Frodo looked up as Ninquelótë joined him in the garden, and pushed back the hat that shaded his eyes against the sun. He himself had arrived early, a consequence of a restless night thinking about Sam. In the end, and when there was enough light to see Sam’s portrait, he had turned to the relief of memory combined with hand. The fantasy had been heightened by the roughness of his palm: easy to imagine this was Sam’s soil-leached skin. Even now - when he had breakfasted and walked the long way to the garden, to take in the quayside and an uninterrupted view of the sea - he was still living in that moment of orgasm when he had cried Sam’s name and been met by the reality of his solitary bed.
Ninquelótë seemed to understand that Frodo was not all there, and beyond a greeting, he did not engage him in conversation. This garden was well-established, and Frodo needed no guidance, but simply carried on where he had left off the day before. Gradually, his thoughts shifted from Sam, to gardens, to this garden. Ninquelótë strolled over. ‘Ah, my neophyte is back,’ he said with a smile. ‘Good-morning, Elendil.’
Frodo laughed. ‘You read me too well, Ninquelótë. How did you know?’
‘Your eyes told me this morning,’ said the elf. ‘But just now? You stopped guarding yourself and relaxed. Were you with Panthael?’
Frodo wiped sweat from his brow and nodded. He had not cried for some time, but felt tears were not far away now.
‘Come and sit in the shade,’ said Ninquelótë. Frodo peeled off his damp shirt and joined his friend. He liked the way Ninquelótë called him his neophyte - a little like an apprentice in the Shire, except no money was involved. If an elf decided to garden, he did so because he loved it; there was no question of payment. It had not escaped Frodo’s attention that neophyte literally meant “new plant,” and he enjoyed being called that as well, but mostly, Ninquelótë called him simply “Elendil”, and Frodo was honoured to be named elf-friend.
The elf whose garden they were tending brought out drinks for them, bowing respectfully. There was no question of “humble gardener” here: if Ninquelótë and Iorhael brought their skills to your garden, then you were honoured. Frodo stretched his back and gratefully swallowed the liquid. Initially, he had found muscles he didn’t know he had, but it had become easier.
There was a sweet scent on the air, and he looked up to see yellow flowers twining through the branches of the tree above them.
‘Do you have...’ He hesitated, and found he couldn’t ask if there were sweet-peas on Tol Eressëa, since although he knew the words for sweet and pea-flower, all pea-flowers were sweet, so how to describe what he wanted to know?
‘Yes?’
‘In the common tongue we say “sweet-pea”,’ said Frodo. ‘I love them for their colours and scent, although truth to tell, I’m not sure whether I loved them from the first, or whether it was Panthael’s thinking I did that made them exquisite in my eyes.’ He smiled. ‘That sounds silly, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Ninquelótë. ‘It is often the associations in our minds that make things dear to us. Now, for my part, cherry blossom was everywhere when my daughter was born, and I love to see the clouds of blossom in tuilë. When we have finished here, let us go to my house, and I will show you my paintings of flowers. You can see if the one you wish for is there. Later today, I have been invited to go to the outskirts of the city and consider a new garden to be made. Those returning, those who are staying in the city, are gradually building homes. Would you like to come? We will need to feel the presence that speaks to us in the land, and also divine the inner wishes of our host. That can take a little longer with an elf who has dwelt in your land. We are estranged in our experiences, but we will grow together with time.’
Frodo looked up, pleased at the offer. ‘May I? I should like that. I love the way you consider yourself a guest.’
‘But of course. I have been invited, so I am a guest.’
Frodo donned his shirt again to resume work; his body was becoming more tolerant of the sun, but he had no wish to burn. His clothes had settled into a pattern unique to him. He wore light linen or fine cotton trousers, but unlike those of the Elves, his were gathered at the ankles, otherwise they annoyed him, brushing over his bare feet. He had tried shorter breeches-like garb, but the material was too fine to hang as Shire breeches should. The tailor had tried making them narrower to compensate for this, but the result was too restricting for Frodo’s taste. He still favoured the early experiments with shirt and overtunic, and the shirts had evolved into what he now wore: quite close-fitting, but allowing for movement. The narrow neckband was usually open at his throat, but could be buttoned up close when increased elegance was called for, and the shirt hung loose over his trousers. Over this, when occasion demanded, he wore a tunic without fastenings that hung below the shirt. It was versatile and comfortable. He favoured white shirts, the only problem being how dirty he made them, scrabbling around in gardens. When he voiced this, the worry was dismissed. If Herunya Iorhael wished to roll in mud, it seemed no one was about to complain.
Before heading to Ninquelótë's house, they stopped off at the baths, and then completed the relaxation by sipping wine as they sat cross-legged in Ninquelótë's garden. Before them were scattered a pile of paintings. Ninquelótë tried to pull out only the pictures of flowers of the pea family, but Frodo stilled his hand and slowly turned pages in delight. All the pictures entranced him with their fine detail; he was ready to swear he could smell the flowers, and there were hidden delights in every picture. The more he looked, the more he found, until his eye was drawn to the minutiae and it was a surprise to suddenly see the broader picture again.
‘These are lovely!’ he exclaimed, and laughed when Ninquelótë tried to look nonchalant. You didn’t have to be a hobbit, it seemed, to appreciate your work being praised.
‘There are few who would agree,’ said Ninquelótë. ‘These paintings show what we can see in our memories, so many say there is no point in them.’
‘But do they not see how they draw the eye to ever smaller details?’ asked Frodo. ‘Each picture is a whole world, or so it seems to me.’
