you again so soon, although my joy is tempered by your sadness.’ Gildor knelt and kissed Frodo on the brow, and laughed when Frodo hugged him. Frodo heard more murmuring behind him, and realised that such familiarity with one of the House of Finrod was only reinforcing his status as a lord - albeit a very small one - but he was truly glad to see a familiar face.
‘You seem to have made some new friends, Iorhael,’ said Gildor, and Frodo turned to find he was being offered a drink. The elf from the boat spoke to Gildor, bowing as he did so, and Gildor smiled down at Frodo. ‘And I am favoured by association, they beg that such a friend of Iorhael’s will also drink with them.’
The elves asked some questions of Gildor, and the conversation slipped through Frodo’s grasp, its meaning eluding him, although he caught at words that he knew.
‘They wish to know if you would like to see some of Tol Eressëa from the sea, to sail along the coast? Not now, but sometime soon. Between you and me, I do not believe that they think you have seen the island properly unless you have seen it from the sea.’
Frodo spoke his thanks and haltingly accepted their offer, searching for the words. Later, as he and Gildor walked back through the city, the elf suddenly laid a hand on his shoulder. Frodo looked up in surprise.
‘I will not deny his name, in the hopes of sparing you grief,’ said Gildor softly. ‘Tell me of your faithful Samwise.’
Frodo looked down and sighed. ‘It is hard for me to speak of him lest my voice choke me,’ he said. ‘He is everything to me. He took your advice to heart and did not leave me, but in the end I had to leave him.’
‘I saw how it was between you, when he curled at your feet as we spoke, feigning sleep in his care for you, and I saw how you smiled upon him. Your love was a light that shone around you both. I’m glad you discovered the truth of it, even though the finding was amidst fear and danger, and the losing gives so much pain.’
Frodo was silent, amazed that Gildor should have discerned this, when he and Sam had not. His companion did not press the point in the face of Frodo’s introspection, and Frodo was grateful for that, but also grateful that Gildor had spoken of Sam.
They parted at Frodo’s door, Gildor declining to visit Bilbo, but promising to return for that purpose. He smiled down at Frodo, then knelt to take his shoulders in his hands. Frodo returned the gaze, the steady regard of the soft grey eyes did not feel intrusive. Gildor sighed. ‘Merin sa haryalaye alassse, Iorhael,’ he said softly, then rendered it into the common tongue. ‘I wish that you shall possess joy. Namárië.’
‘Namárië, Gildor. Tenn’ enomentielva.’
Gildor laughed. ‘I will say it again: thou art a jewel among hobbits. Until we we meet again, indeed.’ He stood, bowed and walked lightly away.
Within the house, Bilbo had finished his nap and was anxiously awaiting his return. Frodo took one of Bilbo’s hands in his, noting how the skin was blotched with age, and how the wrinkles pushed together as he rubbed his thumb over the back of it. ‘I’m sorry I worry you so, Bilbo,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I have to let the grief out - like lancing a festering wound to allow it to heal.’ He looked up from the hand held in his and met Bilbo’s eyes, keen still despite his age. ‘I met Gildor Inglorion. He said he knew that Sam and I loved each other, when he first met us... but we didn’t, not like that, not then.’
‘So when did you know?’ Bilbo brought his free hand up to cover Frodo’s, and Frodo found he wanted to talk. The words tumbled from him.
‘We were captured by a barrow-wight, all four of us, you heard me speak of it at Elrond’s Council. The others were as though dead, and I was tempted to put on the Ring and escape - I was afraid. Then another thought came to me that my friends had followed me because they loved me, and I couldn’t desert them, and... and when I looked at Sam I wanted to weep, because if he were dead then I would never feel his arms around me again. I was so happy when he chose to come with me, Bilbo, so relieved. Just knowing he was there lightened the burden for me, but I never paused to think why.’
Bilbo tugged his hands and steered him towards a long settle where they could sit side by side, but he offered no comment to break the flow of Frodo’s thoughts. He simply put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and waited for him to continue.
‘After Tom Bombadil had broken the Wight’s spell, Sam, and Merry and Pippin stripped off the foul rags they had been dressed in and ran about in the sun to warm. I watched Sam, and I wanted to dance with him on the hillside and hold him in my arms, because we had come from darkness into light, and I had not lost him as I thought.’ He looked at Bilbo. ‘I had seen him naked before, but never with the knowledge of loss so clear in my mind. I wanted to hold him to me, to warm him with my body, to kiss away the memories of bad dreams. I ached for him, Bilbo; ached... as I do now.’ He bowed his head into his hands and let the tears flow, but was glad this time to have Bilbo’s arm around him.
