My birthday mathom for 2026.

III

            Sam finished the last page of the book he was reading with a feeling of satisfaction, giving a sigh of accomplishment.  It had been written in an ancient version of Sindarin that he had yet managed to read without requiring coaching from either Frodo or the author. 

            How had he managed the whole volume in only two nights?

            He turned it to the frontispiece once more, and smiled to see there a portrait of the one who had written it at his request—Rhysellë the Orchardist, wife of Talorë the Sailor, parents to Livwen, a beauteous elleth who had been friend and companion to Frodo since he’d first arrived on Tol Ressëa, all those years ago.

            He ruffled through the pages until he came to the next illustration Frodo had made for the book—the portrait of the two sons the authoress had borne, both standing on a height overlooking the Sea, one wearing the cap of a sailor and holding a scrolled map in his hand, the other with his hand upon the handle of a hoe, with strands of wheat caught in his hair.  The dragonfly fluttered near the hand of the sailor, its body a shining blue with green shadows lower down on its body.

            The third illustration was in the center of the volume, that of Livwen standing under subdued trees, a bird perched upon her finger and her eyes filled with the delight of it.  Here the dragonfly was upon her left shoulder, as if it were a brooch holding her shawl draped down her side and across to below her right arm.

            My Frodo loves her, loves her true, he thought. 

            He remembered Frodo’s other loves.  First he remembered was Pearl Took, who had thrown Frodo over on the very day he’d thought to give his promise gifts to her of a pair of ear-drops, each with a single pearl, and a strand of silver chain from which hung a great pink pearl, much more delicate than the strand of pearls later given her by Thain Ferumbras after the death of Mistress Lalia,  Pearl had worn the strand but once and never again, returning it to the Tooks’ treasury once her father had followed Ferumbras as the Thain after the older Hobbit’s death.  So much Talk had centered on that strand of pearls, he remembered, focused on the speculation that Lalia had died because of Pearl’s supposed fault in not making certain the old Hobbitess’s wheeled chair was secure as she sat on the great stair at the front entrance to the Great Smial to take the air.  The Thain had indicated that the chair’s brakes had failed due to his mother’s great weight, leading it to slip forward and roll down the steps.  An unfortunate gift that strand of pearls had been, Sam thought.

            Then there was Narcissa Boffin, a cousin of Frodo’s who’d lived in Overhill and had loved him since she was a teen—or was it a young tween?  She’d loved him quite as long as had Pearl—before the latter had thrown him over, at least.  But it wasn’t until the Party that he’d actually looked on her and realized how much she loved him and how he might love her back.  But that was apparently the end of that attraction once the Ring came into Frodo’s keeping.  After they’d returned from Gondor he’d realized she still loved him, but now he believed he was not recovered from what he’d been through and drew away from a relationship that might not be fully consummated.

            Livwen was but a child when Frodo arrived on Tol Eressëa, but had become an adult in the years since.  The two had realized they loved one another as a lad loved a lass, but what could come of it?  Frodo was now elderly while she was yet a young elleth with a long, long life ahead of her.

            It’s just not fair, Sam thought, not fair at all!  He wanted so much to be a Dad hisself, as I was able to be.  And she does love him true!

            But then, he knew too well, that Life was rarely fair, and it seemed so mostly to those who were often denied such great rewards as were due to them.

            He sighed as he closed the book and set it aside.  He knew that the dragonfly hovered over the bairn’s face in the picture of Livwen and her older sister Lordeth holding her infant daughter.  In the last picture, at the back of the volume, a purple and blue-black dragonfly sat on the folds of the sailor’s cap as if it were a jeweled pin. 

            As he sat up, he fingered the crystalline shell that held within it the jewel of light that had allowed him to read the volume, and it was extinguished.  How wonderful it was that here lamps were lit by Noldo-wrought jewels where at home all must have at least a heart of flame to give light.

            He rose, intending to enter the room of refreshment, as the Elves called it.  He walked about the couch on which the brother of his heart lay, actually asleep.  So often Frodo did not sleep, resting briefly before going out into the gardens to watch moon and stars, to sing softly his praise for the beauty he knew here, the thanksgiving for the healing he’d known for his body and his spirit, the joy of friendships he’d known, and his prayers for those he’d loved throughout his life, so many of them back in the Mortal Lands.  Sometimes he’d sit beneath the White Tree, resting near Bilbo’s grave and the love he held for those who might rest below other Elven trees in the remains of Lórien, the Shire, or before the King’s Citadel.  Not, of course, that Lord Strider and his family were in Gondor now, for they’d planned to come to Annúminas for the summer months this year.  Most likely the children were there, too.  They’d be preparing for the festivities of the night to come.  For it would be Midsummer tomorrow—the center of the Lithe-days!  Gandalf had arrived as Mistress Rhysellë had prepared to leave the guesthouse two days earlier, seeing her on her way with a tray of baked goods and her newly-bound book, and quietly advised them as he’d promised that they had two nights before the holiday.  Frodo had shone with pleasure at the news, and Sam had felt a quiet excitement that he’d not completely expected.  But it had not left them much time to see the house cleansed and all readied, much less for him to read Rhysellë’s book!

