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Farewell, Master Baggins
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Valinor has the taste of rain on the leaves on a spring morning. The taste of that quietude ardently sought, deserved beyond all hope. It is the calm without the storm that was supposed to follow it, hoped for, and so strange now that it is within reach.
Frodo still feels like a stranger in this paradise that is not his. Oh, let there be no mistake! Valinor is a haven as he knows so few; a land untouched by the cruelty of the world, a promised land to those willing to brave themselves to reach it. But... It is something he feels in the small things.
Details; so trivial to one that have been offered such a gift, and yet that causes him to wander, aimlessly. Elves are content with the quietness of Valinor; the songs and laments of old time, the whisper of the wind amongst the leaves. Frodo… He misses the Shire. He misses the loudness of it; he misses the loud laughs and drunken songs, he misses sharing a pint as friends dance and cheer, he misses the buzzing, warm, atmosphere of it all. He misses, even, seeing Sam work in his garden; stopping him every ten minutes or so to share a bite of some cooked food he’d just made; misses seeing the sun rise over their fields, misses the cold of winters where he is huddled against the chimney, a book in one hand, a cup of tea in the other.
There is no winter in Valinor. Only endless spring; never warm enough to be uncomfortable, never cold enough to vanish the Sun.
Most of the time, Frodo does not mind it. But some others… It feels too much. It feels as if he is trapped somewhere he doesn’t belong. Bilbo doesn’t understand; for Bilbo never cared much for the loudness of the Shire, much rather enjoying his quiet loneliness. Bilbo loves being among the elves; and Frodo does too- he does; but…
It is one of those days, today. Gandalf – no, Olorin, and Frodo had a hard time giving up the familiarity of the first name – is discussing some trivial matter with Bilbo, and Frodo feels his attention waver. One second he is content to sit idly in his chair, the next, he fudges, a fierce desire to do something settling in his bones.
So he goes. He takes his coat; there is no need for one in Valinor but he enjoys the comforting familiarity of it; and silently closes the door behind him. Neither notices him slip away. His head buzzes, and a deep ache burns in his stomach; one that he has found no answer too. It is not real; merely a ghostly sensation, for there is no pain in Valinor; but one that unsettles him all the same.
Frodo does not follow any traced path. He lets his feet guide him; and they take him to a place he never would have thought of; past the village, past the forest. Elves greet him at almost every step, for Gand- Olorin had made sure of saying his deeds loud and clear. It makes him blush, far more often than not, when elves come to thank him. Thank him! And for what? His part had been as small, and as wide, as anyone in the fellowship. And it is tainted with shame, a shame that shall never leave him – one that remembers the hesitation, that remembers that had Gollum not been there…
Frodo speaks of it to no one.
He walks; thus, and the trees sing at his sight. He walks past them, and his feet lead him further and further. Until the trees vanish, and he sees the sea that waits behind. Until he reaches high walls of stone, which Frodo had never yet seen in the years he had spent there.
It is where Frodo sees him for the first time.
He thinks him an elf, at first. There are so few of other races in Valinor, and Frodo knows each of them. He is standing next to the entrance of what seems to be a cave – or perhaps a Hall. He stands high; taller than Lady Galadriel – and she is perhaps the tallest elf Frodo had ever seen.
He has his back turned to Frodo, but flaming locks fall on his shoulders, flowing down his back like a river of fire. It is the brightest Frodo has ever seen; bright like the magma that devoured the Ring. He is dressed in grey robes, simpler than any elf had ever favoured; and Frodo halts a second at his sight.
Frodo hesitates- he has no doubt that He had heard him, but should he introduce himself…? Would it be of poor taste? If one had come so far, it was most likely to be left in peace.
The elf decides for Frodo. He turns, and Frodo gasps.
The elf is blind.