‘So you told him, and found he felt the same,’ prompted Bilbo, after a moment.
Frodo lifted his head to shake it. ‘No! I could not. What if he did not feel the same? What if I lost all the care and attention he gave me because he felt it might be misconstrued. What if... what if it was the Ring putting these thoughts in my head, luring me into the despoliation of one who was in my care.’
‘So you stayed silent.’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Frodo. ‘But the Ring did not. Sometimes It told me I was gross and depraved, sometimes It tried to make me force myself upon Sam, whispering that It could make me strong enough, that I could have him, my willing slave.’ He twitched at the memory like a whiplash, but this was also a poison that needed to be bled from him. He had to force himself to say it plainly. ‘In Mordor I was tempted to rape him,’ he whispered.
‘But you did not,’ said Bilbo, matter of factly.
Frodo lifted his eyes to Bilbo’s again, and was met with gentle concern. ‘I loved him too much,’ he said simply. ‘Later, the Ring tried to make me kill him; I hardly knew who I was by then, but I still knew I loved him. Sometimes I thought he loved me in the same way, but I could not trust my judgement; the Ring was twisting everything. But he would sometimes take my hand, or kiss me on the brow, and before that - when he found me imprisoned in the orc stronghold - he held me as though his heart would break. I was naked in his arms, and he kissed me and wept over me and called me his dear Frodo. I didn’t want that moment to end. Yet, a few minutes later, I was seeing him as a foul pawing orc and calling him a thief.’ He hung his head at the memory.
‘I was very lucky, it seems,’ said Bilbo. ‘The Ring obviously grew in power as Sauron grew in power, and as it came nearer to Barad-dûr and Orodruin. It weighed upon my mind, no doubt about that, and sometimes I would have the urge to put it on and push Otho into the mill race, but it was nothing, nothing! to what you had to endure. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I left you such a legacy, but I believe that what you did was beyond me.’
Frodo looked up at him again, and Bilbo nodded. ‘Yes, I believe it would have been beyond me, even in my younger days; who would I have inspired with such love? Yet it seems to me, my dear Frodo, that your love for Sam, and his for you, brought about the downfall of Sauron.’
Frodo shivered, and Bilbo tightened his hold before releasing him. ‘Let us sit in the sun,’ he said. Frodo nodded, and they went out into a courtyard, bounded on two sides by the house, but open to the south and west. Here there were more pots of flowers and a trellis from which hung vines. There were wet patches around the base of each pot, as though they had been recently watered, and nipped-off stalks showed that someone had removed dead flower heads.
They sat side by side on a low bench, savouring the scent of new wood. The seat’s dimensions were ideally suited to hobbits, another sign of the thought given to their comfort. Bilbo produced his and Frodo’s pipes, and they put aside their deep feelings, in hobbit fashion, while they went about the soothing business of filling and lighting their pipes.
Bilbo leaned back and blew a smoke-ring. ‘So, how did you come to tell him?’ he asked at last.
Frodo drew on his pipe and was silent, remembering. Finally he leaned forward and clasped both hands around the bowl of his pipe. ‘When the Ring was destroyed, it was as though I was wrapped in an oasis of calm,’ he said to his feet. ‘Not at all what I expected. I felt so calm and at peace, and suddenly there was such a song of joy in my heart and... and I realised it was Sam. Sam’s song, and I knew I loved him, that it was no lie or trick of the Ring. I thought to tell him then, when I believed we were about to die together, but I was so glad that he was with me, I told him that instead; he took my hand and persuaded me from that place.’
Frodo fell silent again. To die with Sam had seemed a fitting end to their quest. He watched a blue-black beetle scuttle purposefully across the paving stones and moved his feet to give it clear passage. The beetle fell off the edge of an uneven stone and landed on its back, its legs waving helplessly. Frodo slipped off the seat and bent to nudge it upright again.
‘The eagles rescued you,’ prompted Bilbo, as Frodo sat again and inhaled memories of the Southfarthing.
‘It was like a dream. I remember thinking “So this is what dying feels like.” And when I woke, and Gandalf was there with the morning sun behind him, I thought I had truly died. But there was no chance to talk with Sam. We were swept along on a tide of rejoicing and festivity that filled me with pain. Sam rescued me from it and took me to bed. I felt his song as a great yearning, and I realised that also was no lie of the Ring: he loved me, as I loved him, and yet he held back thinking he would cause me more pain.’
