The Last Dance

Hobbiton, Summer, 1489 SR

Her eyes, blurred though they were, could still catch the sight of the bride gazing with shy adoration and vulnerable tenderness at the beaming handsome face of Elfstan Fairbairn. I know how you feel, child she whispered in her heart for once I have looked upon beauty myself, and I have loved. I still do.

She sat in the cushioned wicker chair under the shade of the mallorn tree, watching the lovely couple dance in each other's arms. They were smiling. Elfstan whispered something in young Rosemary's ear and she blushed.

Oh, lass, I know it too: the thrill of hearing the voice of one who loves us. He will say your name, child, and you will treasure the sound of his voice calling you-remembering it the way you would a song-and one day, someday, you will hear it in the crowd and you will turn, thinking it is him, only to find that it is nothing but the ruthless game your memory plays on you.

Elfstan let go of his bride and went to the low wooden stage where the musicians greeted him with laughter and applause. After a short, whispered discussion, they started another tune, a slower, gentler one, and as Rosemary stared with unabashed love, Elfstan sang an old, sweet love song.

He sang for me too, child, long ago. He laughed with me and he wept in my arms and we talked idle talks as though the world would forever be the smell of honeysuckle outside my window and the long, slow caress of his lips against mine. How easy, how simple everything was before that day when his destiny summoned him and he obeyed.

Elfstan jumped down from the stage at the end of the song, to the thunderous clapping of all the hobbits in the Party Field. Fastred and Elanor came over to dance with the bride and groom. Elanor was still The Fair for all that she was nearly seventy. Her golden hair still gleamed in the light of the candles and her face could still put many of the younger lasses to shame, and her feet were nimble as she let Elfstan lead her across the dance ring.

It was the night of the Fair, a full-moon night, and the dance ring was a complicated pattern of young lasses in new ribbons and colorful summer dresses, and the lads with their sleeves rolled up and their waistcoats unbuttoned. The music was endless, as was the laughter and the shouts, as the pattern shifted and changed, and couples let go of each other and flung themselves into another partner's arms. I saw him dance with the pretty dark-haired Bolger, and with the sweet Brownlock lass with dimples on her cheeks. My heart fluttered in jealous anxiety with each smile he gave them, with each graceful bow he did before his next partner. Then the music signaled another switch and I found him standing next to me, and when he gazed at me, and his eyes smiled that secret language only the two of us spoke, I was the only lass on the dance ring. I was his last dance. We both left the ring at the end of the music.

Oh,lass, I've tasted all, from the sweetest dreams and promises, to the bitterest moment when no music was playing and there was only pain and anger and despair. You might think my life was as empty as my little smial, as cold as the touch of my gnarled fingers, as tired as my bent back. But once, my dear, I have loved. I have touched beauty and it has made me beautiful. Once, there was passion in my life, and it felt like being born again, that surge of life that pulsed in my veins when I so much as thought of him. Then there was the fear and terror when he left. Then came the heartache, and grief, when I knew he would never, ever return. With him sailed what was young, innocent and hopeful in my heart. Ever since, love has always meant sacrifice, one I gladly made and never once regretted.

Only sometimes, the memories are so sharp, and the longing hurts more. I wish you, child, a fate kinder than mine.

"Mother Lily," called Goldilock softly. "Leaving so soon? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, don't worry, dear. I'm fine." The old hobbit rose with difficulty from the wicker chair. "It's time my old bones get back to the comfort of my room. Besides, I'm tired of telling all these eager lads that I have neither legs nor head for all this swirling new dance." She gave Goldilock a smile and a wink as she wrapped her shawl closer around her frail frame.

"Wait here a moment, Mother Lily," said Goldilock, already turning toward the tent that housed the kitchen. "I'll have Cook fill a basket for you to take home and I'll get Faramir to walk you to your smial."

"Thank you, love," murmured the old hobbit as she watched the Thain's wife hurrying away.

She stood there, leaning on her cane and trembling, gazing at the blur of party dresses and fancy waistcoats on the dance ring. The music was fast and merry and many voices joined in the song while hands clapped to the rhythm. A hum of conversation, sprinkled with the tinkle of silver on plates, drifted in the sultry air.

Lily.

She gasped and blinked several times, searching desperately in the milling crowd in front of her. That voice...

Lily. Still gentle, though more insistent.

His voice... But that's... Impossible.

Lily, come with me. Come with me, dearest.

She turned and took a few steps toward the edge of the field.

