Into Grief and Beyond It by StarSpray  

Minas Tirith

“Beren now, he never thought he was going to get that Silmaril from the Iron Crown in Thangorodrim, and yet he did, and that was a worse place and a blacker danger than ours. But that’s a long tale, of course, and goes on past the happiness and into grief and beyond it—and the Silmaril went on and came to Eärendil. And why, sir, I never thought of that before! We’ve got—you’ve got some of the light of it in that star-glass that the Lady gave you! Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales never end?” - The Two Towers

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Frodo had read descriptions of Minas Tirith in Rivendell, had heard Boromir describe it many times, but still he was unprepared for the sight of it, riding west across the ruined Pelennor. It was built up the side of and into the mountain, and out from the center was thrust a strange outcropping, a battlement of white stone; someone compared it to the keel of a great ship, and Frodo could only take their word for it having never seen a ship. Still the idea stuck in his mind—of the city as a ship, moored at the base of the mountain. He started dreaming of the sea again, of waves lapping against the stone as the city-ship cut through them, carrying him somewhere far away.

After the coronation, Frodo found himself drawn often to the easternmost point of the battlement, where there was a bench cut into the walls, on which he could stand to peer over them at the dark mountains on the eastern horizon, or to look down onto the plains and the work being done there, cleaning up the mess of battle and repairing what could be repaired, preparing for the farmers and townsfolk who had lived there to return and begin rebuilding their homes and their lives. Trains of wagons came trundling up the road every day, bearing women and children and others who had fled or been sent away from the city before the siege, so the empty streets slowly filled and the unnatural quiet was replaced with the bustle and noise that belonged there.

He could not say why he went so often to look eastward. He knew what he would see—clear skies over mountains that were, now, only mountains. There was no lingering Shadow, no fumes spewed forth from Mount Doom to cover the sky and hide the sun or moon. If asked, Frodo could not explain why exactly there was a part of him that expected to wake up one morning to find that something had gone terribly wrong and that Sauron was not gone forever, that he had only slipped away to come back stronger and more frightening than ever just when they were all starting to feel like they could breathe again. He knew, after all, better than anyone that he really was gone—gone never to return, and taking something of Frodo with him.

One bright afternoon, some days after the company from Lothlórien and Rivendell had arrived for the wedding of Aragorn and Lady Arwen, Frodo went back out to the battlement to stare at the distant Ephel Dúath. When he got there, however, he found that he hadn’t been the only one with that thought in his mind.

Frodo knew who Maglor was, of course. He’d seen him first at the Council in Rivendell, seated beside Aragorn. He had not spoken much except in occasional whispers to either Aragorn or Erestor; afterward Frodo had asked Bilbo about him, since he appeared so different from the other Elves that Frodo had met, and Bilbo had reminded him of the old stories of the Elder Days—of Maglor, whose voice was like the sea—and told him all about how Maglor had come after many long and lonely years of wandering to dwell with Master Elrond in Rivendell. Now, Frodo supposed it wasn’t all that surprising to see someone who had only narrowly escaped the Necromancer in Mirkwood gazing east toward Mordor.

Maglor glanced down at him as he climbed up to stand on the bench to look over the wall down toward the Pelennor. “It does not feel quite real yet,” Frodo said, leaning his arms on the sun-warmed stones.

“No, it does not,” Maglor agreed, voice quiet. He fidgeted with his hands, rubbing the thumb of one over the palm of the other as he looked east. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the sky. Somewhere nearby someone started singing a cheerful song of springtime and blooming flowers, and after a few lines other voices joined in. After a little while Maglor said, “I think, Frodo Baggins, that I owe you an apology.”

“You?” Frodo said, turning to look at him in surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Well, not me personally perhaps—but on behalf of my House. Or really on behalf of my nephew, who is not here to offer it himself.”

“Your nephew?” Frodo repeated, still quite confused. “I don’t understand.” He wasn’t sure that he had known Maglor had had a nephew—though with six brothers, Frodo supposed it would have been odd if he didn’t have at least one or two running around somewhere.

“Celebrimbor,” Maglor said. “He was once Lord of Hollin—you passed through those lands on your journey south, I believe.”

“We did.” And the name was familiar, but not because of anything having to do with the Ring or the Quest. “Wasn’t Celebrimbor one of the ones that made the Doors of Moria? Yes, that’s what they said—The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs.” Frodo paused, and then said, “And the signs on the door were those of Durin of course, with the crown and the stars and the anvil and everyhing, and there was also the Tree of the High Elves, and the Star of the House of Fëanor.”