‘And so you told him,’ said Bilbo, smiling.
‘Not in words,’ said Frodo. ‘No, not in words, and at first he was so shocked. I thought the Ring was still twisting me; that I had seen what I wished to see, not what was the truth. But his shock was the shock of realising I wanted him as... as he wanted me.’ He stood suddenly. His pain had grown steadily in the telling, and he wanted to hide away. ‘Excuse me, Bilbo, I... I need to be alone.’
Already, his room seemed like a sanctuary; he curled on the bed, holding the robin close, and for the second time that day he abandoned himself to his grief. The room darkened around him as he lay exhausted and shivering.
There was a tap at the door, but before he could call out to deny entry, the door opened, and Bilbo came in carrying a laden tray with candles already lit. He set the tray down, as Frodo watched him impassively, and fussed around unfolding shutters to close the room against the night. He placed candles around the room and poured a drink from a jug. He brought the glass and a mallorn-wrapped lembas wafer to Frodo, and sat on the side of his bed.
‘I’m sorry, lad,’ he said. ‘Can you forgive a foolish old hobbit? Gandalf told me I should wait until you were ready, not force the telling.’
‘Pippin often calls me - called me - a foolish old hobbit.’
‘Did he? I hope you gave him less cause than I have.’
‘He usually called me that when he thought my apologies were unnecessary and insulting to our friendship and, whether spoken or not, he always gave me to understand that he loved me.’
‘Ah. And I am...?’
‘A foolish old hobbit, whom I love.’
‘Oh, Frodo, my dear boy, and I love you. I wish I always knew the right thing to do, to say.’
‘Bilbo, I wouldn’t have spoken of Sam if I had not wanted to.’ He shivered: as usual, the flood of emotion had left him feeling cold.
Bilbo fetched a fine woollen blanket and tucked it around him. ‘Will you eat something?’ he asked. ‘You’ve had nothing since lunch.’ He held out the lembas, but Frodo shook his head.
Not now, Bilbo. I’m too tired. Let me sleep for a little while, and then I will.
‘Do you mind if I sit here with you?’
‘No. I’d like that. Thank you.’ He pulled the blanket closer and drifted into the refuge of sleep, his arms clutching his pillow to him, as though it were Sam.
Over the following weeks, his room remained his sanctuary. He could face leaving it, could even face sitting quietly through feasting and merriment, knowing he had somewhere to take his grief. Some days he found it hard to leave this refuge, and having left it, preferred to be doing something. As his Quenya improved in speech and understanding, he and Bilbo spent some time with the scholars of the city. The great hall of books he loved, although he found it was the oldest texts that captured his imagination the most, the ones that the Keeper assured him were too simplistic in their style. Gradually, as he listened and tried to follow philosophical discussions, he realised that he was trying to enter a conversation that had probably evolved over thousands of years; the concepts they discussed were too metaphysical, too abstruse, to interest him. They had moved beyond the level at which his understanding lay an age of Middle-earth ago, or more. All their present discussions gave him were a headache and the wish for Sam to run his hand up his back to the nape of his neck. He would shiver at the touch, and Sam would lean in to whisper, warm against his cheek: ‘This is so much moonshine, begging your pardon.’
He was, however, finding friends in unexpected places. Early on, he met the gardener who tended their flowers and vines. Coming back from the baths sooner than usual, he found an elf bent over the terracotta pots on his balcony, deftly picking out the flowers that had gone over.
The elf appeared overcome with confusion to be in the Lord Iorhael’s chamber when the Lord Iorhael was present. Frodo begged him to finish and went to sit outside since his presence seemed to cause the elf such dismay. It was not a promising beginning, but returning from the quayside a few days later, he found the same elf, busy in their courtyard. He gave greeting, and the elf straightened and bowed, seeming more relaxed for not intruding on Frodo’s own space. His name was Ninquelótë.
‘The white tree of Valinor,’ said Frodo, and Ninquelótë smiled in delight.
‘Yes, indeed, but also this.’ He held up a white blossom.
‘Tell me,’ said Frodo squatting down to look at a collection of plants that Ninquelótë had brought in small pots, ‘where you named that before you became...’ he searched for the word for gardener, but had to improvise ‘a tender of flowers?’
Ninquelótë smiled again and shook his head. ‘No, and I have not always been a “tender of flowers,” but having shown an interest, my friends were quick to give me this name, and I like it.’ He seemed as ready to smile as another tender of flowers, and Frodo forced his attention to the plants.
‘May I help?’ he asked, wanting to keep his thoughts busy by actions.