‘They say they are old fashioned,’ said Ninquelótë. He smiled his wide smile. ‘I like to think my paintings are ahead of their time.’
Frodo laughed. ‘That is a good thought,’ he said. ‘But I do not see the flower I was asking about.’
Ninquelótë pulled blank paper from the pile and handed Frodo a selection of coloured pencils. ‘Draw it for me,’ he suggested. Frodo was about to protest that he couldn’t draw, but, after all, he only had to draw it well enough to be recognisable. He closed his eyes to picture the flowers at his bedside, back in Bag End. He had no doubt that Sam still filled the smial with them. He never noticed when Ninquelótë left him to his thoughts. He looked at the symphony of colours: dark purples, brilliant reds, pale lilacs, delicate pinks, and - slipped in between them - brilliant whites that heightened the intensity of all the other colours. He looked closer at their form, sensuous in their voluptuousness; he smelt the sweet scent, drifting on the breeze from the window; and then he opened his eyes and reached for the paper and pencils.
He didn’t look up until Ninquelótë returned, bearing a tray of refreshment. The elf nodded with approval. ‘You have a talent,’ he said. ‘But, alas, they do not grow here. We could try to breed something similar.’ He gathered up the paintings strewn on the ground, and one slipped free which was not a flower picture. Frodo caught it and gasped.
‘This is lovely!’ he cried. ‘A beautiful likeness of your daughter. I wish I could draw like this.’
‘I can give you guidance if you wish,’ said Ninquelótë, ‘but now we must go and visit the site for the new garden, or we will not be finished by star-opening. That is if you still wish to come.’
‘Oh, yes. I’d like to see how you plan out a garden.’
‘That is good, and I would welcome your help. Those returning are not the same as us. They have been touched by the mortality of Men... and Halflings.’ He bowed to Frodo, and his face saddened. ‘I am learning much from being with you, my friend, if only how fleeting such a friendship must be.’
The new house was almost finished, as white and elegant as all houses in Avallónë were, and open to the sea breezes. Some white stone lay around, and a stonemason was shaping blocks. An elf came to greet them.
‘Glorfindel!’ exclaimed Frodo.
Glorfindel knelt on one knee and placed his hands on Frodo’s shoulders. ‘Iorhael, this is an unexpected honour.’
‘The honour is all mine. I hope all is well with you and yours.’
They accompanied Glorfindel on a tour of the house, and Frodo found it carried within it a memory of Rivendell: sometimes his vision flickered, and he saw again the last homely house. ‘I have not seen the Lord Elrond at any feasts lately,’ he said.
‘No, the Lady Celebrían prefers the Elm Forests on the foothills of the mountain,’ replied Glorfindel, ‘as does the Lady Galadriel. Elrond dwells there also, for a time.’
Frodo fell back as they walked into the area cleared for a garden. Ninquelótë started questioning Glorfindel about his life, but turned to call Frodo forward. ‘Come, let us sit together,’ he said. Frodo let the voices wash over him, trying to visualise beauty where at the moment there was only builders’ spoil. Gradually a garden grew before his eyes, but there was something missing. He looked where the land rose more steeply and saw waterfalls cascading down.
‘Yes, oh yes,’ breathed Glorfindel. ‘Can it be done?’
Frodo jolted back to the present, and Ninquelótë laughed. ‘Herunya Iorhael thinks it can,’ he said.
Frodo blinked at him. ‘You could see what I was seeing?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes, Elendil. I’m afraid I let you do all the work, and the result was not only unexpected, but I think very welcome.’
Frodo looked at Glorfindel, and found the elf-lord’s eyes were shining. He lowered his gaze in confusion, not sure what had happened.
‘Let us walk up there and see if there is a water source, but I have every faith there will be,’ said Ninquelótë. ‘Then we can discuss with the stonemason what needs to be done, to make Iorhael’s vision the reality.’
Water there was, and it would take very little diverting to achieve what Frodo had seen. As they poked about, Frodo asked Ninquelótë a question that had been occupying his mind.
‘Where is the stone quarried from?’
‘The north of the island,’ said Ninquelótë. ‘Why?’
‘Would they know about delving? Halflings prefer to live underground.’
‘The very finest white sandstone is from an underground quarry. They tunnel through it. It is a warren, not for the unwary, but they must know about delving.’
‘May I ask a favour of you, Ninquelótë?’
‘I would be delighted.’
‘But you don’t know what I wish to ask.’
‘You would like me to come with you to where you have a mind to build -’ he smiled and corrected himself, ‘- to delve, your home.’
Frodo nodded and smiled back.
‘I have a friend,’ said Ninquelótë, ‘whom we should ask to join us. He designed this house.’
‘How did you know that is what I wanted to ask?’
‘I felt the time was right. You are ready to step away from your friends a little.’
Bilbo came as well. He and Frodo had already made the journey several times, at different seasons, getting a feel for the land. Gandalf had laughed the last time they returned.
‘You are getting very Elvish over the subject of time, Frodo.’
Frodo had smiled back uncertainly, unsure if it was a compliment or if Gandalf simply meant he was dragging his heels. ‘I have lost track of the number of times we have celebrated the festival of Yavanna,’ he had admitted.
Gandalf’s answer had brought his head up with a jerk, and resulted in him consulting Ninquelótë in order to put his many ideas into practice. Fifteen! Fifteen years!
Now Frodo and the two Elves wandered over the chosen site, watched by Bilbo, who was sitting on the hillside. The older hobbit had been silent on the journey, but this caused Frodo no alarm. When Bilbo left pen and paper behind, he simply turned to planning his poetry in his head.
