The Ring-bearer in Lorien.  From the journal entries of Galadriel of Lorien. Written in the Winter of the year 3019 of the Third Age.

The Ring of Power approaches, borne by a Halfling, a trivial race – untraveled and uninformed - but doughty, I am told.  Hobbits, they call themselves.  But I did not see the bearer of the Ring - only the jewel itself - radiant circle of white light, entrancing and perilous as the nimbus of an occult sun, larger than could be carried by Elf or Man. Slowly, haltingly, it makes its way through our forest.

The Ring… nearly a thousand years have passed since I last considered it, yet it assails my senses now as when its power was new to me, and I feel its ascendancy once again - the more so as it comes within my reach.  I had abandoned hope of such a chance and finally even convinced myself that such hope was foul, a sign of the Ring’s aggression.  Now, I am not so sure.  The Ring’s shape alone - unadorned, unflawed - inspires thoughts of healing, peace, joy unending… dangerous in the hands of its dark lord’s minions, but upon the finger of a handmaiden of the Valar?

I envision little else besides the Ring, though at times only its heat, its glow.  And that is enough!  Never in all my years battling its maker has it been so near - a profound evil of compelling beauty and promise, potent as the snow cast bud.

Indeed, the Ring has haunted my thought since I learned of its possible reappearance nearly a year ago, in scant hints and cryptic rhyme from the Grey Wizard.  Then, in the biding of the last Hunter’s Moon, word reached me from Elrond of Imladris – the briefest of messages: ‘A halfling has come, bearing the one which was lost. Nine have sought him.’

The One, the ruling Ring, had it returned as the Mithrandir suspected?  The Nine, the Enemy’s most deadly henchmen?  Were they held at bay?  Who was this halfling?  So I pondered.

At length, Lord Elrond engaged my thought again, telling of a council that convened in his halls, where Mithrandir recovered from incarceration at the hands of Saruman - the White Traitor.  There, the One Ring’s end was decided upon and a halfling of the Shire was chosen to carry it to its unmaking in the Black Land of its origin.  Mithrandir would lead a small convoy to support him lest we make of this innocent an utter sacrifice.

In awe of this decision, yet I must not doubt it.  We of the Eldar have learned from the Wise and through bitter experience that the Ring’s very existence would threaten all we hold dear should it surface again upon Middle-earth, and so my own mind has been aligned.  Golden autumn days drifted into winter and I have been at peace, resigned to what fate awaits us.

Until a fortnight ago, when a scout intercepted a rider with news that Elrond had dispatched the Halfling and his burden with a small company at year’s waning.  Then a rare foreboding seized me.  Indeed, my heart was so wrung with unease that Celeborn sent runners to the northern reaches of Lorien from whence I felt presentiment.  Not long after, a report came that a small party of men and children hastened this way and even now traversed our border just north of the Silverlode.

‘The guard will handle them as unknown trespassers,’ said I, then took leave of my maidens to find sanctum deep in the dome of the wood.  Only young Tyriel caught my eye as I turned away, a look of worry upon her face.  I managed a consoling smile before succumbing to somber thoughts as I passed among the pillars of the thickening forest.

 There, where oak and mallorn part briefly around a carpet of grass, at all seasons new green, I descended a stair to a mossy grotto where stood a carved basin of still water.  A dove alit upon my shoulder and the rush of a small freshet made quiet music as I considered the reports.  The approaching band was not as it appeared.  The small ones, surely not children – no more than their taller companions, compared with the Eldar - could be these strange half-sized Periannath.  In which case, this is none other than the company of the Ring.  Moments later, what I discerned in the basin’s levels – the advancing wheel of gold - made me certain.

At last, as I lay upon my couch beneath a shifting mosaic of yellow leaves and bright sky, I saw in my mind the Ring-bearer.  His name is Frodo Baggins.  I am vexed that Mithrandir, at least, did not share with me his insights that must have lead to this choice.  For too long also has Elrond’s thought eluded me.  Yet he would have me understand that it is well that this hobbit should carry out the mission and no other.

Now, the Ring’s escort is but a few short leagues hence.  I agreed with Celeborn to show our favor and allow all to travel without blindfold, even through the secret ways.  Yet I am uncertain why they chose this path, only that fear dogs their steps and that the assembly is not complete.  In such case, they likely seek asylum and we must gird ourselves against what evil may enter here in their wake.

In my vision, the hobbit, Frodo, walked purposefully, arms swinging at his side as he followed his company’s leader, Aragorn of the Dunadain, into a dense sward of fir.  Several other small ones were present but I recognized the one who bore Sauron’s trinket though it had eclipsed him before.  I knew him not by the Ring’s gall or gilding, for it was discreetly tucked away, rather by some aspect of the hobbit’s own - perhaps his intent gaze.  Sorrow darkened his expression and he seemed injured, setting his jaw to push aside stray branches and handle the routine shifting of his pack.  He lacks, I think, the strength and intrepid mien required for his errand.

Eight members of the free people shall enter our citadel, only one of the Eldalie, and the least of them carries the One Ring of Power!  Must I accept this ordering, in alliance with Mithrandir - wise and ancient, our esteemed ally Elrond, and even my beloved Celeborn?  I would willingly have done so, but with the One Ring on its way to the heart of Lorien and no word from the Wizard, how can I not contemplate another path… even one I long since ceased to consider?  Effective resistance once I have the bearer alone seems unlikely should I decide to take matters into my own hands.  But here! I cross the bridge before scanning the opposite shore, for I only envision and have not seen.

How my thoughts collide, for I both dread and desire the presence before me of the one who bears the Dark Lord’s talisman - its would-be destroyer.  I fear the decision I must make after such a confluence, yet long to lay hands on – no, to approach - the one who risks all to attempt what we could not.

I viewed Frodo from afar a second time, when the travelers approached the hill of Cerin Amroth.  There, while his worn companions dropped to the ground to rest, Frodo stood upon a grassy knoll and breathed in his surroundings.  White and yellow blooms of fragrant niphrediland elanor sparkled at his feet.  The gold splendor of the mallorn groves and blue swaths of winter violas, woven together by the heady music of Nimrodel's falls - so wakened his senses that he seemed to hover in my vision.  I felt the rapid pulse of his blood as if it coursed through my own veins.

Attending his response to Lorien’s beckon – not the Ring’s - I knew that a drop of his spirit would remain there by Cerin Amroth, to drift among the nodding flowers long after his path in Middle-earth had ended.  And from that image I took, for a moment, strange consolation.

When Frodo appeared before us, I saw his weariness despite his nimble hoist from ladder to flet.  He straightened slowly and stood poised on the threshold before stepping forward.  Then he bowed and raised his eyes to mine, attentive and curious rather than proud.  I had to curb my astonishment at his size next to Haldir who bent to usher him forward.

From the moment I heard of the appointed Ring-bearer, bidden to guard the Great Ring through its final hour, I pictured a stout being, for I had never seen a hobbit.  He would be smaller than a dwarf perhaps but equal in brawn and boldness.  But I imagined wrongly.  In form, true, he stands little taller than a dwarf or his fellow halflings, but slighter and beardless as a child of men.  As I sensed before, he is no warrior and I doubt that he is able for the task with which he left that doom-filled Council.

Celeborn greeted him in the common tongue, but the halfling replied in the High Elven speech, returning the courtesy.  His voice is clear and pleasant.  It came to me as out of distant memory, like autumn breezes fluting through the reeds that hem the salty inlets of the sea.  I refreshed him with a glance and he drew up slightly.

Taking Frodo’s arm, Celeborn drew him to a cushion by his chair where the hobbit settled cross-legged, fore-arms resting on his knees.  He sat angled towards me and I looked long upon him.  He is unusually fair, nearly as one of the Eldar, with a light in his eye more arresting than found in most mortals.  All about him he watched with interest.

His worn jacket was of good fabric though it hung loosely upon him, as did his breeches.  His ankles and feet were bare, as is the custom of hobbits, and I noticed that his limbs were sturdy, though slim as a girl’s. Beneath his ragged tunic, silver glinted - Mithril mail!  I wonder how he came by it.  Then I saw that the protective shirt was battered and through it I glimpsed stained bandaging.  Something rent him despite such armor.  The Ring lay secluded within his garments, and I avoided the sight of the chain about his neck.

One by one his companions appeared at the top of the ladder and when the youngest of the hobbits swayed on his feet as he came, Frodo reached to stay him.  Hobbits, it seems, dislike heights, being hole-dwellers as I recall.

When all the travelers had assembled on the flet, we learned of their adventures, though little from Frodo who kept reticent throughout the telling.  Eventually, they came to the part of their tale concerning the fall of Gandalf, as they call our Mithrandir, whom I thought to have counted among them.  At this point, Frodo spoke up with quiet emotion.

‘Gandalf was our guide through all manner of dangers, and when escape was impossible, he saved us – and fell.  Our grief is great and our loss -’ he swallowed hard, ‘cannot be mended.’

These words confirmed my dark foreboding and I reeled inwardly to hear them.  After learning the details of this dire news, Celeborn offered our aid, especially to the young Ring bearer, with whom he evidently sympathized. Then I addressed Frodo for the first time.

‘Your quest is known to us.’

The veins stood out on his neck as he looked across at me and the rest of the company shifted uneasily.

‘However, we shall not speak of that now.  Your mission lies upon a knife edge.  Should any of you stray but a little, it will fail-‘  I glanced around, noting the down-cast eyes, ‘to the ruin of all.’

At this time, I scrutinized the thoughts of each of our visitors, one after the other, loath though I was to do this, especially to the hobbits.  Who wishes to find a dark motive lurking in the fragile casing of innocence?

None, not even the Ring-bearer, held my gaze, but for Legolas, King Thranduil’s grave-eyed son.  How sorry I am to find such sadness now, even in our young!  But in him yet thrives the constant wisdom of the Sindar who abided ever in the forests that were sung for them in the Great Music.  The Elf will remain aloof from the Ring and stand true to Frodo until a future beyond my envisioning.

The dwarf, Gimli, having committed his strong arm to Frodo, is staunch in his loyalty, as the Naugrim have ever been.  He has a gentle heart that responded readily to my few words in his tongue, and I could see that Frodo commands his affection.  But soon the dwimmer love for even lesser ornaments will draw him to what Frodo bears, overshadowing the one he protects.  Yet, I shall not forget how the Naugrim forewarned my people in time of crisis and will not pre-judge their son.

Among the hobbits, Frodo’s kindred, my examinations revealed fright and reluctance to take the hard road, rather than ill intent.  Their longing for home is foremost in their minds beside their devotion for Frodo.  Yet the Ring works upon weakness as well as rancor.  Time will tell whether they - or the bearer himself - can survive such weakness.

In the gardener, Samwise, more is at stake – devotion that may ebb from love and eddy into possessive desire.  Is not thy Master fair?  Does thy pulse not quicken at the thought of him?  So I speculated, and the red blood flooded his cheek as his gaze slid to the floor.  As yet, he thinks not of the Ring.

Aragorn, heir of Elendil and to the Ring, poses a most likely threat - yet already he has parried opportunities to seize the gold band from Frodo and so might be thought loyal.  But as demand for his prowess and desire for victory grows as he nears the land of his ancestors, he shall be more sorely tried.  Now, in Mithrandir’s stead, he deems the responsibility for Frodo and the Ring as his alone, an assumption I find disturbing.  He sighed as I left him.

Boromir, Aragorn’s likely rival as heir to the Realm of Gondor, is another matter.  There, lodged in a generous heart and high intentions, I recognized not only a desire to vanquish our common enemy, but a brazen wish for the Ring itself, along-side the vow to protect its bearer.  And I could see this protectiveness twisting, bending, like hot metal under a smith’s tools.  Bound to the Ring as Frodo is, he will be exposed not sheltered, as this man’s yearning for the jewel swells to include its bearer.

I turned an incisive gaze to Frodo, seeing immediately his wariness in this foreign land.  A tremor broke his upright posture and I slackened my inspection, lest urgency drive my probe deeper than safe for a mortal.  Even so, I touched upon something - I know not what - something Unlike.

More cautiously, I pierced first the penumbra of loss from Mithrandir’s fall, perceiving that the great Maia was as family to him.  I found then, a firm resolve to do what he must at whatever cost to himself - no hint of temptation, neither toward power, nor even toward a speculative attempt to use the Ring – not yet.  For himself he wished only the courage and strength to face his task.  And I saw fear, sufficient to blind and immobilize a leader of men, held at bay by a staunch will, and a vision of beauty and peace rooted in love for his homeland and kin.  No chance of negotiation here.  The Ring of Power could not be mine for the asking, nor would bargaining with the Halfling avail me.

The hobbit must have shifted then, for suddenly, I glimpsed the Ring through his clothing and its heat claimed me. I delved deeper. I had to, when all of Middle-earth depends upon the heart of this small being.  Yet I almost regretted it, for it pained him and muddied the clear motive still intact beneath his self-doubt.

