A great and heartfelt thank-you to Daw for her patience and kind guidance in helping a new author. I appreciate her help more than words can express.

                                                *************

I never even closed my eyes. At least, I do not think I did. I was there one minute and here the next, even though I am not sure where here is. The wind is soft and warm and the sun is the clearest light I have ever seen, like a hot summer day when no clouds give shelter to startled eyes. Yet, it is not a painful light, but one that gives every curve, point and plane its due. I let my eyes wander this foreign landscape and I am surprised to see that I have failed in my lifetime to note the true colors of leaf and grass, sky and water. They are so vibrant here. Clouds of the purest white sail with such grace across the intense backdrop of sky; they look more like dream conjuring rather than like natural water vapor suspended over the great plains of my home. Birds sing and honey bees beat their wings in a harmony that raises the tune of the earth to a song so beautiful I can not believe I have never heard this soothing melody before.

I am seated on a large time-weathered boulder that is standing sentinel to a calm pool, a pool so crystal clear I can see another set of rocks sitting in council on the bottom. Do they watch me and wonder the same as I do: What I am doing here? I want to see my reflection to assure myself that I am real in this place. As I place my hand on the face of the rock to lean out over the pool, I spy my hand. It is mine, I decide, as I wiggle my fingers against the warm smooth stone. I feel it and I see it. Why does it look so different? I still see the same sun browned skin, the scar on my knuckles I got when I was eight and sliced them open to the bone while cleaning fish. As I lean forward, I can see myself in the pool. I take my hand to my chest and then to my head where I pick up a strand of my hair, then look at it just to be sure it is still the same and I have not been deceived by some trick of this light. Sighing, I sit back to think this over. I am at peace, truly more peaceful than I can ever recall, but I am puzzled. My spirit is unnaturally quiet, I think, as I look to my right. The woods are dense, full from earth upward with shimmering greenery, leaves dancing to the rhythm of the breeze. Where am I?

And yet, despite my confusion, nothing in my life seems more important to me than this very moment; nor do I feel prepared for it. I do not feel as if I have ever truly lived before finding myself so isolated, bewildered and lost in this place of tranquil and unqualified beauty. What a strange circumstance to have never known this invigoration, this clarity, this vibrance. What sort of land is this where a man is so utterly without direction, yet so unconcerned? By what spell or by whose hand was I whisked away and dropped here?

I hear slight footsteps, far too light for those of man and yet, too noteworthy to be that of an elf. Grimly, I remind myself that I know little of elves. The stories of my childhood did not prepare me for my meeting with the Firstborn upon my entrance into Rivendell. My first glimpse of this Elven Realm was one of such wonder, I could scarcely believe such a place existed, except in children’s tales and embellished gossip. My next thought, rolling over the first, was one of anger and despair. My people suffered all manner of ill just to claim the right to continue; yet, Rivendell showed no sign of Shadow or hardship. Yes, they were the Firstborn, the Immortal, but what right did they have to such comfort when the world of man struggled so for survival? It seemed as if they were favored by the One, far beyond the other pitiful creatures of creation left to claw and scratch out a filling meal, or a peaceful homeland or the right to see their young raised to full growth. I was jealous and angry, rightfully so, to my way of thinking. For a moment I thought the One to be unfair. Then I remembered that the fate of all would be decided in days to come. And I have been told that the time of the Elves is coming to an end. Will Arda mourn their passing or will man simply not take notice?

Knowing Legolas has been of little assistance in understanding these strange folk. He is as distant as any star in the sky and as unfathomable as any ocean. True, he is brave and skilled and most importantly, devoted to our quest; but still he is a being for whom I feel no kinship, neither by birth or intuition. While he is far older than any of us, save the wizard, he is a youth to his own people. His spirit has not been darkened by the long held memories of his kind and this light heart within him seems to endow him with something akin to youthful innocence. I think I should like to know him better. He seems different than many of his kind; yet, he is wholly of them. Perhaps, he is as they were meant to be before shadow, hate and war laid heavy claim upon his elders. Now, in this removed place, my heart despairs for him and his folk.

