Mirimë walked along the sea-strand, enjoying the feel of the cool sand between her bare toes, the wind playing through her curls, the scents of the sea-breeze. 

She had nearly forgotten just how much more real the world seemed when she wore the hröa of a hobbit.  Colours were sharper, sounds clearer, the smell, taste and feel of things far richer when she was clothed thus.  Even when she wore the guise of an Elven-maid, the world did not have the same immediacy that it did when she was in this form.  As a hobbit, she felt a part of Arda, of the very earth she walked upon.  How glad she was to have the freedom to walk this way once more! 

It had been several days since she had visited Frodo and Bilbo.  She had been sorry to realize that her story had distressed Frodo, but Bilbo assured her Frodo would come to understand soon enough.

The questions he had asked, though she understood what prompted them, had not occurred to her before.  Of course such a delightful, yet defenseless race as hobbits deserved to be guarded from danger and protected from those who were larger and more dangerous. 

And yet, now that she thought about it, his questions were only natural.  She knew there was far more to it than Frodo seemed to understand.  But for all his experiences, and all of his wisdom, he was young yet. 

As if her very thoughts of him had brought him (and she was not foolish enough to believe that, charming as the notion was) she sensed his approach.

She turned to see him, clad in loose white breeches and a shirt of finest lawn, windblown and wistful.  He did look so very young!

“Mirimë—Adamanta—I owe you an apology.”