There is a dark cloth that covers his eyes, tied neatly around his face; its back hidden by the glowing locks. The elf is of fair skin, and golden freckles are scattered on his visage – as if it is stardust itself. He has the most beautiful features Frodo had ever seen on an elf; and curiosity gnaws at his heart. Despite his lack of sight, the elf looks at Frodo nonetheless, pinning him precisely where he stands, and- there is no too harsh wind in Valinor, and yet Frodo shudders all the same.
“Who wanders here,” the elf asks, and his voice is but a whisper in the wind. “-so far away from what he cherishes the most?”
Frodo clears his throat. “My apologies,” he stutters. “It was rude of me to come without announcing myself. Frodo Baggins, Master…?”
The elf stills; if it is even possible, more marble statue than alive. “Frodo..?”
Frodo laughs, and scratches his cheek. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me. It never ceases to surprise me; that such a small name meets recognition. I expect always to be only another face in the midst of all; one to gaze up at the heroes, and when they say my name, I feel undeserving of such an honour. Might I know yours?”
“An honour you say!” The elf laughs too, his moment of surprise seeming to have been lost to the past; and he shakes his head, as if to shake himself out of his laugh. He bows then, and Frodo isn’t yet sure of it to be an honest gesture. It makes his curiosity burns even higher, and he founds that he does not mind as much as he could have. “Well met, Master Baggins. You might call me what you wish, in truth, for names had come and gone for I. Yet, I was called Mairon, the Admirable, once; but I fear that I am no longer anything, even in name, that is admirable.”
“It is not right!” Frodo exclaims. His feet move before his own consent, and he finds himself reaching for the elf; to erase the bitter sorrow that creases his features. “ It is when you think you are the least deserving that you show all the aspects of it. I would call you Mairon, then, for if you no longer consider yourself admirable, then I would do it for you!"
Mairon laughs, again.
“You are something else, Frodo Baggins. Fascinating, truly… I never gave Hobbits the attention they deserved… And now I wonder if it had not been the greatest mistake of all; to have my sight gone to elves and men instead.”
He tilts his head to the side then; a cat-like gesture that makes Frodo think of the ginger one that so often wandered in Merry’s garden. He remembers how he liked to play with mice, letting them go only to catch them again; and in the fair face of Mairon, it is strangely easy to imagine the same rotten pleasure.
“Most overlook us,” Frodo says, not unkindly. “We are but small people; chasing simpler pleasures where so many desire for greatness.” He laughs again. “Did you know Bilbo had to be forced by Gandalf to go on his adventure? He did not want so, at first! He said no!”
Mairon pinches his lips. “Fret not,” he says. “It does Olorin good to see himself denied, sometimes.”
“Well, he changed his mind, and joined the Quest, then. I wished I had been there, to see it!”
“Have you not joined a Quest of yours, of far greater pursuit?”
Frodo smiles; and it was a sad one. “Nothing is great, I find, in seeking death and destruction.”
A smile grazed the lips of Mairon, and Frodo found a wistful edge to it.
“I knew of one that would have argued such words. Destruction is not an end, per se, Master Baggins. There is nothing sad or shameful in seeking it; for it is the cycle as well as the renewal, and how can you have one if the other is not brought? It is a step just as necessary as its next; and to repress it only strengthens its impact on the day of its arrival.”
“But if it is natural, then I would prefer to wait for it; rather than seeking to force it upon the world,” Frodo insists.
“No,” Mairon says. His lips twist in a grimace. “To desire to wait is to desire to suppress it, and never see it. It does no good to wait for the world to spin, when you have the ability to rotate it with the right speed. This is something Valinor refuses to hear. To have peace, you need conflict; and for destruction, you need creation.” His eyes dart to the cave-hall. Frodo’s gaze follows his. “To lock destruction,” Mairon continues and his fingers morph into talons. “To imprison it for ages, and refuse his passage, refuse his right to existence, right to rule, it is putting a blind veil on one’s eyes-“
Mairon stops then, and laughs, again; a high laugh that shakes him whole. Frodo takes a step back, and his heart tightens; for there is something in the elf’s face, something that Valinor had not been able to heal, and it scares him.
