At last, as I lay upon my couch beneath a shifting mosaic of yellow leaves and bright sky, I saw in my mind the Ring-bearer. His name is Frodo Baggins. I am vexed that Mithrandir, at least, did not share with me his insights that must have lead to this choice. For too long also has Elrond’s thought eluded me. Yet he would have me understand that it is well that this hobbit should carry out the mission and no other.
Now, the Ring’s escort is but a few short leagues hence. I agreed with Celeborn to show our favor and allow all to travel without blindfold, even through the secret ways. Yet I am uncertain why they chose this path, only that fear dogs their steps and that the assembly is not complete. In such case, they likely seek asylum and we must gird ourselves against what evil may enter here in their wake.
In my vision, the hobbit, Frodo, walked purposefully, arms swinging at his side as he followed his company’s leader, Aragorn of the Dunadain, into a dense sward of fir. Several other small ones were present but I recognized the one who bore Sauron’s trinket though it had eclipsed him before. I knew him not by the Ring’s gall or gilding, for it was discreetly tucked away, rather by some aspect of the hobbit’s own - perhaps his intent gaze. Sorrow darkened his expression and he seemed injured, setting his jaw to push aside stray branches and handle the routine shifting of his pack. He lacks, I think, the strength and intrepid mien required for his errand.
Eight members of the free people shall enter our citadel, only one of the Eldalie, and the least of them carries the One Ring of Power! Must I accept this ordering, in alliance with Mithrandir - wise and ancient, our esteemed ally Elrond, and even my beloved Celeborn? I would willingly have done so, but with the One Ring on its way to the heart of Lorien and no word from the Wizard, how can I not contemplate another path… even one I long since ceased to consider? Effective resistance once I have the bearer alone seems unlikely should I decide to take matters into my own hands. But here! I cross the bridge before scanning the opposite shore, for I only envision and have not seen.
How my thoughts collide, for I both dread and desire the presence before me of the one who bears the Dark Lord’s talisman - its would-be destroyer. I fear the decision I must make after such a confluence, yet long to lay hands on – no, to approach - the one who risks all to attempt what we could not.
I viewed Frodo from afar a second time, when the travelers approached the hill of Cerin Amroth. There, while his worn companions dropped to the ground to rest, Frodo stood upon a grassy knoll and breathed in his surroundings. White and yellow blooms of fragrant niphrediland elanor sparkled at his feet. The gold splendor of the mallorn groves and blue swaths of winter violas, woven together by the heady music of Nimrodel's falls - so wakened his senses that he seemed to hover in my vision. I felt the rapid pulse of his blood as if it coursed through my own veins.
Attending his response to Lorien’s beckon – not the Ring’s - I knew that a drop of his spirit would remain there by Cerin Amroth, to drift among the nodding flowers long after his path in Middle-earth had ended. And from that image I took, for a moment, strange consolation.