Wordlessly, I spoke to him.  ‘If I move to take it from you, this gem that you carry, would you not use it in defense of your appointed task?’  I bound him with a seeking gaze until his thought cried out.

‘I cannot answer!’  He tried to turn from me but the gold shining on his breast drove me hard against him, and a furrow cut his brow while his hand tugged his jacket close across his chest.

Is he indifferent to the Ring’s potential?  I dared not tarry to learn more.  Until I do, my misgiving holds.  The hobbit’s eyes closed quickly, as I released him.  A shaky breath escaped his lips and he did not look up at me again.  So the Ring forges a path through my being and I must resist it, like the level strand before the drawing tide – overrun yet ever the glimmering store.

Allowing a moment for us all to recover, I turned aside to Celeborn, answering his raised eyebrow with a faint nod.  Suddenly, as if responding to something I said, Frodo spoke, glancing concernedly at his haggard companions.

‘Please, Lady, look favorably upon my friends who are battle-worn and need refuge.  I beg you not to judge them by my presence among them.’

The cousin called Merriadoc drew breath to speak, but Frodo forestalled him.  ‘I fear that you see a threat to your land because of what I keep by me, though I intend no harm to come of it.  If I sense correctly, then only I need draw your displeasure.’

‘And you, how shall I judge you Frodo Baggins?’ I thought, wondering how he perceived his mastery – for that he had while he possessed the One Ring, wittingly or not.

‘Treat me as you see fit, for I cannot do otherwise. But, please, deal kindly with the others.’

Frodo’s companions regarded him in surprise and Celeborn stole a sharp glance at me.  Frodo had grasped my thought, more than I should have allowed and I was stung by his revealing words.  Whence came my aggression?

‘Frodo, we bear no ill will to you and you friends,’ I said.

Extending my reassurance, Celeborn added, ‘Even if your quest did not closely concern us, you should have refuge here.  For that is our way when travelers come guileless and fleeing the enemy into our lands.  Now you shall all find rest.’

Frodo sighed in relief and replied again in the noble speech, ‘Thank you My Lady, My Lord, for accepting us.  We are most grateful and if there is any service that we might perform, I should be honored if you would ask it.’  

The Ring of course sprang to mind – the wish to ask: May I have it, that which harries your thought and taints your body though you know it not – a gift to your hosts from whom you seek shelter?  But to think thus in the face of my hard-won resolves!  Earnest intentions alone are no match for the Enemy’s Ring.  I know this.  But what is?  Surely not this halfling, already wounded in heart and limb?  Mark, all moves are uncertain and fraught with hazard in the Great Struggle.  The only measure is our conviction and I can no longer see the sense of the Council’s directive, so clear to me when first I learned of it. 

I gathered what I had left of grace to acknowledge Frodo’s proffer and bid the company good night, conferring solace as I could.  They stirred themselves and each thanked us as they gathered to descend the ladder.

Frodo, at the rear of the group stood with his arms folded tightly across his chest.  His eyes were glossy in the lamplight and Aragorn paused to survey him with concern before passing silently to the talan entrance.  I too observed Frodo, veiling my thoughts this time, since he hearkened to them and I did not wish to disturb him further.  As it was, he stumbled when he moved to follow his friends and Legolas put a hand to his back to steady him.

This meeting left me oddly out of balance, trembling more than he at the finish.  In light of the hobbit’s single-mindedness – hounded as it was by dread - the morass of my own inclinations dismayed me.

I left the amber light and shimmering warmth of our talan with its polished floor and screens of weighted velvet, and mounted the narrow rungs that lead to the topmost branches of the great tree that housed us.  As the wind swirled about me in brisk embrace, I raised my eyes to the star paths, bathing my heart and mind in their brilliance. When I felt somewhat reclaimed, I leaned upon the rail and tried to decipher the evening’s events.

Why did dear Celeborn, usually so cautious and appraising, uphold this mere hobbit as fit to bear the Ring?  What would my mentor, Melian, have thought of this choice, she whose craft drew from more venerable springs than mine?  Mithrandir, in his wisdom would not, I think, have allowed the Ring to enter my realm.  Aware of my past craving for it, he would likely have avoided Lothlorien, for all of our sakes.

This he knew, for when I summoned the first Council of the Wise and strove in vain for the Grey Wizard’s influence there, I found time to confide in him my deepest yearnings for peace and beauty in Arda, even unto gaining and plying the power of the One Ring.  How patiently he listened, helped me correct my course, then bolstered it with his own irrefutable wisdom!

Alas that he cannot reason with me now – and alas for the Ring-bearer who has lost a peerless guide and protector.  I must act now without Mithrandir, mustering my own knowledge and remembering the peril of my heart’s desire.

Youthful pride, I like to call it, yet I reached for the Ring far past youth into maturity, believing myself to be the one uniquely qualified to wield it.  Neither Elf nor woman had ever possessed it, and how I longed for it, even after seeing the paths of destruction where lust lead Feanor and my other Noldorean cousins.  Truly, I did not uphold the oath that bound them to the jewels of their making – the Silmarils.  Yet, I wonder… in following Feanor’s exhortation to desert the bliss of Valimar for the palpable beauty of Middle-earth, was I preparing myself for another form of bondage?

The Silmarils held little sway over me.  But the One Ring both horrified and thrilled me, even when I apprehended that its maker, Sauron the Great, had undone us.  For the one who wields this device gains dominion over all.  Long had I desired such supremacy, though for no ill purpose.  To preside over a land of peace and loveliness, I had set sail from the Blessed Isle of Aman, through great strife, to reach Middle-earth.  And thus, we have Lothlorien, which itself now lies in jeopardy. 

Regardless, Aragorn, the Ring company’s surrogate guide and keen to the Ring’s history, led them here.  Now, the Ring of Power which could destroy this land – or save it - rests within a finger’s reach and ‘round the neck of such a bearer.  Hard-learned truths fade and the old desire seizes me afresh.  Boromir’s passion, fired by simple human greed is miniscule compared to mine.  No wonder I cannot readily judge the halfling and his mission!  

I understand, of course, that the Ring should be destroyed, for it corrupts absolutely.  I have seen the handiwork of such things, of which the One Ring is the supreme realization.  Ultimately, it absorbs both mind and body, taking first that which is weakest.  With Frodo, his mind will resist longest but not without anguish.  And his body will suffer.  He will refuse to wield the Ring and so must become its thrall - to end finally at the feet of its maker.  He shall deliver the Ring, I fear, not destroy it.

And if it cannot be abolished, if Frodo the Hobbit is not able for this task - surely no other is among the Fellowship - what then?  Must I remove the Ring from him, put it on, and end the hopes of foolish Men and the final pathetic strategy of the wisest in Middle-earth?  Did my bygone aspirations speak truly that I could wield this thing?  Surely not, for it is a creation of my most ferocious enemy - I despise its purpose, trust it not, and would vow to seek its demise.  I must rid my mind of this confusion, and pray I do not tear Frodo apart in the process!

Late in the night, a battering wind erupted, smearing the stars with inky clouds.  My hair unbraided and flew wild, catching in the waving branches. Then all was silent. And when the violet dawn broke over the vales of Lorien, I remained on the high balcony, uncomforted.

The moon has shifted half its cycle since I saw Frodo last.  Skirmishes with orcs on our northern border have held my attention.  Such diversions gratify me, for I harbor the evil of Middle-earth in my realm, imprinting itself on its bearer as it may do to me, the more I allow its shape in my mind.

Against this, I sought to restore the elemental clarity with which I was familiar.  The company would soon depart and I had learned little enough about the likely success of the mission laid on the shoulders of my diminutive guest.  The mission is the more precarious now that the halfling stands nearly alone without Mirthrandir – for Aragorn himself is uncertain of where to lead him.  I wished to navigate the hobbit’s careful reserve, that he might divulge his hopes and fears.  With these I must be acquainted in order to help him.  Perhaps too, the chance to reflect upon the Ring in proximity will help me resolve my quandary regarding its use.

I encountered Frodo but days after the company’s arrival here but we spoke little before a message arrived from the border watch.  At that time he walked solitary beneath an azure sky and I drew near.  His face lit with pleasure and I asked how he fared.  When he assured me that he was well refreshed, I ventured,

‘Perhaps you would speak now of what could not be discussed when you had so soon arrived.’

A frown hovered on his brow as he said, ‘I would not speak of it still… though I would not offend thee,’ he said, choosing the ancient and more personal form of address.

Despite his hesitance, I recognized a desire for frankness.  But he justly questioned my motives – were they in his best interest as Ring bearer, or even Middle-earth’s?  I would need to earn his trust and, until then, we might be like variable winds, eddying about one another.  But I was called away then, forced to leave hurriedly, offering only a few words of reassurance.

So, one afternoon, as shadows stretched in long spires across the land, I set out deliberately to meet the Ring bearer alone.  I found him lying fast asleep in his rustic travel clothes, beneath a coverlet of homespun.  Even in repose, he appeared graceful as the filigree on our graven stone portals.  Mounds of dry clover pillowed his compact body and above him the foliage of a small tree, scarlet berries dotting bright yellow leaves, made a light canopy.

The sight moved me and I longed to let him rest, to bestow upon him a simple blessing of peace.  Aragorn, his friend and guide, had expressed concern that night-dreams troubled the hobbit’s sleep, yet now he dozed sweetly.  But I had not that luxury.  

‘Hail, Frodo of the Shire,’ I whispered.  As I passed, the hobbit woke, parted the branches, and followed me, over a small rise and down again to a shallow stream.

‘Lady Galadriel?’ he said, hoarse with sleep.  I turned towards him and he bowed slightly.

‘I thought you called.  Forgive me if -‘

‘I am glad you heard.’

He stood patiently, folding his hands folded serenely before him.  His eyes revealed an unguarded awe that was disarming.

‘I go to gather bark and twigs for medicine.  Will you come with me?’ I said, beckoning him along the streamside, still green with trailing cresses and frost-dulled wild ginger.

‘It would be a great pleasure, My Lady.’ he said, and fell into step beside me.  For a while I let silence and the chattering stream ease him.

Presently, I began.  ‘We seek a copse of trees.  Their flowers are sprays of bright gold petals on bare branches, so we call the tree Glorgaladh.  Does the like grow in the Shire?’

‘Yes, I may know it,’ said Frodo, ‘though our name for it is simply Hazel and the flowers are rather sallow, catkins merely.  My uncle and I kept its leaves in a jar.  Mixed with an herb – Arnica – it helps heal cuts and bruises.  We gather the leaves in summer, and in early spring children visit to watch the nuts fly from their shrinking husks.  Perhaps this is the tree you speak of.  Do you harvest in winter, then?’

‘Only for these flower-bearing twigs, and for certain barks.  You seem well acquainted with herb lore, Frodo.  Do you make a study of it?’

‘I am interested, yes, but all hobbits know such things – what to look for and to what purpose.  At a young age, we learn when and how to reap what we need so as to sustain the supply.  Many know more than I – Samwise, our gardener, for instance, who travels with us.’  A light wind blew from the south and Frodo turned to face it, then added, ‘I acquired some little knowledge of Elvish remedies from the healers in Rivendell, but I do not the recall the name you mentioned.’

I glanced at him but his expression showed no sign of shadow and I continued.  ‘Supplies dwindle slowly here, despite occasional casualties from skirmishes.  Your company is the first of mortal kind to enter our realm in many seasons.’

‘Your care is much appreciated, Madam.  ’ said Frodo, ‘I am glad to help replenish your stores.’

‘Do not fear!  Our stores are not depleted!  Typically, we would have finished gathering by this time.  But this year, other concerns have demanded attention.  The enemy has long assaulted our borders where we are not vigilant and where so few of us remain, but more often in recent days.  For a new menace walks among us.’  The hobbit stiffened beside me.

‘Not you, Ring-bearer,’ I said, laying a hand on his shoulder, ‘but the wily imp who pursues you in secret and approached your flet the night you arrived. Your guards reported that you were alert to the stealthy intruder.’

‘Gollum,’ he murmured.

Yes, Gollum, I thought, the mutilated example of a former Ring bearer.  To the hobbit I said, ‘And orcs.  For the first time in the all the years I have watched over this land, they have crossed the River Nimrodel and come so near the Anduin.’

The hobbit frowned.  ‘I – the Ring draws them – does it not?’

‘Yes,’ I replied cooly.

He drew an anxious breath and after a moment, said, ‘You have been generous to us, Lady, and I fear that perhaps we have stayed overlong on account of it.  Desperate travelers we are, yet you welcomed us.  But we may have been presumptuous in our needs.  In fleeing my enemies, I have led them to your gate, and, though I have brought a device of great evil into your realm, you ask for nothing - not even as wergild of my good intent.’  

His remorse touched me but I said nothing and avoided his eye.  To reassure him, however, I took his hand, and led him across an arching stone bridge into a small garden.  How trusting his grip felt, strong, fine-boned fingers wrapped around mine.

‘How do you fare, Frodo?’ I asked, aiming the wide-open question for him to answer as he would.

