The tree in the back garden startled him.

It should not have. He knew as well as any other the origin of mallorns—his wife, for one, had never allowed him to forget—but somehow in his short time on Tol Eressëa the familiar had become more disorienting than the strange. The rapidly shifting perspectives within left him feeling somewhat dizzy, but without the fear of falling flat on his face.

Physically, at least.

The Ringbearer saw the direction of his gaze and nodded, smiling. “I thought you might enjoy our little tree.” The smooth trunk towered above them, summer silver sparkling down at them from beneath the rustling leaves. He wondered briefly how he had missed it from the street, then remembered that he had not paid much attention to anything beyond the front door.  “It is the only one in the city,” Frodo added. “There are plenty in the more rural areas of the island, but they don’t generally grow this near to the harbor.” He gazed across the garden toward his old friend, an affectionate smile playing across his lips. “Sam brought the seed all the way from the Shire. It comes from the Shire mallorn–from the seed your Lady wife gave him as we left Lothlorien.”

He had seen that tree as he traveled West to sail, though none of the Hobbits had known him to be passing through. It was tall and strong and beautiful, festooned with ribbons and lights, stately as the most venerable of Elves and playful as the youngest Hobbit child. It had truly been a gift well given. He would have to remember to tell his wife.

“It is a welcome sight, Ringbearer.”

Indeed, it was more of a distraction than he had expected as they gathered for their meal. The offering was bountiful, the table all but groaning beneath the weight of various roasted and stuffed birds, sauces, cheeses, fruits, and pastries. He ate until he was overfull–though that did not require as much as in the days before he had sailed–saying very little and listening only slightly more. His companions seemed to take this state for granted, including him by glance and touch (his wife on one side and his daughter on the other) but only rarely addressing him directly. He was grateful, and began to understand that truly his fatigue and disorientation were not unique to him at all but in some way afflicted all who arrived upon these shores. The realization was a relief and he settled into it, sipping the velvety wine and allowing his eyes to roam blindly the contours of the young mallorn which shaded them. 

The meal stretched into the late afternoon, Samwise and his daughter clearing the food and dishes at some point only to replace them with coffee, tea, and raspberry cream tarts. They laughed and bickered gently as they worked, and he chuckled softly at the sight. His wife laid her head upon his shoulder, humming softly.

“They are fast friends, those two. I would not have guessed it, and yet they share so many interests that I feel it should have been immediately obvious to me.”

It was good–so good–to see Celebrían well and whole.

“I am glad for it.”

“They take the harbor market by storm together every third morning or so–it is quite a thing to behold. Half of the vendors take them as some manner of challenge, and the other half all but run from them.” His laughter grew louder, and his daughter flashed him a pleased smile from the doorway of the house. His wife sighed. “It is good to be with her again.” 

She squeezed his hand and drew him up after her, leaving Elrond, Frodo, and Mithrandir deep in converse at the table. They crossed the garden and settled into a low seat situated at the base of the mallorn. His wife curled her legs beneath her and leaned upon his shoulder. He relaxed and closed his eyes, breathing in a riot of floral and green scents which seemed to be doing their best to cleanse any trace of salt and sea. He welcomed it. The sea longing had never been strong upon him, and the odors of his voyage were best quickly forgotten.

“I am glad for this invitation,” he murmured. “I am glad to see the Hobbits happy and well accepted here.”

“Accepted.” She sniffed. “Figures of legend, would be nearer to the truth. They are held in awe by many upon Eressëa–and not only those who lived during their time. All who have ever lived upon the shores of Middle Earth remember in some manner the malice of Sauron.”

He had expected that name to be jarring when spoken in this place, but instead it was dull and distant, so lacking in power that he felt it immediately begin to slip from his mind. He knew a rush of fierce satisfaction before easily returning his thoughts to their hosts.

“Do they often entertain, then?”

“Once a month they hold a feast for twenty. The waiting list to obtain an invitation, I am told, is years long.” Her fingers slipped into his. “They do have a close circle, of course–our family, Thranduilion, the son of Gloin–”

“He did sail, then. None were entirely certain.”

“He did.” His wife’s glorious eyes were affectionate and amused. “ His arrival caused quite the stir.”

Thousands of years of bloodshed and insults and enmity between his people and the Dwarves flitted through his memories. “I can only imagine.”

“It is well now, however.” She shook her head. “At least, those yet opposed to Gimli’s presence remain firmly upon the western side of the Isle, and the Dwarf has made it known that he is more than happy to offer an axe demonstration to any who stray onto the eastern shore with ill intent.”

“I do not doubt it.” He shook his head. “It is likely the best that can be hoped for.”

“It is good for everyone. The Undying Lands become stodgy very quickly.”

He snorted a laugh. “Where did you learn that word?” 

“Did I not tell you that Samwise spends a great deal of time with our daughter?”

“You did indeed.” He encircled her with one arm, and she settled more deeply into his side.

“But the Hobbits.”

“Yes, the Hobbits.”

“Finrod comes quite often.” At his glance of surprise, she shrugged one elegant shoulder. “He was ever fond of Men, if you remember.”

“I do.”

“He has been excessively delighted to meet Hobbits–of whom he had only heard in tales from the rehoused and those who had sailed, and even then only rarely–and to welcome mortals upon these shores for a time.” She sat up straight. “And Aegnor!”

He blinked. “Aegnor …?”

“My brother …” she paused, an overdramatic tendency that he had long noted in his Lady wife, “loved a mortal Woman before he died.”

He gaped, working to wrap his thoughts around such a momentous revelation. “Why have I never heard of this?”

“I only just learned of it myself after I arrived. I found him and Finrod here one afternoon, and Finrod told me the entire tale.” His wife shook her head. “It was apparently a great secret.”

“I … This explains a great many things.”

“Does it not?” She turned to face him fully, straightening her dress demurely over her crossed legs and leaning forward. “I had always thought that he–”

“My Lord? Lady?”

They turned as one to find Frodo Baggins approaching. He bowed diffidently. “I apologize for the interruption. I thought to come and visit for a time, but if you are–”

“Please!” His wife rose smoothly. “My Lord husband and I will have until the end of days to continue this dialogue.”

His mind reeled a bit, uncertain if that assurance was comforting or ominous. Despite the great length of his years, he was accustomed to the idea of endings–violent death had always been a possibility, and the death of even an Elf in Middle Earth had been final in a very real way. The removal of any concept of finality still greatly unsettled him. 

Caught up within these thoughts, he missed her departure. When he finally managed to focus upon his surroundings once more, he found only the Ringbearer’s understanding eyes upon him.