“Our House, yes,” Maglor said, smiling a little, though his eyes were dark and sad. He wore his hair loose, and the breeze blew dark and silver strands of it across his face. “Alas for Celebrimbor—he wanted to make the world brighter, to take that star and give it new meaning. I’m told that he succeeded, at least, in the latter. More see it now and think of the friendship of Hollin and Moria than of—what came before.”

“I will certainly always think of those doors,” said Frodo, “and the holly trees growing beside them. They’re all broken now, the trees and the doors, and I’m very sorry for it, because they were very beautiful. But what would he of all people need to apologize to me for?”

“He made the Rings,” Maglor said softly. “Or—many people made them, or helped to make them, but he worked most closely with—” His gaze flicked eastward again. “When the Enemy cloaked himself in fair guise and came to Ost-in-Edhil, it was Celebrimbor who welcomed him.”

“Oh,” said Frodo. He thought of what Elrond had said at the Council of the making of the Rings, and of the empty lands of Hollin where Legolas had said only the stones remembered the Elves who had once lived there. “What was it like, Hollin, before it was destroyed?”

“I am sure that it was beautiful. Celebrimbor always wanted to make beautiful things. But I never saw it—my wanderings took me very far from those lands for a very long time. I passed over the Redhorn and through Hollin only many many years after it was all destroyed. There was nothing left to see.”

That sounded, Frodo thought, very lonely. He looked up into Maglor’s face and thought that he was still lonely, though he lived in Rivendell and Frodo had seen him just that morning after breakfast laughing with the sons of Elrond and with Glorfindel. “Thank you,” Frodo said, “but I don’t think you need to apologize to me for anything. I don’t even really know if I would accept an apology from Celebrimbor. He was deceived, but that isn’t his fault. Not really. That’s what the Enemy was good at, wasn’t it? That’s what the Ring did—all the time.” It twisted your thoughts so that you lied to yourself, which was worse—about what you deserved, what you were capable of or might be capable of if you just put it on. It promised all kinds of things, and Frodo hated how he kept reaching into his pocket expecting—half-hoping—to find it there, smooth and cool against his fingers. “And not all of the Rings were bad. The Elven ones—Lady Galadriel’s, for one—they’ve done so much good. Are we allowed to speak of them now?”

“Yes—there is no need for secrecy anymore. Nenya, Narya, Vilya—they are now worn openly, for their power is done. The Enemy never had a hand in their making—that was Celebrimbor alone.”

“Then,” Frodo said, “if I were able to, I should be thanking him. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for those Rings. And—well, Sam said once recently that we’re really all just part of the same story as the one about you and your brothers, and Beren and Lúthien, and Eärendil, and all the rest. I’ve got this star-glass that Lady Galadriel made for me, and it’s got the light of Eärendil’s star in it, which is the light of the Silmaril that your father made, isn’t it? And Sam and I never would have made it without this glass—so I’ve got Lady Galadriel and Eärendil and Fëanor to thank too. And—well, since you apologized on your nephew’s behalf, maybe you’ll accept my thanks on your father’s.”

Maglor blinked at him, his expression for a moment almost stricken. Then he recovered, and smiled. “My father made many marvelous things, and performed many great deeds, but that his Silmaril was a source of light and hope to you in the darkest places must rank highest among them. I’m glad of it—though this task should never have been placed upon your shoulders. That is what I mean to apologize for, really—that the deeds of my family have rippled through the years to catch you up in them. You should have been able to remain in Rivendell to recover, to stay with Bilbo in safety and in peace.”

“But I chose it,” said Frodo. “And—well, maybe I didn’t quite understand all of what I was agreeing to do, but I understood enough. And I don’t regret it, even if I failed in the end.” He turned his gaze back east, toward the dark mountains. It felt sometimes like a part of him was still there, still in the Cracks of Doom with the Ring on his finger, crushed by the weight of Sauron’s gaze as it turned so abruptly toward him, realizing too late what had been happening under his nose all along. His missing finger ached; his hand felt heavy even with it gone, it and the Ring. “I knew when I left the Shire that I wasn’t likely to return—my adventure was never going to be like Bilbo’s.”

They stood in silence for some time, listening to the singing. The wind changed to blow out of the east, but it smelled fresh and clean, like spring grass, and the chill that traveled down Frodo’s spine was only in his imagination. “I still feel like he is looking for me,” he admitted very quietly, without looking back at Maglor.

Maglor’s hand rested on his back, gentle and warm. “I know,” he said, equally quietly. “I feel it too.”