‘Much better, thank you, now that I walk beneath Lorien’s golden eves.  My old hurts cause little complaint.’

What exactly was done to him?  Invaded he seemed, but by what?  My communications from Imladris told me simply that the young hobbit had brought the One Ring to Lord Elrond, had been badly wounded, and recovered against all expectation.  As we strolled among the old rose bushes, I studied their contorted shapes that their tenders endeavored to guide, and inquired further.  ‘Would you speak of the nature of these hurts?’

I waited for the hobbit to continue but he did not. The sun slanted across the path and into her rays, Frodo strayed, hitching his shoulders as the heat struck them.

‘You have yet spoken of this to no one, so it is difficult,’ I said.

He nodded, then said thickly, just above a whisper. ‘I was attacked – some time ago.’

‘Go on,’ I coaxed.

He glanced at me doubtfully, then continued slowly.  ‘I - so foolishly put on the Ring I’m carrying.  I fell into their world then - the wraith’s world - invisible to others but we could see each other. One bore a crown, and it was he-’ he faltered, shaking his head.  We emerged from the garden into a field where oats were gathered into stooks and still the hobbit was silent.

‘Wasn’t it rather that you resisted the command to put on the One Ring and the Dark King did smite you?’ I prompted.

‘I’d like to sit for a moment, if you don’t mind,’ he said.  

We sat upon a wind-smoothed table of rock in that fading light and, leaning back on his elbows, the hobbit tilted his head into the westering sun.  I gazed at his lightly bronzed face as he watched the swifts among the top-most boughs through half-closed eyes.  How remarkable that he should appear so unscathed!

‘Was it not your resistance?’ I repeated.  Strangely, I found myself defending the one whose boasts I expected to be discarding.   ‘Perhaps if you start at the beginning, before you put on the Ring,’ I suggested. ‘I have heard your story only from Aragorn whom you know to be -‘ I sought the proper translation, ‘- brief.  You and your friends stood alone upon Amon Sul when the enemy’s servants surrounded you...’

He nodded.  Then, at length he began.  ‘I put on the Ring,’ his hands went to his temples, ‘I fought not to put on the Ring. I put on, I put it on -’ the words tumbled out, jostling re-iterated fragments, ending in a choked sob.

This is the Ring’s doing, I thought bitterly, resisting the instinct to stroke his cheek, lest soothing should unnerve… After a time, he composed himself.

‘I knew what was happening to me, what happened before, how I resisted at the barrow - of the wights that haunt the Withywindle valley west of Bree.  I remembered Tom Bombadil and his lady, and all that Gandalf warned me of.  But I couldn’t, I could not, in the end, stop … When I finally recalled what had occurred with others, with me, I held hard to those images, but I was not strong enough and such gifts - drifted away.  Because, you see, the black horsemen were pulling me inward, inside myself.  Deep in my chest, in my head, such pressure as I’ve never known…  And then, as I said, I put on the One Ring of Evil.’

Oddly, I rarely thought of it that way.  He was correct, of course - the One Ring was evil, as intended.  Yet, most of us forgot that when it suited.  Frodo did not forget - but still, eventually, fell to its persuasive voice it seemed.

‘And then?’

‘I was done for!’ he said with a grim laugh.

I stared at him and saw more of that stand in the darkness at the ruined watch tower than he knew.

‘Did you not even try to fend off this being who threatened you, your kin, and all you treasure?’ I demanded.

‘Yes!  In desperation, I cried out to Elbereth, I know not why.  I had not the right, but it gave me strength -‘

‘You had the right to call,’ I interrupted, ‘as do any who know her name.’

‘I - did - try to strike that evil one, but did not of course slay him.  I was the one driven through, in my left side, by the knife he brandished all along.’  He stared so wide-eyed at the lowering sun, as if trying to penetrate the pitch of darkness, that I feared for his sight.

‘I tried then- finally - to pull off the Ring, but -‘

‘Surely you had not the power, especially after the fell wounding?’

‘After, yes, there was pain… but I - I took it off and -‘

I bent closer to him now, for his words were barely audible. Noticing, he strained for volume, but failed, his voice rough with effort, as if his story did not want to be told.

‘Quietly, Frodo - you need not speak if you prefer not to, though doing so will help free you of the terror.’  I hesitated before laying a hand on his shoulder.  Frodo cleared his throat and went on.

‘They wanted everything from me - not just the Ring, or my body even, but my thoughts, my feelings.  And they were taking these things. All the while we traveled toward Imladris - thoughts, memories were leaving me…’ he raised his eyes to the distant flowing stream, following its course.

I took this opportunity to lead him the short distance to the trees I sought.

‘Lord Elrond saved my life,’ he said. ‘Yet, sometimes the darkness returns…’

Seeking the implication of his words, I said delicately, ‘Elrond healed you.  Frodo, do you know how he did this?’

‘He removed the knife point,’ he replied shortly.

In that brief answer, a scene flashed in my head - the pallid body of the hobbit suspended in darkness, his face taut and grey beyond recognition as he fought against the plundering of his body and mind, against the Ring, against the Dark Lord.

My heart went to him, this child of the West who knew but little of the woes of Middle-earth, yet accepted this burden that pitched him into their midst, making him the target of a deadly force.

He reached to snap a flowering twig from a sturdy branch.  Then, contemplating it, he said, ‘Each time he – the darkness - pushes me back inside myself, away from the others, away from the world, I realize how the real danger lies in me, in not being able to reach beyond, outside…’

‘Frodo! You expect much of yourself – admirable, but in excess this will plunge you into a well of despair as fathomless as the enemy himself.’  He raised his eyes to my mine, searching.  He seemed not to mind that I had no reassurance for him.  But perhaps he sought my acceptance, which I have been so loath to give.

‘What do you use them for?’ he asked suddenly.

‘To staunch bleeding,’ I replied after a moment, stunned at his ability to so quickly return to the present.

He nodded, then resumed.  ‘I will, as I once told Gandalf, Mithrandir, do whatever I can to save the Shire, a peaceful land and my home.  I believe Mithrandir accepted this rather rustic wish of mine in place of any grander goal.  And yet the Ring, the Enemy, works even upon that.

‘The view from the window at Bag End, where I lived was…’ he paused, groping for words.  ‘I cannot seem to recall-‘ he finished worriedly, for he saw before I did, with dismay, this new tactic of the Ring.

‘Let us go,’ I said, and put out my hand for him to take.  ‘Your touch is cold as winter wind!’ I exclaimed, only just stopping from pulling back at the sudden chill.  His own arm recoliled, but I held him.  Truly, mortals respond quickly to the airs about us, yet this reaction seemed extreme.  I ceased our stroll and took up his left hand in both of mine.

I sank my gaze into the blue pools of his eyes that met mine dark with grim knowledge.  The chain around his neck was not visible but I longed for the gold orb at his throat to slither out from his garments.  All my attention was upon the image of it, docile at first, it would be - pale against paler skin - and I knelt before its guardian.  So near!  Its beauty filled my mind, outshining all else and I felt the tender throb of vitality within it, like a breath.  How could my enemy, malicious and fell, have created this?  Yet it was before me!  The culmination of an age of longing - I felt it upon my forefinger and tried to fondle it there –.

Distractedly, my mind groped at his.  ‘Would you not use it to guard the fate of your friends?  I do not say to save your own life, for that you gave to us twice over.’  I saw a question emerge in the pained depths of his eyes:

‘Why do you tempt me, Lady?’

‘Why to try your strength, young hobbit!’  But my thought was shapeless and did not reach him - the secret truth deprived it of substance.  For - though I shun to admit - I sought to break him, and I pried at his thoughts with a brazen question to which I have ever had an answer ready, but for which he may not.

‘Owned? That may never be.  But if I were – owned by it, surely I would do much evil.’  So I read his reply.

The hobbit’s hand stirred in my palms.  I closed my eyes and memories assailed me from ages past, when I cupped a fledgling blue bird, fallen from its roost in the ice meadows of the North, and from a fell winter not so long ago when the little folk of the West - Frodo’s people perhaps - struggled against fatal gales of snow and ice...  The Ring’s enchantment left me then and I breathed upon the hand that I held.

His response startled me.

‘I am fortunate,’ he said, and I felt the icy fingers clasp my warm ones.

I surveyed him, questioning.

‘I meant, Lady, that I am fortunate in meeting with kindness as often as I have- for the warmth of your hand… Gandalf said it might be so.’  His smile melted all distress, his and mine.

After returning Frodo to his friends, I reflected upon our meeting.  I begin now to understand how Frodo resists the Ring’s seduction. The Ring seizes upon two preoccupations - one’s self and the Ring itself.  Frodo avoids both.

It is not he who identifies with the Ring but those about him who unite the two in their minds.  I recall my first meeting with Frodo at our talan, when he suspected that I deemed him inseparable from the Ring and its evil.  How Frodo feared this, having been so victimized from the beginning!  According to Aragorn, Frodo’s uncle Bilbo, who bequeathed the Ring to his nephew at his coming-of-age, departed at that time and sent no further word.  I now realize that Bilbo could not even correspond with his nephew without pursuing the Ring to re-possess it - a chance neither he nor his advisors in the House of Elrond could hazard.

Frodo struggles himself against union with the Ring, by indulging neither it nor himself.  But he cannot do this for others.

My guests’ improved health pleases me greatly, not only for their sakes, but because it speaks of the continued healing power of Lorien.  Their leader and Frodo’s tutelary friend, our Dunadain – I had rarely seen him so drawn and defeated- looks youthful again as he roams our dells and forests, boots mended, hood thrown back, his brow smooth.

But Frodo’s recovery impresses me most, especially now that I know of his hurts. I have not tended him, not daring such intimate proximity to the Ring, rather entrusting him to the willing hands of the ladies of my house, who frankly express their delight in the hobbit’s fine manners and acquaintance with the Elvish speech.  Young Tyriel, seems especially fond of him and shyly informs me of his reclaimed health, as well as of his many kindnesses and gratitude for her nursing.

Indeed he looked fit last afternoon.  As I stood upon the North Watch, searching from that vantage for any sign of scouts returning from the border lands, I faced to the east and saw Frodo running - not from anything, but with abandon, agile and light-footed.  He came swiftly out of a vale of larch and mallorn.  Then, upon entering the clearing below my lookout, his flight ended in a small hop and he knelt down to part a mound of bracken.

His peace was short-lived, however.  Suddenly, wariness returned and he became very still, listening.  His right hand slid up to push the Ring back under his tunic from where it must have sprung free when he ran.  For a moment, I thought he sensed my presence there on the hill, but then I felt the approach of another.

Frodo scanned the clearing, then, seeing nothing amiss and the Ring safely stowed, resumed his investigation in the grass.  The short dark fletch of an arrow appeared between his hands as he pried at the earth around the shaft.  But it held fast when he tried to loosen it.

Suddenly, from out of the trees behind Frodo, strode the man, Boromir.  In an act of extraordinary clumsiness for a proud Gondorian captain, he tripped as he approached the crouched figure in the grass.  Lurching to one knee, he toppled forward, tried to steady himself on out-flung arms, and ended up straddling Frodo, such that I lost sight of the smaller brown-clad form.  

Though surely as startled as I by Boromir’s dramatic entry, Frodo must have realized he was bested and after a brief panicked effort lay still.  A moment passed when neither of them moved.  Then Boromir straightened, and the hobbit’s head and shoulders appeared in the crook of his arm.  Boromir held him like a hunter might a wild beast when no weapon is at hand.  He started to rise, his arms still around Frodo, as if to lift him.  But instead Frodo spoke, his voice muffled.

‘Ah!  Boromir!  You seem to have stumbled over me as I just did over this arrow.’

Boromir let out a gasp, then rested his cheek for a moment atop Frodo’s head before loosening his hold.

‘My apologies, Frodo.  I was on the trail of one of those sable-furred voles on which we dined last night and whose hide I wish to bring as a souvenir to Gondor.  I have not hurt you?’ the man asked, frowning.  He was softhearted, I recognized that much.

‘No!’ answered Frodo, ‘I was just -’

‘What a pleasant spot!’  Boromir interrupted, surveying the woods.  ‘And the scent!  It makes me hungry!’

‘Nodding Allium, yes!  Meal time in the Shire.  You have this herb in Gondor?’  The voice was deceivingly calm.

‘Yes,’ Boromir replied, ‘For surely it grows in all the lands of my travels - throughout Middle-earth.’

‘I have not journeyed so much,’ said Frodo, with a smile of admiration.  He shifted to withdraw then, but his large companion had not completely backed off and did not budge now.

The man’s haunches still hugged Frodo’s and his hand hung heavily over the hobbit’s left shoulder, even when Frodo shrugged to lose it.  Meanwhile, the man pointed out the possible dwellings of ‘voles’ as he called them.

