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b2memDaily prompt: (March 3rd) And the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days. (The Silmarillion, “Ainulindale”)
Format: Vignette
Genre: Gen
Warnings: None
Characters: Frodo, Elrond, Galadriel, Lindir
Pairings: None
Creator’s Notes (optional): None
Summary: Frodo finds sleep difficult on the ship to the West
Frodo climbed wearily up the ladder, and onto the deck of the huge ship. Many elves stood or sat upon the silver planks, talking in small groups or simply admiring the view. He supposed he would have to get used to the fact that these folk rarely slept as mortals do. Not that this particular mortal was having much success in that tonight, he thought ruefully.
“Good evening, Master Frodo. Have you come to take the air? It is a fine night, is it not?” Lindir's kindly face smiled down at him.
Frodo hugged his cloak more closely against a stiff breeze, that bellied the large sail and snapped the long pennant above it. “I could not sleep and thought some fresh air would help.” He grimaced. “Now I'm not so sure that was a good idea. The air is a little too fresh for my liking.”
Lindir's chuckle was snatched away by a gust of wind that lifted his long dark hair, like some living pennant. “I believe our captain describes it as, 'brisk'.”
Despite the cold, without and within his body, Frodo found himself smiling. “I'm as fond of a brisk walk as the next hobbit, but this wind runs too swift for my liking.” He staggered as a gust threatened to knock him off his feet, and Lindir reached down to catch him. At the stern of the ship the captain shouted a command, and Frodo felt the craft alter course to turn more squarely into the wind.
“Come, Master Hobbit. If you truly wish to brave the night there is a sheltered spot, in the lee of the forecastle, that would suit.” With a steadying hand upon Frodo's shoulder, Lindir steered him past the mast, toward the swan prow of the ship.
Some elves had already discovered this place of shelter, but they made way at once for these new refugees, and Frodo soon found himself ensconced upon a cushion in the angle of a sheltered corner. Once settled he looked about, to discover that his new companions included Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, indeed, he would have scrambled to his feet had not the lord laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. Sadly, it was the shoulder who's pain had driven him from his bunk, and he cringed away from even that gentle touch.
“Frodo?” Elrond's face was filled with concern as he leaned in, to push aside Frodo's cloak and shirt.
“I'm sorry. It is the old wound. It always hurts at this time of the year.” He suffered the healer's brief examination, relieved when gentle fingers stroked a little warmth into the chill and aching flesh.
“I suspected it would be the case,” the lady observed as she settled her own soft shawl about Frodo's shoulders.
“I am sorry. Sadly, I have much experience in treating these wounds, but even my skills have their limits. My daughter foresaw this I think, when she offered you her jewel.”
Reminded of its presence, Frodo drew out the clear stone, on it's fine mithril chain, cupping it in his hand. “It has been a succour to me through these anniversary illnesses.”
“But not a cure, I think.” Galadriel smiled sadly. “Olorin was wise to offer you passage to the West.”
“Olorin?” Frodo tucked the jewel back beneath his shirt and drew the shawl close. It smelled sweetly of the lady and, despite its apparent lightness, was warmer than his cloak.
Galadriel nodded toward the stern, where Gandalf was talking with one of the crew. “His true name is Olorin. Although I believe he has become rather fond of Gandalf. As one of the Maia, he is the only one who could permit your passage to the Western lands.”
“He and I discussed the possibility before the Fellowship set forth. You had already suffered much and we knew there would be more before the end. I am sorry that you should have endured so much, Frodo.” Elrond's mist-grey eyes echoed the sadness of his words.
“I think, if I had known the price, I may not have offered to undertake the task. But then, our chance of success was so small that I think even you could not see the end,” Frodo replied.
“None of us could,” the lady confirmed. “The Ring clouded all foresight.”
Elrond's brow rose slightly. “And foresight has ever been a fickle guide for actions.”
Frodo detected a frisson of old disagreement but decided that it would not be wise to step between two such powerful beings. He was relieved when Elrond apparently decided to change the subject, beckoning to Lindir. “Let us see what we may do to alleviate your present discomfort, and leave the past and the future to their own council.”
When Frodo had first heard that gentle Lindir was one of Elrond's most trusted councillors he had been uncertain why, for he was clearly one of Rivendell's younger residents. Then he had heard him play and sing and all was explained. It was through music that Lindir drew all to the heart of any subject and he could bring peace and clarity to any body or mind. Now he bent to hear Elrond's instruction and raised harp to shoulder.
Strong and slender fingers plucked and a single clear note sparkled in the air, rising easily above the sounds of voice and sail and wind. It seemed to Frodo that the whole earth held it's breath to hear the next. It did not have long to wait as deft fingers plucked again and Lindir's mellow voice accompanied. Soon others joined in harmony . . . Elrond's rich baritone and even Galadriel's strong and surprisingly warm alto.
Frodo's Sindarin had been much improved during two visits to Imladris, and by conversing with many elves upon the return journey, but words were not important now. Within minutes the pain of body and soul was born away upon a gentle river of song, that lifted him higher and higher, to weave among the stars that wheeled above them.
It was there that Frodo heard it. Elven voices were underscored by the echo of one long pure note, held by beings more ancient still. It never wavered, never changed, as though waiting. Elrond's words arose then, clear within his mind.