I'm here, my love. Come with me now.

Convinced, yet doubtful; hopeful, yet afraid, she hobbled painfully away from the party.

Frodo?

Yes, dearest. I'm here.

Frodo...

I'm here. Come, come with me.

Past the low hedge that bordered the dirt road, up the gentle grassy slope behind a palisade of oak and linden, she staggered on. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders and fluttered in the evening breeze before resting on the cool grass. Her breath began to come in harsh gasps but still she climbed the hillock, until finally she came to a small clearing in the middle of a jagged circle of trees. And he was there, waiting for her.

She could not take another step. She stared, unblinking, at the figure standing under the moonlight in the center of the clearing.

She had always thought of him as beautiful, but it seemed such a paltry word now to describe the luminous being that stood before her, smiling, with his arms open to welcome her. He appeared so much like the hobbit she fell in love with a lifetime ago, but there was another side to him that she never saw before, a touch of wisdom in his eyes, a look of joy and peace on his face. An ageless face, she noticed, unlined by care, so young, almost childlike, but for the knowledge in those eyes that spoke to her in the language she had not forgotten. Love, devotion, desire.

She tucked a stray curl of silver behind her ear and was suddenly reminded of the stiffness of her fingers and the wooden cane that still tremblingly bore her weight. She remembered the face that gazed back at her from the mirror and all the signatures left by the long years that had passed since last he saw her.

Lily. He smiled.

She choked back tears.

I am not your Lily. I have changed. I am old, I am nothing but a dried husk now.

You are beautiful, Lily. You always are.

He closed the distance between them in a few strides and he held her, he held her close.

Her cane fell to the grass when she let it go so she could touch him, feel him and silence the last flickering trace of doubt in her heart. She could feel his warmth even through her layers of clothing. His scent reminded her of a spring morning. She reached and ran her trembling fingers on his face; through his thick, shiny curls; down to the back of his neck, and yes, there was still that scar there, but there was no darkness in his eyes when her hand swept over it; into the fine, light fabric of his shirt and across the warmth of his chest toward his shoulder, and yes, there was still that raised mark there, but it was not cold, and he did not twitch in pain as her fingers rested there. She reached down and took his right hand from her waist and brought it up, staring at it, rubbing her thumb on the scar that was left where his ring finger was.

He shook his head softly to answer the question she could not make herself voice. No, they don't hurt me anymore, but they will remain. This, he put his slim, wiry hand on the fingers she laid on his shoulder, and this, and gripped her left hand with his right, stay with me because they are part of who I am, part of my past deeds and future choices. As you are, my dear.

She closed her eyes when he cupped her face in his hand, and with his touch all the legacy of time melted away from her, all the pains of a hard life and old age disappeared. His fingers caressed heavy, auburn tresses and in his embrace she was once again the youthful and lithe lass with sparkling eyes and rosy blush on her cheeks.

"I've missed you," she sobbed, finally burying her face on his shoulder, "I've missed you."

"I've waited for now," he murmured into her hair. "I've waited for you."

"Don't leave me again," she whispered. "I can't bear it."

He said nothing, but his lips touched hers, I'm yours, and she knew that for them, the longing had come at last to an end. There would be no more farewells forever forever forever.

Frodo. To hear, to speak that name again, to be near him, to know that they had found a safe harbor where they could rest and leave the darkness of the past behind them; she never thought any of it could happen. My Frodo-love.

My Lily. My love.

She hears a faint music, soft, yet beautiful. Even in the meadows when the wild flowers are blooming she never smells such fragrance. Is it morning already? She feels warm and a bright light seems to be surrounding her. She laughs, she is so happy. They are dancing now, she and Frodo, and in her mind all the steps are flying them higher, higher, until finally she knows that the music is a song of the stars, and the heaven is their dance ring.

They buried her the next morning beside the grass-covered grave of her father. Her name they engraved on the headstone, a solitary inscription; there was no name of a husband, no children's names. Even there, on the cold stone soon to be mottled and faded by moss and Sun and rain, she was alone. Hobbitwives she had helped on many birthings came and laid flowers on the damp, red earth, chattering in a hushed tone about how serene she had looked when they found her in the clearing.

Before noon the little graveyard was deserted once more. From an unkempt, weed-infested corner wafted a faint scent of honeysuckle, floating in the breeze that rustled through the leaves of a tall chestnut tree that loomed over the wilting petals strewn on the grave of Lily Proudfoot.

fin