Arrival in Rivendell

The call was urgent and I came with speed,
Taking from Glorfindel’s arms a small bundle,
Too light and frail.
A shock at the difference between now,
And the last time I saw him; a squeeze of pain
In my heart at fears realized.
The others are worn and anxious,
Aragorn's familiar face is tired, haunted with worry.
I can spare no time for them now -
They will be cared for well enough.

No man could know nor living memory tell
The sights that my old eyes have seen
As I've traveled so far and long and wide
Over mountains, dales, and under hills.
These little ones seem so frail and small
Though surprising in strength and tenacity for peace.
Like men they fade as swiftly as they grow.
Passing like a mist of new green in springtime,
They are there and then gone;
It is only their descendants I can find when I return.
It is good that my heart is strengthened
As it is.
I have needed strength to bear this ongoing
Loss and grief. The price that must be paid when
You choose to love someone,
Knowing they will have less time on this earth
Than you.
How can I hold away from caring for them?
A much beloved one lies before me now,
As I gently lay him down on the bed.

I remember when I first began to study his people
As a hobby, a curiosity,
A pastime for my few quiet days.
How could I have guessed that some of them
Would look up and meet my gaze.
The eyes of true friendship, that meeting
Of hearts and minds.
The Old Took, and dear Bilbo...
And now this one.
He is too still, too pale, too cold
As we tend him.
Utterly silent and far too
Transparent.
Evil is working its way toward his heart
Evil as old as myself, laying claim.
Are we too late?

Elrond and I outwardly remain calm,
Assured. Keeping the others from fear;
But I can see in his eyes he is afraid.
Grave and grim.
Frodo's spirit fades and my heart strives
Against that knowledge.
Not willing to accept it may soon be grieving
For a fate worse than death. Deep grief.
These small ones were never meant to
Bear such evil things.
Elrond sends the others out of the room,
Even faithful Sam.
His eyes meet mine over this small,
Still frame.
Our work begins.

A. Buckles / '03