When Frodo appeared before us, I saw his weariness despite his nimble hoist from ladder to flet. He straightened slowly and stood poised on the threshold before stepping forward. Then he bowed and raised his eyes to mine, attentive and curious rather than proud. I had to curb my astonishment at his size next to Haldir who bent to usher him forward.
From the moment I heard of the appointed Ring-bearer, bidden to guard the Great Ring through its final hour, I pictured a stout being, for I had never seen a hobbit. He would be smaller than a dwarf perhaps but equal in brawn and boldness. But I imagined wrongly. In form, true, he stands little taller than a dwarf or his fellow halflings, but slighter and beardless as a child of men. As I sensed before, he is no warrior and I doubt that he is able for the task with which he left that doom-filled Council.
Celeborn greeted him in the common tongue, but the halfling replied in the High Elven speech, returning the courtesy. His voice is clear and pleasant. It came to me as out of distant memory, like autumn breezes fluting through the reeds that hem the salty inlets of the sea. I refreshed him with a glance and he drew up slightly.
Taking Frodo’s arm, Celeborn drew him to a cushion by his chair where the hobbit settled cross-legged, fore-arms resting on his knees. He sat angled towards me and I looked long upon him. He is unusually fair, nearly as one of the Eldar, with a light in his eye more arresting than found in most mortals. All about him he watched with interest.
His worn jacket was of good fabric though it hung loosely upon him, as did his breeches. His ankles and feet were bare, as is the custom of hobbits, and I noticed that his limbs were sturdy, though slim as a girl’s. Beneath his ragged tunic, silver glinted - Mithril mail! I wonder how he came by it. Then I saw that the protective shirt was battered and through it I glimpsed stained bandaging. Something rent him despite such armor. The Ring lay secluded within his garments, and I avoided the sight of the chain about his neck.
One by one his companions appeared at the top of the ladder and when the youngest of the hobbits swayed on his feet as he came, Frodo reached to stay him. Hobbits, it seems, dislike heights, being hole-dwellers as I recall.
When all the travelers had assembled on the flet, we learned of their adventures, though little from Frodo who kept reticent throughout the telling. Eventually, they came to the part of their tale concerning the fall of Gandalf, as they call our Mithrandir, whom I thought to have counted among them. At this point, Frodo spoke up with quiet emotion.
‘Gandalf was our guide through all manner of dangers, and when escape was impossible, he saved us – and fell. Our grief is great and our loss -’ he swallowed hard, ‘cannot be mended.’
These words confirmed my dark foreboding and I reeled inwardly to hear them. After learning the details of this dire news, Celeborn offered our aid, especially to the young Ring bearer, with whom he evidently sympathized. Then I addressed Frodo for the first time.
‘Your quest is known to us.’
The veins stood out on his neck as he looked across at me and the rest of the company shifted uneasily.
‘However, we shall not speak of that now. Your mission lies upon a knife edge. Should any of you stray but a little, it will fail-‘ I glanced around, noting the down-cast eyes, ‘to the ruin of all.’
At this time, I scrutinized the thoughts of each of our visitors, one after the other, loath though I was to do this, especially to the hobbits. Who wishes to find a dark motive lurking in the fragile casing of innocence?
None, not even the Ring-bearer, held my gaze, but for Legolas, King Thranduil’s grave-eyed son. How sorry I am to find such sadness now, even in our young! But in him yet thrives the constant wisdom of the Sindar who abided ever in the forests that were sung for them in the Great Music. The Elf will remain aloof from the Ring and stand true to Frodo until a future beyond my envisioning.
The dwarf, Gimli, having committed his strong arm to Frodo, is staunch in his loyalty, as the Naugrim have ever been. He has a gentle heart that responded readily to my few words in his tongue, and I could see that Frodo commands his affection. But soon the dwimmer love for even lesser ornaments will draw him to what Frodo bears, overshadowing the one he protects. Yet, I shall not forget how the Naugrim forewarned my people in time of crisis and will not pre-judge their son.
Among the hobbits, Frodo’s kindred, my examinations revealed fright and reluctance to take the hard road, rather than ill intent. Their longing for home is foremost in their minds beside their devotion for Frodo. Yet the Ring works upon weakness as well as rancor. Time will tell whether they - or the bearer himself - can survive such weakness.
In the gardener, Samwise, more is at stake – devotion that may ebb from love and eddy into possessive desire. Is not thy Master fair? Does thy pulse not quicken at the thought of him? So I speculated, and the red blood flooded his cheek as his gaze slid to the floor. As yet, he thinks not of the Ring.