Frodo was enjoying himself, reminiscing about the Shire to his companions. He was very aware of the light chain around his neck, plaited from three strands of silver, from which hung the latched pendant that held Elanor’s hair. In his hand the robin nestled, and his thumb moved in lazy circles over the breast made smooth by this familiar action.
Sam!
Gradually his image of his home here clarified around his thoughts of Sam, and then wavered as the elf beside him gently took the image and showed him other ideas.
Frodo nodded. He had been thinking only of Halflings, but the elf was right: compromises were necessary. They let the image flow back and forth, until Frodo nodded again. They stood, brushing down their clothes, and Ninquelótë’s friend sketched out what they had been looking at. Frodo took it to show Bilbo.
Ninquelótë, meanwhile, had drawn his knife and cut a turf to look at the soil. He brought a handful to Frodo, who crumbled it between his fingers and sniffed at the rich, moist smell.
‘That is good soil,’ he said.
Ninquelótë nodded. ‘Higher, it is thin and poor, but on the low ground it is very good. You already have a good screen of pines and birch to shelter your garden from the easterly winds carrying salt.’ Together they walked back and forth, seeing a very different scene from the close-cropped turf. ‘Yes, you will need walls and fences,’ agreed Ninquelótë. ‘The goats will not deal kindly with a garden. They will only see it as a generous addition to their diet.’
Frodo laughed. ‘In the Shire, it was rabbits that were the problem.’
‘You could keep some of the smaller goats for milk and cheese,’ suggested Ninquelótë. ‘And I cannot imagine a garden of yours without bees.’
Creating a home was a project that kept Frodo busy for a long time. Working with Ninquelótë on Glorfindel’s garden brought him into contact with the Elves who worked with stone. They carved out the courses for the waterfall with ease, and seemed to regard rock as a living entity, with the slow pulse of millennia. They talked to him of working with the rock and not fighting it, of finding its inner form and releasing it. Frodo was fascinated. He had always thought of rock as just rock, even after Gimli’s glowing descriptions of Helms Deep. He grinned at the thought that here were Elves that Gimli would find himself at home with, Elves who spoke the same language. It was a shame that the dwarf would never have the opportunity to meet them.
‘It is not harming the stone,’ they explained. ‘It will work with you, if you strike it right. It is the nature of stone to change. It will yield to sympathy, but treat it without thought, and it will change from soft and malleable to hard and truculent in a moment. If you wish to know how to work with it to make your home, come and visit us when we are quarrying.’
So it was that Frodo found himself exhausted and covered in fine dust; he stretched his aching arms and wondered how he had ever worried that he would not know what to do with himself in Elven lands.
He was shown how to breathe, letting the natural rhythm between inward and outward breath be mirrored in the swing of the hammer against chisel. He was shown how to follow the line of least resistance in the stone, and how to lift with little effort. As he worked, he felt the impact of the blows send waves of strength up his arms to his shoulders, his torso and down through his legs into his widely planted feet. He came home to Avallónë feeling four feet tall and found he viewed the city through new eyes, having seen the love that had brought forth the stone that made it.
Bilbo laughed to see him. ‘Excellent timing!’ he said. ‘There is a feast in Lord Elrond’s honour, since he’s visiting Avallónë. Have something to eat, and then we should go to the baths. Have you had a bath while you’ve been away?’
Frodo took the proffered food, and ate hungrily. He grinned at Bilbo. ‘That bad?’
‘No, my dear boy. Not “that bad,” but you look fairly ingrained with dust. You’ll need a good soak. Some of the Elves in Glorfindel’s household were boasting that you designed his garden; they might regret that if you look too disreputable.’ Bilbo stood back and looked at him critically, then clapped him on the shoulder, releasing clouds of dust. ‘I must say you look well for it,’ he said. ‘Your hair needs cutting, though; then you won’t need to tie it back like that.’
Frodo shook his head. ‘I’ll leave it long,’ he said. ‘When I’ve bathed, I’ll get it braided and it will be neat enough.‘ He returned Bilbo’s regard. His cousin was looking very dapper, and very pleased with himself. ‘How have you been, Bilbo?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry I was away so long. They had a lot to teach me.’
‘I’ve been busy on a poem,’ said Bilbo. ‘You can hear it tonight.’
‘Really? They’ve asked you to read it?’ Frodo hugged Bilbo, knowing how much that would mean to him. More dust was released, making the older hobbit cough.
‘Well, it probably helped that Elrond is used to my poetry,’ said Bilbo modestly, when he could speak for choking. ‘Let’s get to the baths, and I’ll tell you about it.’
Once Frodo started work on his home, baths became a treat to savour whenever he returned to Avallónë. The sea was his bath in between times and his hair became so thick and matted that he had to capitulate and let Bilbo cut it short. Bilbo mostly stayed in Avallónë, content to know that Frodo was doing what he wanted. Help appeared from the beginning, as first one elf from the distant northern quarries arrived, then another. Water was the first priority, and was found exactly where Gandalf had said; as soon as they started digging for a well, water gushed up from an underground spring.
His fisher friends did not neglect him and were frequent visitors, to observe progress and deliver supplies. This was useful, since the quickest way back to Avallónë was to accept passage in one of their boats. Gandalf also arrived, wanting to see for himself how work progressed, and not just hear about it from a distance.
‘Frodo?’
‘Gandalf! Wait! I will be out in a minute.’
Frodo downed his tools and picked up a candle from a niche in the wall. He emerged blinking into the sunshine, and Gandalf knelt before him to hug him.
‘How does your burrowing go, my dear holbytla?’
‘Well. Better than I hoped. There is no need for anything as grand as Bag End.’