At first, Frodo seemed drawn by Boromir’s talk, gazing with interest at the mossy coverts and distant mounds where many creatures burrow.  But as Boromir spoke, his hand flicked over the hobbit’s chest, fingering the lacings on his tunic.  Frodo shrank from the touch in the small space allowed him.  I saw Frodo’s glance, sharp and alert, but, whether out of disbelief or to quell undue alarm, he remained composed.  I doubt that even Boromir was aware of what was unfolding - for I believe he was relatively innocent as yet, more indeed than I.

But when the man’s finger prodded the chain at Frodo’s neck, the hobbit recoiled instantly.  The groping hand sprang back, yet when Frodo leaned forward to rise, he could not for his friend’s hold upon him.  A finger dragged across his collarbone to the hollow of his throat and a broad hand darted to Frodo’s lap, slipping around his waist, then stroking low the shadowed hollow of his belly.  The man seemed unaware that Frodo - his eyes wide - had frozen to breathlessness as the probing fingers strayed.

The hand in Frodo’s tunic fell upon the Ring – flattening wide across the hobbit’s breast.  Drawing him close, the man surveyed his prize.  My stomach wrenched and I was about to cry out - but whether the thunder in my voice sounded command or mere challenge, I would not discover.

‘Boromir,’ said Frodo.  Then, in one fluid motion, he slid from under the man’s weight and dislodged the sprawling arm from his shoulder, freeing himself and the Ring.  He stood several paces away, one hand on his breast, panting. His smoldering eyes clung to Boromir who leaned back on his arms and stared back, astounded.  Presently, Frodo’s face relaxed, revealing a surprising sympathy.  I understood then, that the man was not hostile, as yet.

‘Look Boromir!’ said Frodo, pointing.  ‘Legolas’ lost arrow – the one he missed soon after we arrived here.’

The man turned vaguely, his eyes casting around.  Finally, he heaved a deep breath and focused on the object in the grass.

‘Well found Frodo!’ he said at last and abruptly yanked at the arrow.

‘Easy, Boromir!’ Frodo cautioned, squatting next to the man.  ‘Remember, elven arrows are fast and deadly, but slender and easily broken in handling - as I was scolded once,’ he added with a grin.

Here, Boromir’s attention wavered again.  He stared aghast at the nape of Frodo’s neck as the hobbit bent to his task.  An inflamed sore tracked along the skin beneath the Ring’s chain.  I was close enough now to see this where the brown curls fell to either side.

Boromir laid his thumb in gentle solace to the roseate skin.  Frodo winced only slightly but Boromir reacted abruptly, grabbing the hobbit’s shoulders and giving him a rough shake.

‘Frodo!  Come to sense, my friend!  This is what that thing is doing to you!’

‘Please, Boromir, leave me be,’ said Frodo.  Catching the man’s eye, he looked away again as if uncomfortable with what he saw there.

‘Won’t you let me ease you, little one?’ said Boromir, his voice mellifluous as he ran a thick finger along Frodo’s jaw.  Frodo twisted away.

Then Boromir mumbled something inaudible.

‘No.’ Frodo’s response was firm, his gaze still avoiding the man’s.  Boromir, eyes glittering, reached over and cupped Frodo’s head in his large hand, so the hobbit faced him.  Frodo drew away, then gasped as Boromir set an arm tightly around his chest, and I remembered the bloodied bandages beneath the Mithril, the broken ribs I’d been told of.

Muttered words from the man, then, ‘It would please me, surely, Frodo.  Would it not please you?’  Boromir drew Frodo’s face closer to his, and his desire to possess what he held in his hand shuddered through his frame like a winter gust through a stout oak.  I feared for Frodo then, as much as the Ring, and yet truly, for a moment I felt one with the Gondorian.

‘It would not, though I mean you no discourtesy,’ said Frodo.

‘As you wish, Master Baggins.  For your sake and for others’, I hope your desires are as direct and honest as mine that you disdain.’  He turned on his heel then, and in so doing, planted the thick sole of his boot on the hobbit’s bare foot.

At a stifled hiss from Frodo, Boromir glanced over his shoulder, then hurried back.  ‘I didn’t realize - please forgive my awkwardness - have I hurt you much?’  All hostility vanished.

‘No, ‘tis all right.  I was merely startled. You needn’t - ’

The man knelt to examine the damage, mostly concealed in the thick curly hair that covered the hobbit’s feet.  ‘So small,’ he mused and strapped each ankle easily in his hands. ‘You are nimble and quick of foot as of mind, Frodo.  I cannot believe you come from people who, not only still live in the ground but who have not learned that, considering their inferior size, it would benefit them to wear boots or shoes instead of running barefoot as beasts.  Surely, such accidents plague you often? Perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to them?’

Frodo, coloring, said nothing for a while, then replied, ‘We - choose to live as we do, some of us in the ground, as you say, like I do, and others in frame houses, like my cousins.  As to the other matter,’ he broke off with a chuckle, ‘we rarely walk among the shod.’  Boromir gazed at him with a lust so strong that I felt it grating against a like energy of mine - and held tightly to an ancient birch nearby.  ‘No, this has not happened to me before,’ Frodo finished.

‘Of course,’ Boromir replied hastily.  ‘Again I am sorry.  My awkward soldier’s speech must seem rude to you.  I wish to make amends, for certainly you know my respect for you and I would not have you hurt or insulted at my hand.  I should like to accompany you back to camp and see to your injury.’

‘Boromir, my feet, as you can imagine, hold up well,’ said Frodo with a rye smile.  I thank you for your offered companionship, but I wish to remain here a while, alone.’  Then, his face softened.  ‘Do not wait and do not fear. In due time I shall follow and perhaps we shall dine together.’

Once again Boromir reached out towards Frodo’s breast.  The man’s mouth hung open as if in surprise at his own action.  Frodo stepped back but not quickly enough and Boromir’s hand came to his throat, pressing the Ring into the soft flesh.  Then several events happened at once.  Frodo sank to the ground from the force of Boromir’s hand on him, but sharply nudged Boromir’s elbow outward, enough to unbalance the man but not to free himself.  At the same time, Boromir spotted me among the trees to his right and immediately loosened his hold on Frodo, his finger curling under the hobbit’s chin.

‘Boromir!' said Frodo sharply.

The powerful man stared at him, panting, his long hair damp and in disarray.  ‘I know not what’s come over me, Frodo!’  He clapped a hand to his forehead.  ‘I shall leave you to your solitary journey home, as you ask.  For I do not wish to force unwanted company.  Mind yourself though.  This haunted wood will darken soon and ‘tis best that you hurry back to camp.’  Then he bent and kissed Frodo on the temple, threw him a wild-eyed look, turned, and disappeared into the forest.

Frodo remained seated on the ground, head in his hands. I waited before going to him.

Winds, heavy-scented with spruce, swept down from the northern heights, flattening the grasses and tufts of wild barley, and re-sheathing the Elven arrow in its tussock.  The pale and deep golds of birch and mallorn leaves whirled about the still figure in their midst, catching on russet curls.  

Frodo’s head still rested in one hand, the other crossed to his left shoulder.  A tumble of dark hair concealed his face.  Leaves gathered into the bow of his knees and against his back, and I turned away from the scene’s finality.

Then I stepped out of the wood and hailed him.  A breeze swept the locks from his face and I saw his wet cheek, his glazed expression struggling towards welcome.  He rose to his feet before I could protest, and greeted me with a smile.

‘I had not realized the late hour,’ he said, raking his tousled hair, scattering the clinging leaves.

‘You were in deep thought, Frodo, and I disturbed you.  You will forgive me, I hope.’

‘There is no need, please - I am happy to see you again, My Lady.

‘Your voice reveals grief but I do not hear the words. You know much loss already in your short life.  Which loss brought you to this mourning?’  He regarded me thoughtfully.

‘The loss of freedom,’ he finally answered, ‘the freedom to trust.’

The shadows that striped the lawn earlier merged and deepened into the umber forest.  A brief trill sounded as a small bird wheeled into the trees, hastening to its roost.

‘Come friend Frodo, we must go to our fires, and you shall share ours tonight as our guest.’

‘You are kind, Lady, but I must return to the others and cannot accept.  I fear I am already late,’ he answered, looking about as if a shortcut might present itself.

‘You are further from your camp than you think, and have come ill provisioned,’ I said, observing his light tunic and waistcoat.  Even if you ran the entire way here, you shall not be able to return in the same fashion, without water, food, and attire against the night’s frost.

He started to protest further, but I insisted, saying, 'I shall send a messenger who will arrive at your camp long before you.'  I slid an arm around him and drew him to me.  How yielding he felt, muscles resisting only a little when I held him closer.  ‘So, you will accept my offer, Master Frodo?’  But, glancing down, I saw his look of consternation.

I released him and immediately he went and with his two hands began to angle the buried arrow smoothly from the earth.  In a moment the top of the shaft came of its own into his hands, broken as it was from mishandling.  Frodo sighed as he rocked back on his heels, left with the feathered vanes, then stood up, shaking his head.

‘Do you hunt?’ I asked casually, hoping to ease him.

‘I – we do not hunt so much in Hobbiton - where Bilbo and I lived.  But Merry’s people hunt in the autumn for – for boar.  I did go with them - on occasion.  We used arrows, stouter than this one  and… as youngsters, we learned marksmanship…’ He was distracted still.

Thus, I was alone with my image, quite clear, though fleeting.  The hobbit knelt at the edge of a field, a quiver half full upon his back.  High color touched his cheek and he craned his neck over his left shoulder as if someone called his name.  In his right hand, a bloody knife.  Around his neck he wore a scarf of brown dobby weave - and I wondered had he come yet into his legacy.

I entered the darkening wood but Frodo did not follow.  I looked back to where he hesitated, his head tipped up to regard the first stars.  They lit his eyes to white fire and his face to the white of cold marble.

‘You are hesitant because you know us not,’ I said.

‘Yes, partly that…  Tell me, Lady, do your people know of – what I carry?’

‘Other than Celeborn and I, no.’

‘The freedom I spoke of earlier grows less.  I am sorry -‘ he began.

‘I understand.  Do not feel ashamed of your caution and doubts.  These conditions are necessary for your quest, though they do not suit your nature.  I perceive that you are open and generous in your thoughts even toward strangers.’  He stood there in the half-light, looking down, his eyes slanted and sad in the shadows, like one of our white deer strayed from the protecting hills and glens into lands unknown.

‘My nature,’ repeated Frodo. ‘I begin to wonder what remains of it, what it ever was.’

‘You are weary, Frodo. I cannot promise you safety tonight, no more than any can while you bear what you do.  But I propose that you and your task will be in less danger in the dwelling of Celeborn and I tonight than most any other resting place.’  I could only hope that I spoke truth.  To convince us both, I continued.

‘I realize you wish to trust your kin and friends, but you should consider –‘

‘No!’ he said sharply, with a note of desperation.

‘Very well… You believe I should not have spoken so.  Perhaps.  You must decide where you shall spend this night.  In either case, you shall have an escort.'  Frodo studied me, then sighed.

‘I am still Frodo,’ he said with a brief smile.  ‘I gladly accept your kind hospitality and will stay this night by your hearth, if you and the Lord will have me, My Lady.’

I led the way down the shallow embankment onto the path.

‘The gate is not very far, and there, guards await, kin of Haldir whom you know.  They can see to your foot,’ I said.  It must be cleaned first so we cannot bandage it here.  ‘The numbness will soon give way to pain.’ 

‘Tis of little account,’ he said, shrugging.

‘The boots of Gondor are often shod with metal.’

‘You were present?’ he asked in surprise.

‘While Boromir accosted you, yes,’ I said. ‘I did not wish to interfere with your own managing of your friend’s attentions.  As host, of course, I could not risk harm to you or what you possess.  Boromir outmatches you in size and is not loath to take the advantage.’

Frodo accepted this in silence.

‘Did Boromir ask you for the Ring, Frodo?’

‘No… not exactly,’ he answered.

‘Even so, you remained quite calm at his handling of you.

‘If Boromir truly wished, he could have done - what he wanted.  I assumed, however, that he did not truly desire that, for I cannot believe him malicious or that he wishes me harm, not after his valiant loyalty and friendship throughout our journey.’  His voice broke as he finished.

‘My heart is glad of your Mithril armor, young one,’ I said.

He threw me an incredulous look, then confessed, ‘I have not worn it since our last meeting.’

 ‘You must do so, Frodo!  And not only because of the Gondorian’s sword,’ I warned.

‘Gollum goes unarmed,’ he replied.

‘I do not speak only of him,’ I said, feeling oddly unsettled.  So many sought this brave hobbit.  ‘Though I might, for he stalks our border and is an immediate enemy.  Once you cross the bounds of Lorien, he shall pursue you with blood lust.’

Frodo said nothing.  ‘Do you not understand that this creature despises you - even more than he does your Uncle Bilbo whom he tried to kill?  For now he has visited the enemy, making his situation all the more desperate.  He will scale any obstacle to –‘

‘Yes, I understand,’ Frodo interrupted.

‘But you would not draw sword against him,’ I persisted.

‘I would try not to,’ said Frodo.

