here at journey's end by Arveldis

here at journey's end

Read here at journey's end

Ithilien, April 3019

Soft footfalls trod on the leaf-strewn ground behind where Frodo sat against a tree, and he looked over his shoulder to see Legolas approaching him.

“It is good to see you hale again,” the Elf said warmly, sinking down to sit next to Frodo.

“I feel much better than I have these past days,” said Frodo. “I shouldn’t wonder that the mere air of this place has worked some spell upon me.”

“It is a fair land indeed.” Legolas looked with appreciation upon the flowering mead, flush in the bloom of high spring, that spread before the edge of the grove in which they sat. “My father’s people would dwell happily here and would make it fairer still and heal it from the scars of war.”

They sat in silence for several moments, and the trickling of a nearby stream and the twittering of birdsong filled the air. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves in the trees. Frodo glanced at the Elf sitting next to him. His gaze was far away, and Frodo wondered if what he saw was in sight or in memory.

Here, Frodo thought, was one he might confide in. He could not speak of his grief with Merry and Pippin, who, dear as they were, could not understand the weight he had carried for so long; and he did not want to burden Sam, though he alone understood the torment of the Ring. Still, Sam did not understand the weight of the other cares Frodo carried, the wounds that marked him in body and spirit. But something in his heart whispered that the Elf next to him would listen to his cares.

“I fear, though, that the change this place has wrought in me is in body only,” Frodo said softly, fixing his gaze upon the flowering mead. “Though I may be hale in body, I will never be hale and whole in spirit again.”

For a long moment, Legolas looked out at the meadow in silence. “Lord Elrond would be certain to welcome you in Imladris again for as long as he remains in these lands.” He turned to look at Frodo, his glance keen but kind. “He knows well the grief of wounds that go too deep to be healed.”

“I do not think even Rivendell could soothe this hurt.”

Legolas looked upon him with an expression of immeasurable sorrow. “Then it must be a grievous wound indeed that you bear.”

“It is,” Frodo whispered, and his hand crept to the scar left by the Witch-king’s blade.

“And greater the sorrow of this grief that it mars the days of peace and plenty,” Legolas said. “You least of all should have to bear such a burden, and yet it is because of the burden you carried that you bear this one, is it not?”

Frodo nodded. “I do not think my heart will ever feel peace again, not here among the bright meadows and shaded glades, nor in Lord Elrond’s house, nor even in the Shire, dearest of all to me.”

They fell silent again, and Frodo appreciated the Elf’s quiet presence. He did not wish to hear empty words of comfort, and Legolas did not offer them.

“I, too, feel a restlessness in my heart, though it is born not of an injury, but of the long memory of my kind,” Legolas said at length. “I shall never feel at peace beneath the trees as I once did, for the call of the sea is piercing and ever present. Still, I shall dwell here for a time, and the elves of the Greenwood will make Ithilien the jewel of Gondor. But my heart will be divided for as long as I remain here.”

“Then these days are marred for the both of us, it seems.” Frodo glanced at Legolas and found that he was looking far into the distance again, but Frodo could tell that he was still listening.

He responded after a moment. “My people are no strangers to such days. Bittersweet, too, are the endings of all of the Elven tales. Hope is mixed with sorrow, joy with grief.” Legolas turned to look at Frodo. “But grief does not lessen the good that has been done. Indeed, my people would say that hope and joy are the greater—sharper, sweeter—for having been tempered with sorrow. Perhaps we shall find such a thing true at the end of this tale as well.”

“Perhaps,” echoed Frodo. “Perhaps.”

 

---

 

Minas Tirith, July 3019

Frodo wandered through the streets branching away from the Citadel, clutching in his hand the star-gem Queen Arwen had gifted him, his thoughts occupied with the queen’s words. A choice lay before him now, one as sweet and bitter as the queen’s own choice. And though he knew he need not decide his path now, his heart was heavy from the decision nonetheless.

Without intending to, he found himself on a small path that led into the gardens around the Houses of Healing, and he followed it, glad for the peace and stillness of the gardens. A short distance away, he descried Legolas walking along a connecting path, his head tilted as he listened to the chattering of the birds and squirrels, and Frodo made for the Elf at once.

Legolas turned with a smile. “Well met, Frodo.”

“Well met,” Frodo answered.

Legolas started down the path again and gestured for Frodo to join him. “I have come here often since we returned to the city. It is a place of calmness among the commotion, I find. And it is a good place to unburden one’s mind, if I read your face rightly.”

“You do,” said Frodo. “I have much on my mind, for Queen Arwen has granted me her place on one of the ships that shall sail from the Grey Havens.”

The Elf looked at him, his eyes lit with wonder. “You have been accorded a great honor.”

Frodo nodded. “And it is a choice I do not wish to make lightly.”

“Nor should it be,” Legolas agreed. “Where does your heart lie on the matter?”

“My heart would have me leave soon but for my love for my friends. They will not understand, not even Sam—especially Sam. And it would break my heart to grieve them again, so soon after the griefs of the war.”

“There is no easy choice,” said Legolas. “Grief there will be if you stay, burdened by the wounds of your journey, but grief, too, there will be at the parting and for those you leave behind, if you choose to leave.”

“It seems an impossible choice, though I know what I must do. It is only when I will do it that I cannot decide. I still wish to go back to the Shire, for it is my home still, despite all that has happened. But I fear that I will not find it the same Shire that I left, that it will fit me oddly, like a coat grown too tight across the shoulders.” Frodo watched a curtain of water spill into the basin of a nearby fountain, throwing up glimmering droplets as it hit the surface. “And that would be the greatest grief of all.” He thought for a moment. “It will be the same for you, though, won’t it? Your home will never feel the same now that you have heard the call of the sea.”

Legolas turned to look at where the walls of the sixth level of the city would be, if it were not for the stands of trees obscuring the view. Frodo wondered if the Elf could hear the distant cry of seagulls even now, this far inland.

“No, my home will never feel the same now,” Legolas said, his expression wistful. “My heart will be restless every hour I spend within its borders, far removed from the shores of the sea.”

“How will you know when it’s time?” Frodo asked.

“When I have seen the wonders of Fangorn and Aglarond with Gimli, when my father’s people and I have made Ithilien the fairest garden in Gondor, and when my friends have passed beyond the circles of this world—then I will know that it is time,” Legolas said.

“I wish that I could decide so easily, and that my heart were not so burdened by the weight of the decision.” Frodo followed the Elf’s gaze forlornly.

Legolas turned to Frodo with a soft smile. “Your heart will know when it is time, Frodo—that I do not doubt. The call of the sea is sweeter than that of any mortal tongue. And whatever grief there may be in the parting, it will not endure on the shores of the Blessed Realm.”

Frodo felt a stillness in his heart then, a quieting of his fears. “I am glad of it,” he said, “for I do not think I could make the choice myself. I shall stay as long as I can, then, for the sake of my friends, until my heart bids me otherwise.”

“As will I,” said Legolas.

And they walked in silence along the paths of the garden, but their hearts were far away, filled with thoughts of distant shores and sunrises, and of light spilling forever upon the fair lands of a far country.