‘No, just you, and Bilbo... and Sam.’
Frodo sighed and picked up mugs to fill with water from the spring. It was cool and refreshing. He splashed some over his face, and then looked up at Gandalf. ‘Will he come?’
‘Oh, Frodo! I wish I knew and could set your mind at ease,’ said Gandalf gently.
Frodo handed one of the filled mugs to Gandalf. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let us sit where we can see the sea. Then I’ll have a swim to freshen up, and we’ll have something to eat.’
They sat where they had sat in their imaginations many years before. ‘There is no need to tell me how you miss him,’ said Gandalf. ‘I see it always. I’m sorry I cannot tell you what happens now in the Shire. My time in Middle-earth has ended, and all knowledge is denied me.’
Frodo gratefully leaned into Gandalf’s embrace. He was naked from the waist up, but he pushed his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out the robin. The hard physical work at least kept his body tired and less inclined to yearn for Sam’s solid presence.
‘I’m all right really, Gandalf,’ he said as he stared out to sea, out eastward. ‘I still hope he will come.’
‘As do I. But I have to say, you feel well and look well.’ The wizard reached out and touched the jagged scar on Frodo’s shoulder. ‘You radiate light, Frodo. No darkness left, and it makes my heart glad to see it. There is only the shadow left on your heart, and that will be healed in time.’
‘Even if Sam doesn’t come?’ asked Frodo quietly, looking up at Gandalf.
‘Yes, even if he doesn’t come.’
‘So you’re saying I will forget him with time?’ He blinked back tears.
‘Forget! No!’ Gandalf’s jutting eyebrows rose in an expression of shock. ‘You will never forget Sam, but there is a place beyond grief, where you can love the memories for themselves.’ His face gentled. ‘But we should still hope to see him.’
Frodo laid his forehead against his knees, cutting out the glare from the sun on the water. ‘I need him, Gandalf,’ he said simply. ‘I need to hold him, kiss him. Oh, how I want to kiss him.’ The need welled within until he could almost feel Sam’s fingers sliding up his neck to cradle his jaw. He sought refuge in movement and leapt to his feet, shedding his clothes to run into the warm waves and throw himself into the welcome embrace of the water. He dived down, twisting and turning, dislodging the rock-dust that still clung to his body and hair, and was joined by sleek forms that wove trails of bubbles around him. They surfaced together: three - no, four - heads bobbing up nearby. He knew better than to try and approach closer; they would dive and race away. Round heads in shades of grey and brown regarded him with large, dark, inquisitive eyes. Long whiskers quivered as they stretched their necks forward, then they were gone with barely a swirl of water.
Frodo smiled and swam back to the shore. The exhilaration of the swim, and the sensuous feel of the warm water flowing over his naked skin, had relieved his longing, for the moment. Moreover, it was a good day when the sea-hounds decided to join him, and that was enough to restore a mood of optimism. He let the waves wash him up onto the shore, picked himself up and ran back to Gandalf. The sand was hot underfoot, and as he passed the high tide line - scattered with seaweed and tiny dead crabs - the sand became soft and more difficult to run on. He gathered his clothes, barely panting from the exertion, and stood dripping as he looked at Gandalf.
‘I love it when the sea-hounds swim with me,’ he said, and knew he had no need to say more. ‘I’ll get you that lunch I promised you. We have some food cooking in a pit; it should be ready.’
It was indeed ready. Frodo pulled on clean clothes and slipped the chain of his pendant over his head, while his two companions crouched over the pit they had made. They pushed the hot peat aside to lift out the fish wrapped in charred leaves. There was bread, Gandalf had brought wine, and they sat eating with their fingers while swifts wheeled high above.
‘I apologise for the lack of proper tableware,’ said Frodo, pouring Gandalf more wine. ‘And I’m afraid there are no finger bowls.’ He grinned as Gandalf licked juice from his fingers. It was good to see Gandalf roughing it. Quite like old times.
Gandalf helped himself to more fish. ‘I shall expect better service next time,’ he said, and had to swallow his fish hastily as Frodo suddenly wrapped him in a hug.
‘Make it sooner, Gandalf,’ he said. ‘I love to see you, as well as talk to you.’
‘As I love to see you. And of course I will be back for the party.’
‘Party?’
‘When you have finished. One thing I’ve learnt about Halflings is that they delight in parties. Any excuse or none - and finishing your home seems like an excellent excuse.’
There were times when it seemed to Frodo as though they would never finish. Ninquelótë appeared regularly, offering moral support when things went badly - and usually more tangible support, in the form of another of his friends to solve the problem - and rejoicing with Frodo when things went well. The carpenters were not used to panelling curved walls, but Ninquelótë produced a friend who was a boat builder, and he showed them how to steam the wood for the framework that would hold the panels. The smell of sawdust in the air reminded Frodo of the restoration of Bag End.
While the carpenters were busy inside, Frodo helped in the building of an L-shaped extension on the outside, giving space for Elves to visit without inconvenience. Within this was a cooking/eating area on two levels that opened directly from the smial, and sleeping accommodation that extended away from the hillside. All was open to a courtyard, contained and sheltered within the two sides of the building. They used the rock that had been excavated, so the house seemed to grow from the hillside, and Frodo learnt on the job. The roof sloped down towards the courtyard, thatched with reeds, and guttering carried the scant rainwater away to storage barrels: a suggestion of Ninquelótë’s.
‘Yes, I know you have plenty of water,’ he said. ‘But it will save you some carrying of water for the pots of plants you are thinking of in the courtyard. You will have to use the spring as well, rainfall is no greater here than in Avallónë. It is the mountain that gathers the rain clouds and sends us water in rivers and streams.’
