[identity profile] elanorfairbairn.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] hobbit_holidays

Frodo only realized what day it was when Bilbo told him. He had completely lost track. Living with elves, and in this place especially, had that effect on a body. He was very surprised to find out that Bilbo had been keeping a calendar this past year. It was so very unlike the Bilbo he remembered in Rivendell, with a desk piled half to the ceiling of notes written on odd sheets of paper. Bilbo said he thought it was important, but he wouldn’t explain why.

Regardless, the day had arrived, September the 22nd. It felt like a century, and yet only a moment, since they had set out from Bag End for the Gray Havens. Back then, back in the world, things were so much more precise, more certain. In Middle Earth, it had been exactly one year.

There would be a feast tonight in their honor, as well as music of course. Bilbo had gone for his nap. Frodo had planned on doing the same, but he found that he was too restless. He strolled aimlessly across a lawn of perfectly soft and green grass. He thought of other birthdays; of his 33rd, of their last at Bag End before leaving for Crickhollow, of Sam saying farewell to the beer barrel in the basement.

The great tower of Avallónë rose suddenly before him, burning gold and orange in the setting sun. Frodo decided he must climb it if he could. The steps were not made for hobbit feet, and each one was a small adventure. But, slowly and carefully, Frodo climbed the winding stairs. He was glad that there was no one else around. At last he came to the tower room. The view caught him by surprise. The White Tower of Minas Tirith was nothing compared to this. The ocean rippled gently below – so far below! Frodo realized he had come here to look east. Might he be able to see all the way to the Gray Havens, or even to the Tower Hills? He squinted his eyes, but saw only tiny ripples on the sea for miles and miles, and he felt very foolish. During his climb, he had imagined that Sam would be on the Tower Hills, maybe even at Elostirion, looking out to the west for him. But Sam probably didn’t even remember the day. He would be busy with his family, with his life. And slowly Frodo turned to face his climb back to the ground.

Sam rose long before the sun. He had packed a small bag and left a note on the mantel. The cart he had hired was already waiting outside. The journey took forever. When he arrived at the Tower Hills, the sun was already setting. He ignored every bit of hobbit sense that he possessed and scrambled up the giant steps of the greatest tower he had ever seen. He remembered the stories he had heard as a child, how you could see from here all the way across the ocean to the Undying Lands.

At the top he rushed to the window. He gasped. It felt as if he were falling. He clenched the stone of the window ledge tightly. Far in the distance he could see the ocean. He squinted his eyes against the setting sun. But, no, he could not see beyond the water. That art must have long since passed from this place. He called out, “Some day, Frodo, I promise.” His words rang against the stone like metal. He did not weep, but quietly turned to face his climb back to the ground.
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Hobbit Holidays - stories, poetry, and art

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