            He paused as he looked down at Frodo’s sleeping form.  He remembered his friend’s last nights in Bag End when he’d slept with extra pillows to raise his head and torso to help him breathe.  Now he lay as he’d done as a youth in Bag End, on his right side with his arm stretched out, as if ready for young Merry and Pippin to join hlm there as they had as children, feeling welcomed and safe in his embrace.

            How glad he was that Frodo could sleep so once more.

            I thank you all for this blessing for him, he thought as he returned to his own couch, smiling as the light of stars filled the room alongside the beautiful scent of the athelas plant that grew in the pot on the windowsill.

            When he woke up, he found that Frodo was sitting up, the white silken cover pooled in his lap, his attention fixed on Sam’s face.  You are well, my brother?

            “Yes. Why?”

            You were speaking in your sleep—with Rosie.  After a moment, he continued, You were assuring her that the wait was almost over, and that you have missed her ever so much.  She kissed your brow, and then you woke up with—that—in your hand.

            Sam looked down at his hand in surprise—and found that he held one of the coral-colored roses he’d grown in his wife’s honor.

            If there is any sign that you are ready to go on, this was it, my brother. Frodo’s smile was thoughtful, but he shone brightly.

 *******

            Sam was looking over a tray in the kitchen that held a number of wax candles.  He looked to his companion.  “I don’t know as why you have so many candles, here where you don’t especially need such things.”

            Frodo looked up, his face thoughtful.  Do you not think that at times I missed such things as candle flames?  The bee keeper who lives beyond Mistress Rhysellë’s orchard has given me honeycomb from time to time, and so it was easy to make candles at times.  I shall leave these to Livwen.  She was fascinated with the thought that we used them for light in the Mortal Lands.

            After a moment Sam commented, “She will light them when she misses you the most.”

            Frodo’s face was solemn.  I suppose it shall be so.  What do you wish to do once we have the last of what is left settled?

            Sam decided to take this chance to change the subject.  “Well, what about we go see the glass butterflies once more, afore we go to the feast at the Mallon grove?  We are going to that, aren’t we?”  At Frodo’s nod, he continued, “They’re goin’ to want you to dance.  Have you decided what dance you’ll give them?”

            Frodo’s eyes began to sparkle.  What about we give them a dance featuring both of us?

            The two Hobbits looked at one another, and Sam’s mouth curled into a smile.  “The Staves Dance?  Why not?  Have many of the Elves here have seen that one?”

            Some of the young ones who have learned our dances from me.  And Elrond, of course.  He saw it there in Imladris when we danced it for Boromir.  Let us impress them!

 *******

            When they returned to the guesthouse, they found Olórin awaiting them in the guise of Gandalf the Grey.  He looked them over from under his long eyebrows.  “So, you have returned at last.  And were the butterflies fulfilling to watch?”

            Sam shook his head, his heart still thrilled at the memory of the beauty of such creatures.  “Among the most wonderful creatures as I’ve ever seen.  The Creator has given such beautiful things for our delight!”

            “That He has,” the Maia said, his own Light of Being shining forth.  “Does it please you to come to the feast in the Mallon grove?  They await you with patience.”

            Let me put these into water, Frodo suggested, looking down at the handful of flowers he’d bought from the glade where the butterflies danced in the sunlight.  These were not such blooms as were common to the gardens that spread about them, and Frodo had respectfully asked permission to take some.  A female Maia had taken a visible form, and smiled as Frodo accepted this nosegay from her.  Frodo placed them into the same vase in which Sam had placed his rose, and set them on the sill of the front window where they would catch the morning sun on the following day.  

            Gandalf looked at the vase with a curious expression, but said nothing of it.  Instead he turned to Sam, asking quietly, “What of the book given you?  Did you finish it?”

            “Last night.  Didn’t think ahead o’ time I could read it all so swiftly.”

            “How should it be bestowed?”

