Bilbo Baggins closed his eyes, and a contented sigh escaped his lips. To tell the truth, his hands were quite numb and his knees stiff; but it was a pleasant sort of weariness. After a square meal and a hot bath for once, the prospect of adventures did not seem nearly as frightening as before. Gandalf was a thorough fellow, after all, and clearly no fool: indeed, he found the Valley he had been looking for. And that full of Elves, songs and merriment!
Had Bilbo been just a little less tired, he would have gotten to his feet at once to join their feast. A celebration of summer was going on in the Valley, or so it seemed; for the wind carried singing and laughter over some noisily flowing stream. Other times, Bilbo heard the weeping song of a lyre, a harp, a flute, and other instruments he could not name: these were coming from somewhere below him; maybe from another wing of the building for all he knew. The Last Homely House was huge.
The hobbit nestled amongst his blankets, trying to silence his thoughts. His head was still full of Elves – they were an enigma to him. Countless lays and stories had he heard of them, and in most of these, Elves were renowned warriors: graceful, proud, dangerous. Other tales referred to them as mariners, and yet others as masters of lore; the rest of them praised their talent for music. Which of these stories was true, Bilbo knew not. Perhaps none. Perhaps all.
When Thorin and his company came to Rivendell, the Elves had greeted them with a song, that much was true. It was a merry tune, light and witty, playful and wondrously clear. Fair nonsense, or so the Dwarves muttered under their breaths. Yet Bilbo realized that the Elves were more or less familiar with their secret Quest. For no other reason could they have mentioned key-holes or the names of Balin and Dwalin! The realisation was no less frightful than thrilling.
And then, of course, there were the Elves themselves. According to Bilbo's wisdom so far, there were Elves like this and Elves like that; and they were very different indeed.
The young fellow (or so he seemed: who could be sure?) who first addressed them called himself Lindír; in his eyes gleamed a cheerful light and his voice rang clear as the stream they had crossed. Bilbo deemed he would make a great bard. Then there were those other Elves he had seen on the road to Elrond's House: some of them similar to Lindír in height and stature, some taller, some slightly shorter; and there was also a pair of dark-haired fellows who had just come home from a long, tiring journey as it seemed; they spoke not, standing silently in the shadows.
Next in line was Lord Elrond Half-Elven himself. If Bilbo looked profusely, he could tell there was human blood in him: his jawline was slightly broader than Lindír's, and his hands were less slender, though Bilbo could not be sure if he was only imagining it. Elrond had stormy grey eyes, alight with a strange fire, and the hobbit found it very difficult to endure their gaze.
And then, there was Erestor, Chief Advisor in the House of Elrond: another tall, dark-haired fellow, with eyes gleaming grey: almost the same color as Elrond's, but still terribly different.
"I have a question for you," he told Elrond when Bilbo first met him, "but it can wait."
Then Bilbo blinked, and Erestor was gone. Elrond invited them for dinner, and Bilbo knew with mournful certainty that he would never know what the Advisor was going to ask.
Elves, he thought in awe, staring at the canopy above his bed. They were a wonder. He would never get enough of them. If only he could sneak down to join their feast!
But Bilbo felt tired, and he did not know the way, nor did he want to be a burden to anyone who should guide him. He convinced himself that any Elf-includedactivity could wait until the morrow, perhaps breakfast.
With a peaceful sigh, Bilbo closed his eyes, finally ready to sleep; and that was the moment when he heard a loud thump outside his window.
The thump was followed by a clang, than a boom, than several hushed words, uttered very quickly, in one of those peculiar Elven tongues; and Bilbo listened in awe. They must have been swearwords!
Eager to hear more, the Hobbit's tiredness was instantly forgotten. He sat up in the bed, eyes transfixed on the window. The curtains were only half-shut, and Bilbo could see a dark figure outside the glass, who was dragging another, much larger dark figure with him. The sounds of their debate were getting heated, and Bilbo wished most fervently that he could understand them, or even discern the words.
"Rhaich, Estel!"the taller figure finally said: in fact, the frequency of the word 'rhaich' had been steadily increasing in his speech for the last minute or so. "Erestor..."