Aragorn, heir of Elendil and to the Ring, poses a most likely threat - yet already he has parried opportunities to seize the gold band from Frodo and so might be thought loyal. But as demand for his prowess and desire for victory grows as he nears the land of his ancestors, he shall be more sorely tried. Now, in Mithrandir’s stead, he deems the responsibility for Frodo and the Ring as his alone, an assumption I find disturbing. He sighed as I left him.
Boromir, Aragorn’s likely rival as heir to the Realm of Gondor, is another matter. There, lodged in a generous heart and high intentions, I recognized not only a desire to vanquish our common enemy, but a brazen wish for the Ring itself, along-side the vow to protect its bearer. And I could see this protectiveness twisting, bending, like hot metal under a smith’s tools. Bound to the Ring as Frodo is, he will be exposed not sheltered, as this man’s yearning for the jewel swells to include its bearer.
I turned an incisive gaze to Frodo, seeing immediately his wariness in this foreign land. A tremor broke his upright posture and I slackened my inspection, lest urgency drive my probe deeper than safe for a mortal. Even so, I touched upon something - I know not what - something Unlike.
More cautiously, I pierced first the penumbra of loss from Mithrandir’s fall, perceiving that the great Maia was as family to him. I found then, a firm resolve to do what he must at whatever cost to himself - no hint of temptation, neither toward power, nor even toward a speculative attempt to use the Ring – not yet. For himself he wished only the courage and strength to face his task. And I saw fear, sufficient to blind and immobilize a leader of men, held at bay by a staunch will, and a vision of beauty and peace rooted in love for his homeland and kin. No chance of negotiation here. The Ring of Power could not be mine for the asking, nor would bargaining with the Halfling avail me.
The hobbit must have shifted then, for suddenly, I glimpsed the Ring through his clothing and its heat claimed me. I delved deeper. I had to, when all of Middle-earth depends upon the heart of this small being. Yet I almost regretted it, for it pained him and muddied the clear motive still intact beneath his self-doubt.
Wordlessly, I spoke to him. ‘If I move to take it from you, this gem that you carry, would you not use it in defense of your appointed task?’ I bound him with a seeking gaze until his thought cried out.
‘I cannot answer!’ He tried to turn from me but the gold shining on his breast drove me hard against him, and a furrow cut his brow while his hand tugged his jacket close across his chest.
Is he indifferent to the Ring’s potential? I dared not tarry to learn more. Until I do, my misgiving holds. The hobbit’s eyes closed quickly, as I released him. A shaky breath escaped his lips and he did not look up at me again. So the Ring forges a path through my being and I must resist it, like the level strand before the drawing tide – overrun yet ever the glimmering store.
Allowing a moment for us all to recover, I turned aside to Celeborn, answering his raised eyebrow with a faint nod. Suddenly, as if responding to something I said, Frodo spoke, glancing concernedly at his haggard companions.
‘Please, Lady, look favorably upon my friends who are battle-worn and need refuge. I beg you not to judge them by my presence among them.’
The cousin called Merriadoc drew breath to speak, but Frodo forestalled him. ‘I fear that you see a threat to your land because of what I keep by me, though I intend no harm to come of it. If I sense correctly, then only I need draw your displeasure.’
‘And you, how shall I judge you Frodo Baggins?’ I thought, wondering how he perceived his mastery – for that he had while he possessed the One Ring, wittingly or not.
‘Treat me as you see fit, for I cannot do otherwise. But, please, deal kindly with the others.’
Frodo’s companions regarded him in surprise and Celeborn stole a sharp glance at me. Frodo had grasped my thought, more than I should have allowed and I was stung by his revealing words. Whence came my aggression?
‘Frodo, we bear no ill will to you and you friends,’ I said.
Extending my reassurance, Celeborn added, ‘Even if your quest did not closely concern us, you should have refuge here. For that is our way when travelers come guileless and fleeing the enemy into our lands. Now you shall all find rest.’
Frodo sighed in relief and replied again in the noble speech, ‘Thank you My Lady, My Lord, for accepting us. We are most grateful and if there is any service that we might perform, I should be honored if you would ask it.’
The Ring of course sprang to mind – the wish to ask: May I have it, that which harries your thought and taints your body though you know it not – a gift to your hosts from whom you seek shelter? But to think thus in the face of my hard-won resolves! Earnest intentions alone are no match for the Enemy’s Ring. I know this. But what is? Surely not this halfling, already wounded in heart and limb? Mark, all moves are uncertain and fraught with hazard in the Great Struggle. The only measure is our conviction and I can no longer see the sense of the Council’s directive, so clear to me when first I learned of it.