Meanwhile, the stonemasons expertly cut blocks into thin sheets of paving slabs for the courtyard and kitchen area, and Ninquelótë produced a friend who made furniture.
‘I was honoured to make the furniture for your house in Avallónë,’ the newcomer said, bowing to Frodo. ‘But it was very difficult, not knowing you. This time I will be able to make exactly what you desire.’
They set out candles throughout the smial, and wandered from room to room, talking about Frodo’s hopes, Sam, the Shire, Sam, the building work, Sam. Gradually, a simple pattern of furnishing emerged. While discussing the bedrooms, Frodo decided to satisfy his curiosity about his room in Avallónë.
‘Why did you give me a double bed, but Bilbo a single one?’ he asked.
The furniture maker hardly paused in the work he was doing. ‘Oh, as to that,’ he said, ‘I knew your beloved was to be allowed to follow you, so it hardly seemed worth having to make another bed after such a short space of time.’ He stopped as he saw Frodo’s stunned look. ‘I am sorry. Did I presume too much? I asked for all that could be told of you, hoping to make the house worthy of you.’
Frodo suddenly laughed. ‘No, no, it’s not that,’ he said and rubbed his nose. ‘It’s just, for me, it doesn’t seem that short a time. You make the waiting seem much shorter. I’d not looked at this separation from an elf’s point of view before.’
‘The span of sixty or seventy festivals of Yavanna,’ said the elf. ‘What is that?’ He made it sound as though it was merely the time between one Highday and the next.
For the first time Frodo thought No time at all, it’s no time at all, and he was singing as they emerged into the sunshine again.
By the time Bilbo arrived on foot - always on foot; he had no love of boats - the smial was almost finished.
‘I am amazed,’ he said as he explored inside and out. ‘Truly amazed. It feels like I’ve come home.’
Frodo hugged him. ‘You don’t have to live here, Bilbo,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you? If you want to remain in Avallónë, then I’ll visit you often and be glad to know you’re there.’
‘My dear lad, didn’t I just say it feels like home! Of course, if you don’t want your old cousin living here with you...’
‘Bilbo! How can you... ‘ he started, and saw Bilbo’s lips quirk and his eyes light up with laughter. He hugged Bilbo again and joined in his laughter. ‘Oh, it’s good to see you,’ he said.
Bilbo hugged him back. ‘Don’t doubt I want to be with you, Frodo,’ he said, suddenly serious again. ‘Poetry I can write anywhere. I know I left you before, in another life. That wasn’t an easy decision to make, you know that, and if you’d have been ready to come with me, then I’d never have looked back. I realise now, of course, that if you’d come with me, I would never have parted with the Ring, and I would have taken my problems with me.’ He sighed. ‘Instead, I left my problems to you.’
‘You didn’t know, Bilbo,’ said Frodo. ‘It’s time you stopped berating yourself for that.’
‘Well, it warms my heart to see you so well now.’
Frodo smiled at him, thinking how it also warmed his heart to see Bilbo looking, not young exactly, but certainly not old. Timeless, maybe. Bilbo clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And I never tire of seeing you smile,’ he said. ‘Now, are you going to offer me any refreshment? I’m very intrigued by the table.’
They strolled out of the midday sun and into the kitchen, where a table spanned the two levels of the room. Ninquelótë stood and bowed as they entered, and Frodo saw understanding dawn on Bilbo’s face. His cousin stepped up to the higher level and sat at the table, nodding his head and running his hand over the wood. ‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘As long as I don’t forget and fall down the step. Do stop bobbing about, Ninquelótë, and sit down!’ Ninquelótë beamed at them both and obliged Bilbo by seating himself again. Soon he was joined by the other Elves and there was no doubting the ease of the arrangement. Halflings and Elves could sit in comfort at the same table, which spanned the two different levels of the room; there was no need for piles of cushions or awkward high chairs for the hobbits, and no need for the Elves to sit with their knees bent up around their ears. They ate together with much laughter, and the discussions mainly centred around what remained to be done, but there was very little. Frodo found it hard to believe - the hard work had seemed never-ending at times - but they really were nearly finished.
No formal arrangement was made for a party; it just seemed to happen, and it was a very joyous affair. Gandalf came, of course, and Frodo was honoured to welcome Elrond, Celebrían, and Galadriel. In turn, they bent low to kiss him on the brow and the lady Galadriel took his hand. ‘Now, we both await only for our hearts to be made whole,’ she said.
Late in the night, as the merriment and feasting continued, Frodo sought solitude, climbing to where the silver birch edged the shoreward hill. He sat for a while, gazing down at the lanterns that turned the scene below him into a mirror of the sky above, and then lay back with the elvish wine singing in his veins. Above him, Eärendil sailed across the vaulted sky, as bright as the moon. Frodo remembered Sam’s hope in Mordor, and remembered how moved he had been by Sam’s simple telling of his thoughts and new-found strength as he looked at this great star. He remembered the light of Eärendil that had travelled with them into the darkest places, only defeated, as he had been, in the heart of the enemy’s stronghold. Even as he had been! The thought had not come to him before. At the heart of Sauron’s realm, all other powers were subdued. All other. His frail-held power to resist the Ring had failed, just as the light of the star-glass had failed when Sam entered that place of darkness. He looked up at the great power of Eärendil’s light and wondered, for the first time, how he had ever thought that a mere mortal, a small halfling from the Shire, could have triumphed over the power of one of the Maia, locked within the Ring he carried.
