The Cliff Walk

Bag End West
Site Navigation

This story was inspired by a skillfully and sorrowfully woven tale that another haremite wrote and an evening walk along the shores of Rhode Island.*

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written solely love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and situations used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises. The author receives no money or other remuneration for presenting this work but the pleasure of enjoying the Professor's creations. This work is the intellectual property of the author and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Night has fallen on Bag End West. Beneath the shade of the forest behind the gracious hobbit hole the woods glitter with the light of fireflies, like a blanket of living stars that has settled to earth. The fields about the quiet home are alive with the soft night sounds of summer, of crickets, of owls hooting in the far distance. On nights like this, the ladies gather together and, in unspoken assent, make their way calmly to the sea.

It has been many long years since their lord left them and though they never plan it, somehow, they know when the moon is full and the night is full of magic, it is time to assemble by the water. They don’t speak as they walk, but take silent comfort in each other. There are only a handful of them now to make this walk. Many have journeyed on, to meet their lord joyfully in some other realm, the others hope, but for those who remain, this ritual is the closest link they have to him whom they most love.

They make their way down the ragged cliff. The trail is well worn from the tread of many hobbit feet. The ladies walk unerringly, for it is a path they know well, and at the bottom of the cliff, in the cool sands of evening, they walk to the edge of the sea. Grey and silver clouds dance across the sky, lit from behind by the hidden moon. The ladies settle onto the sand and wait. They know if they sit and gaze far out to the horizon, they will soon feel his presence comforting them.

A lovely dark haired maiden lifts her small voice in quiet song. It is difficult to hear over the surf that pads ceaselessly on this shore, but the others know the words well and the tune runs unerringly through their hearts. It is a lament for him who is no longer with them. A slender, golden-eyed maiden weeps silently, but none who sit on this shore are unmoved. The singing lass chokes back a sob on the final verse and has to pause before she can continue. A beautiful flaxen haired lady sitting beside her comforts her with a loving touch and nods. The song is a treasured gift.

They sit then in silence, each seeing him in their minds as they best remembered him. Dark curls lit by summer sun, blue eyes that rivaled the clearest autumn sky, soft, curving lips strong enough to elicit the heights of passion and tender enough for the most delicate of butterfly kisses. Each lady has her own memories but together and in this place, they come back strong and clear.

Long into the night they sit, rapt in remembrance. The moon breaks free from her grey veil and casts glittering jewels of light across the water. The wind blows softly into the ladies’ lovely faces bringing the scent of far off lands across the sea…. And he is there.

He is with them on that dark shore. No words are spoken but they can all feel his presence. His warmth is like a comforting blanket enfolding them. They can feel his love. Each lady’s heart is touched and blessed and the sorrow that has lived in them since the day he left is lifted for a moment. For this brief whisper of his spirit, they have always come to the sea and will continue to till none who have loved him without measure are left on these shores. It is his gift and their treasure, till they are at last reunited with their beloved lord.

The End