Are you not prepared to commit fell deeds if necessary to carry out your task?  Or do you perhaps intend to take – other measures?’

Slowly, he replied.  ‘I do not hate this creature, as you might think, though I know he is dangerous.  I hope not to encounter him but if I do – I hope I will remember that he is of my own kind and suffers from such weakness as I.  I will deal with him as the occasion demands.’

His words nearly usurped my stifled question.  Was he not tempted to use the Ring?

But Frodo discerned my thought.  ‘Yes, My Lady, I am,’ he replied.  I glanced over at him and he eyed me briefly before returning his gaze to the path before him.

Frodo maintained my brisk pace, and so discreetly that, had I not other senses, I would have checked frequently for his presence.  At length, he broke the silence.

‘The trees - the water, even the rocks and grass - is it the Galadhrim who have awoken them, Lady?’ he asked, passing his hand along the velvet sides of a young mallorn.  ‘I feel such life flowing!’

This awareness of his engages him to the present in a manner rare in mortals.  I believe Frodo instinctively indulged this trait when he wished, allowing the gifts of the moment to fill him like water and air.  In such a way, he might protect himself from the One Ring’s lure.

‘Spirit fills all things,’ I answered, ‘everywhere - in Rivendell, your Shire, even the lands of Men.  But few of the mortal races perceive this and therefore the communion with other beings, so natural to us, is not possible for them.  You yourself have acquired such perception only recently, perhaps.  I hazard that few even of your companions feel what you speak of, though the barefoot hobbits, I deem, sense more keenly than Men, the pulse of the earth.’

‘So we believe,’ said Frodo firmly.  But Men can perhaps learn?’

There is that which cannot be taught,’ I replied.  ‘ And some have abused the knowledge they gained.  You know of Numenor.’

Frodo nodded with down-cast eyes.

‘But perhaps you would benefit from what I may tell you of related matters,’ I said then.  ‘The story is dark and long, though I shall foreshorten it.’

‘I would listen to whatever you would share, My Lady.  I know little of the history of this land and its people and wish to learn more.’

‘Very well, my eager hobbit.’ said I.  ‘I will begin with the Silmaril for those magnificent jewels, as you may know, preceded the One Ring.

‘Eons ago, lustful ambition drove my Noldorean relatives to Middle-earth, fired by love of the Silmarils which they esteemed above all other objects, even above the word of Illuvitar.  I too came to Arda, our Middle-earth, at that time but driven by another desire – not for jewels but to fashion a kingdom of peace and plenty out of the wilderness.  Yet, I had nothing when I left Aman, Elvenhome, and the wrath of the Valar loomed behind me.’

‘Was it simply the departure that angered them?’

‘Rather the reason for it, but that must be recounted in another tale.  At long last, we arrived in Middle-earth.  There, deep in the forests of Doriath, in the realm of Menegroth, I found quiet welcome and respite with my uncle, King Thingol, and Melian the Maia, the parents of Luthien.  From them I learned much and in their land, nourished my desire in silence.  But even Menegroth, sequestered as it was by Melian’s incantation, crumbledeventually under the forces of evil - forces not relegated to the obvious Enemy alone.’

The obvious enemy?’ queried Frodo.

‘My own people - first cozened by the jealous and rapacious Morgoth, then by his fell servant Sauron - played a dark role in the troubles of Arda.  Discovering this, Thingol forbade the high speech of the Noldor among his woodland folk and banished Finrod, my honorable and most gentle brother, from his halls.  War raged in Middle-earth and only after devastation and blood-shed were our greatest enemies overcome.  But the land was ravaged and the people, Elves and Men, ran craven upon it.  Beneath the willows along the riverbanks of Beleriand and of Lindon, I wandered and grieved.’

Frodo’s eyes glinted in the darkness as he listened attentively.

‘Yet ever I kept in my heart the dream of a land where I would hold sway, where its denizens could create gardens and dwellings of great beauty without fear of envy or malice.  Towards that end, Celeborn and I, grateful for the skilled hands of Durin’s dwarves, built an abode of beauty and comfort in the veils of Lothlorien.  In the region between the great rivers of Celebrant and Anduin, I kept all savage creatures at bay.’

‘Lorien is of such age!’ said Frodo, ‘And all you have wished for has come to pass.’

‘And shall likely pass away.  Even then, I knew better than to expect our hard-won victories to be guarantors of peace, and in due course, Sauron erected a new stronghold in the East, from which greed and arrogance spread and took root again among the peoples of Middle-earth.  The Rings of Power, forged by the great Elven craftsman, Celebrimbor, gave me hope that those of good heart and strong mind could overcome Sauron’s evil.  But that hope was short-lived, for Sauron exploited our skill and out-mastered us with his own creation.

In fury and terror, those of us bearing Elven rings, pulled the potent gems from our fingers and hid them.  For it was through these that Sauron’s Ring would enslaved us.  After another agonizing era of war and resistance, Isildur, great chief of doomed Numenor, with the aid of Gilgalad, Elven King, seized the One Ring from Sauron.  But, as you know, instead of destroying it as we wished, he kept it, drawing evil to him until the Ring betrayed him to his death and was itself lost.

‘I contemplated then how I might find the Ring and use it to redeem all that had been ruined in Middle-earth over its tragic history.  But multitudes of seasons passed and eventually, reflecting on all that I had learned, I banished such yearnings as I had.  Past abstinence from pride and want strengthened into a truth of sorts - like a taproot, quenching and finally anchoring its host in time of drought.’  But now, I mused, the root frays.

Then Frodo spoke, saying, ‘I wonder, Lady Galadriel, why you have chosen to remain here - in Middle-earth, I mean - while many of Elven kind are sailing to the Undying Lands?’

I said nothing at first.  The question was innocent enough as he phrased it, but for me his words triggered a host of memories and my yearning for the Ring was ripe.

I turned and grasped the hobbit’s shoulders.  Heavily, my hands fell upon him, drawing a puzzled look.  I meant to release him… but did not.   He set his shoulders to my touch and beneath the cloth of his shirt I felt surprising strength in the taut muscle.  His brows knit as my grip deepened, even to the cold center of his old wound.  He knew that I could overcome him - but trusted me not to.  At that recognition, I dropped my hands.

‘I am here to serve my hope,’ I said at last, barely holding my movements in check.  ‘I am sorry, Frodo, but your question touches upon that which must be destroyed and cannot glibly be discussed.’  His eyes clouded as his hand went to the damaged shoulder.

‘Yes, you see it is difficult to explain.’  I moved aside his right hand to replace it with my own, tenderly this time.  ‘And I believe your own perception comes close to the mark, does it not?’

‘I - am aware that you believe you could make good of this thing that I carry, enhancing the prosperity of your land,’ he replied slowly.  ‘Yet, you do not demand it of me.’

How calmly he delivered those brazen words – to which I had no reply!

‘Thank you,’ he added.  I was unsure to what he referred and marveled once more at his gentleness despite my trying of him.

Frodo was shivering, possibly from merely the cool night air.  I held aside a branch for him to pass and saw how he hefted the Ring in his palm, as if to relieve the weight or impression of it.  My own ring – safely about my finger - felt as naught, except when its power waxed and I felt its light.  Not so with the One, as I might have known.  Oddly, I had ever imagined only how I would use it, not how it would feel to possess.

Then, of a sudden, understanding came to me that the hobbit bore the Ring, endured it - he did not possess it, and while that was so he might not be possessed by it. The clarity of this simple distinction was as the reappearance of a lake floor after the settling of turgid waters.

A soft voice interrupted my reverie.  ‘Only recently have I felt it as a burden.’ 

I regarded Frodo in surprise.  ‘You are stronger than you think,’ I said.

The path I chose, though the shortest, was not the smoothest.  Just where the way grows even narrower and begins to climb through a grove of larch and hemlock, I noticed his quickened breathing and felt remorse.  Yet, why?  This and far worse he must overcome, should he proceed with his task.

When we arrived at the portal to the rear assent, I directed Frodo to a small spring to quench his thirst, while I crossed the bridge to Lindelor who stood sentry.  I asked him to send word to Frodo’s companions, informing them of his whereabouts and also to examine the hobbit’s injured foot.  Unexpectedly, Frodo himself appeared as we talked.

Lindelor nodded to him, and, after introductions, said, ‘Now, Master Hobbit, I shall bind your foot, if I may.’

Frodo grinned. ‘We do not bind our feet except when wounds are so grievous as to prevent our walking to the nearest tavern - as mine would not be were I in the Shire – back home!  So you need not trouble yourself.’

‘As you will,’ said Lindelor. ‘I have a healing balm here at hand.  May I at least apply that?’

Frodo accepted politely, and Lindelor pointed to a low stool for him to sit.  The tall Elf bent over his small fire in the grate, holding a crucible of salve in a pair of tongs.  ‘It’s better to warm it first,’ he explained from the hearth. Then, without turning, he said, ‘You are far from home.  Many lives of men have passed since I traveled so far as that.  And the longer I walk beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood, the less willing I am to leave it – whether for travel or quest.’  Lindelor glanced back over his shoulder.  Frodo stared fixedly into the flames.

Lindelor’s gaze dropped from Frodo’s face and his voice grew more intent.

It must have been difficult, leaving behind…’

Frodo looked up, eyebrows raised.  I could barely discern from where I stood but I knew that the gold Ring was visible against the parted muslin of Frodo’s shirt.

‘A lady perhaps…?’

Catching Lindelor’s focus, Frodo glanced down and abruptly tucked away his gilded bane.

‘Tis no lover’s gift, only a family heirloom,’ he said, and my reaching hand dropped to my side.

Lindelor rose then and Frodo’s face glowed rose in the firelight, his skin damp with apprehension.  But Lindelor administered to Frodo’s foot without further question.

Frodo thanked him graciously and Lindelor made a short bow, which amused me for he had never done so to any other that I knew of.

By the time Frodo and I reached Caras Galadhon, the stars were thick above us, though dimmed by the torches that lit the clearing.  Frodo seemed fretful and winded, his hand toying with the lacings at his neck.  I studied him.  He will show it now, I thought, surely he will bring it forth now.  But the hobbit did not attend me.

Suddenly, he sighed and folded his arms across his chest, a smile playing in his eyes.  ‘Despite what’s passed, some good will has brought me here,’ he said softly, then turned to me.  ‘Thank you.’  He reached for my hand and pressed it firmly.

This unaccountable gratitude touched me deeply. I had done nothing, yet I would do anything for him, to save him from what is sure to come.  I took him to a secluded hollow to rest.  Then I, too, retired.

Presently, Celeborn came. He gently swung the hammock where I lay, before sitting down.

‘So, you have brought our small but – heavy laden - guest to eve with us.’

My closed eyes remained so.  ‘You believe that I might have done otherwise?’ I asked.

At his silence, I paid him veiled regard, divulging the more critical of the afternoon’s events. His grey eyes silvered.

‘No, you could not’ he answered finally.  He squeezed my toes with his long elegant fingers and stood.

But I was not so easily comforted.  Rising on one arm I asked, ‘Is it so obvious, then?’

‘If you mean to Frodo, I would say yes.  I believe he is aware that you are drawn to his burden, though not to what extent.

‘And how do you know this?’

‘Of course I am not as familiar with him as are you, my Lady,’ he replied with a rye smile.  ‘I have seen him only once, yet that was enough.  He revealed much perception, confirming the Council’s high opinion of him.  Besides the hobbit’s natural intelligence, his sensibilities are stirred now by the Ring, and by the wound you told me of.  Your own desires were apparent at least in your initial harsh treatment of him.  Yet now, I see you begin to favor him.

‘That may be,’ I said.  ‘But - it taxes me to breaking to be so near!’

‘You cannot take this upon yourself!’ warned my consort, holding me as if I was about to wrest what I desired from Frodo at once.  ‘Yet, neither can you desert the hobbit.  He needs your advice, and most of all your faith in him and his quest. His sincere motive is apparent to anyone who can look into his eyes.’

‘I do not doubt it.  Yet, can he steel himself – in heart and mind – for what lies ahead?’

‘You ask this even knowing his resistance to and resilience after his recent travails?’

 I shrugged.  ‘I do not know what it is that disturbs me then.’

‘Oh yes, yes, My Lady.  We do know.  Yet, are you so sure your strength surpasses his?’

‘It may not.  We shall see,’ I answered evasively

‘If he manages to depart these lands while you yet covet his burden - which he is sworn to guard with his life - he WILL know this.  He will feel it.  The memory of this land and the Lady who presides here, will not be a joy and a strength to him but an unhappy reminder of the irresistible evil he carries.  And I tell you my wife, my sister-in-arms, neither he nor his mission will survive it.  If, on the other hand, he travels with your blessing, he stands a chance - the only chance for Middle-earth, seat of our eternal love, though we must leave or fade here.’

My eyes narrowed as is my wont, as I scrutinized my own motives.  But those last words enlightened me – with the notion that I could bend my thought towards Frodo’s urgent need and so escape my longings.  This outward focus, after all, I have witnessed and admired in the hobbit himself.

