II. Holy Saturday
Beloved friend, you were all wide eyes and wonder at my tales of
the outside world--the very image of fair, glowing Hobbit innocence.
Poor fellow! What the weakness of Isildur has put you through. What
put you through! You know now it could have been no other way.
Inordinate evil can only be foiled by inordinate, unsparing good.
I know. You cannot see this about yourself, not even with the
exultant madness, the praise, honor, gratitude and outright awe, of
Cormallen still vivid in memory. Having been crushed to within a breath
of annihilation you are wrung out, pure worn fiber hung on a thin line,
faded in the sun. Yet, my lad, your spirit endures. Yes, it does!
think you are too close to your own center to perceive it. Believe me
when I tell you that suffering has rarefied you. You are a singularity,
Master Baggins-- something rich and strange, pure as the adamant of
Nenya, foreign even to yourself.
Back to Eriador, back to the Shire...returning to your own.
fear they will see you far less clearly than you see yourself. Grown
too deep you have, my friend, too high, too clear for them now. As an
Elf, visible but unseen, you will be to them, a beautiful, tragic
incongruent in their narrow field of perception.
The worlds are in shift. My dear Frodo! you are the crux-point
of time, even as it falls away from you. Shire-born, the Shire will no
longer be yours. For you are no longer of the Shire--nor of any bent road.
When we steal through, Haven-bound, come away with us. Find the
sea of your dreams and the home you always knew existed. In that land
all will greet you with unclouded eyes, and you will know yourself at
long, long last.