31. Forest

Behind the bluff is a forest of many different trees. Faeglin goes there often to hunt, and sometimes I tag along to stretch my legs. I’ll collect rocks along the way and come home with a string of coney or squirrel brought down by well-placed missiles. Today, neither of us are armed.

In a clearing a few miles into the woods are two stone markers. Bilbo had only managed to see the first winter here, long enough for Frodo to get settled and make friends. He had gone peacefully in his sleep.

“And Frodo?” I ask, brushing twigs and leaves from his marker. There’s a date there, but it’s not one I can reckon. In his journal, Frodo had kept track of the dates, but only for the first few years. 

“It’s been about twenty of your years now,” Faeglin says. He places a wreath of pine boughs, seashells and berries between the markers. “He was at peace at the end, filled with joy and light.”

“He didn’t have the anniversary illnesses anymore?”

“No. Those stopped after the first year.”

“He wasn’t lonely?”

“He missed home, but it was not a burden. He had many friends here and was rarely alone, except when he wished it. He passed peacefully while napping in the garden. He was smiling.”

Faeglin wanders off and leaves me by the markers. I touch the runes that spell their names: Bilbo, my first master and tutor, and Frodo, my friend and brother at arms. I remember them both as I’d last seen them, standing on the docks at the Grey Havens, the sun lighting their faces and hope in their eyes. If I couldn’t see them one last time, I couldn’t ask for a better parting than the one I’d already had.

“Goodbye, my friends.”

GF 10/16/12

To be continued...