‘You speak wisely, my Lord. And I am gratified that at least you do not see my offered hospitality as in error.’

‘We shall welcome this young one and feed his spirit, for he struggles valiantly in the cause of Middle-earth.  Take care now, my love.  For you above all have been both, drawn to the enemy’s chief ploy and the most stalwart in our resistance.  Remember that last,’ and he left me with a kiss.

Soon after, I rose and went to wake my guest.

I parted the strands of ivy that hung about the place where he lay on his side upon the cushioning moss.  The Ring, the One Ring, had escaped from his garments and was resting before his small chest upon the green.  Warm and lovely the thing looked to me…  I turned from it to the bearer.

I watched him and saw the moss pressed softly beneath his fingers and cheek. And I was that moss, bedding him, his heart beating rapidly against me.  I wanted to embrace him, hold him tightly to include him in the power and love with which I framed this land.  But I could not for I was moss and had no limbs and thus could not bind him.

Waters of the sea rode in and swelled against me.  As ocean weed, I coiled around him and felt his ribs shift beneath.  Desire filled me to possess and be possessed by Ring and Ring-bearer – to merge with them and, as one, accomplish - I knew not what.  All was darkness, spray, and swirling current.

Between us, suspended above the waves was the One Ring, strangely hovering at the end of its chain so that the fronds of my growing came through it and I noticed that the chain about Frodo's neck was twisted.  I struggled to unwind it but could not.  Yet the Ring fitted about me like a necklace, around the velvet greenness of my being, as the briny water subsided.  As I grew to fill the circled space, the torque shortened around Frodo's throat.  His even breathing broke into choked gasps.  Panicked fingers clutched at the chain with no effect, while I watched in horror.

Suddenly, my own limbs returned and I lost the feel of the Ring about me.  I flung my arms about Frodo pulling him to me and easing the tension of the fatal chain.   My position at Frodo’s bedside startled me and, laying a finger upon the One Ring, I quickly tucked it away and drew back lest I wake him thoroughly.

As I gazed at the hobbit, the deep beds of his eyes shadowed and thick-lashed, a second more ghastly vision came.  I saw the Ring bearer stripped and captive in a black-walled tower stained with crimson.  Blood ran from his every orifice, from the corner of his mouth, his nose, snaking from one ear, down his thighs.  His mouth gaped and his eyes flashed agony, yet he emitted not a sound.  The Ring was gone from his neck, an oozing purple welt left upon on his skin.  His cracked lips showed great thirst.  An orc twice his size held a jug of water at bay, goading.

‘Speak to us of your companions and you shall drink!’  Frodo stared mutely at the droplets the orc shook from the jug to taunt him.

‘Tell why you are here!’ said another, wrenching his captive’s arm, forcing him to his knees. Instantly, a third orc, shifting his leather apron, was upon him.  A scream, then I saw red pooling on the floor beneath the delicate arch of Frodo’s hips as monstrous claws seized him.

I leaned on the tree beside me and slid, helplessly clutching its smooth sides, to the ground.  There was only one way I could stop this from coming to pass.  If Frodo failed, his suffering would be in vain as we all would be enslaved.  And if he succeeded, he would suffer the same - alone.  His intent was evident to me - he would do this, or die attempting it.  I could not allow either doom.

I knelt beside him and instantly, he awoke.  Fear wracked his face then melted as he recognized me.

‘Come, if you are rested, friend Frodo.  Music and a light repast are at hand to refresh you,’ I invited, folding my trembling arms within the long sleeves of my gown.

As we strolled down the tree-lined corridor, lit by stars and occasional torches, my hand strayed to Frodo’s nape, fondling it and the Ring’s chain.  I know not how he felt as I did this, for I could think of nothing but my recent resolve.

Celeborn, who came quickly through the trees, broke my obsession.  Beholding me above Frodo’s head, he came between us, drawing me to him with an arm about my girdle, the other resting upon Frodo’s shoulder.  The Ring, it seemed, held little sway over my consort.

Soon we were in the Glade of Evensong and the din of the Ring’s beckon left me for a while.  Flutes, viols, sistrums, and lutes lay upon the velvet-draped marble table behind the dais where we took our seats.  From a charger on the low table beside me, I selected autumn berries and nuts into a linen napkin and passed it to Frodo, as one of my maidens appeared and poured us each a warm drink.  Ruby flames tongued the darkness as two elves kindled a bonfire in the center of the glade.

Celeborn sat at my feet, next to Frodo who had chosen a place on the rush-matted lawn.  ‘Our main meal is in late afternoon, Frodo,’ explained Celeborn.  ‘And even then we eat sparingly these days compared with other races.  As our company with Men and other mortals has lessened, our once hearty appetites have likewise diminished.  Many of the recipes we once rejoiced in the making of no longer entice us.  I only hope you will find something sustaining.’

‘My Lord, the food provided since our arrival here has not only been ample and delicious but most satisfying!  Besides, not all hobbits have the appetite of a Beorning!’  

Celeborn, normally stern of countenance, grinned broadly.

At the faint thrum of sistrums, my heart’s strain subsided and I looked about me.  Haldir approached, his viol tucked under his chin.  He tuned it while he walked.  With a delighted smile, Frodo leapt to his feet and they greeted each other like old friends, despite their brief acquaintance.

‘The music from your instruments are as words,’ said Frodo as he withdrew from their embrace.

‘Do your people take pleasure in the musical arts, song, dance?’  Haldir asked.

‘Oh, yes!’ said Frodo. ‘Singing and dancing are a favorite pastime, and we look to any excuse for them so that occasions arise from the music-making as often as the reverse.’

‘Good!  Then perhaps you will join our small group and we can exchange a ballad or two between the Shire and the Wood - if the Lord and Lady can spare your company,’ said Haldir.

Frodo went off eagerly to join Haldir’s group a short distance away.

As I tuned my harp to the bell sounded for that purpose, I heard a tenor voice unfamiliar to me but sustained and clear through the various harmonies that already filled the air.  Looking across a throng of musicians, I traced the voice to Frodo, who sat upon a log, smiling slightly as he sang - a lyric of the Far West in the Common Language.  I wondered where he learned it.  About him, Haldir and his friends trained their instruments to his melody.

But my pleasure was interrupted, as nearby torchlight flashed off the Ring’s chain around the hobbit’s neck, for the moment unnoticed by its owner.  Only its chain!  Yet it captivated me, glinting like a string of fine gems at the rise and fall of the bearer’s chest.  Frodo felt my stare, turned towards me and his voice wavered.

I shifted my gaze with an effort, focusing my attention instead on my own Nenya, letting its white stone distract me from the One Ring's simple certain roundness.  But here I confirmed what I had noticed only absently before, Nenya was warm upon a cool finger and its light pulsed dimly but persistently.  I shuddered and stared back at Frodo in horror.  But his countenance was innocent of maneuverings.  He knew nothing of my ring, nor of operating under the One about his neck.  I caught Celeborn’s gaze and saw his eyes widen at this new knowledge - that proximity of the One tightened its hold on the Three, directly and unbidden by me or Frodo.

Nevertheless, I yearned to lay down my harp and go to Frodo, and with my ringed right hand lift the band of silken gold from his breast, just to  hold it, feel its weight in my fingers. Instead, I restained myself - and my - little - ring.

When I looked up again, Frodo’s song was over. I returned my harp to its stand and, ignoring a muttered warning from Celeborn, strolled over to where Haldir and the other young ones sat.

‘You have a fine voice, Frodo, and expressive! You will pleasure us by singing it for the company later, perhaps?’

Frodo politely declined our request that he perform the ballad, protesting that he lacked the talent to present to an Elven gathering and was unaccustomed to singing before a large audience of strangers.  His brow puckered, as if some memory irked him, so we said no more.  Soon he was laughing and smiling again, speaking haltingly but effectively in the high speech of his companions.

About us, the music lilted into an engaging melody and many of the assembly drifted to the spacious lawn to begin a dance.  Two of Haldir’s young friends approached the hobbit who was lightly batting a tambourine that someone had passed him.

‘Come dance with us Frodo!’ they called.

Frodo looked doubtful.  ‘I am not familiar with the steps and –‘

‘We’ll teach you!’ protested the two, each seizing one of Frodo’s arms and yanking him to his feet.’

‘Daro!’ said Haldir sternly, then addressed Frodo.  ‘I beg you to forgive their enthusiasm.  It is an honor for us if a guest is so comfortable among us as to join in a dance.  Long has it been since any visitor has done so.

Frodo replied with a warm smile. ‘I am pleased to be asked and will do my best then.  I’ll bear even your laughter at my lack of grace.’

The pair, taller than Frodo though barely full-grown and the youngest among us, leaped forward with Frodo still in tow.  At the peal of the opening chord, he rolled up his sleeves and stood poised, his feet placed to follow what he heard.

A haunting theme from a viol threaded out from the main melody and the Ring Dance began, where all comers linked arms.  As the dance progressed, the initial chain thinned to several loose lines. One line circled about and Frodo glided passed, his eyes gleaming in the firelight.  He caught my attention and I returned his smile.  Looking about me, I saw that the people were happy, more so than I’d seen in countless years, and the auras of all coalesced into a shimmering cloud which yet did not veil us from the stars.  And the dew sprang to light at the dancers’ feet.

The rhythm shifted, hastening to a roundelay.  The steps grew faster as one chain of dancers established itself as the leader.  Then, quite suddenly out of the deceptive simplicity of the early measures, flared the Serpent Dance, in which no mortal has ever shared and few have witnessed.

Through the heightening frenzy, I looked around for our guest.  Surely Frodo should not be attempting this.  Yet, there he was, between the fair young couple.  The dancers streamed past in ever more complicated designs - over a brook, one after the other as if across a bridge, the trough of a wave as they swooped under a low-fallen log, spiking the shimmering air as they leapt up and off a marble banquet table. Then they doubled back on themselves, weaving in and out among bystanders and each other without rift, over chaises, around statuary.  I shivered from its intensity.

All this joy and good will, in the presence of the One Ring!  So its evil could be dispelled!  This is how it could be, how it will be, I thought.  And Frodo the Hobbit shall bear the Ring no more, but shall live, to sing and dance, free - to my heart’s content.  But then something happened and the exuberance was curtailed.

As the tune slowed to the finish and some of the dancers dispersed, a voice hailed Frodo.

‘Master Hobbit! You wear a jewel of great beauty and I would handle it.’ One of the Elves who had surrounded Frodo earlier, hurried towards him.  Frodo’s hands were still locked in the grasps of his new friends.  His face clouded as he recognized the Ring’s intonement at work once again.

Of a sudden, it seemed, all the music stopped.  Frodo, his tall dance partners finally stilled, was panting deeply.  His linen shirt, loose and open necked (one of our own make) clung to him in wet patches.  But he pulled backwards, away from his companions, his expression no longer smiling.  Beneath the tawny glow of his face, against the pearl-pale triangle of his chest, a glimpse of the gold, which is my nemsis.  Broland, our kinsman, came forward, stretching a hand toward the hobbit's chest, blocking my view of the gold-piece.  Frodo shook his head slowly, his eyes fixed on the Elf.  Celeborn was on his feet.

An unseemly aggression marked Broland's swift move toward our guest and also the firm grip the two Elves kept on the hobbit’s arms.  Frodo finally wrenched free of them and backed away, fumbling at his shirtfront in vain. Bumping into Celeborn, he gasped and drew aside.

'Frodo!' another called.  'We mean only to have a look at it!’  One of the Elves again seized Frodo's shoulder and held him as Broland came forward.  The people of Lorien drew near, their eyes crystalline, piercing.  They encircled Frodo as effectively as the Ring might have had he put it on his finger.  Frodo gave up resistance at once, allowing Broland's hand on his flesh, fingers upon the Ring.  I saw him close his eyes for a moment as if bracing himself for pain.

'Tis a most exquisite charm you wear, Master Frodo. I have never seen so fine a make.  Indeed, something worthy of Feanor himself,' said Broland in the woodland tongue which Frodo struggled to understand.

With enormous effort, I tried to keep my distance as Broland toyed with the Ring, turning it this way and that, so that it glinted amber in the reflected torchlight, mesmerizing many who looked on.  Then it seemed to slip from his grasp and he followed it anxiously, pawing the hobbit, oblivious of this indignity.

'Please-' said Frodo, ‘please stop.’  Broland halted his ministrations as in mock trepidation.  Then he answered the entreaty with a taunt.

'Even so, you are a lovely setting for such a baubel as this,' he drawled and tipped Frodo's chin with his finger.  'Your eyes,' he continued, ‘we might find an ample setting for those, perhaps to set upon this Ring,’ and he thrust the hobbit’s face away from him.

But Frodo turned back to him, and spoke, ‘It was bequeathed to me from one who was as a father to me, the day he left our home.  I love him dearly and - remember him often.’  He swallowed, then finished evenly, ‘I regret my seeming unfriendliness.’

