Title: The Visitor

Author: Rowan aka Sue DeNimme

Summary: Elanor receives an unusual visitor.

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Note: This was written for Baranduin, for the 2008 Frolijah Fic Exchange. And a pretty tall order it was, too!

Recipient's request: I would like to receive a fic in which Frodo is somehow in some form of contact with Elanor, whether literally or mentally/psychologically. This should be an Elanor who is at least 33 and a Frodo in Tol Eressea. It doesn't haven't to be AU but could be :-) I don't like all angst, that's unrealistic and overwrought, though I think something beyond fluff should be included. A good balance is what I like. Poignant and resonant is best.

Quote: From the film: "How do you pick up the threads of an old life?" Note – Elanor should be the one to say or think this, not Frodo.

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Ever since I can remember, I have imagined the Sea.

I have even dreamed of it now and then, though I have never seen or heard it. My dad has, and so have my uncles Merry and Pippin. Pippin described it to me once, when I was small, and I have always tried to picture it. Water, he said, more water than the biggest lake any hobbit has ever seen; water going on and on, as far as the eye can see. And it is forever moving, and the air near it smells of salt, and it sounds like some growling beast that is always hungry.

I have longed to ask to hear more of it, but something has always told me not to.

It isn't that they don't wish to speak of him. They do, often. I have heard so many stories of Mr. Frodo that I feel almost as if I know him. I have read the tale of his journey and his sacrifice, written in his own words, many times. He is a presence in my life, almost as much so as my parents and uncles have been. A close one, because they loved him so, and there are mementos of him everywhere in Bag End; but also remote, because he is gone.

Yesterday, especially, he was very much on my mind, maybe because it was the twenty-second of Halimath. That's a day that is very special to my family, for it is Mr. Frodo's birthday. And I don't know why, but this day has always made me feel sad and a bit sentimental inside, like I'm remembering someone I knew who died. Even though I really only know Mr. Frodo through stories and pictures. I wasn't more than six months old when he left us and went over the Sea.

Anyway, I baked a cake, just like we've always done in my family on this day. Fastred smiled at me and squeezed my hand, for he knows why. (And no hobbit in his right mind would turn down cake, no matter what the occasion.) We ate it for afters. Then I read a little out of the Red Book, from the part toward the end, after Mr. Frodo and his cousins and my dad had come home.

Something Mr. Frodo said just there struck me. It wasn't really part of the story, but was written in a margin, in his hand. Every time I read it, I wonder with him: How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand? There is no going back.

That last sentence is underlined. He must have been having one of his bad days when he wrote that. I can't even imagine how he must have felt, being back home at last, and seeing everything around him blooming and growing once more, while he himself was dying inside.

I almost cried, looking at those words again. But just then, Elfstan needed attention, so I put the book up and went to feed him and give him his bath. After I finally had put him to bed and joined Fastred in ours, I was restless, and found myself getting up, lighting a candle, and going to my vanity.

There, I took out my ring and looked at it for a while. It's the most precious thing I have, other than my family. The gem in it is white, and sparkles like a star even when there is very little light. It was given to me by Queen Arwen when I spent a year in Gondor as one of her handmaidens. It was a pinky ring to her, but I can only wear it on my biggest finger, and then only if I also wear my bracelet, the one with a chain to clip the ring to. Mostly, though, I keep it in a little box.

I wonder sometimes if it is the same kind of gem that she gave to Mr. Frodo. Or if it has any Elven magic in it. Mr. Frodo's gem surely did, for it helped him when he was troubled, so my dad told me. But sense tells me that mine can't have magic, for the Queen gave up being an Elf, or at least gave up everything in her that might have had any magic power, so she could marry her love, a mortal man, the King. Even if that weren't so, the Elves' power in Middle-earth is fading away, and will be gone soon. I doubt there's any to spare to put into a little ring like mine.

But when I laid back down, with my ring in my hand, I dreamed.