I gathered what I had left of grace to acknowledge Frodo’s proffer and bid the company good night, conferring solace as I could. They stirred themselves and each thanked us as they gathered to descend the ladder.
Frodo, at the rear of the group stood with his arms folded tightly across his chest. His eyes were glossy in the lamplight and Aragorn paused to survey him with concern before passing silently to the talan entrance. I too observed Frodo, veiling my thoughts this time, since he hearkened to them and I did not wish to disturb him further. As it was, he stumbled when he moved to follow his friends and Legolas put a hand to his back to steady him.
This meeting left me oddly out of balance, trembling more than he at the finish. In light of the hobbit’s single-mindedness – hounded as it was by dread - the morass of my own inclinations dismayed me.
I left the amber light and shimmering warmth of our talan with its polished floor and screens of weighted velvet, and mounted the narrow rungs that lead to the topmost branches of the great tree that housed us. As the wind swirled about me in brisk embrace, I raised my eyes to the star paths, bathing my heart and mind in their brilliance. When I felt somewhat reclaimed, I leaned upon the rail and tried to decipher the evening’s events.
Why did dear Celeborn, usually so cautious and appraising, uphold this mere hobbit as fit to bear the Ring? What would my mentor, Melian, have thought of this choice, she whose craft drew from more venerable springs than mine? Mithrandir, in his wisdom would not, I think, have allowed the Ring to enter my realm. Aware of my past craving for it, he would likely have avoided Lothlorien, for all of our sakes.
This he knew, for when I summoned the first Council of the Wise and strove in vain for the Grey Wizard’s influence there, I found time to confide in him my deepest yearnings for peace and beauty in Arda, even unto gaining and plying the power of the One Ring. How patiently he listened, helped me correct my course, then bolstered it with his own irrefutable wisdom!
Alas that he cannot reason with me now – and alas for the Ring-bearer who has lost a peerless guide and protector. I must act now without Mithrandir, mustering my own knowledge and remembering the peril of my heart’s desire.
Youthful pride, I like to call it, yet I reached for the Ring far past youth into maturity, believing myself to be the one uniquely qualified to wield it. Neither Elf nor woman had ever possessed it, and how I longed for it, even after seeing the paths of destruction where lust lead Feanor and my other Noldorean cousins. Truly, I did not uphold the oath that bound them to the jewels of their making – the Silmarils. Yet, I wonder… in following Feanor’s exhortation to desert the bliss of Valimar for the palpable beauty of Middle-earth, was I preparing myself for another form of bondage?
The Silmarils held little sway over me. But the One Ring both horrified and thrilled me, even when I apprehended that its maker, Sauron the Great, had undone us. For the one who wields this device gains dominion over all. Long had I desired such supremacy, though for no ill purpose. To preside over a land of peace and loveliness, I had set sail from the Blessed Isle of Aman, through great strife, to reach Middle-earth. And thus, we have Lothlorien, which itself now lies in jeopardy.
Regardless, Aragorn, the Ring company’s surrogate guide and keen to the Ring’s history, led them here. Now, the Ring of Power which could destroy this land – or save it - rests within a finger’s reach and ‘round the neck of such a bearer. Hard-learned truths fade and the old desire seizes me afresh. Boromir’s passion, fired by simple human greed is miniscule compared to mine. No wonder I cannot readily judge the halfling and his mission!
I understand, of course, that the Ring should be destroyed, for it corrupts absolutely. I have seen the handiwork of such things, of which the One Ring is the supreme realization. Ultimately, it absorbs both mind and body, taking first that which is weakest. With Frodo, his mind will resist longest but not without anguish. And his body will suffer. He will refuse to wield the Ring and so must become its thrall - to end finally at the feet of its maker. He shall deliver the Ring, I fear, not destroy it.
And if it cannot be abolished, if Frodo the Hobbit is not able for this task - surely no other is among the Fellowship - what then? Must I remove the Ring from him, put it on, and end the hopes of foolish Men and the final pathetic strategy of the wisest in Middle-earth? Did my bygone aspirations speak truly that I could wield this thing? Surely not, for it is a creation of my most ferocious enemy - I despise its purpose, trust it not, and would vow to seek its demise. I must rid my mind of this confusion, and pray I do not tear Frodo apart in the process!
Late in the night, a battering wind erupted, smearing the stars with inky clouds. My hair unbraided and flew wild, catching in the waving branches. Then all was silent. And when the violet dawn broke over the vales of Lorien, I remained on the high balcony, uncomforted.