‘Of course, if you wish. I would be honoured. I have brought these plants to add some colour where you sit.’ He indicated two wide containers, filled with fine soil, that stood either end of the bench. Frodo was sure they had not been there before, although his observation of his surroundings was not of the keenest at the moment; he knew he was too ready to fall into introspection.
Now he looked the new plants over and noticed there were several different types. He picked out some of each and carried them to one container, leaving Ninquelótë to deal with the other. He let some of the soil run through his fingers; this was good loam. Some of the plants were taller, and he reached for one of these first. Carefully, he laid his hand over the mouth of its pot, his fingers around the plant’s stem, and tipped it upside down; he tapped the pot to loosen the root ball, and the plant fell out into his waiting hand. The roots were growing in a tight ball so he teased several out before making a hollow to keep the root ball just below the soil’s surface. He filled in the soil around it, pressing it gently down. He was reaching for a second plant when he realised Ninquelótë was sitting back on his heels, his smile wider than ever.
‘I did not know you were a “tender of flowers”, my lord,’ he said.
‘I am not. I have just watched this done so many times that the actions seem like second nature. My love... my love is a tender of flowers. What is the correct word?’
Ninquelótë made a dismissive gesture. ‘I like yours better,’ he said, and there was that smile again. They worked together, matching the plantings in the two containers. As they finished, and Ninquelótë watered the containers, Frodo was amazed to find his hands already felt a little roughened by their contact with the soil.
They were even rougher a week or so later as he returned from sailing round the island. He had some blisters to show for his journey - from hauling on ropes since he had refused to be a simple passenger - but he was full of all that he had seen.
‘You should have seen all the birds, Bilbo,’ he said. Bilbo had declined to accompany him. ‘You’re the Brandybuck, my lad,’ he’d said. ‘For my part, I’ve had enough of riding on water.’
‘There were so many birds perching on the cliffs that one had to fall off before another could land,’ said Frodo. ‘And the noise!’ He sat on the edge of the table and took a bite of oatcake and honey that Bilbo offered him, not really registering the fact that he was hungry.
‘You could hardly see the black and purple cliffs in places. It was only where they stood sheer - and there were no ledges for the birds to perch - that they could be seen.’
‘So what was beyond them, inland?’ asked Bilbo.
‘Green hills climbing up into the mist. Sometimes the mist cleared a little and then there were glimpses of a mountain. Did you notice how white the shore was when we arrived? They beached the boat to show me - they said it was safe, the wind was offshore - and look!’ Frodo pulled shells from his pockets, and Bilbo peered in close. ‘Aren’t they lovely? The sand was covered in them.’
Bilbo picked them up, delicate pinks and brilliant whites, like butterflies resting on Frodo’s palm. ‘They are lovely. So what else did you see?’
‘The island is very varied. It will be interesting to explore on foot. There were places were it was terraced and tame, and then there were woodlands and wild, tangled areas. I thought I saw an eagle once, but it disappeared into the mist that shrouded the mountain, and I couldn’t be sure. When we rounded the southern tip, it all changed; there were dunes and a throng of boats drawn up on shelving beaches where the surf boomed.‘ He absentmindedly took another oatcake and waved it through the air as he demonstrated the boats launching out through the surf, oarsmen working to keep the high prows pointing into the waves. He had been worried at the time, but his two companions had just waved dismissive hands. He looked now in surprise at the oatcake and ate it.
‘So what have you been eating these past few days?’ Bilbo asked.
‘Lembas, and fish.’
‘Well, that sounds interesting!’ Frodo looked sideways at Bilbo, and Bilbo laughed. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m glad I stayed at home. And I’m very glad you enjoyed it.’
Frodo nodded; he had enjoyed it, although inevitably there had been times when he had laid his forehead on his knees and wept over some thought of Sam. His companions had generally been suddenly engrossed in the distance when that happened. They had followed each one of his bouts of grief with some kindness: landing for the shells, sailing into a cove where they swam from the boat in crystal clear water and, best of all, letting him spend some time ashore with his greatest find.
‘There is a place in the south of the island where there are low green hills that roll down towards the dunes. The grass was grazed short - by goats or sheep, I guess. It was very Shire-like. Maybe we could get there on foot. I’d like to try.’
‘We?’
‘You and I.’
‘Well, I’ve not done much walking for a long time,’ said Bilbo, doubtfully.
‘You’re stronger than when we arrived, but no matter, if you don’t want to.’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to, I’m just not sure I won’t keel over on you a mile out of Avallónë. Some short walks to start with I think, but you’re right: I do feel, hmm, somewhat rejuvenated. There must be something about the air here.’