Bilbo was listening in awe. Could there actually be Chief Advisor Erestor lingering outside his window?
The answer to that name came in a flow of words merged into one another, followed by a soft plea, "An ngell nîn, Tirmo! An ngell nîn..."
The next moment, Bilbo saw a pair of bright eyes staring at him through the window. They were not the eyes of Erestor, nor those of Elrond; this was yet another shade of grey. Not letting this last chance pass by, the hobbit sprang to his feet and opened the window with a sharp pull.
"Wait!" he all but shouted. "Do not go, merry Elves! I am a guest here, and I would welcome some company."
The mysterious intruder gazed questioningly upwards, as if asking for permission to answer.
"Who are you?" came a sharp voice from above. Whoever it was, he spoke the Common Tongue; but a heavy accent sweetened his speech, outlandish and exotic to Bilbo's ears.
"I am Bilbo Baggins, a Halfling from the Shire," he said. "At your service, lad, though I cannot see you. What kind of Elf lingers in the shadows?"
"One too bright to behold, Master Baggins," the Elf laughed. He let go of whatever he had been clutching before, to land lightly on the window-sill right next to his companion.
Well, bright he was, but not in any way Bilbo had anticipated. If he had thought Erestor's hair was dark, then this hair was a definition of darkness. Uncombed and unbraided it flew, a gaping hole against the dead of night. This Elf looked as if he had been carved out of marble, with eyes wrought of emerald. And he was much younger than the others, Bilbo realised. He could see it in his eyes.
His companion, previously called Estel, seemed no less of a mystery. He was also young – still a child, in fact –, but he showed a promise of grace and strength. His face was fair and noble, framed by sikly dark hair, and in his eyes shone a gentle light. And though enough to be one, he was not an elfling. No: this child was a mortal Man.
"A pleasure, Master Baggins," said he, bowing his head as politely as his stretched-out position let him. "My name is Estel, and I live here, in the Valley. He is Elentirmo, my friend."
"I am also his protector," said Elentirmo, poking his finger towards Bilbo with feigned threat. "Careful you be, Master Baggins!"
"At your and your family's service, young lords!" said Bilbo in wonder. "Now this is a most wonderful meeting! I truly wished I had someone to talk to."
"We were heading to the summer feast," said Estel happily. " Will you come with us?"
"We were not heading anywhere!" Elentirmo snapped. "You dragged me out of my bed. I wish to sleep, Estel, and the celebration shall be going on for two weeks straight. We have plenty of time – besides, Erestor has warned you not to..."
"Oh please, Tirmo!" Estel begged. "Please! Today is the first day, and that is always the best."
"Full of wine and drowsy heads," said Elentirmo, although his voice did not betray any aversion against either. "What would your Nana say?"
"Nana does not have to know we were there!" Estel grinned mischievously. "Please! I want no more than a glimpse. I want to hear Lindír's new song. And what if Glorfindel will also sing – and we miss it?"
Glorfindel.
That name poked something in the depth of Bilbo's memories. But no... that cannot be!
"Please, Tirmo!" The torment was going on. "Master Baggins would also like to go. It is most impolite to deny the wish of an honoured guest: or have you forgotten what Erestor taught us about courtesy?"
"If he sees us," said Elentirmo, "he is going to skin you alive. Worse, he is going to skin me alive."
"If you hide me, not even the Valar could find me! I know you can outwit everyone, Tirmo! Please?"
Apparently, Elentirmo could be moved by blandishment. He let out a heavy sigh, then shrugged helplessly.
"Someday, you are going to be the death of me."
"Shall we?" said Bilbo hopefully, and he gestured towards the door.
"Absolutely not!" Elentirmo laughed. "We cannot drag young Estel along the corridor with everyone to see while he should be sleeping soundly in his room. Our parting must be discreet. Do you perchance have a rope?"
