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“Well, well. Rise and shine!” Bilbo sang from where he was scrambling eggs at the stove. Gandalf, too, raised his morning cup of tea in greeting.
“Mmmrrph,” Frodo replied, as politely as he could at such a hideous hour in the morning, and looked blearily about. Then he frowned. Something was different. Changed. Downright awry. Gandalf! Gandalf, a hard traveler who usually looked like something a bear had caught in its fur, was wearing flowing white robes that gleamed so brightly clean they hurt Frodo’s poor, tired eyes. Gandalf’s hair and beard, too, were white and…and neatly trimmed?! The characteristic slump of his shoulders, as if the poor, old wizard were carrying the world on his shoulders, was gone. He sat in his chair as straight as a spring reed and he was grinning. Frodo finished his gawp and turned towards Bilbo. Another shock. Bilbo had always loved good clothes, was persnickety about his appearance, but this?! The old hobbit was dressed in a blue shirt so fine it seemed to ripple like pool water and his vest! It was too early in the morning to face such lively colors, such embroidery. And he had white hair, too. He actually looked old. Bilbo looking old? Frodo blinked in numb confusion as he gave his shoulder a scratch.
“Eggs and sausage, Frodo?” Bilbo offered, hopping down from a step stool in front of the too-big stove. Entirely too big. Everything was oversized; it suited Gandalf perfectly but Bilbo looked like a child playing in the kitchen.
“No, thank you, Uncle Bilbo.” This place was out of a fairy story. He gazed up at ornately carved walls of glimmering white stone. Tall, elaborate windows let the morning sunshine stream in. And he couldn’t put a name to half the utensils in this kitchen. “What did you do to Bag End?” Frodo slurred. He flexed his shoulder again. It was sore. He must have slept on it wrong.
The wizard and the old hobbit exchanged a Look. Sudden mischief was in Gandalf’s voice. “Bilbo redecorated to keep the Sackville-Bagginses from wanting it so badly. You should have heard Lobelia shriek.” Frodo nodded. That was precisely the thing Bilbo would do. The expense must have been staggering, though. “Have a cup of tea, Frodo?” Gandalf offered.
“Nnnno. Thank you. I think I need another couple of hours asleep.”
“Take all the time you need, dear boy,” Bilbo softly answered.
“G’morning, then.” Frodo turned and staggered back to his room. Which was also all wrong. Frodo didn’t have the energy to care and he quickly crawled beneath the unfamiliar, but lovely, coverlet. Which was also white as the falling snow. Odd. His last conscious thought was a determination to look up the color white as it pertained to dream symbolism on the morrow. Or, if books failed, he’d ask Folco Boffin’s mother, a wise-hobbit, what it all meant. He owed sweet Mrs. Ebony a visit, anyway.
Tomorrow.
Death, death, pain, ash and fumes that burnt his lungs with every rasping breath and an Eye, an Eye that could see everything, everything, but not him, no, it hadn’t spotted him nor his precious, his precious Ring of Gold, his own Ring, his own and no other’s it promised him, oh, it promised him everything and, no, no, the Burning Eye hadn’t caught them yet, not yet…
Wake up, Frodo, said a strange and gentle voice, deep inside his mind.
Frodo gasped and slapped at his head as if a spider were descending down upon it. He stared wildly up at the ceiling. There was no spider, no spider here. And the ceiling. Too high, too beautifully carved… still all wrong. Was he still dreaming? Let’s see…
Take the air, for instance. Glorious, clean air. He breathed it in deeply, again and again. Ah, cool, night air with just a tinge of sea salt in it. Lovely sea breezes, yes, Bag End doesn’t have those. The trembling of his body began to ease as he looked for more clues. Ah. It was pitch dark but he could see perfectly; every piece of furniture, every thread in his sheets. Since when could he see in the dark? Most telling of all, however, was the elf sitting on the edge of his bed. Frodo slowly sat up.
An elf. An ELF?! Yes. He was tall, impossibly tall and his grey eyes were sharp as they looked at Frodo. He did not look as young as elves were rumored to but he did not look old either. The edges of his mouth were just barely quirking up, but it was as warm a smile as Frodo had ever seen. An elf on his bed?! The clammy grip of confusing unreality slipped from Frodo to be slowly replaced by wonder. He stared. And only stopped staring when he realized that staring was rude, even in dreams. “Hello?”