He turned his head as Gandalf seated himself beside him. ‘You all spoke as though this thing could be achieved,’ he said quietly, and there was a lamentation that seemed to fill the air around him.
‘Yes, my friend. For if we had told you it was not possible, you would not have had the will to endure as you did. I am sorry. It was necessary for you to find endurance in hope, before you could find endurance beyond hope.’
The air behind Gandalf seemed to waver in the starlight, and there was a tall lady standing behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder. She looked upon Frodo, grave and beautiful, and he was full of fear, and yet... and yet, he was not afraid. It was like the fear of the crashing storm or blazing lightning that might sweep you away, and yet you were lost in the wonder of it, knowing that should you perish, it was not by the will of the elements, but by your own folly for facing them.
Small child of Ilúvatar, have pity on my faithful servant Olórin.
Frodo blinked, and there was only the silvered trunks of the birch, and over them the dark shadows of pines. On the night breeze there was the faintest echo of a lament. He realised he was trembling.
‘Gandalf?’
Gandalf closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Nienna,’ he said quietly. ‘From her I learnt patience and pity. She brings strength to the spirit and turns sorrow to wisdom.’
‘Gandalf, I do not blame you. I only seek to understand.’
‘I know, child, I know. Yet still I would welcome your forgiveness. You were drawn into the great war against the enemy of the light, and too many lives have been squandered in that fight. You were used as a playing counter in a game of skill and chance, and we hazarded all upon your moves. We risked your capture and imprisonment in the Dark Tower, in torment and pain, and even in our success we risked the loss of your mind. Yes, I would welcome your forgiveness.’
Frodo pushed up from the ground in one fluid movement, and his arms were around the bowed shoulders of the wizard before the thoughts were completed in his mind. His body made contact with Gandalf harder than he intended, and Gandalf rocked backwards, throwing his arms out behind him to save himself as his eyes flew open. He laughed and levered himself back into a more decorous sitting position, folding his arms around Frodo. Frodo laid his head on Gandalf’s shoulder.
‘I pity you for your hard decisions, Gandalf, but I’m not sure how I can forgive you, when I see nothing to forgive. I never felt I didn’t have a choice, not until I stood in Sammath Naur, and then,’ he smiled at Gandalf, ‘I had no choice. I know you told me so, as did others, but only tonight did I truly believe it.’
‘And I would still ask your forgiveness, because I knew that should you reach that place, all choice would be stripped from you. It is why it seemed like folly, except for the prompting of my heart that therein lay our only chance.’
‘Then I forgive you freely, Gandalf.’ He raised his head to look into Gandalf’s eyes and opened his mind, hiding nothing from Gandalf or himself. His gaze was held, and when he was released, the stars had unaccountably jumped several degrees across the heavens. He sighed, feeling drained and weary, and slumped against Gandalf. Barely aware of being carried to his home, he heard Bilbo’s voice of concern and Gandalf’s quiet reassurance, and then he drifted into sleep.
He awoke in a warm cocoon of bed covers and soft mattress; he felt at peace, but there was something missing. He turned, throwing out an arm, and sighed at the emptiness beside him. Sam! Sam was missing. There was little point in staying in bed, and he pushed back the covers. The darkness was filled with a soft glow that made other light unnecessary. Who would have thought that being the Ringbearer, and being stabbed by a morgul blade, could make such a saving in candles. He laughed softly, not at the joke, but at the fact he could even think it.
He had been laid to rest in his clothes, and he pulled off the fine tunic and trousers that he had worn for the party. The locket swung free and then was confined by a light cotton robe. He tightened the belt and fumbled in the discarded clothes for his robin. The small bird nestled in his palm, and he sat down suddenly on the side of the bed with a soft moan of need. Closing his eyes, he imagined Sam kneeling behind him, wrapping his arms around his chest and softly nuzzling into his neck. ‘Oh, Sam!’ he whispered. He was tempted to take the memory further, let the warm hands tease open the knotted belt and go their separate ways - one to circle lazily over hardening nipples, the other to slide up his thigh - but he had neglected his friends the night before, and he should make some show of being a host. Regretfully, he stroked his shaft in promise of things to come, and pulled on some drawers under the robe to hide the obvious tenting effect his erection was making.
The kitchen and courtyard were bright with the early sun, and he blinked after the cool dimness inside the smial. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the bright light, and then he saw that the courtyard was full of Elves in meditation. He walked quietly to the table and helped himself to drink and food that had appeared. He had expected the usual post-party debris, but all was neat and tidy, with plates and glasses clean and stacked. He sat, using the change in floor level as a perch, and watched the Elves. Ninquelótë often meditated, and he recognised the signs. In sleep, their eyes were open - he had known that from long ago, travelling with Legolas - but the Elves before him sat with eyes closed, and he felt a serenity emanating from them.
Frodo sipped at his glass of juice and studied the Elves; there was quite a mix. Ninquelótë sat in the middle of a half circle facing Frodo, and with him were Celebrían, some of the shore-folk, and the friends who had helped Frodo in a myriad of ways. It was Ninquelótë who stirred first, opening his eyes and smiling broadly at Frodo’s contemplation of them. Gradually the other Elves came to life; they rose and without exception bowed to Ninquelótë as they murmured words of thanks. ‘Hantanyel, Tura.’
Frodo realised, rather belatedly, that his mouth was hanging open. Tura. He hurriedly closed it as Ninquelótë laughed at him. Master! Even the Lady Celebrían had called Ninquelótë “Master.”
Gradually the Elves around him ebbed away, until only Ninquelótë and he remained. His friend patted the ground beside him.