~ § ~
Bilbo was glad to have Estel and Elentirmo as guides. The forest in the Valley was deep and mysterious, and there were hidden delves in the ground: sometimes wide, sometimes narrow with deep sides, and they seemed to spring out of nowhere in front of their feet. Once or twice, they came upon whole new depths of the valley, opening unexpectedly before them; and Bilbo was astonished to see trees below him still, sometimes even a merry stream at the bottom. He saw moss-covered rocks, shimmering stones, and myriads of small waterfalls draped in starlight. There were also bogs at the bottom of the Valley, and small meadows with flowers growing bright and tall. Higher in the hills stood a pine forest, and Bilbo could sometimes feel its scent lingering in the air. The Valley, he thought, was in some ways like the Elves themselves: fair, merry and kind, but also dangerous for those who were not accustomed to its beauty.
The, they finally chanced upon a group of celebrating Elves, and Bilbo could hear a flute and a harp, then also a lyre.
"What sort of celebration is this?" he asked Elentirmo. "Midsummer's Day is not yet here."
"It shall come within two weeks," the Elf said. "And thus we wait for its arrival: we sing, we dance, we laugh and we drink; and we tell many stories. My people love summer, and they take great delight in celebrating its coming. Do you Halflings not do the same?"
"Oh, we do," said Bilbo. "Eating, drinking, singing, laughing and story-telling… why, we barely do anything else in all our lives!"
"Now that sounds like a proper life," Elentirmo laughed, and little Estel laughed with him. By this time, Bilbo had already noticed that he was often mimicking his friend's moves and gestures.
"A merry little fellow," Elentirmo said at length, when Estel lingered behind to explore a delve in the side of a rock. "I wish he would stay a child for some more centuries so I could finally get enough of him."
In his voice was a strange melancholy, and his eyes were distant; and the question escaped Bilbo's lips before he could think better of it.
"How comes he lives with your people?"
"He is one of the Dunedain, a mighty folk," said Elentirmo, his voice suddenly low. "His father was killed by Orcs, and his mother sought refuge in the Valley. Lord Elrond agreed to take him in, as he had done with me. Estel was smaller, though, and could not yet talk. He remembers nothing outside Imladris. You cannot imagine his dismay the day he found out he was not an elfling!" Elentirmo chuckled softly. "It was the ears that finally betrayed him."
Bilbo could not help but laughed with him. "And you?" He asked. "Were you also..."
"Orphaned? Yes, though I do not remember much of it, either. To me, it was long ago, yet an older Elf would maybe tell you it happened only yesterday." Elentirmo smiled ruefully. "I do not remember my mother, but my father was fair and kind and silver-haired, and he had a deep voice. He was nothing like me!" To Bilbo's astonishment, he laughed. "His name was Anardil, and he was a mariner."
"I am... uh, sorry if I awoke bad memories," Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly.
"You did nothing you have to be sorry for," said Elentirmo. "Memories are a burden every Elda should bear. I am young, therefore the weight is still light and my fëa flies free."
"What is a fëa?" Bilbo wanted to know.
"That – uh, that is something you call soul, if I remember well. But as mortals put it, the soul is only part of a being, the part that lives on; while we Elves believe that the fëa is the entirety of our existence, and our hröa – or body, in your tongue –, is merely giving it a form to behold."
"That is not entirely correct," said Bilbo. "I would say the soul is the very essence of our being. Not all of it, but definitely not only a part."
"That sounds much more accurate," said Elentirmo with enthusiasm. "I wonder if there is some kind of literature on this matter. We could read it together and then discuss it – of course, only if you are interested, that is."
"Do you also like reading?" Bilbo's face lit up. "Does this place have a library?"
"You ask me if Imladris has a library!" Elentirmo laughed. "Well, quite a bit of it, Master Baggins!"
"Can you show me around?" Bilbo pleaded. "Tomorrow, maybe?"
"Tomorrow it is!" the Elf winked at him. "And now, let us fetch little Estel, and swiftly. You blink once, and there he is, wreaking havoc at the other side of the Valley."
~ § ~
The reason for Estel's sudden disappearance turned out to be some jewel ha had found in the bank of a merrily chatting stream (Bilbo wondered if it had fell from one of his companions' pocket). Found or not, the jewel was only enough to occupy the little boy's mind for some ten minutes; then, Bilbo was rather surprised to see Estel join his and Elentirmo's conversation about history. They both seemed remarkably well-educated: they could both name the High Kings of the Noldor and knew dates of events Bilbo had never even heard of. Estel could recite a wondrous amount of poetry and Elentirmo deeply astonished the hobbit with his insight in architecture and warfare. How could they have already earned such an amount of knowledge?