I stood beside the Sea. I'm not sure how I knew that, for it was dark, but I heard a roar, and the cries of the gulls. I felt wetness on my feet and wind in my face, a salty-damp wind. I shook my hair free of my eyes, and saw a light, low over the blackness of the water. It was a pure, white light that I somehow felt should have seared my vision, yet I found I could look at it steadily. What was making it? A ship? A star?

Something made me look away, to the space beside me, and I saw him. A gentlehobbit, standing not a foot away, hands in pockets, his hair playing in the breeze as he gazed at the water.

I knew him straight away. Yet he didn't look quite the way he did in the paintings that my mum and dad have in Bag End. He wasn't dressed like any hobbit I had ever seen, for one thing, but more like a mix between Shire-fashion and what I supposed an Elf would wear. And in all the portraits, he is dark-haired and clear-eyed, his skin as smooth and firm as if he has barely come of age. He looked that way even when he was fifty, they say, and he was only just starting to go the tiniest bit grey at fifty-three, which is when he went away.

I used to think it must have been grand to stay young-looking for so long, but I'm not so sure now. The Ring was what did it, and nothing the Ring did was good, though it might seem that way to start with. At least, that's what my dad says.

But now, as I looked at him, I could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and more lines framing his nose and mouth, and his hair was definitely getting on for silver. That made sense, for he would be eighty-seven now.

He seemed to feel me staring at him, for he looked at me, and smiled. "Do I know you?" he asked. His voice was softer than I expected, and not as deep.

I found my own voice. "Are you real?" I was amazed I could speak at all.

"I think so," he said. He reached out, gently took my hand, and raised it to touch his face. And yes, he was warm, and solid, just like anybody alive would be.

Suddenly afraid, I snatched my hand back and stared at him. "Mr. Frodo?" was all I could think to say. This was a dream, it had to be, but if it was, why wouldn't he look more like the image I'd always had of him?

He cocked his head at me. "I don't think I've met you, but you look rather familiar. Tell me, how many years has it been? Since I left, I mean?"

"You don't know?" I managed to say.

"Not really." He sighed. "I'm not sure if I can explain it. You see, I'm not actually with you, as myself. This is, well, a dream body, or at least that's the closest way I can put it, though it looks more or less the way I really do now. And where I am, the Elves don't count the years as hobbits do. So I was wondering how many have passed in the Shire."

If he had taken the trouble to do whatever it was he was doing to come back here, as a dream or no, the least I could do in return was answer his question, so I got hold of myself. "Thirty-four," I said, and cleared my throat. "I was a babe when you left. I'm Elanor. Do you remember me?"

"Elanor!" Mr. Frodo laughed, and I thought I had never seen such delight on a face. "My goodness! Elanor! Yes, I remember very well. You are one of the few things I do remember from those last dark months. I used to wish, back then, that I could stay long enough to see you grown up, and tell you how you brightened my life." He reached out again, and I felt him smooth a bit of hair out of my face. "It was almost like having a baby daughter of my own, when you came."

I swallowed, thinking of the stories my mum had told me, of how Mr. Frodo would tend me at times, and how it always seemed to lighten him during those moments when nothing else could. I used to treasure those stories, knowing that I was the only one of my parents' children that he had stayed long enough to know, at least for a little while.

"I wish I could remember," I said at last. "I've heard so much about you. My mum and dad, they love you a lot, and they miss you something awful. They said something about you almost every day when I was growing up."

Mr. Frodo's smile faded. "Did they?" He turned away to gaze at the sea again, and what I could see of his face looked troubled. Finally he said, "Poor Sam. I told him not to be too sad. I knew he would be for a while, of course, despite anything I said, but I hoped my leaving wouldn't taint his future as much as I thought my staying would have done."