‘Will you join me?’ he asked.
Frodo sat next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder as he lowered himself cross-legged. ‘Is meditation something I could do?’ he asked, looking up into Ninquelótë’s eyes.
‘Of course. I have only waited for you to want to learn.’
‘Oh.’ They sat in silence for a while, as the sun rose higher overhead and the distant bleating of goats was carried on the breeze. ‘Ninquelótë?’
‘Yes?’
‘You said you had not always been a gardener. What did you do before?’
‘Do you not know?’
Frodo shook his head. ‘No.’
Ninquelótë beamed at him. ‘I am a healer, but gardens can be very healing, can they not?’
Frodo was at a loss for words; he could only stare opened-mouthed at Ninquelótë for the second time that morning.
‘Lest you think that means that I befriended you for reason other than you own sake, let me say now, I love you dearly, and I have gained as much as I have given.’
‘I love you, Ninquelótë. I am overwhelmed by all that you have done for me, my master. It was not coincidence, then, that you were my gardener?’
‘No, it was not a coincidence. I had worked with the lady Celebrían when she came from the darkness of her captivity, and there have been many others who returned sick at heart.’
‘She calls you master.’
‘So do you.’
‘Because you are my teacher.’
‘Just so. All those here this morning have sought my help and guidance in their meditation. Now you are ready to do the same. It has been a long journey for you, but your body and mind are healed, and now it is time for your spirit to grow.’ He took Frodo’s hand. ‘I do not speak of your heart, but that will be healed as well, with time.’
‘Whether he comes or no.’
‘Yes, whether he comes or no.’
Frodo sighed at this echo of his conversation with Gandalf, and then turned his mind back to meditation. ‘What must I do?’ he asked.
‘There are many ways to meditate,’ said Ninquelótë. ‘We will try several and see what suits you best. Remember you are learning; it will take time and patience. Do not try and make things happen, or force your feelings, and do not be disappointed if your mind wanders from the path. Make yourself comfortable, and close your eyes. Look at any lightening of the darkness - the patterns you see behind your closed lids - but do not concentrate on them, just be aware of them. If your thoughts wander, bring your mind back to the light. Light is so much a part of you, Elendil, that I think this will be a good place to start your journey.’
Frodo did as he was bid. He sat quietly for a while, then opened his eyes to look at Ninquelótë. ‘My mind keeps wandering,’ he said. ‘I can’t seem to pay attention.’
‘But of course. It is a learning process. Do not worry about it.’
‘What should I see or feel?’
‘There is no should about it. Do not expect anything.’
Frodo tried again. After a time he felt as though he were floating in a dream world, and he opened his eyes for no other reason than to see if he could do so.
‘You see?’ said Ninquelótë. ‘You are quite safe, you can come back at any time. How do you feel?’
‘Very peaceful,’ said Frodo. He yawned. ‘And tired,’ he added.
‘That was very good,’ said Ninquelótë. ‘Maybe you should go back to bed. You were up early this morning.’
‘No. No, I don’t think so. Are you going back to Avallónë soon? There is some advice I would welcome on starting the garden, and I’m also having trouble getting the pictures in my mind into my drawings.’ He stopped, rather horrified that he should be asking an elf who was treated with such reverence by the likes of the Lady Celebrían to help him with drawing, and Ninquelótë laughed.
‘I am still your friend, Iorhael, at least I hope so. I am honoured to be helping you, and my heart sings to see your growth.’
Frodo jumped to his feet, a great joy bubbling up within him, and Ninquelótë held his arms wide to receive him and hold him close. ‘I’m blessed to have you as a friend, Ninquelótë,’ said Frodo softly, and the elf kissed him on the forehead.
They made a tour of the garden, only present in their imaginations as yet, although the walling was finished and paths laid out. A channel had been cut for the spring water to flow down, creating a stream that added the pleasant sound of running water to the distant sounds of goats, the wild calling of sea birds and, closer, the trilling of goldfinches in the pine trees.
They walked back to the courtyard, and then round the buildings to where a culvert carried waste from the water closet and bathroom to a series of reed beds, terraced down the hill side. Below the lowest, the soil had been removed and banked around an excavated hollow. Frodo was taking it as an act of faith that this would eventually fill with water purified by the reed beds, and even overspill and form a stream down towards the marshes to the west of his home.
They discussed all that Frodo wished for guidance on, and then headed back to the kitchen, where they joined Bilbo in a second breakfast. Bilbo looked at Frodo anxiously.
‘You are all right, aren’t you, my boy? You would tell me if you weren’t?’
‘I’m fine, Bilbo. In fact, I’m finer than fine. I feel...’ He threw his arms out wide, not knowing how to express how free and easy he felt, and nearly knocked Bilbo’s glass over.
‘Careless?’ said Bilbo drily, moving his glass out of harm’s way.
Frodo grinned at him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Care less, care free, happy.’
‘Oh, my dear Frodo. You mean it, don’t you?’
Frodo jumped up to hug him. ‘Yes, I mean it, Bilbo. If my Sam were here, life would be perfect.’
In the absence of Sam, Frodo filled the smial with pictures drawn from memory: sometimes a study of Sam’s face, sometimes a picture of him working in the Bag End garden, and sometimes a careful detail such as his hand holding Frodo’s - each callus and line of vein lovingly remembered. Tucked away in his room were other drawings: Sam standing still and naked in Rivendell I don’t think you can, Sam! and Sam lying on his back in sleep, his arms thrown above his head, one thigh rolled out, his sated shaft nestling soft amongst brown curls.
