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”How is he?” Celebrian tucked her riding gloves into a pouch at her side. “Healing,” said her husband. “We very nearly lost him this time.” She sighed. Frodo had recovered from his ordeals far more quickly than she had from hers, but he aged like a man in the joys of the land where mortals were never meant to go. Twenty years ago, she had first caught him gazing eastward, longing for his servant to arrive so he could finally die in peace. “There would be no shame in his dying,” she said. “I know,” said Elrond. “I once heard Olórin tell him as much. Yet—he is very stubborn. He did not wish for Sam to regret his choice to sail—if, indeed, he does.” “So,” said Celebrian, “How long shall he sleep?” “As long as is needed.” Celebrian flashed him a look. “—By which I mean to say—Celebrian, his heart failed him for a moment. I do not think he shall live longer than a month, if we do not do something.” “And your ‘something’ is to let him sleep?” “I dare not put him to sleep again. He shall live as long as he needs to, and then we shall wake him.” “And if Samwise has already died?” “Then we wake him, and tell him. He will understand.” “You have not thought this through, and you know it.” “There was little time.” “I know, my love. But he is mortal, and you would stretch his life for ten years without his knowledge?” “Aragorn did much the same, once, to save his life.” “Not for this long. You are doing this to indulge his absurd little goal of lasting this long, and you did not even ask him!” “Then I am sure he shall be glad you advocated for him, after the fact. Unless you would wake him yourself?” Celebrian shook her head. “No, he may be even more upset if he learns this was his one opportunity to live so long. I do understand.” “Nevertheless,” said Elrond, “I fear he shall be most irate when he wakes up and finds so much time has gone by.”
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