‘My arm has stopped hurting,’ said Frodo, rolling his shoulder. ‘It’s hurt for so long, but I hardly noticed when it stopped. I just suddenly realised that it hadn’t bothered me for days.’ His hurt over Sam was not so easily dealt with, but to stop grieving for Sam after only a short period of time would have been a grief all in itself.
‘There were porpoises,’ he said suddenly. ‘Sam would have enjoyed seeing them.’
Bilbo came and stood in front of him. ‘It’s lovely to hear you say his name, so warm and... well, like that. Not all tight, as though you might shatter into a thousand fragments. Will you tell me more about Sam. I don’t feel I know him at all. He was, what? Just into his tweens when I left. I hardly recognised him when he fetched up in Rivendell, setting the place by its ears because they wouldn’t let him with you at first.’
‘They wouldn’t? I never heard that.’
‘Well, it wasn’t for long. He made such a fuss, and the Dúnedan backed him up. You were sinking fast, and Sam just barrelled through the door at the first opportunity. I remember thinking, “surely that’s not Samwise!” He was always so diffident and respectful, and there he was treating the Elves - and the Lord Elrond! - as though they were so much riffraff and had better get out of his way. I’d have laughed if it hadn’t been so serious.
‘He was all bristling anger until he was up on the bed with you, and then he took your hand and kissed it and called your name, as gently as you please. And your breath came a little easier and you turned towards him.’
Frodo reached up and wiped a tear away from Bilbo’s cheek. His own emotion was reined back, waiting for the chance to be alone, but he shook a little with the effort. This was an insight into Sam at Rivendell that he had not heard before.
‘I know, I know,’ said Bilbo. ‘I’m a foolish old hobbit and you love me. But I thought we were going to lose you, and to worse than death. I could have hugged young Sam... Gandalf did. He said there was more to healing than Elvish skill with knife and charm.’
‘Gandalf knew what he was doing, when he chose Sam to go with me,’ said Frodo quietly. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘And he knew what he was doing when he gave us his tent afterwards. At the time I just thought it a happy chance...’
They caught each other’s eye and in deepened voices chorused ‘If chance you call it.’ Bilbo laughed, but Frodo could not. The memory of the tent in Ithilien was so bittersweet. He swallowed. ‘I’m going to my room, Bilbo,’ he said, keeping his voice as even as he could. ‘I’m tired.’ He watched the light of laughter die in Bilbo’s eyes.
The old hobbit took his hand. ‘Only go away if you need to, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘Otherwise have a good cry on my shoulder.’
‘I do need to. I’ll take up your offer of a shoulder another time.’
‘It’s always here for you.’
‘Thank you, Bilbo. Thank you for your patience.’
‘Pshaw! If I knew what more I could do for you, I’d do it.’
‘I can’t imagine what it would be like here without you, Bilbo.’
‘I’m glad to be here with you, my boy. Now go and think about your Sam, and I’ll call you later to come to the baths. We’re invited to a feast tonight - if you can face it - and you’re looking like a raggle-taggle hedge-hobbit with no home to call your own.’
Frodo went to his room, musing on the subject of homes. This house still did not feel like home. It was a refuge, somewhere to hide, but he wanted more. He lay down, all salt-encrusted as he was. ‘Oh, Sam!’ he cried as his tears came, and suddenly he realised that it was for Sam that he wanted a home, a homely home, not this elven elegance, lovely though it was. Sam might never come - he choked at the thought, gagging on his sobs - but if he did come, however far that was in the future, Frodo wanted a home for him. And now he had seen where that home might be. He had no idea of the practicality of it, but he intended to find out.
It was Ninquelótë who turned out to have answers to many of his questions, then and in the future. Like Sam, he seemed to know everyone and everything. The first intimation of this came after a chance meeting. Walking through the city, Frodo glanced into a courtyard and was arrested by the garden he saw there. An Avallónë garden, to be sure, and that meant different to a hobbit’s idea of a garden, but Frodo could appreciate its beauty. Water and mirrors, rocks and sculptures, seemed to play as an important part as the plants, and the plants were not chosen for their flowers, but for their shades of green and their differing forms. He was just wondering what Sam would make of it when a voice spoke lightly behind him.
‘Elendil, you would be most welcome to enter and look around.’
He whirled round. ‘Ninquelótë! Is this another garden you tend?’
