Frodo's Dreme of Fimbrethil & Undómiel

- jan-u-wine

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A/N: It has been a sadness to me that there is no mention of a meeting between Frodo and Treebeard, even though they certainly would have met when the hobbits (and company) passed through Isengard on their journey Home. Just as certainly, Merry and Pippin would have told Frodo the tale of their adventure with the Ents, and of the Ents' longing for their lost wives.  Would Frodo not have been, at the very least, curious?  Would he not have given much thought to these seeming-strange creatures, who played such a large role in the downfall of Isengard?

In this poem, Frodo, having sailed Over-Sea, dremes of the lands he has left behind forever, fancifully envisioning what might have become of not only the Ent-wives, but of another being as ageless (and bereft of husband) as they: the Evenstar, Arwen. Might these two destinies have been intertwined?

Frodo's Dreme of Fimbrethil & Undómiel

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Upon the Tol:  Frodo

Sun-tumbled,
wind-breathed,
 
the autumn
 
remembrance
of home-fires

waits

along the fine-dusted

wide
track of the road.

So far have I
walked

without thought
(or perhaps

in thought too
deep),

that the sweet,
smooth

limbs
of familiar trees,

(my trees),
give way

to saplings,

their slim,

pearl
fingers
 
upthrust,
shimmering

like harp strings
beneath a bronz'd Sun.

Silent,

this young grove,
as if all of time

rests
here,

waiting upon
magik,

resting upon the
cloak

of dreme.


It would not be amiss,
I think,

to rest,

myself,
in this place,

within
this magik

circle,
where the grass
 
bends
 
and whispers
greenly,

where the Sun winks
and

hides

beneath
the wide white of clouds.


And so I do:

rest,

feeling
strangely


taken,
feeling

oddly
at peace.


Between the music
 
of slender tree-strings
and the friendly whisper-touch of a small wind,

I dreme.

I dreme of places I have known,
 
of people I have loved,
 
of times and beings
I may never
 
touch.
 
Here,
in this place,
 
parted
from what I called "Home",
 
I dreme upon those who are lost.
 
Cradled in the gentle shade of her
hand-maidens,
 
I dreme
upon
 
Her:
 
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
 
Cerin Amroth:  Fimbrethil

How should they know me now?

How might

they
have known me

at all?
 
Ever my thoughts
were different from theirs,
 
lighter,
like the bright
 
dance
of the Netted Stars.
 
But now.....
 
too long to count in years
the time I have stood here,
 
I, and my sisters,
voices  stilling
 
dropping

down
into silence
 
until
they sleep
 
(if sleep this could be named).
 
They sleep,

and I can no more
awaken them.
 
About me they stay,
their circling arms
 
bejeweled with leaves of green,
of gold,
 
(of sun-blooded red,  
even),
 
lifted in gentle greeting
(or tender farewell).
 
They do not feel
the solitary
 
step
 
that enters our silent grove.
 
This one.
 
Oh,
this one
 
we have known before.
 
We have known her before,
when there was a "we".
 
We have known her
when her woven step,
 
as light as the cool winds
that ride above the world,
 
was not alone. 
 
 
They were fair,
she and he,
 
fair
for those who must needs be

dressed
in flesh-skin.
 
She is alone now,
this fair one,
 
the moon-pearl of her all but hidden
beneath a curtain'd tangle of midnight hair.
 
Before,
the lilt of her voice,
 
like pour'd music,
touched us,
gilding the day with song.
 
Now
she speaks not,
 
only her hand touching those who sleep,
 
touching
and letting go
 
with a grief that I might feel
even through bark-skin.
 
She stays thus,
 
and the water that
those who are of flesh
 
call 'tears'
makes rain-tracks
upon her face.
 
I do not know what it might mean
when she stoops to the ground.
 

She lies upon the good earth,
the rich brown of it,
 
the cool embrace of it.
 
Her head,

weighted now
by mortal years,

sable
garlanded with white,

falls at last
upon my knee.

It may be long,
this length of......
 
time
in which she moves not.
 
It is less than a moment to me,
for I dreme upon the wind
 
and the water which touches
and tickles the roots of me,
 
until almost I should become as
my sisters
 
and wake no more.
 
When next I heed the song of
other-earth,
 
a coverlet of sweet grass
 
cradles
her gently,
 


fallen leaves

golden
against raven hair,

fragile
elanor growing about her feet.
 
We will stay here.
 
She and I,
and my sisters.
 
Forever divided from those we love,
from those who


came to understanding
too late,

from those who sleep
and dreme no more.


I
shall sleep now,

too,
and

dreme still.


I shall sleep

and dreme

and guard her
well.
 
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The Tol:  Frodo

How pleased the Eldest
should have been
 
by the
 
slow
thoroughness
 
of my waking,
 
the filtered prism
of autumn light
 
giving way
 
to engraven'd darkness,
Eärendil's solitary sail
 
holding its customary
watch,
 
gem'd prow
 
rising upon the sky-seas
of night.
 
Well do I remember
who Eärendil
 
might be,
 
well
do I remember
 
where
I have journeyed this day,
 
if only in dreme.
 
I cannot move for the wonder of it all.
 
I can not
move
 
for my sorrow.
 
And I feel the young trees about me:
 
how
they are a part of this earth,
 
a part of this
story,
 
a part
of
 
me.
 
Their breath
becomes
 
mine,
 
the long slow
breath
 
of beings
 
whose roots
know all,
 
touch
all,
 
are all.
 
And so it is
that here,
 
in this sundered place,
 
with the small greyness of
fog
 
curving about me,
and crystal water-jewels
 
dripping from tree-fingers,
 
here,
 
in my waking that is yet
a dreme,
 
here,
 
I say my farewells.
 
Undómiel.
 
Evenstar.
 
My lady.
 
 
Sleep well
within your mortal veil.
 
 
Fimbrethil.
 
Gentle queen
of
 
gentle
earth.
 
Let not your arms grow weary,
let not
 
your
thoughts fall
 
away.
 
Companion her in this great silence,
keep station
 
about the very
idea
 
of her.
 
Stay
until those lands
 
which were taken
in the Sea's anger
 
arise again.
 
Beyond that ending,
beyond
 
that beginning,
 
perhaps
even we
 
may yet meet.
 
Farewell.

Namarie.
 
Fare well. 
 
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