            Sam looked down at his hands for a moment.  “Don’t quite know.  I wish as it could go to my Elanor….  But how could that be?  It’s here and she’s there, after all.”

            Frodo joined Sam at that point, and the two followed the former Wizard to the grove where so many of those who’d come from Lothlórien in Middle Earth had settled here on the Lonely Isle.

            Sam murmured in Frodo’s ear, “You think as they’ll have such things as staves, there where the feast is?”

            One of the newcomers has plans to raise a flet for himself.  I would think that he will have been gathering poles for it.  He would most likely be willing to allow us to use two of them.  Such poles are often of various lengths, or so I remember from when those who came with the Lady were fashioning their own.

            Sam smiled with satisfaction.

*******

            Livwen and her family were present at the feast, as well as those who’d known the two Hobbits in the Mortal Lands and many the Cormacolindor had come to know in their time on Tol Eressëa.  During the early years of his stay, Frodo had mostly been invited to such feasts high in the city; but as it became obvious that he preferred those presented in the Mallon groves, more of those who’d come to honor him joined him in these more rustic celebrations.

            There was food and drink, music and dancing.  Sam sat and watched as Frodo joined in many dances that were favored by the Elves, Frodo’s small stature somehow adding to the beauty and delight of such activities offered to both participants and those who watched them.  Neither Frodo nor Sam ate much, and both mortals accepted water more than the drinks enjoyed by their hosts.  But they smiled and laughed, joining in the storytelling and the singing, thrilling to the music played by those who were masters of instruments.

            The moment came when Talorë begged Frodo to perform one of the dances of his own people.

            Frodo and Sam smiled at one another as both rose to their feet.  My mellon and I wish to show you one that is seldom seen even within the Shire.  Some of your sons and daughters have been learning the way of it from me, but none have seen the dance done properly by two who have fully mastered the steps.  With your permission?

            Elrond had straightened at this communication, and those who surrounded him responded to his obvious interest.  “This should be enlightening,” murmured Artanis Galadriel, at which pronouncement her daughter straightened where she sat upon the ground, focusing her attention on the two Perianneth as they prepared themselves.

            Frodo approached the one who was preparing to build his flet, who disappeared into the grove and returned with several poles he’d been gathering.  Sam and Frodo tried a few of them and chose ones suitable to their intended use, bringing their choices back to the dancing ground.  Frodo divested himself of his usual silver robes, showing that he wore a dancer’s kilt under them; Sam removed his jacket and waistcoat, surrendering these to Gandalf; and each took up his chosen staff to face one another.  One of the youths who’d studied the dance with Frodo looked a question, and at a nod from the Hobbit he began to sing.  After two repetitions of the chorus, the two Hobbits of the Shire began to move, the staves flashing and clattering, one being aimed at head or shoulder only to be swept away, then the other sweeping under leaping feet that twisted to again bring the two dancers to face one another. 

            The clashes of the two staves indicated that had any single blow hit the body of the other dancer, the recipient of the blow would have been seriously injured.  But such was the skill of the two Hobbits that each strike was properly parried or evaded, often causing the watchers to cry out in surprise that this time once again tragedy had been avoided.

            The song was not one commonly heard within the Immortal Lands; it was definitely at one with mortality, with dangers faced and avoided, and life affirmed.  Those Elves who’d fled Endorë recognized the defiance of the music that accompanied the dance, and shared in the delight of the victory of the dance leaving those who performed it to avoid harm to themselves or one another.  When at last it was finished, those who’d formed the audience rose in their applause as Frodo and Sam now stood, facing one another with pleasure at having amazed so many here.  Sam’s face was shining with sweat and delight, and Frodo’s simply shone with his pride for their shared accomplishment.

            “That was good!”

            All were amazed to hear Frodo Baggins speak those words aloud.

            Soon after the two Hobbits took their leave, explaining they had plans of their own for the coming evening.  Their arms about one another’s shoulders, the two of them left the company, the Lights of their Beings shining out in particular brilliance, gold and mithril-silver blending together in a marvelous display as they returned to the guesthouse where Frodo, the Lord Iorhael, had dwelt for so long, with first Bilbo, then by himself, and now with Samwise Gamgee, the Lord Perhael/Panthael as his companions.

            “Oh, Olórin,” whispered Livwen to the Maia, “how they shine together!  How alive they both are tonight!”

            But the former Wizard, who’d dwelt so long amongst mortals, found himself thinking on the candles Frodo had wrought of beeswax, sitting on a woven tray in the kitchen of the almost empty guesthouse, and how after being lit, tended to flare with their strongest light as they burned down to the last length of wick.