[Niphredil Baggins]

I would invite Frodo, and we would drink wine and miruvor (yes, I have some), and we would talk about the legends of the Silmarillion and the grace of Eru Iluvatar. And if I dared, I would ask him recite a poem.

I can almost see him, sitting on my bed (which is so high I had to lift him there), looking at me with his serious eyes, then looking around at my paintings on the walls, the computer that dominates a corner like an altar to some unknown god, the treasury of books, fingering the white jewel of Arwen nervously amid all this strangeness. I can see him relax as I pour more wine, not too much, mind you. He begins to speak, not about adventures, but about things at the borders of them, mountains and forests, the Shire, the sea...
And now he smiles at me, and says:
'I've seen it, you know, I've seen the bay of Eldamar and fair Aman beyond it. I've seen Elvenhome from afar. What more could I ask?'
And I sit down beside him, and hear myself say:
'I wish I could only see it in a dream.'

And now he whispers to me:
'Maybe you will. You just dreamed me Namarié!'

And now he is gone, and I sit here and stop writing.