‘Nephew!’ I called sharply, finally collecting myself and stepping behind the haughty elf, seizing his shoulders. ‘What has affected you that you should treat our guest so?’

Broland, at my touch, dropped his face in his hands and, after a moment, addressed Frodo with a nod.  ‘I forgive your lack of mirth, Frodo, for I see you have cause…’  At a loss was our normally garrulous nephew to say what he should.  Eventually, he returned to himself with a puzzled frown.  He put a hand on Frodo’s head and dropped a blessing in High Elvish.

At that moment, a small silver-feathered owl broke the foliage above Frodo’s head, slipping into the darkness with a warbling cry.  I glanced across at Celeborn.  It was time.  Narrow escapes could never be counted on and the way of the Ring through the land of the Galadhrim was narrowing fast.

As Frodo and I left the gathering, Frodo spoke.  ‘I am sorry for what I have brought to your land, Lady Galadriel.  Only recently have I observed the affect of – of what I  carry - on others.  When we approached your land, I shared Aragorn’s belief that passage through the Golden Wood was the safest choice for us.  Orcs were on our heels and Moria disheartened all of us to such extent  that it seemed we could not resist even a small rank of enemy let alone the hoards that pursued us.  Yet, had I seen the evil already being sown, I would have considered my burden and its dark influence even in a haven such as this… Now, of course, I reflect on the past and early examples of its work seem shamefully obvious.’

‘And what could you have done even if you had foreseen these events, Frodo?’ I asked.

‘I would have urged Aragorn to lead the others to the safety of Lorien.’

‘And yourself?’

‘I - would have done what I must - broken from the company and sought the advice of Aragorn, Boromir, even Gimli, as to another path that I alone could pursue unnoticed - for a while.  At least, I hope that is what I would have done.’

‘Do not blame yourself for following your leader whom you trust, nor least, your own wisdom.  And I will add that it is fitting for Lothlorien to play its part in the final resistance to Sauron’s evil - even if all we do is provide a resting place where the bearer and his companions may recover strength.’

We arrived at the small bower where Frodo slept to find that someone had arrived before us.  Tyriel sat on the dry grass at the end of the verdant bedding.  Beside her, lay a mound of pillows and folded blankets.  In the past weeks I had asked her if she would specially tend him.  She was most pleased to do this, having grown quite smitten with him, and he with her, shyly gifting her with blooms from the late autumn lily growing in the southern glades, which she’s fond of dropping into her bath.  They had danced briefly together this evening, then I lost sight of her.  She looked up at us now expectantly.  

Frodo smiled and sank down next to her, his arm slipping about her waist.  I bid them good night and walked up to the low shelf of land where I would keep watch (after what had transpired at Evensong, this was necessary).  As I left, he gently lifted a coil of her hair to stroke her neck, his eyes intent on her face.  She spent no time but took his head in her hands and folded him in her arms, to which he let go a deep, contented sigh.  How much of his plans Frodo confided to Tyriel I do not know, but there was communion between these two and my heart was glad.

Then I heard words that wrung my heart.

‘This must end tonight, my love.  There is no choice here.’ Frodo’s voice.  I turned and saw him shift the Ring to fall behind his back, his hands shaking ever so slightly.  Even now he did not take it off!  I realized then what I should have known before, that taking the Ring from Frodo would destroy him.  I could not vouchsafe his life even by relieving him of it. 

Tyriel’s pleas were in vain.  ‘Why, Frodo?  I understand that you have a mission to fulfill that must eventually take you from us but you are not sufficiently healed to pursue it!  I have heard you moan in the night and I have seen the pain in your shoulder – I have felt it!’

‘That cannot be, dearest Tyriel!’ Frodo exclaimed.  ‘For your kindness and gentle handling of me, I am utterly grateful.  As a result, I am indeed, well again, as well as I shall ever be.  But I will not have you hurt.  That alone, were there no other cause, would be reason for my leaving your arms at once and departing these lands.  As it is, I –‘.  The sentence halted with a hushed murmur from Tyriel, the rustle of bed clothes, and, for but a moment, her tinkling laugh that ended on a note of anguish.

At last I invited Frodo to the grotto where the mirror of fate awaits.  This was the final measure I would take before letting him go.  He also wished to see me, for the time of his departure was nigh.

So I abandoned my meditation in the faded orchards below Caras Galadhon and sought him.  He was restless and while the company had retired before their customary night dining, his place among the dozing companions was empty.

I found him nearby, splitting wood into faggots for the evening fire.  He swung the hatchet with neat even strokes, letting the handle slide easily through his hand, and the axe sang as it struck the frost-whitened logs. 

At my approach, he paused and looked up at me wonderingly.  I gestured for him to follow.  Tossing the cloven fragments onto a pile, he tucked his hands in his pockets and stepped lightly over the strewn wood.

Dusk settled in a wash of indigo and the crystalline light of the first stars cast vague shadows as I led him to a hedge, where we passed through an arched opening into a secluded garden.  The steady ripple of flowing water sounded through the twilight.  I trod the path by the stream that runs from the fountain on the hill.  Down the long stair I hurried, for a strange urgency filled me.

I turned when I reached a deep green hollow and saw Frodo above, taking the treacherous descent carefully.  When he came to where I stood, his rapid breaths spoke of unease.

In the center of the grotto stands a wide silver basin upon a wooden pedestal, carved as a branching tree.  On a ledge nearby is a silver ewer, molded in the shape of a dolphin of the Westering Sea.  From this, I filled the basin to brimming and released a breath upon it.

‘I brought you here, Frodo, that you may see if you wish.’  Mist curled from the crevasses in the rock around us, quickening the folliage nearby with its touch and pervading the air with a faint musk.

Beside me, the Ring-bearer stood, his skin moonlight-pale, his eyes dark as the night sky, for the first time revealing in his stance the slightest tension of fear. 

‘What shall I see?’ he asked, regarding me with awe, and I realized that Frodo’s heart and mind were for this moment (and not for the first) closed to me.  Perhaps he willed it so, or, morelike, my own yearnings blotted my vision.

‘I know not what the Mirror may reveal.  Though it may reflect what you desire, it may also show things unbidden.  Do you not wish to look?’  I asked, pointing to the hallowed basin.  Frodo did not answer.

I queried him once more and, with a sidelong glance, he replied, ‘Do you advise me to do this?’  The air was moist in the dell.  Beads of it formed on his lip and brow, his reluctance to do what I wished, the clearest aspect of this night.

‘I think you may learn something that could help you –perhaps - and that you have the courage to face such knowledge.’ 

I watched him closely, aware that he served my need more than his own if he took my advice.  His endurance would be tried - again.  Nonetheless, he stepped up to the basin.  Resting a hand on the graven rim, he peered into the water.  His eyes grew wide then heavy-lidded.  The night birds fell silent and the trailing vines and branches hung fixed in the now still air.  Yet, the water in the basin shuddered and metallic black circles glided outward.

Suddenly Frodo clutched the wide bowl with both hands, his head bowed over it.  The Ring tumbled from his shirt and swung out over the water, throwing dazzling copper medallions across the oily waves. 

The Dark Lord was at hand.  A turgid yellow eye took shape in the water.  Slitted and enflamed, it captured Frodo's clear ones, igniting them with its fire.  Through the damp curls that hung over the hobbit's brow, I watched Sauron do his work.  Frodo's face was as luminous as the Ring and rimed with sweat.  His lips moved as if to speak but no words came.  He struggled not to yield to what was being asked of him, his knuckles sharp and white against the basin’s rim, his breathing shallow.  He contended, I realized, for this instant - neither casting back to an anchor of history nor incited by future hope - unlike me were I in his place.  But he was seized with the horror of it and became still, rigged as the rock walls of the grotto, and unable to draw breath. 

Almost too late I observed his face dropping toward the mirror’s elemental surface.  My hand started from my side, arching towards him.  But I would not touch him.  To press him back from the radiant waters would mean glancing upon the Ring itself, and, regardless, would have been unwise while he was in such a fragile state.  Staying my hand called for all my will, barely enough left to shift its better intent to my voice and break the enemy's grip on Frodo's mind. 

'Do not touch the water!' I commanded.

Thank Eru that he heard and mustered strength to respond.  He pulled away abruptly, his face ashen, but managed to step down unaided from the lip of stone.  Gasping, his fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to contain the tremors of his body.  I glanced at the basin beside him.  The water had quickened to rapid pulses, the same that shook Frodo.  He looked up at me, struggling to focus.

‘Peace,’ I said in our tongue.  He nodded, the merest lull in the storm of his agitation.  I went to his side, placed one hand on his back and the other gently upon his chest.  No sooner did my palm graze his tunic when his own flew to intercept it, his other hand darting into the air before his face as if to thwart a blow.  His abrupt step back knocked him hard against the granite rock-face behind us.

‘Frodo!’ I exclaimed, catching his hand and guiding him to a low bench.  I sat down opposite him.  ‘I know what you saw.’

He shielded his eyes behind trembling fingers.

‘Do not be afraid!  The Dark Lord scours the lands of those who resist him but ever he finds the door to my realm closed!’  I stood up then, as loathing for Sauron and his rapacious mind swelled within me like a summoned host of warriors.  And I raised my arms to the East in utter denial.  Above us Earendil shone.  White rays sprang from the Ring on my finger as the jewel caught the heavenly light.  The rays flashed and Frodo blinked at the momentary blinding, his lips parting in sudden comprehension.

‘Yes, Ring-bearer.  Verily it is in the land of Lorien upon Galadriel’s finger that one of the Three remains.  Such cannot be hidden from the bearer of the One Ring, one who has seen the Eye.  Behold Nenya!  This is the Ring of Adamant – which is itself suborned by the One.  The Enemy suspects but does not know – not yet – that I am its keeper.

You understand now, how your coming to us sounds our doom, for if you fail -’ I paused and studied at our small Ring-bearer, ‘if you fail, we are laid bare to the Enemy.  If you succeed, our power diminishes and Lothlorien will disappear into the tides of Time.  We must depart then from Middle-earth or dwindle to a rustic folk, forgetting and forgotten.’

Frodo turned his head aside.  But I saw a tear seep from the dark lashes that curled from the soft outline of his cheek and he wiped it away with his shoulder.

'What do you wish?' he asked faintly.

'That what should be shall be,' I replied, and I told him of the heart-ache of our people for leaving Middle-earth, answering also his long-ago question as to why I have waited.  In his withdrawn gaze, I could watch the fading of Lothlorien, for his mind was still raw and sensitized by his confrontation at the Mirror.

‘You needn’t be perturbed, Frodo.  You are not answerable for the fate of Lorien – only for your own task.’  My voice sounded cold, though I intended to sooth him, for I could not sheath my bitterness.  ‘Were it of any avail, I could wish that the One Ring never was, or remained forever lost.’

Frodo looked up and I saw in him a fervent regret for all that would be gone and missed.  Then his expression changed and, neither smiling nor afraid, became animated. 

Before me, framed by the placket of his shirt, the Ring hung opaque and bloated, straining the links of its silver chain.  How could it encircle the hobbit’s slender finger?  Then I saw it, a subtle strobe from the Ring itself... perhaps a trick of light at the body's movement, but I felt it. The hour – my hour - was upon us and the cry of the silver owl echoed all the voices of the myriad creatures that had ever cried to me down through the ages, in warning that calamity was imminent.

Frodo rose and held me with eyes limpid as a mountain spring in morning.  Then, in a voice earnest and solemn, he said, ‘You are wise and fearless, Lady, and beauty lies within and about you.  I will give you the One Ring, if you should ask for it.  It is too great a matter for me.’

At first, I stared in amazement, looking down at him.  There in his features was Frodo’s own spirit.  He acted not as a representative of the Council to whom he was bound, far less as an instrument of the Ring, but as himself.

I should be behind him in his task, or not...  Visions crowded in… I saw him lying naked at the feet of an enormous orc, his body marred with bruises and gashes, his mind fraying like gauze…

But I stood before him and laughed, not joyfully, yet freeing.  What else could I do at such an extraordinary offer?  Such a moment to hold in all the history of Middle-earth - the sparrow offering to the hawk the ultimate talon!  Perhaps, there was joy in it after all, joy on the brink of annihilation - such as I saw in Frodo.

Nenya blazed upon my finger, obscuring his face, as I translated the meaning of his offer.  I should be enthroned with the fate of all the world in my hands.  I clasped them and the radiance of the One Ring outshone the bearer and beams from it mingled with Nenya's across my fingers.  And the mallorn forest grew to great height.  Flowers I had never seen east of the sea burgeoned at its feet.  My people gathered upon a blue-green lawn and raised their voices in triumph and gratitude.  The hobbit, Frodo, stood at my side, clad in princely raiment, with rings upon his fingers, a circlet of gems about his neck… and delivered of any burden or hardship.

I stove for control over my lunging thoughts.

‘Gently are you avenged for my harsh testing of you!  You begin to see keenly indeed, Frodo.’

