"Elrond. You hold the memory of Frodo's fea. Sing."

All elves sing and Elrond Peredhil was no exception. But it had been many years since anyone other than his family had been privileged to hear his rich tenor. For too many years he had feared that his own sorrow would darken any melody.

But the Valar commanded and he would not gainsay their wisdom in this matter. He knew the Ringbearer's melody, had committed it to memory, but could he recreate a soul? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. No, he could not. But the Valar could, for it was they who had sung this world into being at Illuvatar's behest. Elrond was filled with awe, knowing that it was he who would lead this choir of creation. And for one of the rare times in his long life he hesitated before uttering the first note, uncertain of his skill.

Frodo Baggins fea was a deceptively simple melody, settled in meadows and illumined by sunlight dancing on clear streams. And yet, within it were themes that told of a greater complexity, woven into his life from birth. Elrond could not unravel their beginnings and it was now that he realised why so many others were present. His would be the role of holding up the central theme around which others would weave their harmonies; each adding their own small piece to the whole, to recreate the delicate symphony of Frodo Baggins soul.

Standing tall and square, Elrond drew a deep breath, opened his throat and heart and pushed the first pure note past his open lips. For some time he stood, repeating the refrain and expanding upon it with his own knowledge of woodland peace and river's song, and then a light caroller joined the song.

A maid she seemed, hardly into womanhood, limbs slender and lithe. Tiny feet flitted daintily upon the green sward and where they touched golden flowers sprang, releasing delicate fragrance on the air. Vana . . . the Ever Young they called her and she brought the birds, who trilled their own sweet descant to Elrond's melody. Her song was filled with life and growing, of lovingly tended gardens and strength hidden in a gentle touch and she danced about the glade, now twirling, now gliding in flowing measure.

Elrond watched as Frodo's hand slid up his chest to rub the pale thread of white scars stitched by the scoring of the chain. As fine and strong as Elrond's folk had forged it, still the weight of that which hung from it had galled Frodo's neck. A weight he would have borne alone were it not for another.

Vana's simple and tender part grew stronger and within it was heard another voice, burred with homespun and patient as the seasons. Capable hands that supported and comforted, lifted and nurtured. An honest love that asked for little in return . . . only to be needed and to be allowed to supply that need.

"You're not alone, Mr Frodo. Your Sam is here and always will be. Them scars . . . they don't ought to bring pain. Them scars gave me a chance to help . . . to be where I wanted to be . . . at your side."

The lady bent, laying a soft kiss upon Frodo's throat and his lips curled upward, eyes glimmering with tears of release as his fingers traced the ring of tiny scars, now a memory of love.

With the next breath Vana was gone and Nienna's patient and heady soprano slowed the theme as she sang of a mother's touch lost, a father's strength torn from a child's clutching fingers. She wept his tears, for all this too was a part of Frodo Baggins. He had learned that not all life was joy and light and it had made him strong in ways that he could not have known. He had learned his lessons well from the Lady of Sorrows. Her fine fingers brushed away the tears from Frodo's cheek before she melted back into the mist.

Elrond's voice sank as a small quavering theme slipped into the symphony. He let his gaze drift across the clearing to where Bilbo sat, with Olorin at his side. The wizard's gnarled hands rested upon the ancient hobbit's shoulders as Bilbo made his tentative contribution to his nephew's song.

Nor mortal should have been able to hear the song or be able to contribute to it but as the elf listened, the images formed within his mind.

Golden fields of ripe grain and the laughter of the reapers. Sunshine and birdsong in a hedgerow burgeoning with fat blackberries. Warm hearth and a table, laden with good food. Companionship and peace wreathed in sweet smelling pipeweed. All these in a voice that grew more confident with each note as Este laid a gentle hand upon Frodo's breast. The subject of their care stirred drowsily in response to the warmth of song and touch, as a babe nestled securely in his father's arms.

Even as Bilbo's part drew to its close a deeper voice took up the part and Elrond had to raise his own once more to hold the theme against such strength. Feeling himself as much in a dream as Frodo, he turned to see a small clear stream of water bubble forth from a cleft between stones and marvelled that Ulmo could produce such a presence from that light trickle of sound. But Ulmo was the lord of all water, from the smallest stream that wound through the valleys of the Shire to the vast ocean that rolled and crashed against the cliffs along the shores of Arda, and all this was contained in that sonorous bass melody.

The glade about them faded.

Streams . . . laughing and gurgling as they tripped over fresh scoured pebbles. Tall trees and voices, one gruff and low, the other clear and sweet . . . both filled with laughter.

"Careful Gimli. Only cut away the dead branches. This poor tree is frightened enough of you." Legolas stood upon a higher branch, his hand stroking the rough bark of the ancient tree in soothing rhythm as he grinned at his friend, who was valiantly trying to balance upon a fragile looking platform whilst swinging an axe.

"Tell me again why I volunteered to come with you to Ithilien? I have no love of trees," the dwarf mumbled as he swung at the rotting branch one more time. The tree shuddered and he teetered for a moment before crashing to the ground with a loud oath. Legolas' silver laugh danced upon the clear air and then his voice grew soft and suddenly serious.

"For the love of a friend."

The vision faded and the gurgle slowed and deepened to the stately pavane of a broad and ancient river, flowing through a city. Or, at least, what was once a city and seemed to be in the process of becoming so again. White stoned ruins were now clad in wooden scaffolding and stonemasons were lovingly reconstructing walls and towers.

Elrond's voice stumbled for a moment before resuming, for upon the shore of the river stood two people clad in white. Aragorn bent to dip his hand in the water at his feet, scooping some up and touching it to his lips before rising to smile at his wife.

