In His Element
by Mrs. Frodo
Dancing along the shoreline to the music of the waves, he turns an
occasional cartwheel just for the thrill of spinning. A planned tumble,
and he is nestled on the warm sand, breathing hard and deep. The salt
air is as satisfying as wine. He fills up his lungs with it, then
bursts into ecstatic song. His clear, nimble voice blends with the
sea-sounds, the crying of gulls and the calm, rhythmic tumbling of the
No ship is looked for today, so he is by himself. But, in time, the ship will certainly come.
Flopping onto his belly, he traces in the sand a poem he has thought up
for Estë. One day soon he will write it out in his lovely, flowing
script. He has the freedom of these lands; he will deliver the poem
himself, eyes averted but shining.
Since his arrival he has learned every nuanced shade of all the tongues
spoken here. He can converse with anyone––even Them!––without feeling
awkward. Someday the one he awaits will be able to do the same, if he’d
like.... The thought prompts a wide grin. He knows better. His dearest
friend will take one look at the gardens, the unknown flowers and
fruits and herbs and towering trees, and there will go whatever time he
might have spent learning Quenya.
...Rising to brush himself off, he sees a little starfish on the sand.
The tide will soon gather it up, but empathy gets the better of him. He
would rather see an animal in its element. In his small, gentle hands
it gleams coral-pink as the ship of Arien gliding into port on a bank
of iridescent clouds. Speaking softly to it he wades waist-deep into
the foam. There is no danger here, no threat of riptides: as does every
other element of these blessed shores, the ocean knows and loves him.
The starfish clings for a moment to his skin. He strokes it, blesses
it, opens his hand wide. It lets go, cartwheeling home through the
long-healed gap in his fingers.