When Bilbo asked, bewildered, it was Estel who answered.
"Master Erestor teaches us," he said fondly. "When he has time, that is. And of course, there is Lindír, and Elladan and Elrohir; and Glorfindel; and Mornedhel, for Tirmo…"
"Do not speak of Mornedhel," said Elentirmo quietly.
"Lindír?" Bilbo's eyes widened in awe. "That merry young fellow who sang us of birds and beards and ponies and other nonsense while we struggled to find our path?"
"Young?" Estel looked at him as though he had suddenly grown a second head. "But Lindír is old, Master Baggins!Even older than Tirmo!"
"Older than me, aye, ancient wreck that I am!" Elentirmo grinned. "We are not always so young as we might seem, Master Baggins. But Lindír has a merry soul; the song you speak of must have been made up at the moment. He oft amuses himself with jests of this kind. He taught me to play the harp, and Estel the flute, so we could make music together."
"And Tirmo even learns to fight!" said Estel enthusiastically. "Elladan told me I could join him in a year. And then, I will master the sword and we can both become heroes."
"Elladan and Elrohir are Lord Elrond's sons," Elentirmo explained. "I hope you will meet them, though I believe you might never be able to tell them apart."
So they talked as they came upon one of the many celebrations of the Valley; and no one heeded them as they seated themselves, draped in the shadows of the night, watching, listening. Later, Elentirmo indeed fetched them wine – he even allowed Estel to take a sip –, and the taste was sweet and rich; but even that seemed of little importance to Bilbo. His mind was filled of the presence of Elves, and he could have wept.
The Elves barely touched their food or drinks, and to Bilbo it seemed that they were nourished by their lays and music itself, and their anticipation of summer. He could not remember when did his eyes fall shut; but morning found both him and Estel sleeping soundly, as they leant on a slightly grumpy and still half-drunk Elentirmo.
If Elves could get drunk on anything else than music, that is.
But who knows? Young Elentirmo was yet another kind of Elf Bilbo Baggins had never met before.
~ § ~ § ~ § ~
The Last Homely House – as Bilbo Baggins very soon found out –, had a library indeed, and that of an immensity he had never seen before. Rooms and rooms. Shelves and shelves and shelves. Large, cosy armchairs next to fireplaces… and not a soul to be seen: at least, not at the late hour when Elentirmo first dragged him inside. This time, Estel was not with them; and Elentirmo would not tell the hobbit where he dwelt.
Half of Elrond's household was gathered in the Hall of Fire, the other half lingered still at the dinner table. A thunderstorm had crashed upon the Valley, and a heavy curtain of rain slammed against the rocks and walls and windows; and thus, the feast and merriment went on under the shelter of Elrond's roof.
The kingly houses of the Noldor had sparked Bilbo's interest that night: a topic Elentirmo happened to know much about. Every now and then, the Elf found it difficult to find a word in Westron and he tried to paraphrase it and Bilbo, in return, was eager to learn the Elvish counterparts of such mazy words as genealogy, Black Foe and High King.
(Elentirmo insisted that the rulers of the Noldorin Elves were not to be called simply kings; and Bilbo, for his part, insisted that they could not be called Tall Kings, either; then, Elentirmo got furious at the realisation of having confounded 'tall' and 'high' for over a millenia).
Later still, Elentirmo showed Bilbo a book full of ancient family trees, written in Westron; and the hobbit studied it with deep interest. The unknown scribe even cared to write the meanings of names next to them, as well as their approximate pronunciation (that Elentirmo often corrected with a frown).
For the next hour they nestled close to the fireplace, reading peacefully. Bilbo was still lost in family trees and spellings, while Elentirmo held a huge, ancient-looking book in his lap; its pages were filled of tiny-sized Elvish runes – which Bilbo could now call tengwar – and even tinier footnotes. At some point of their silent companionship, Elentirmo turned a page and marked it.
