Chapter 1 – A Good Book

… and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter.  But in my stead you shall go, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed.  – Arwen Undomiel, The Return of the King

Deep in his slumber Frodo can feel that they are disembarking at last. No more swaying sensation from the gentleness of the sailing ship. No more splashes from waves hitting its wooden sides. Frodo can still sense them behind his sleeping eyes but the next thing he feels is someone lifting him up and carrying him in their arms, ashore to the harbor. Once more Frodo feels the swinging that lulls him deeper into his dream. He sighs contentedly and snuggles into Gandalf's arms.

It had been easy for Frodo to cast a smile – a deep and peaceful smile – upon his beloved fellow hobbits, Sam, Merry, and Pippin, at the Grey Havens. It had been easy to feel all his weariness lifting away when he stepped on the deck of the Grey Ship. It was as if he were back again in the days when he was oblivious to the threat against his life – and against Middle Earth – the threat of the One Ring.

Frodo grieved when he knew he must leave the Shire. He loved all he had to leave behind but he had no other choice. And the peace that gushed over his soul once he was aboard the ship had settled all his doubts.

Yes, it was easy for Frodo to return to himself again. But as the ship slowly passed the wide waters, lassitude returned to Frodo’s body and mind. The memory of a long and heavy journey with an inexplicable burden was not easy to evade. Soon Frodo felt his lids grow heavy and he drooped in his seat.

Without realizing it, Frodo was then brought into a chamber and laid down onto a bed. He did not feel Gandalf gently cover him with a thick satiny sheet. The wizard smoothed the cover up to Frodo’s shoulders, straightened up, and smiled tenderly. Frodo looked composed– no more creases adorning his brow, lips slightly parting– though he was now overcome by his weariness.

And as the ship docked in the harbor, the hobbit was still sleeping soundly, and Gandalf had not the heart to awaken him.

Frodo had missed his first glance over the white shores of Eressea, the grand purity of it, the simple silence of the welcoming gates, and beyond, the place that brings back wholeness to a tormented soul. But in his concern, Gandalf decided that Frodo would have all the time in his life to appreciate the beauty of the island. All he needs now is rest, thought Gandalf, and he had made sure Frodo got all the time he needed for that, too.

* * *

Frodo is dreaming. Or he feels as if he is. For he no longer feels the waves beneath him or smells saltiness in the air. He does smell something but it is totally different. Frodo pries his eyelids open, drawing a deep breath. This might not be a dream after all but another thing – a familiar experience.

Frodo awakened to a feeling similar to one he had experienced in Rivendell. A beaten-up mind and a searing pain in his shoulder, slowly recovering. And then another when he awoke in Ithilien. That had been after everything. The Ring had been gone. Orodruin had collapsed, with red-hot lava spluttering all over him and Sam, and enormous stones flying overhead. They threatened the unstable hill the hobbits had managed to climb before the rocky terrain beneath them turned into a sea of fiery currents. Frodo had assured himself that there was no way out that time. Death was certain.

And now this one. Gandalf had been the one to welcome him on his two previous awakenings. And this time was the same.

“How are you feeling?” asks the wizard softly. 

Frodo lets out a polite yawn behind his cupping palm and inquires instead of replying. “How long have I been sleeping?”

Gandalf chuckles at the never-fading inquisitiveness. “We landed in the morning two days ago. The journey itself took almost three days. And you have slept almost the entire time.”

Frodo’s eyes widen in amazement. “Are you saying that I’ve been sleeping for five days?” 

Gandalf’s laugh gets louder. 

“Why didn’t you wake me, Gandalf?” A tone of remorse and guilt fill Frodo’s voice. 

The laughter subsides, replaced by loving encouragement. “Why should I, Frodo? Tell me, why should I wake you? There is nothing done in haste here and you have no duty but to retrieve yourself. And I believe sleep is good for that.”

Frodo grows silent. The picture of his friends returns to his mind. His eyes suddenly get teary. “So this is it?” His voice quivers. “I’m finally here to seek my healing.”

“Do you regret it, Frodo?” asks Gandalf quietly. “Do you regret leaving Merry, Pippin, and Sam?”

Frodo looks up, his longing eyes meet Gandalf's understanding ones.

“I am sad and I think I shall miss them dearly. But, no. Regret is not the word. I know what I’ve decided and I’m not going to mourn over it.”

Gandalf’s smile returns. He rises from his seat and approaches Frodo. “I’m glad to hear that. Come on. It’s about time for you to get up.”

* * *

Frodo gets off the bed and sips a glass of water from the bedside table. He still cannot believe it. Asleep for five days? And he smiles at another thought – that he did not have the urge to relieve himself. But maybe that is one of the wonders of this place. While changing his clothes to a clean, fine tunic and a pair of breeches, Frodo’s eyes wander around.

He finds the room not far different from the one he had in Rivendell. The four-poster bed, the wide, flowing netting, the soft mattress that drowns you once you lie on it. And the room is generously lit by sunlight coming through the oversized window. Everything looks the same, including the hearth, the sculptured door, and the walls.

But perhaps the feeling is not the same. Frodo notices an air of ageless sensation in this place. Each of the elements here, the window, the door, the walls, even the bed, seems to have its own tale to tell. Tales from a time long past. Eventually curiosity gets the better of Frodo and he hurries out.

Gandalf has left to tend to other business. He is sure Frodo can find his way around by himself. Frodo has agreed, though deep inside he has concerns. He is in a completely strange land and he needs a guide. Besides, he wants to learn what he will do here. Will he need to have sessions with Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel to treat to his wounds? How are they going to cure him? 

Or will he have to cure himself?

But Gandalf has said nothing about it. Frodo sighs forlornly and shrugs. Well, there is nothing he can do about…

Stepping out of the doorway, Frodo remembers Rivendell and its high balconies, and Lorien with its guarded forest and the winding stairs that led to the elves' dwelling place. But this place is dissimilar. As Frodo leaves the door, he is immediately welcomed by the sight of shiny shores a short distance away. There are no such things as gates or balconies or higher ground separating the areas of residence and the outside world. And Frodo winces at the idea that comes to mind. Why should there be borders? The coastline is the border, for there is no other creature that can enter without the consent of the inhabitants of this island. He heard this song once, sung by Legolas.

In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover

Another sigh escapes him. “Eressea,” whispers Frodo. And looking around, he is enchanted by its beauty.

Frodo has seen the White City, Minas Tirith, city of the Kings of Gondor. But this elvenhome, the houses and their surroundings, is even whiter. It luminesces under the light of the sun. Rivendell radiates like gold and its autumn color brings relief to any distress. But Eressea is altogether sparkling, its golden hue soothing to every knot in his muscles. Frodo had marveled at the blue gleam of Lothlorien. But this Lost Isle is drowned in a blue shade deeper and sharper than the sky. Never has Frodo seen a place such as this one. So breath-taking. So captivating.

Frodo turns to see the waters again, and drawing a deep breath, comes to realize there is something in the air. It almost escapes his eyes but he can see it. And smell it. There is a thin layer of mist, with a tinge and fragrance of roses. Frodo flails his hands and stirs into the mist. It does exist! Now his breath is caught. He has found one miracle of the Last Shore. Frodo feels his heart abundant with joy, tears rolling down his cheeks involuntarily. He no longer cares if he shall be healed or not. Knowing this place is more than enough even if he should die tomorrow. Yet Frodo hopes he is not going to die. Eressea is like a good book. Frodo wants to know more as, one by one, the pages are revealed. And he wishes it will not end soon.

TBC