Musings in Imladris

Exhausted to the last sinew , you lie staring at the richly carved wooden beam in your room at Rivendell. The arm feels right with life again.

There were dark days....old willow trees , lying naked among cold treasures at the feet of forgotten wights....knives in the dark....and Horses....especially horses.....the last memories are of horses.

The Valley of Imladris knows no darkness and in the heart of the Last Homely House , one may find rest and healing.

.....but already the scouts have departed , and eventually they will return.....alas it seems that it might be well into December before they do.

"Its all your fault , Frodo , my lad. For waiting till my birthday to set out. Funny sort of way of honouring it , not the day I'd have chosen to let the SB's into Bag End."

At times you wonder at Frodo , in the council....but Hobbits have the habit of surprising the wisest , not to mention themselves.

"Bill, you fool, " said Sam "You coul have stayed here and 'et the best hay till the new grass comes up."

.....On that last day , Bilbo gives Frodo the Mithril Shirt and the elven-blade 'Sting'.....and in front of the December fire , breaks into a slow chant....

The road goes ever on and on,

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the road has gone,

And I must follow if I can.

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way.

Where many paths and errands meet,

And wither then , I cannot say.