“And the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days.”
END
Format: Vignette
Genre: Gen
Warnings: None
Characters: Frodo, Elrond, Galadriel, Lindir
Pairings: None
Creator’s Notes (optional): None
Summary: Frodo finds sleep difficult on the ship to the West
Frodo climbed wearily up the ladder, and onto the deck of the huge ship. Many elves stood or sat upon the silver planks, talking in small groups or simply admiring the view. He supposed he would have to get used to the fact that these folk rarely slept as mortals do. Not that this particular mortal was having much success in that tonight, he thought ruefully.
“Good evening, Master Frodo. Have you come to take the air? It is a fine night, is it not?” Lindir's kindly face smiled down at him.
Frodo hugged his cloak more closely against a stiff breeze, that bellied the large sail and snapped the long pennant above it. “I could not sleep and thought some fresh air would help.” He grimaced. “Now I'm not so sure that was a good idea. The air is a little too fresh for my liking.”
Lindir's chuckle was snatched away by a gust of wind that lifted his long dark hair, like some living pennant. “I believe our captain describes it as, 'brisk'.”
Despite the cold, without and within his body, Frodo found himself smiling. “I'm as fond of a brisk walk as the next hobbit, but this wind runs too swift for my liking.” He staggered as a gust threatened to knock him off his feet, and Lindir reached down to catch him. At the stern of the ship the captain shouted a command, and Frodo felt the craft alter course to turn more squarely into the wind.
“Come, Master Hobbit. If you truly wish to brave the night there is a sheltered spot, in the lee of the forecastle, that would suit.” With a steadying hand upon Frodo's shoulder, Lindir steered him past the mast, toward the swan prow of the ship.
Some elves had already discovered this place of shelter, but they made way at once for these new refugees, and Frodo soon found himself ensconced upon a cushion in the angle of a sheltered corner. Once settled he looked about, to discover that his new companions included Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, indeed, he would have scrambled to his feet had not the lord laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. Sadly, it was the shoulder who's pain had driven him from his bunk, and he cringed away from even that gentle touch.
“Frodo?” Elrond's face was filled with concern as he leaned in, to push aside Frodo's cloak and shirt.
“I'm sorry. It is the old wound. It always hurts at this time of the year.” He suffered the healer's brief examination, relieved when gentle fingers stroked a little warmth into the chill and aching flesh.
“I suspected it would be the case,” the lady observed as she settled her own soft shawl about Frodo's shoulders.
“I am sorry. Sadly, I have much experience in treating these wounds, but even my skills have their limits. My daughter foresaw this I think, when she offered you her jewel.”
Reminded of its presence, Frodo drew out the clear stone, on it's fine mithril chain, cupping it in his hand. “It has been a succour to me through these anniversary illnesses.”
“But not a cure, I think.” Galadriel smiled sadly. “Olorin was wise to offer you passage to the West.”
“Olorin?” Frodo tucked the jewel back beneath his shirt and drew the shawl close. It smelled sweetly of the lady and, despite its apparent lightness, was warmer than his cloak.
Galadriel nodded toward the stern, where Gandalf was talking with one of the crew. “His true name is Olorin. Although I believe he has become rather fond of Gandalf. As one of the Maia, he is the only one who could permit your passage to the Western lands.”
“He and I discussed the possibility before the Fellowship set forth. You had already suffered much and we knew there would be more before the end. I am sorry that you should have endured so much, Frodo.” Elrond's mist-grey eyes echoed the sadness of his words.
“I think, if I had known the price, I may not have offered to undertake the task. But then, our chance of success was so small that I think even you could not see the end,” Frodo replied.
“None of us could,” the lady confirmed. “The Ring clouded all foresight.”
Elrond's brow rose slightly. “And foresight has ever been a fickle guide for actions.”
Frodo detected a frisson of old disagreement but decided that it would not be wise to step between two such powerful beings. He was relieved when Elrond apparently decided to change the subject, beckoning to Lindir. “Let us see what we may do to alleviate your present discomfort, and leave the past and the future to their own council.”
When Frodo had first heard that gentle Lindir was one of Elrond's most trusted councillors he had been uncertain why, for he was clearly one of Rivendell's younger residents. Then he had heard him play and sing and all was explained. It was through music that Lindir drew all to the heart of any subject and he could bring peace and clarity to any body or mind. Now he bent to hear Elrond's instruction and raised harp to shoulder.
Strong and slender fingers plucked and a single clear note sparkled in the air, rising easily above the sounds of voice and sail and wind. It seemed to Frodo that the whole earth held it's breath to hear the next. It did not have long to wait as deft fingers plucked again and Lindir's mellow voice accompanied. Soon others joined in harmony . . . Elrond's rich baritone and even Galadriel's strong and surprisingly warm alto.
Frodo's Sindarin had been much improved during two visits to Imladris, and by conversing with many elves upon the return journey, but words were not important now. Within minutes the pain of body and soul was born away upon a gentle river of song, that lifted him higher and higher, to weave among the stars that wheeled above them.
It was there that Frodo heard it. Elven voices were underscored by the echo of one long pure note, held by beings more ancient still. It never wavered, never changed, as though waiting. Elrond's words arose then, clear within his mind.
“And the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days.”
END
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