“Hello. Do you know me?” The elf’s voice was soft and Frodo was reminded of the soothing tones of healers. Memories crept into Frodo’s mind. Healers. He could feel pretty Lala Took smoothing some ointment on his sunburned skin. He could hear Old Tolo Proudfoot (Proudfeet!) telling him that the quicker he drank this nasty concoction, the sooner he’d be well. Here was Mrs. Bell Gamgee bringing him miraculous chicken soup and singing to him. Gamgee… Gamgee… so many memories… “Do you know me, Frodo?” the elf gently asked again.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I’m… I’m afraid I don’t have that pleasure, sir. My name is Frodo Baggins. Of Bag End. In the Shire. My mother was a Brandybuck.” Frodo stopped his babbling. Ooh, what credentials.
The elf just smiled. “I am Elrond Half-elven. My mother was Elwing, who chose to be a Firstborn of Iluvatar.”
“She’s the elf that could talk to birds and fly, right?”
“Er, yes.”
Frodo whistled, impressed. Elrond looked nonplussed and a gentle snort of laughter broke through the darkness. Frodo turned to see Bilbo leaning against a green, velvet chair and seated there was another elf, a lady. She was a vision, an outright vision and Frodo, dismayed, shot a look at his old guardian. Bilbo just shrugged and smiled. The maiden was so beautiful it pained Frodo and he was suddenly possessed by a decision to run his hands through her magnificent blonde hair. She grinned and leaned forward, in as good humored an invitation as he’d ever seen. So much for nightmares. Dismissing that Elrond character entirely, Frodo got out of bed and swayed for a moment with fatigue. He could barely stand. But his will was set, to put it mildly, and he walked to the chair as best he could. “I’m…I’m Frodo.”
“My heir,” Bilbo said with pride.
“I’m Celebrian,” the Vision introduced herself.
“His wife,” Bilbo pointed out.
“My wife,” emphasized an unwanted voice from the direction of the bed as Frodo reached up with both hands to cup her face. This, this here, was much, much better than muttering, lying rings and the jealous flaming eyeballs that chased them. Celebrian was warm and sweet and she liked him, he could tell.
“Where are you, Frodo?” she asked and her voice was all the gold he’d ever desire again.
“I’m asleep. My dreams are terrible,” he answered. “Well, you’re not terrible, thankfully. Bilbo isn’t either, nor Elrond, and there was Gandalf earlier. And…and…” he ran his fingers along her soft locks, then stopped in sudden shock, “And I seem to have lost a finger in your hair.” He stared at his hand, confused. He counted again, one-two-three-four, yes, four, and no mistake. What? What in the world had happened? Celebrian smiled as she took him by the wrist and kissed where his ring-finger used to be. The pleasure of it tingled all the way up his arm. Much better. “Oh, I’m dreaming,” he breathed and took and held her hand.
“And when you’re awake, where are you?” she asked.
“In the Shire with my friends,” Frodo answered.
“Tell me of your friends.” She tilted her head as if inviting all his secrets and Frodo obligingly leaned closer and dropped his voice.
“Ah, there’s Freddie and Folco and Pearl and Pip and Merry and Estella and dear, dear Sam. They’re my best friends. You’d love them.”
“Do you love them?”
“Oh, yes! Of course!”
Celebrian seemed delighted, almost to the point of laughing out loud. “Can you see them? The sun upon them? Can you hear their laughter?”
“Yes,” Frodo grinned.
Show me, please. Show me all your treasures.
Frodo accepted the fact that he could do just that as, of course, this was a dream and nothing was impossible. He looked into her eyes and opened his heart. And there they were, his loved ones. His treasures. Here were his parents and here was his grief when they were gone. But then, here were his dear aunt and uncle, Esmeralda and Saradoc, who took the Baggins orphan in and loved him as their own until they allowed him to be adopted by grand, adventurous Uncle Bilbo. Speaking of Brandybucks, here was Merry covered in stings and excited about a new method of subduing honeybees that he had discovered. Lovely Estella giving him an even lovelier kiss under the Yule mistletoe. Pearl raiding Farmer Maggot’s mushroom patch with him and she, at least, was too clever to get caught. Fredegar baked him a birthday cake and it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. Pippin was needing comfort. His father had, to everyone’s shock, become Thain of the Shire and the entire family had to leave their home to move into Great Smials. “And then do WHAT, Frodo?!” the distraught teen demanded. Frodo could only shrug and be there for his cousin. Here was Folco, teaching them all a dance he’d learned in Bree. And here was Sam. Sam Gamgee loyally defending his odd, bookish employers at the Green Dragon and wherever else an insult reared its ugly, ignorant head.
“Why won’t you show me the Ring?” Celebrian asked.
Frodo flinched. “That… that is no treasure.”
She smiled, thrilled with his answer, and Frodo was gratified. “But you remember your friends,” Celebrian asserted. “They are not ghosts to you.”
“No, never,” Frodo assured her.