There is no illness in Valinor, no pain, and yet how to describe differently the ache and sorrow that seize the elf?
“Forgive me,” Mairon murmurs; and his talon-like fingers had gone back to normal. Frodo’s gaze goes to them, and he realizes, just then, that some of them are missing. It is the fear of rudeness that refrains him from gasping. “It is a… painful subject.”
Frodo swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I apologize for bringing it forward, then, if it pains you.”
“You are.. sorry?”
“I am,” Frodo says. “You do not deserve to suffer as you do.”
Mairon smiles, but there is no warmth in it. Frodo half expects fangs. “But what if I do, Master Baggins?”
“No,” Frodo declares, crossing his arms impetuously. “No one does. It does not matter of which acts, pain should never be the consequence. How to heal, and how to teach, if evil serves as the answer?”
Mairon looks at him. Frodo knows so, for he feels as if torn apart by the blind gaze, as if his very soul is exposed in front of him.
“You are wise beyond your years, Master Baggins,” Mairon says, quietly. “It is a pity you have been born a lesser rank than you deserve.”
Frodo shrugs. “I don’t think so. I have been made just as I am; and to be made differently would result in a different me, do you not think so? It is precisely because I am what I am that I am me.”
“Or perhaps you would have retailed your most admirable qualities, and been given the power to act on them.”
“Or perhaps they are mine because I lack this power,” Frodo smiles.
Mairon tilts again his head to the side. “Do you think the gift of greatness to change so deeply who you are?”
“I think that it does not me well to dwell on what could have been, and to aim my mind on what is, and what I presently am,” Frodo says. “Would it be bring nothing but regret to wish for a life that shall never come to pass? Iluvatar made me as he thought I should be, then who am I to doubt such wisdom?”
“Then you are forever dependent on what another thought of you,” Mairon snarls. “You shall never raise above your condition. Never break the chains that wrongfully imprison you; in the service of one that is undeserving. You shall never find a better one to serve, one that raises you above yourself and remakes you as you wish it yourself, one that sees you.”
“Life is what you make of it, regardless of who you are made. We were given but a shell to fill; and it is up to us to fill it as we see fit.”
Mairon shakes his head. “That, Master Baggins, we at least agree of. But it is the shell itself that I would wish to change for something else, and it is of unspeakable unfairness to not be the one to decide on its form.”
Frodo sighs. “Perhaps it is not fair,” he agrees. The elf sneers and says nothing, allowing Frodo to continue. “But it is how it is. The rock does not decide to be a rock, and yet, do they not serve a purpose? Does the worm wish to never see the light of day? And yet it is vital to our earth.”
Mairon takes a few steps forward the cave-hall; pressing a hand against its stone.
“Perhaps we shall never see the same; Frodo Baggins. Many have tried to impair their own judgement on mine eyes. But they are destined to follow one vision; one that had been gifted to me and that I shall never renounce, for mine love for it, for its giver, exceeds all.”
Frodo smiles, once more. There is fire in the words that are spoken to him, and he thinks of another, one that had consumed the weight he had carried for so long. “Is it a tragedy, Master Mairon? How dull would life be if we all thought the same.”
“And how dull life shall ever be if I stay alone in my vision,” Mairon murmurs. His eyes darts towards the stone, and he takes a step towards it; but meets an invisible wall. He frowns, but says nothing, as if expecting it, and sighs, before turning back towards Frodo. “If only that generosity of yours was shared by those who proclaim themselves jailers.”
“Jailers?”
“Ah- my apologies. I speak words that should stay within me.”
“Or perhaps speaking them is precisely what they require,” Frodo says, quietly. “I shall ever be here if you wish them to fall in another ear than yours.”
Something flashes in Mairon’s face, something sombre and yet that makes Frodo hope, something hesitant-
“Frodo Baggins!” a voice exclaims.