‘Yes. It is mine. Please,’ he gestured through the archway, ‘enter.’ He ushered Frodo through and called into the house. ‘Melme cuilenyo, we have a guest, bring drinks.’ Frodo looked up with interest as a tall elf brought out a tray with drinks and sweetmeats. She was darker than Ninquelótë, whose fair hair was almost white; in contrast she had dark reddish-gold hair - Tookish, Frodo thought. The vision of Elanor that rose to his mind seemed to have been made visible before him as an elf maid peaked from behind her mother’s skirts and then hid. Ninquelótë introduced Frodo - rather unnecessarily, Frodo thought - as Herunya Iorhael.
The elf-child was whisked away, and Frodo could hear the young voice protesting and the mother’s answer. ‘He is too small to be a lord!’ ‘Hush, dear one, his stature is of the greatest.’ Frodo blushed and caught Ninquelótë’s eye.
‘Take no notice of my daughter. She is learning to paint, but will make little progress until she sees what lies beneath the surface.’
‘She is lovely,’ Frodo said. ‘They both are, but your daughter reminds me a little of my own. And it was a fair comment. I am too small to be called herunya’.
‘You tower above me,’ said Ninquelótë, embarrassing Frodo further, but his next words restored his ease. ‘You have a daughter? That must have been a hard parting. Will you tell me about her?’
‘She is only a babe, but I have seen her in the future, and your daughter reminds me of her.’ He put his hand into the inner pocket of his tunic and drew out the envelope with her hair; after some trial and error he had settled on a tunic which was more of an open jacket over a light shirt, and had requested this inner pocket to hold his treasures - his robin and the lock of hair - against his heart.
Ninquelótë touched the hair with reverence. ‘Yes, the colour is very similar. You say you have seen her in the future? That must be a comfort for you. And her mother? She is the tender of gardens you mentioned?’
‘No. She is dear to me but not the love of my life.’ He looked at Ninquelótë. He wasn’t sure how much to say, but if Sam were to come then he would not be hiding his love as he had in the Shire, and that persuaded him not to be reticent now. He didn’t know the words he wanted, so he said. ‘My love is of my kind, not a wife.’
‘I understand. I have heard that there is another of your halfling race who will be permitted to come, by the grace of the Valar. That he also was instrumental in the downfall of Sauron, shadow of Morgoth, and that having the Power of Sauron in his hands, he refused it. Is he your love?’
‘Yes, he is my love.’
‘Then my heart sings for you.’ He beamed at Frodo. ‘You are lucky, having this love, to also have a daughter. That is a special gift.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Frodo. ‘Yes it is. But now I grieve for the loss of them both.’
‘That is understandable. So it was for the Lady Celebrían.’ Ninquelótë touched the lock of hair again, and handed it back to Frodo. ‘This should be placed in a fitting ornament, so you may wear it on a chain around your neck.’
‘I have wished it. But I do not know whom to ask.’
‘I have a friend who could do this for you. I will ask him to call.’
‘Do you know... do you know anyone who could...’ He stopped, frustrated by not knowing the words, but improvisation seemed to work, ‘prepare a picture for me.’
‘Do you mean paint a picture for you? I could do that, although my style is considered simplistic. Realism is not in fashion in this age.’
‘You paint?’
‘Oh, yes. Less now that I have discovered the pleasure of creating living pictures, but I still enjoy it. What would you like a painting of?’
‘I have a painting. I wish to hang it on my wall.’
‘But it needs mounting and framing?’ The words were unknown, but Ninquelótë lay one hand palm up against the other, to represent mounting, and sketched a frame in the air.
Frodo nodded. ‘Yes, it needs mounting and framing.’ He stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds, but Ninquelótë was beaming at him.
‘I have a friend...’ the elf said. It was to become a familiar refrain.
It seemed that even the matter of framing a picture was considered an art. Both elves, sent by Ninquelótë, took time over Frodo’s treasures. The silversmith sat cross legged on the floor, watched by Frodo, and held the lock of hair in his hands while he sang over it. Frodo held his breath as a vision of Elanor shimmered between them. The elf sighed deeply and closed his eyes, and the vision was gone. He opened his eyes to look at Frodo. ‘Tell me of her,’ he said, and his voice was gentle. Frodo found himself telling more than he intended, and the elf nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I see what is needed. Three loves to twine together around this child. I will make some drawings and show you what I have in mind.’
‘Thank you.’