"It runs clear once more. The world is being washed clean at last." He glanced back at the building work behind them. "We will rebuild this land. And Osgiliath will be its jewel once again."

Arwen's gaze dropped to the tiny sleeping babe with delicately tipped ears and downy dark hair that nestled in her arms. "Our son will grow to manhood in a new world . . . one of peace and love."

Behind them two others stood hand in hand before a white marble plinth, upon which was carved an ornate hunting horn. The lady's golden head leaned in towards her lord and both smiled as they read the words cut into the stone.

"Boromir . . . Beloved Son of Gondor. Defender of the Weak. Oath Keeper. Brother, Son and Friend."

Now the river seemed to tumble faster, brown with rich silt and narrowing as it flowed through fields and rolling hills. On its banks small figures ran and laughed, their large, bare feet leaving prints in the rich earth. Upon a low hill, two taller figures stood, watching fondly as the youngsters played.

"It's good to see the banks holding up against the spring floods again. And now we've repaired the irrigation systems to the lower fields we'll have a good crop." Merry's voice carried undertones of his father and there was no doubt now that this was the future Master of Buckland.

Pippin tilted his head and gave a mischievous grin. "Does that mean you'll be having the autumn festival this year?"

Merry laughed, reaching out with his right hand to clap him firmly on the back. "It does. And you will be invited, as usual. I think that this year we will be able to provide enough food to satisfy even a Took."

The vision of Pippin's mock hurt faded and Elrond was standing in the clearing, staring at the tiny figure upon the couch. Frodo lay still, his breathing easy and every limb relaxed and at peace. All those who had been drawn into the dangerous quest of the Fellowship had found their heart's home.

But all was not yet complete, for Elrond could still sense a large and gaping rent in Frodo's fea. The matter of the Ring had yet to be resolved. Surely another of the Valar would step forward now to heal this dreadful hurt?

A strong contralto joined with his and Elrond turned in surprise to face his mother by marriage. Galadriel slipped easily into the music, with a familiarity born of long years of sharing song with her daughter's spouse.

Loneliness. The silent pain of knowing that no other ever can or ever will know the pain within one soul. The agony of seeing those around you suffering, being in possession of the power to ease that pain and not able to wield it. The despair of feeling love usurped by need and need by greed, until all else is driven out and there is only dark lust where sweet light of love once resided.

A small cry drew Elrond's gaze back to the couch, where Frodo now squirmed, even beneath the soothing touch of Este and Lorien. His eyes were still closed but tears now began to slide afresh from dark lashes and Este arose, beckoning Galadriel to take her place. The golden lady did so, folding neatly to her knees at Frodo's side and placing her hand upon his breast. Frodo cried out at the touch, as if burned, and Elrond would have stepped forward to restrain her had not Este done the same to him.

"Go on with your song, bearer of Vilya. All will be well." The Valier's voice came from within inches of his ears, her gentle hands upon his shoulders holding Elrond as surely as the grip of any mighty warrior. He did as he was bidden, eyes now fixed upon the still writhing figure of the hobbit.

Galadriel was relentless, singing of pride and deception, anger and lust. Her usually serene expression melted away and Elrond saw a part of her mind that he had at times suspected but never been privy to. Here was the sister of Finrod, who pursued the Silmaril. Here was she who had dared to accept the doom of the Valar in the lust for power.

Her song was strident, almost drowning out Elrond's and Frodo now curled upon his side, deep sobs shaking him although Lorien still held him in the partial comfort of sleep. Then her part softened and with it her visage, and Elrond saw the humbled lady who had turned aside the freely offered gift of The One Ring. Here was the lady who had finally forsaken her pursuit of power and remained Galadriel. The lady who had returned to Valimar to accept any punishment that the Valar decreed. And Elrond saw at last, what that punishment was as she knelt at Frodo's side and her son by marriage saw the silver tears slip down her pale face to merge with Frodo's. Her words became clear to Elrond at last.

"The lust for power is a terrible thing, Ringbearer. It can consume even those who have walked this earth since before sun and moon were wrought. You were pitted against a foe beyond your strength and you cannot punish yourself for that. To do so is to let pride rule you. For is it not pride to believe that you were capable of denying such a power as The One Ring?

"You came to this place for healing and healing you will find. But it comes not just from the Valar. It comes also from you. Let fall the pride of the Ringbearer and become again the humble Frodo, Son of Drogo. Mourn no longer for that which you were not strong enough to possess. Take up again the life that once you loved, for all has been restored to you, if you will but accept the gift and turn from your grief.

"You sought forgiveness from those who you have not wronged. Seek forgiveness now from him who you truly wronged. Forgive yourself, Frodo."

For long moments Elrond thought that Frodo would reject her words for he cried out his pain and distress and continued to struggle against the feather light touch of the elven princess. Then, of a sudden, his body fell limp upon the couch and Este urgently brushed aside Galadriel's hand to replace it with her own.

Elrond fell silent, fearing that all was lost. Then the silence was broken by the gentle outflow of a long sigh. Frodo drew another breath, this time slow and deep, and let it out again. Este and Lorien turned him gently upon his back and straightened his limbs, while Olorin covered him in a soft blanket and dabbed away Frodo's tears.

All watched in silence as Frodo slumbered, some pleasant dream gently curving his lips. The gem at his throat glowed in the starlight and somewhere in the woods about them a nightingale began his sweet and piercing hymn to the simple joy of living.

And blended with that song was another . . . sweet and yet strong . . . light threaded with the memory of darkness . . . joy made all the more perfect by the echo of pain now yielded.

END

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