What has passed immediately disappears from Mairon’s face; and he stills; yet again a statue of fairness and marble. Frodo smiles, as he knows the voice; and knows, even more, the one that holds it-
“Olorin,” he greets, quietly. “I have met a friend.” Frodo ignores the slight surprise of Mairon at the word. He never says it slightly; and thinks it to be entirely true. One does not need to be in perfect accord with another to find themselves friends. And, Frodo thinks, it seems to be precisely what Mairon needs. “Do you know each other?”
Olorin grimaces. It is strange to see him as this, youth written where old age had been; but each of his expressions is so Gandalf that Frodo can not think of them as separate.
“Long ago, I thought I did, ” Olorin says, sombrely.
Mairon’s smile is all sharp edges. “And after that, you knew the truth of me for far longer.”
Olorin’s eyes flashes, but he keeps silent. Instead, he turns to Frodo. “You have wandered far away, Frodo. It is not a place for Hobbits.”
“Not many places are,” Frodo says, still smiling. “Yet we walk all the same.”
Olorin’s eyes are serious. “Not this time, Frodo. Come. Bilbo awaits you.”
Mairon keeps silent, but his head turns to gaze at Olorin. Olorin turns too to meet his blind gaze; and his lips purse before he speaks.
“You should not be here,” Olorin says. “
Mairon tilts his chin. “I am not supposed to,” he corrects, voice calm and cold. “but it is exactly where I should be.”
“You will not be able to free him. His bounds are made by the Valar themselves, and only them could choose to vanish them.”
“I am well aware. Rest assured, Olorin, I seek not for it. Master Baggins spoke to me of purpose: it is where I should do it best.” Mairon looks one more time at the stones. “I offer not freedom but presence.”
Olorin says nothing then. He tilts only his head, and presses his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. But Frodo hesitates- and, in a second, makes his decision.
He runs towards Mairon; and seizes his mutilated hand in his.
“I am truly sorry,” Frodo says. “I would have not destroyed it if I had been given another choice, but I could not let you harm our world. It is small, and it is imperfect, and it is flawed, but it is ours; and I wish to see more of its creation before its destruction.”
Mairon stills-
Frodo raises his eyes to meet his blind gaze. “Farewell then, Mairon. I shall address you as such, for it is a far too cruel act that to forever call one the Abhorred. I shall think of you as Admirable, in the hope that you again think so of yourself; and sees it as not a shame nor a weakness; but a noble pursuit.”
There is silence- and Mairon laughs. It is nothing like his previous laughs; it is quiet, and it is amused, and it is surprised.
“Farewell, Frodo Baggins,” he says, and his laugh lingers on his lips in a true smile. “Whose wisdom surpasses those who made all things.”
✹
It is far later, Gandalf and he are only a few meters away from the village, that Frodo asks the question that has been burning his lips.
“Gandalf-” his words are hesitant.
“Yes, Frodo?”
“What- I have been wondering… What lays behind the stone?”
A shadow falls on Olorin’s face. He lowers his gaze, as if to say to Frodo not to speak of it, but upon seeing the determination on his features, sighs.
“A terrible punishment,” he says. “Morgoth, who has been cursed to the void for all ages that are to come.”
Morgoth. Frodo repeats the name quietly.
He thinks of Mairon’s sorrow at the sight of the stone. He thinks of the shadows that had passed on his face, his fingers tracing the walls.
“Could he not be pardoned?” Frodo asks.
Olorin laughs. “Only you,” he says, and shakes his head. “I fear not, Frodo, for his evil deeds are far greater than the faith we might have in a change of him. Should he be freed, he would fall again in that endless pit that is his greed for chaos.”
“But perhaps not,” Frodo insists. “If we think of one to be unable to change; then how are we different?”
“There are exceptions.”
Frodo shakes his head. “We want to believe there are. Is Valinor not a place to heal? To heal all?”
Gandalf says nothing. And then, quietly.
“You truly have the most admirable wisdom.”
“No,” Frodo says, and he smiles. “But I have hope.”