Frodo woke up feeling remarkably refreshed. He was outside on a bed of soft grass on top of a hill. It was a credit to the Undying Lands that no roots had jabbed at his neck nor cold winds afflicted him while he slumbered. Standing up, he looked about him, but he saw no one there.

That was odd… why should there have been anyone there? He thought back to the jumble of feelings that had run through him before he slept. There had been a voice in that rain, and power—softer, but deeper than anything he had felt yet. Whoever it was, she had wept with him, and her sorrow was much greater than his.

Walking back to the house that he and Bilbo shared for the time being, he found himself going through his old lessons—lessons in mythology as he had thought them at the time. And as he ran through the lists, one name struck him and he stopped.

She had left her halls? And for him? Impossible!

He shook his head as he resumed his journey, but the idea stayed with him in such an uncanny fashion…

“Oh!” said Bilbo when he came back in. “And where have you been, my lad? Doing something productive, I hope?”

“Actually, I believe that I have,” said Frodo, rubbing absently at the gap on his right hand. “The first step out of many. Have you seen Gandalf around lately?”

“No. You know him, always off and about on his business, even here…”

“Very well,” said Frodo. “I’ll write him a note.”

And he did, a brief one that he hoped was to the point.

Please to send the Lady Nienna my regards, compliments, and sincerest gratitude. Let her know that I am ever at her service and that of her household.

Yours,

F.B.