“Good!” He felt her joyful approval in his heart and she moved to kiss him on the brow in celebration. But this was Frodo’s dream, damn it, and he straightened and caught her on the mouth. He dimly heard Bilbo snort again and vague mutterings from that Elrond person (were they still here?) even as he felt Celebrian’s soft lips happily kiss him back. Then his legs gave out and she caught him, to his dim embarrassment, and bore him back to his bed as if he weighed nothing. The soft, warm blankets received him and he could have howled with gratitude, he was so tired still. So very tired.
He heard whispers from the greyness and realized it was Elrond speaking to his truant wife. “Is this how it was for you, my love?”
“Yes.” Was her simple answer.
Frodo felt a gentle, familiar hand smooth back his hair. Bilbo. “Uncle Bilbo,” he managed to whisper.
“Hm?”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Ah. He’s not here. But he’ll be along, eventually.” The old hobbit murmured.
“Sam. Sam, he… ” Frodo whispered. He had to get this out before sleep walked off bodily with him. Bilbo had to know.
“What, Frodo?” Bilbo asked. “Sam what?”
Frodo raised a fore-finger in the air to show he meant this. It was vitally important and the rightness of it was strong in his mind if nothing else was. “Sam deserves a raise.”
Bilbo laughed. “Certainly, certainly, I’ll give him a fine increase.”
“Thank you,” Frodo had strength enough to say and then he was gratefully gone to where no dreams were.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two three, four.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two three, four.
One, two, three, four, five.
Here’s a story for you. There once was a hero. His name was Frodo Baggins. He was fifty-four years old. He was a hobbit.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two three, four.
He had traveled into the very heart of Evil. He had dragged some friends in with him and abandoned others, unwarned and unwary, behind. They had all been hurt. Still, they were all alive and Good had won over Evil in the bitter end.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two three, four.
But our hero had died. There was a Frodo-shaped shell that walked and talked and laughed but it was only a show. A pathetic false front. The gap on his hand reminded him every day, every dim, sick moment, that all his dark and Golden desires had disappeared, leaving only ash and a dead carapace behind.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two three, four.
That was no fun so he had sailed away. Sailed to Tol Eressea, blessed isle of the Valar and the Firstborn, for healing. If he could be healed. One, two, three… “And he could.” Frodo croaked out loud. He dropped his hands and stiffly crawled out of bed. He found water in silver basins and washed. The Ring was gone. Gone forever. He missed it.
But he missed his friends more.
And he was glad.
Frodo found some clothes that were cut in the hobbit style but looked to be made of milk and starlight. What? White again?! He put them on anyway and sat on his bed. He struggled to control himself and failed miserably. He was glad of that, too.
His name was Frodo Baggins. He was on the island of Tol Eressea with his Uncle Bilbo. He was alive. Frodo Baggins was alive and he missed his friends, badly. He was so glad he did, so glad he could. He wiped his nose on his starry sleeve and remembered. He remembered bonfires and fireworks and rare snowfalls. Dances and games and a good day’s work done. He remembered the sorrows and the joy. He remembered the love. He remembered everything. It was no dream. The gap in his hand did not symbolize the vicious circle of metal that had died. It symbolized his friends who had survived.
As he had survived.
“Frodo? Are you awake?” Bilbo said, peeking in at the door.
“Yes, Uncle Bilbo. Yes, I am.” He got up and smoothed his ridiculous clothes. Bilbo crossed the room and peered at him closely. “I’m awake,” Frodo laughed self-consciously, “I know where I am. And Lord Elrond is going to kill me.” With remarkable strength for someone older than the Old Took, Bilbo crushed Frodo to him. Frodo returned the hug and began to cry again. “All this salt air,” he sobbed, “Is making my eyes water.”
Bilbo grinned. “Oh, a joke!” He passed the back of his hand over his own eyes. “Listen to you, joking. You’re back. Thank heavens you’re back.” They drew apart and Frodo nodded, unable to speak. “Want some breakfast? Well, lunch, anyway.” Frodo frantically nodded again. His stomach was in a triple-twist of painful hunger. That was new and he was, of course, glad. “C’mon!” Bilbo beckoned to him and led the way to the kitchen. “Come eat and then we’ll go explore our new home! Your Galadriel tells me… remember Galadriel?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“She says she has kin here, the Noldor. She was the last of the Noldor and now she’s returned home after so long. I think there’s a story there. Let’s eat and then go find her.” Frodo followed as eagerly as he used to when Bilbo took him out adventuring in the Westfarthing. That was long, long ago but he remembered. He remembered it all. His grey dreaming was done.
And our hero lived happily ever after to the end of his days.
End