I turn toward the direction of the footsteps as they emerge from the deeply dappled woods. The sun shines so brightly through the top of the trees, I try to shield my eyes for a modicum of shadow so that I can, at least, make out the outline of a form. I put my hand down. It is not a natural light, at least not one to which I am accustomed and I find my hand is of little aid against a quality I do not understand. It is as though this person is a part of the light, walking out of its brightness like a shaft of sun would leave its source to pierce the heart of the deepest shadows. A woman appears, her bearing regal and as stately as that of any queen secure in her place. I can not make out her face as the light still all but consumes her. She does not hurry to meet me or shrink at the sight of an armed man seated in her way. Her footfalls are steady and calm as she moves from under a brilliantly crowned ancient oak of sprawling leafy arms and tender fingers. She walks directly toward me as if she knew she would find me on her path and I half expect her to call my name in greeting. Yet, she offers none. Still, I feel her presence comforting, desirable even, as if she will hold answers to my own curiosities. Somehow, I know she is important to me, someone I crave as I stand on the edge of recognition. There is familiarity about her, but nothing I can name or discern, just a mild knowing. I can not take my eyes from her.

I can tell no age upon her from this distance. Only her dark hair shines, arrayed by sunlight as if shimmering threads of gold have been laid upon her head in a kind of holy blessing. She is willowy, tall and thin, yet made of a sturdy stuff that assures me she is real. She walks with a grace I think worthy only of the Elves, but with a reckoning I do not understand, I know her to be a mortal woman. How strange. I simply know.

For a moment I wish Faramir to be at my side. He would have been far more ready to understand or offer some sort of logical explanation for this place and this woman. But, he does not belong here. This is something that belongs only to me and in truth, I am not certain I wish to share it. I feel a faint nagging in the back of my mind as if there are other concerns I should be attending, but I have no will to seek them out or to even acknowledge them. Serenity subdues the worries of rings and wars, goblins and dark lords and the worrisome fact that the fate of all the inhabitants of Middle Earth rests on the shoulders of one small Hobbit. What little rational thought I have left knows I should be seeking my way back to my companions, but my heart tells me my role is done. I have no desire to return to death and destruction. Not even my love for the White City or my people seems to hold sway over my keen senses and this unsought place of light and peace.

I think of my father and what he would say to my dereliction of duty. There is no doubt in my mind that he would find this reverie to be weak and unseemly for one of his house. His house. My house. The rule of Gondor will no longer rest upon his shoulders or those of his lineage. In truth, it only seems right that the true heir be restored. I am startled by this new thought. There had been no intention in me to acknowledge Aragorn as heir or rightful king. Gondor had survived countless generations with the Stewards at the helm and I had seen no reason to relinquish the care of our people to one so untried and unknown. His claim was nothing more than hollow words. He had not suffered the wars or decline of the Fair City. He had not looked into the faces of her people, darkened by fear and hunger, as the Stewards had. What did this heir of Isildur know of our city or her people? Yet, from my current place, his reign seems true and rightful. I do not know how I came to this decision, but, now, I know it to be the only hope for those I love and labor for to find peace. Aragorn, I find, is a man of honor, a man possessed of a strength I admire and a compassion I am drawn to. Without reservation, I commit into his hands the future of my beloved lands.

She comes closer, drawing fluidly toward me as if she is a drop of clear water descending a slippery runoff before she gathers speed and rejoins the whole body of her source. Her chin is demurely dipped toward her chest and her hands are clasped lightly at her slender waist. Her dress, so sheer with light, ripples about her movements as sunbeams skip across oceans and rivers, puddles and ponds. I do not see her feet, so tender are her steps. Again, I squint to make out the features of her face, but I still can not comprehend what I feel I should know. Am I so enraptured with her and this place that I fear expulsion, or worse, rejection, when she comes to me fully? I can not say.

I slide from my perch and stand straight so as to be prepared for whatever pronouncement she brings. I would tremble if I had been gifted with understanding of my fears, but I do not, for I can find no apprehension in my heart.

With the sun at her back and her face still in the dimness of the brilliant light, she stops a short distance from me. Gentle shadows frame her as the light seems to recede enough so that when she turns her face to mine, I can see her clearly for the first time. Sudden hot tears spring to my eyes and I can find no breath in my chest. For a moment there are no words forming in my head, then suddenly, so many I know not how to sort them or how to arrange them. She merely smiles. I know that smile. I have beheld it a thousand times, done all within my power to obtain its gift. I have worshiped it.

Unexpectedly, I know fear. "Do not send me back," I plead, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. I feel myself sway, my head spinning as I fight the urge to fall to my knees in supplication, profound love and fear. I will meet my fate standing.

She takes my hand in hers and lays a tender kiss upon the scar on my knuckles. "Welcome home, my son."