Frodo drew the Elanor of his visions as well, and found the scenes could be called up as fresh as ever. He drew her with a daisy chain in her hair, both as she sat under the party tree, and throwing her head back in laughter as she rode Sam’s shoulders, and he brought his vision of her in her party clothes to life. At Bilbo’s request, he hung these pictures in the kitchen, and the old hobbit sat staring at them.
‘She is beautiful,’ he said at last. ‘It thrills me to think there is a Baggins still living in the Shire.’
‘If Sam comes,’ said Frodo carefully, schooling himself to admit of the possibility that he would not, ‘he will be able to tell us about her. She may be married by now, Bilbo.’ He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘She may have children of her own.’
Bilbo actually laughed at that. ‘Grandfather Frodo, eh, my lad! Now there’s a thought. Now let me see, what will that make me? First and second cousin three times removed, either way. Hmmm, not quite the same decorous sound as grandfather, do you think? You’d best sit yourself down before you tire yourself out and let me... Ow!’ Frodo had flicked him with a drying cloth in passing. They laughed together, and Bilbo fetched some wine to drink a toast.
‘To Elanor!’ he said, raising his glass.
‘And her Sam-dada,’ said Frodo softly, and drained the golden wine.
The days flowed by, and the garden of imagination had become reality, when a welcome siesta in the cool of the smial was disturbed by a knock on the door. They had plenty of visitors, but not usually in the heat of midday, and Frodo opened the door to find Ninquelótë with hand raised to knock again. With a cry of joy, he launched himself at his friend; no matter that he saw him regularly for friendship’s sake and for instruction, he was always delighted to see his master. Ninquelótë dropped onto one knee as was his custom, and they hugged.
‘Welcome, oh, welcome. Sit down, let me get you some wine. What brings you here?’
‘You mean apart from the pleasure of seeing you, Elendil? I can see you have been pursuing your meditation. The light is very strong in you.’ He took the proffered glass of wine and smiled at Frodo. ‘Thank you. I have come because I have a friend who needs my help.’
‘You know you only have to ask,’ said Frodo, delighted to be on the giving side for a change. Bilbo came out to see who their visitor was, and Frodo handed him a glass of wine as well.
‘I need you to go to Avallónë. The boat that brought me is waiting.’
‘There is need of haste then?’ Frodo looked at Bilbo.
‘I can walk over to the shore-folk tomorrow,’ said Bilbo. ‘I’m sure there is someone who can come and help me with your goats and the garden.’
‘Good. I’ll get my pack, Ninquelótë, and be right with you. You can tell me what you want of me on the way.’
Ninquelótë smiled his widest smile. ‘You misunderstand me, Elendil, but by all means get your pack. You will need it.’
Frodo stopped on his way back into the smial. ‘What have I misunderstood?’ he asked. He could sense a great joy welling up within his friend.
Ninquelótë laughed and clapped his hands. ‘You are the friend who needs my help,’ he said.
‘I do?’
‘Yes. Yes! You must go, so I must stay to help the poet, and make sure your garden does not wither in this heat. I’m sure the poet would have good intentions, but his poetry would call, and your garden would suffer, and the poor goats bleating to be milked.’
Bilbo rolled his eyes at this infamy, but Frodo stood in front Ninquelótë and stared up at him. His hands felt clammy, and there was a tight knot in his stomach.
‘And why must I go?’ he asked quietly.
Ninquelótë knelt and drew him close; he took Frodo’s right hand in his, running his fingers over the scar. ‘Because there is a ship on the Straight Path,’ he said quietly.
‘Is it known that he is on it?’ Frodo‘s voice was hoarse, but he was surprised he could speak at all.
‘Yes, it is known,’ said Ninquelótë, and he caught Frodo as he sagged. Frodo clung to his friend and hid his tears against his shoulder. It was too much; so much joy it was painful.
‘Hold to your centre of calm, Elendil,’ Ninquelótë said gently, and Frodo nodded to show he had heard, even if he was unable to reply. He let his breathing slow, focusing on the rhythm until he ceased trembling. His tears were harder to stop, but at least he could stand without his legs giving way. He hurried to his room, pulled out his pack and threw a few belongings in. The robin and pendant were already on him. He tied his hair back, paying little attention to neatness; he knew from experience what a nuisance long hair was blowing free in a strong sailing wind, whipping across the face and obscuring sight.
He hurried back to the kitchen. Whatever happened, he must be there on the quay to meet Sam. He and Bilbo embraced without words - there were no words glad enough - and Bilbo handed him water and lembas, and pushed him towards the courtyard. ‘Go!’ he said, as though Frodo needed any persuading.
Ninquelótë bent down and kissed him. ‘Namárië,’ he said. ‘A swift journey and a joyful return be yours. Send word if the need for me is greater in Avallónë than here. I look forward to meeting your Sam.’ He stumbled a little over the unfamiliar name, lisping the first consonant slightly. Frodo kissed him in turn and then turned and hurried away. The next time he stood here it would be with Sam beside him! No, best not to think that, he decided, just think about getting to the shore quickly. He raced up the slope to the pines and ran down the other side where it turned to dune land. The path through the marram grass was loose sand, and he dug his heels in to stop himself sliding. The fishermen cheered him on and clapped him on the back as he hoisted himself onto the gunnel and tumbled over the side. He picked himself up from the bottom boards as one of his friends pushed the boat out and then clambered in beside him.
Frodo knew what was needed - he had sailed with them often enough; he sheeted in the jib as they started to sail, and then sat down suddenly. He was torn between laughing and crying. The rush was over, and he had nothing to do except think of Sam’s arrival in Avallónë.