The other elf brought an easel and pinned out the picture while he stood in front of it musing. It was Frodo who sat crossed legged on the floor this time, drinking in the sight of his love. He made no attempt to halt the tears that came, and the elf made no comment, but turned from the picture and sat before him. He took Frodo’s hands and looked into his eyes. ‘Tell me of this halfling,’ he said, and showed no impatience when the telling stretched on through the day. When Frodo broke down and was unable to go on, which happened several times, the elf simply closed his eyes and sang softly until Frodo felt a calmness return.
Frodo found it was beginning to get easier to talk about Sam, and he started to open up to Bilbo more, helped by the fact that Bilbo was showing a far keener interest in all that Frodo had to tell than he had in Rivendell. The old hobbit was less confused and no longer nodded off, to wake suddenly with a ‘Eh! what was that?’ His questions were searching, but he never pressed a point if Frodo was reluctant to reply.
Gandalf came occasionally, but his physical presence was not necessary for Frodo to know that the wizard was constantly thinking of him, and that he was there if Frodo needed him. He arrived in person one evening and stayed overnight.
‘I hear you have been helping Ninquelótë around the city,’ the wizard said as they sat in the courtyard, enjoying the richness of the night-borne scents.
Frodo nodded. ‘It’s very restful,’ he said. ‘And helps me feel in touch with Sam. You know, it surprises me how much I learnt from him, without even trying, but many of the plants are different here. Ninquelótë says I should walk out into the countryside and learn where plants like to grow, and in what conditions.’ He drew his knees up close and hugged them tight. ‘Between ourselves, I believe he thinks it’s cheating for him to just tell me.’
Gandalf laughed. ‘And are you going to?’
‘Well, yes. But there is another reason I’d like to walk the island.’ Gandalf raised an eyebrow, but Frodo was silent for a while. He stirred and set his feet to the ground again.
‘Gandalf?’
‘Hmm?’
You said I could live elsewhere, if I chose?’
‘I did indeed.’
‘What if I chose the south of the island? It is far from the city.’
‘As long as there is a good water supply, you would find that everything else you needed was provided. Do you want to live there?’
‘I’m not sure. It is a possibility.’
Frodo went to bed in a thoughtful frame of mind, but when he awoke he knew why Gandalf had chosen that time to visit.
’Gandalf?’ He could barely whisper the name.
‘I am here.’
He heard his door open, and Gandalf sat by his side.
‘I did not think I would be ill like this again, Gandalf. I did not think I would feel this need here.’
‘It is still fading and while you close off your memories the poison will remain.’
‘Why now, Gandalf? Why today?’ He felt sick and cold, and memories of the Ring were whispering to him.
‘Today, they celebrate in Minas Tirith,’ said Gandalf, gently. ‘Today, Elanor has her first birthday party. Today, Sam will go and sit quietly in the study. Today is the twenty-fifth day of Rethe in the Shire reckoning.
‘No! No, that cannot be right. I have only been here a month, maybe a little more.’
‘Almost five months by the Shire calendar.’ Gandalf fetched another blanket and wrapped it around Frodo. He made him drink, and then sat beside him, his hand on Frodo’s forehead, and quietly muttered to himself. Frodo felt his eyes become heavy.
‘The robin,’ he whispered and felt the familiar shape pressed into his hand.
He walked with Gandalf amongst the hills he had seen in the south. Gandalf nodded approvingly, and they climbed through pine woods and onto the dunes. A wide beach spread before them, the sun dazzling on the sea, and they sat watching the waves run up the shore, ebbing to leave a sheen of water that reflected the sky. A knot of birds ran down after the receding waves, probing in the wet sand, only to scurry back towards the watchers as another wave chased them from their feeding.
They sat in silence for a while, but Frodo knew he had to tell Gandalf.
‘You told me to have mercy on Gollum, to spare the wretched creature,’ he said, looking away from Gandalf, looking into the blue of the sky.
‘And you did, on many occasions. It was the reason you were saved in the end, the reason we were all saved.’
‘And yet Gollum died.’
‘Through his own act.’
Frodo turned to look at Gandalf. The harsh grass of the dunes scratched against his ankles. He lifted a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. ‘Gollum was cursed. That is why he died.’
‘Yes, I supposed you could say that. He was cursed by his possession of the Ring, by the act of violence he committed to obtain it.’
‘No, I cursed him.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I... He tried to take the Ring. I threatened him... cursed him. I told him if he should ever try to take the Ring again, he would be cast into the fire. I murdered him.’
‘Frodo, you could have killed him there and then. He betrayed you, attacked you, and still you showed him mercy. Always, Gollum had a choice.’