The hobbit stood motionless, every muscle poised.  I admitted my age-old desire for the Ring, my hopes and plans.  Then, dropping my voice to hide its tension, I said,

‘Now at last it comes.  You will give me the Ring freely!’  I took a step towards him.  He remained still, undaunted.  I allowed the rays of Nenya to whiten his eyes and he winced at the pain of it but could not turn away.

‘In place of the Dark Lord, you shall have a Queen, beautiful and terrible as the sea!’  Overcome with images of light and of darkness, I continued my exultation, barely aware of the hobbit.  ‘All shall love me and – despair!’  I raised my hand once more so that Nenya’s reflection illuminated me alone while darkness swallowed all else.  

But, alas!   I did not live out my youth in the company of the defiant but doomed visionary Feanor and far seeing Mellion for naught.  And in that final outburst of pride and lust, I again sensed the hobbit by me, felt his horror and confusion.  I dropped my arms to my sides, withdrawing the ghastly exclusive light.  I laughed once more, softly.  And how quickly that laughter turned to sadness, as I said,

‘I pass the test.   I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel.’

Frodo reached for my arm and his touch reassured me.  We stood long in silence and I saw the reverence in his eyes – different than when I first met him.  Then, he assumed in his innocence that I was immune to the Ring’s blandishments.  Now, knowing better, his reverence was deeper.  I only hoped he could read a like emotion in my own heart.

Suddenly, he swayed on his feet and I moved to support him but he lightly sat upon the ground.  After a moment, he tipped his face up and asked, quite calmly, about the Three Elven rings, why he could not commune with us through them.

‘You have not tried!  And doing so would destroy you.  Before you use such power you must wax in strength and train your will to dominate others.  Even so, as one who has borne the Ring upon finger and seen that which is hidden, your sight grows sharper and –‘, I paused, for I apprehended that Frodo’s sight now took him beyond the pale of Middle-earth.  So as not to alarm him, I finished, ‘And you have at times read my thought with great clarity. 

‘Come,’ I shifted, drawing him into an embrace.  ‘I can see you are cold.  I had forgotten when I pulled you from your labor with the ax, that you were thinly clad.  It is winter and you are mortal.’

‘I am well, Lady,’ he said.  Nevertheless, he sighed and relaxed against me, allowing me to open my cloak and drape its soft wool about him.

‘Let us go, then.  Tomorrow you must leave us, my dear young friend.’

The Ring has left our lands and the Ring-bearer has survived its sojourn.  Nor have I fallen from grace, though I came close to doing so, so close.  We saw the company into boats which Celeborn provided and on the wedge of land that parted the flowing waters of the Anduin, we laid a small banquet.  The occasion was not a bright one, for harsh winds drove thick clouds overhead, and below them, smiles were few among any of us.

I poured mead for the Company and we drank the cup of parting.  Before passing the drink to Frodo, I paused to stroke his face as one might the petal of a rare flower, for a blush was on his cheek that would soon fade - forever.  He contemplated the goblet he held, then tipped it up and promptly emptied its contents.  His cousin, Merriadoc, noticing, came to him and laid a hand on his shoulder.  Frodo looked up in surprise as the other hobbit raised his own drink and likewise swallowed it in a single draft, his eyes fixed upon his cousin.

Beyond that, Frodo ate and drank little.  Throughout the gathering, I felt his gaze as he hearkened to all my words.  When I returned that look, I was astonished.  For I saw there a profound love - rooted in this place and opening into a timeless vision of my world before the Ring was made.  So it is that Frodo let his humble attachment to his home land guide him to a broader view of the world.  And I saw also courage to protect that which he loved, far more than he himself was aware of.

He was dressed for travel, with a leather belt around his outer clothing and a tidy sword at his side.  Small as he was, I thought how intrepid he looked, though the weapon appeared almost unseemly on this gentle being whom I had come to know.

At last, when we returned to the boats, Celeborn and I bestowed gifts upon the travelers, reminders of Lothlorien that they might find useful on their journeys.  For the Ring-bearer I regret that my gift could not have been more.  The truth is, that with all the power I have gained over the course of centuries, I can no more secure our fate than he.  Thus, I prepared simply a vial of light that he might hold aloft in the unimaginable darkness.  He spoke no word when I presented it, but I saw in his face gratitude as if for a gift of immense value.  Yet, in it he saw the extremity of the path he was to tread.

I went to him and knelt, kissing him on both cheeks.  We embraced and I wished him farewell in our Elvish tongue but not in final goodbye, for I cannot believe that Frodo and I will not speak again upon this Middle-earth.

As our vessels diverged, I took up my harp and sang a lament, that it might carry to the Ring-bearer across the waves, that he might hear and know of my hope for him.  It was a song of Valimar – which I forsook, and which since has forsaken me.  But Frodo perhaps…  perhaps he shall find what I have lost.  For tremulous and absolute he was brought before me, as a shell washed in from the sea, all of its essence concentrated on one foothold in the sand – the resonance of the deeps echoing within.

The sun does not let loose her tresses upon a day that I do not call Frodo to mind, seeking ever his safe footfall and the comfort of his heart.  But at first neither here nor there could I discern, nor before or after.  With mere fragments of vision I must be satisfied, for that is the way of such powers, as with the Mirror in the grotto.

The first I saw of him after the Fellowship’s departure, he lay motionless upon a rough-hewn slab.  If he was bound, I could not tell for he was covered with a coarse blanket such as Men use in their battle camps.  He smiled faintly when I entered the cave-like chamber where he lay.  But his slumber was deep and he did not stir when a tall man came in, a dark haired Gondorian, armed and holding aloft a torch.  He stood over the hobbit, his back to me.  Frodo moaned softly and the man’s hand went out.  I was seized with fear that the Man had come for the Ring and that all would be lost.  Even if the Ring remained concealed and quiescent, Frodo was a stranger in the land of this soldier and could only be seen as a foe.  But instead the man laid his warrior’s hand tenderly upon the hobbit’s forehead and smoothed back the tousled hair.  He adjusted the blanket about the small form and when he turned to leave, I saw his own brow furrowed.  Frodo, it appeared, was not well but he had transformed a deadly enemy into a friend.

Then, there came a day when I could not reach him, when all I saw were eddying mists breaking into formless darkness.  But the following afternoon I beheld him again.  As I walked through the upper meadows overlooking the Anduin, intending to clear my head, I heard a rustle in the matted grass.  When I turned, I realized the grass had been stomped into a hard floor of gravel and bedrock.  A sudden breeze stirred up a choking grey dust that covered the cliff wall and caught in the tattered flaps of cobwebs.  A figure lay on the hard ground and as I looked, I recognized the ragged breeches and shirt of Frodo Baggins.  He stared up at me trying to comprehend what he saw, his gaunt face, once so full of light, bleak and despairing.  But I was prepared for his call.  I reached out to him with a smile.  Slowly, and with great effort, he raised himself on one arm and gazed at me.  As recognition kindled to hope in his eyes, he seized my hand and drew himself up, setting his shoulders with such firmness as to give strength to his now so scrawny frame.  Then, through lips cracked and grey as broken earth, he whispered as if in thanks, not my name, but that of Elbereth.  I repeated the blessed words, begging that she hear him.

Now, days have passed since I have perceived Frodo and I fear the worst.  Blowing ash replaces mist.  I consulted with Celeborn and risked directing the beams of Nenya to the East, that I might see a way.  Upon a brindled stone outcrop in the mountains, I sat for three courses of the sun and moon, seeking not the distance of space, nor even of time, but the distance of the present.  I sought not the horizons of the earth but the depths of existence.  But in vain.  He is lost to me now and I must accept his destiny - as he has. 

My descent was unmemorable except for the pall of sorrow that hindered every step as the leg irons of the orc.  When Celeborn met me on the mountainside, I nearly collapsed into his arms.

‘Naught of Frodo,’ he said.

I shook the snow from my mantle and met his eyes.

‘Do not despair,’ he said.

‘No, we must not.’

‘How long has it been since he has passed through your sight?’

‘Since the last freshet…’

‘So long!’ alarm sprang into Celeborn’s mild gaze.

‘Yes.  Felt more than saw, for this was real.  He used the vial.  I felt its golden light.  He had need of it, you see.  And now I wonder…’  I mused upon the frost in Celeborn’s lashes, lost in the beauty… and I thought of Frodo.

‘How will he do this?’ I asked.

‘If you mean how can he continue in his resolve…’ began Celeborn.

‘That is what I mean.’

‘Do you not know?’

I raised my eyes in question.

‘You are well acquainted with him, my Lady.’

‘But for long I was – distracted, where your initial judgments were unsullied and true.’

Celeborn turned me in his arms and we continued our descent, the first rays of the sun charging the ice-glazed outlines of the world about us with fire.

As I reflected upon the words of Celeborn, Beren and our Luthien came to mind, and I understood that Frodo’s path must be as theirs – hopeless but not certain.

‘Yes, I know… I DO know.’

I was unaware, when Frodo made his incomparable offer, of the charge that had been laid upon him, to let none handle the Ring outside the Company and only then in direst need.  This, Mithrandir told me later, upon his return to Arda.  And while I had sought an explanation for this apparent breach, Mithrandir did not.  Indeed, as I set down what has passed here regarding the Ring-bearer, my own doubts have dissolved.  Frodo’s choices sprang from his heart and his care for others.  They are outside the confines of conceit and therefore, by my reckoning, beyond reproach.

Frodo offered me the One Ring out of compassion, sensing also that I could take it from him and was fairly close to doing so.  He believed for an instant that offering up the Ring was his only hope of disarming it and because he still could!  This was a moment of great relief to him, an unexpected moment of triumph over the Ring’s stranglehold on his will, even as it became a moment of revelation to me.  In his modest act of generosity and by his example, I found again my own will.  Had I not, neither Ring nor bearer would have escaped me.

Even I, never having borne or worn the Ring - can yet feel its influence.  At times I cannot believe that it passed from me – that I let it pass, that I had enough will to leave the Ring of Power in the hands of one who had not the might to keep it from me.  Yet he is mightier than I.  Indeed, his strength of heart and spirit is unmatched in Middle-earth.  May the Light of Earendil in its treasured phial, the only gift I could bestow, prevail through the darkness that seeks to overcome him.   

THE END

I own none of the major characters of this story, nor their universe, all of which are the creations of the illustrious JRR Tolkien.  This telling is merely an attempt to savor the beauty.

Thank you to Stormyday, Aratlithiel, Trianne, and M. Sabasky for their insightful beta review and comments.

Note: Sam Gamgee does not appear in the Mirror scene because the focus here is exclusively on Galadriel's encounters with the Ring-bearer.

Sources:

Passages and paraphrases come from the Lorien chapters of Fellowship of the Ring.  Glimpses into Galadriel’s ancient past come from The Silmarillian and, to a lesser degree, Unfinished Tales of Numenor and Middle-Earth.

'Lothlorien, the hidden land between Celebrant and Anduin, where the trees bore flowers of gold and no Orc or evil thing dared ever come.’

JRRT. The Silmarillian, The Rings of Power and the Third Age.

‘The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom.  On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need.’

JRRT. LOTR, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Ring Goes South.

‘Yet even so, as Ring-bearer and as one that has borne it on finger and seen that which is hidden, your sight is grown keener.  You have perceived my thought more clearly than many that are accounted wise.’

JRRT. LOTR, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Mirror of Galadriel, Galadriel to Frodo.

‘[Galadriel] had a marvelous gift of insight into the minds of others, but judged them with mercy and understanding, and she withheld her goodwill from none save only Feanor.  In him she perceived a darkness that she hated and feared, though she did not perceive that the shadow of the same evil had fallen upon the minds of all the Noldor, and upon her own.  …she longed to see the wide unguarded lands and to rule there a realm at her own will.’

JRRT,.quoted by Christopher Tolkien in Unfinished Tales, The History of Galadriel and Celeborn.

‘Her personal ban was lifted, in reward for her services against Sauron. And above all for her rejection of the temptation to take the Ring when offered to her.  So at the end we see her taking ship.’

Christopher Tolkien.  The Letters of JRR Tolkien, Letter 297

‘A pity beyond all telling/Is hid in the heart of love.’

The Pity of Love by W.B. Yeats:

Spelling:

Regarding the ‘h’ in Caras Galadhon and Galadhrim, different printings of the LOTR reflect JRRT’s evolving opinion on this matter.  The ‘h’ is not present in these words in my volume of the text.  At that time, apparently, Tolkien felt the ‘dh’ looked awkward in the Common speech and chose not to use it.  Furthermore, notes indicate that Sindarin pronunciation was typically ‘d’, not the High Elven ‘dh’ (th).  However, Christopher Tolkien in Unfinished Tales explains that his father reversed his decision in later printings and the ‘dh’ was once again appeared in the text.  To align with the later printings, the current spelling in this story includes the ‘h’.

Regarding Halfling/halfling, and the like, the capital initial usually indicates the race or a specific important member of that race (the Halfling appeared before us, eg.).  The lower case refers to any/all Halflings.  In this story, I tried to match Tolkien’s varied usages as closely as possible.