I found myself laying a hand on his arm. "Oh no, Mr. Frodo, I didn't mean it like that. My dad's not sad that way about you, not anymore. You're more like -- like something sweet he likes to remember. You should see the smile he gets on his face when he thinks about you. And my mum too, though I reckon she didn't know you quite as well as he did."

He was quiet for a moment, then he looked at me again. I caught my breath at how full of love and peace his eyes were.

"Thank you, Elanor," he said. "Knowing that completes my healing. And that, I suspect, is why I was allowed this." He smiled. "Did it come true, what I told Sam? About his children, and being Mayor?"

"Indeed it did, Mr. Frodo. He just got elected for the fifth time, this last summer. And I have twelve brothers and sisters now, though I guess, as there hasn't been any more in the last twelve years, that they've finally stopped coming."

"Thirteen children!" His eyes danced. "My, my, Sam! I expected he would make himself busy, but I did not quite expect that! How does he find the time to be Mayor? Or even sleep?"

He laughed, in both mirth and joy. The sound warmed me through, and I laughed too, suddenly feeling as easy with him as if I'd talked to him every day of my life. Maybe that's why I felt bold enough then, when we had both quieted, to say, "I wish you could have been here to see it. I wish you hadn't have gone away."

Mr. Frodo shook his head. "Ah, Elanor. Surely your dad has told you why I had to leave. If I hadn't, I certainly would not have seen or known any of what you have told me, in any event, because I would not have lasted past that autumn."

I looked downward. "I know. It just doesn't seem fair, that's all. After all you did, and you didn't even get to enjoy what you saved."

These were words I had long harbored in my heart, especially when I was a dreamy tweenager who loved to sigh at bittersweet tales of suffering heroes. But I had never thought to actually have a chance to say them to Mr. Frodo himself.

He smiled gently. "But that wasn't why I did it, Elanor. I did not accept the Quest because I thought there would be a reward at the end of it. I did not believe that I would survive long enough to receive a reward, so what use would there be in expecting there to be one? Yet in the end, the Shire was saved, and I did survive, and I was rewarded, with as great an honor and blessing as any mortal in Arda has ever been given." Then he took my hand again. "Don't grieve on my behalf, my dear, for I now have the healing and contentment I could never have found had I stayed."

"I guess," I said. "I just wish I'd gotten to know you while I was growing up."

I bent my head, and felt his hand wipe a tear from my cheek. He drew me toward him, and pressed his lips against my forehead. And then he whispered into my ear, so softly I could barely hear.

"If you can see and feel and hear and smell the world around you, my Elanorellë, then you do know me, or all that you need to know of me. Remember that, and live long and happily, and take care of those you love."

He stroked my hair and kissed my cheek, just like my dad would. Then he pulled back from me, gave me one last smile, then turned away and started walking down the shoreline.

My heart was lightened, yet I called after him. "Are you going to visit Dad too?"

Mr. Frodo stopped, and looked back at me.

"I know he'd be so happy to see you again, after all these years."

"I know," Mr. Frodo said. "But your dad is not as you and I are, Elanor. We visit far places in our dreams, and through dreams we can even be visited, sometimes. My dreams brought me through the quest, almost as much as anything else did. Your dad is rooted in earth. He is where he is, always. I'm not sure I can explain it. But the day may come when he and I will meet again, if he chooses. Tell him that for me, if you will."

He turned away again. And I was about to call out to him again, though without any clear idea of what I was going to say, when suddenly I was back in my bed, and light was coming through the windows.

I blinked, and sat up. My ring was in my hand. As I was staring at it, dazed, Fastred came through the door with breakfast on a tray. I'd slept right through the night, for the first time since Elfstan was born. My dear husband had taken care of the baby for me and let me sleep.

I don't know if the dream really came somehow from Mr. Frodo, or if I only dreamed that because something in me wanted to, but I do know that I'm at peace now.

When I see my dad again, I will tell him about the dream. And I will also tell him that I want to move to the Towers, near the Sea.

He of all people will understand.

~end~