Frodo hunched into himself, cold despite the sun shining down on him. ‘Just as I had a choice as to whether I claimed the Ring?’ He felt Gandalf’s eyes upon him and looked up to meet a regard full of pity.
‘Frodo, what did you feel when you claimed the Ring? Triumph?’
‘Horror,’ Frodo whispered, ‘I felt horror. I was in my body, but it was not mine to command. My voice spoke and mocked me; my hand moved, and I could do nothing. Sam was there, but my mind denied me - denied him - laughing at me. I was in chains and my captor was myself.’ He bowed his head, shaking at the memory. Gandalf’s arm drew him close, and he leaned in against the wizard’s robes, feeling small and lost.
‘Frodo, if you had truly wanted the Ring, if you had not in your heart wanted the Ring destroyed, you would have been driven to madness by its loss, and not even I could have saved you. But you were still there, Frodo of the Shire, subjugated, fettered by a force greater than your strength - but still there. Understand this, Frodo, if that were not the case, you would not be sitting here now.
‘You did not curse Gollum, if anything you were foretelling, simply that. It was no more than the truth that you told Gollum, but there was nothing left of Smeagol to listen, and Gollum was already driven mad.
‘I thought I could save him, Gandalf.’
‘You tried hard. There were times you almost reached him, but in the end his lust for the Ring, and his thirst for revenge, won. It was his nature from the beginning, and yet you touched something within him, something no one else had.’
‘He thought I had betrayed him.’
‘And in that he showed his nature clearly. It is what he would have done, it is what he did do. The fault was not yours, Frodo. You cannot answer for the twisted workings of another’s mind. Never before has a mortal been allowed to dwell in this land of release. It is not because you bore the Ring, Frodo, that you have been given this grace. You denied the Ring and you showed pity and mercy to your foe, who would have killed you if he could.’
They sat in silence, and Frodo felt the chill begin to lift, the sun warm on his face.
‘Bilbo and Sam as well,’ said Frodo at last. ‘They both gave up the Ring and spared Gollum.’ He shifted, and sand spilled down the dune in rivulets; he watched the patterns form and break. ‘Yet... well, I thought you said they were allowed for my sake.’
‘They are allowed for your sake, but only because, as you say, they both denied the Ring and were merciful to Gollum. If their nature were different, they would not be allowed to come here; on their own, they would not need to come here. The need is yours... and maybe Iluvatar’s; the Maia do not see all his purpose. It may be that he wishes for you to be whole and joyful, before you blend your song with his.’
Frodo looked up, his mouth dropping open. ‘Surely you jest, Gandalf. I am but a grain of sand in his eyes.’
Gandalf smiled down at him, and cast a hand to indicate the beauty of the scene before them. ‘Together grains of sand can achieve much, and he knows each one; but you... I think you hold a special place in his heart, as you do in mine.’
Frodo felt his tears flow. ‘I love you, Gandalf. You are as a father to me.’
‘I love you, dear boy; but you are a child of Iluvatar. He is your father, and he loves you.’ He stood up, dusted the sand off his robes, and held out a hand to Frodo. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘show me where you have a mind to make a home.’
Frodo blinked at the veiled power above him, his mind trying to grasp all that Gandalf had said. He was dazzled and confused.
‘Frodo?’
He blinked again, and there was Gandalf, leaning on his staff, still holding out a hand to him. He grasped it and was pulled to his feet. They walked back through the pines and among the soft hills until they found the perfect spot. Gandalf walked around muttering to himself and then tapped his staff on the ground.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘You will find water here. Now I think we should be getting back before Bilbo is too worried.’
Frodo opened his eyes, and there was Bilbo, sitting in a chair, a worried frown on his face as he met Frodo’s eyes. ‘Are you all right, lad?’ the old hobbit asked, his voice husky with concern.‘ He looked up at Gandalf and back to Frodo.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ said Frodo. Bilbo’s expression relaxed in relief, and Frodo smiled at him. Bilbo gave a cry and was across the room and kneeling by the bed quicker than Frodo would have thought possible. He stared at Frodo as though not believing what he was seeing, and caught hold of his hand to press a kiss to it.
‘What?’ asked Frodo, confused. ‘What is it?’ He glanced up at Gandalf, but the wizard was laughing with delight and was no help at all. His mouth quirked in a smile again in response to Gandalf’s good humour, and Bilbo reached with his free hand to touch his cheek. Frodo turned back to his cousin and his smile widened at the look of wonder on Bilbo’s face. ‘What is it?’ he asked again.
‘You’re smiling,’ said Bilbo quietly. ‘Oh, my dear Frodo! You’re smiling!’