"What is that you are reading?" Bilbo wanted to know.
"This? Oh, nothing. An early annal of Lindon. Much more particular is the fact that it was written in the Old Tongue... The author is way too fond of the gardens, though; you see a renewed description of her roses in every ten pages or so."
"Are you fond of roses, too?"
"Not particularly."
"Then why?" Bilbo persisted. "Why would you read such a thing?"
"Because the fortress of King Ereinion Gil-Galad was still being built when this annal was written; and apparently, the author liked architecture just as much as she liked roses. Everything is written out in detail: every column, every rooftop. If I ever get to build a city in my life, I will use this account to plan my work. The process is very thoroughly recorded, despite some... inconveniences."
"Such as the roses," Bilbo nodded.
"That, and the gardens, and some mariner lover she is missing. Do not ever fall in love, Master Baggins! It appears to be a terrible torment."
"This might be the most interesting annal ever written," said Bilbo, amused.
"I doubt it was meant to be by any means official," Elentirmo shrugged. "It might be the un-official version of a real annal, or an extended copy."
"Where did you learn the Old Tongue?" Bilbo asked him.
Elentirmo eyed him blankly. "I do not remember."
"How comes that?" Bilbo started at him in awe. "Is it your mother tongue? But..."
"I never knew my mother," Elentirmo reminded him.
"So you told me – but…"
"How could it be my mother's tongue, then?"
"I did not say that, I said it was your mother tongue... ah!" Bilbo recognised the possible flaw in comprehension. "The tongue your family talked you in when you were still a nurseling, that is."
"Oh!" Elentirmo's eyes widened. "I do not know. Maybe. But it would not make a lot of sense; Quenya is no longer used among my people."
"If you truly cannot remember where you learnt it..."
"That is not entirely true," Elentirmo admitted. "I have learnt a lot from Master Erestor... or by myself, like this. By reading. But I never had to think about how I might put words together. The words I have learned; the tongue I have not. It came to me by itself, as if it had always been there."
"A mother tongue that is," Bilbo decided. "You are lucky to master so many languages!"
"To master a language – is such a thing possible, Master Baggins? Speaking – and writing –, is an art. It is delicate, like painting, or sculpture, or music..."
"To speak three languages, then. As you wish," Bilbo sighed. "You truly never made an effort to learn it? The Old Tongue – so they say – is the very definition of complicacy."
Elentirmo shook his head.
"The words I had to learn," he said again. "The tongue... no, no, never. I always wanted to understand it, for somehow, some way it belonged to me, or at least I wished it would. Master Erestor taught me a few sentences, mostly those of courtesy. I learned a few songs and poems... But it was never asked from me to learn Quenya to the extent of speaking it fluently or reading entire books in it. You, Master Baggins, are the first soul in this Valley who saw me do it; and I demand that you keep this discovery in secret."
Bilbo watched the Elf intently. There was some hidden power – or the shadow of it – in his eyes that made his gaze intent and piercing.
"Do you think that pulling a veil of mystery around yourself will make you dreadful?" He asked before he could think better of it.
"For some, it might," Elentirmo said. "For others, it might not. Such a thing is no intention of mine."
"Are you trying to appear older, then?"
Elentirmo stared at him in awe.
"Honestly, I have no idea!" he said. "You would make a great tactician, Master Baggins, if only you were a little bit taller. You have the insight."
"A tactician!" Bilbo had to laugh, and laugh from his heart. "Why, that does sound better than a burglar, after all."
"A burglar?" Elentirmo closed the book with a soft thump."What are you talking about?"
"A secret for a secret," said Bilbo in a low voice. "I will not tell anyone about your delvings in Quenya, if that is your wish. But in return, I ask you not to reveal my secret, either!"
"The deal is done," Elentirmo nodded.
"Very well," Bilbo smiled ruefully. "Now, my lad... if you thought that the Dwarves were merely taking me on a summer trip, you were deeply mistaken. I was chosen by Gandalf as the fourteenth member of their Company. As a burglar."
"It sounds... exciting," Elentirmo admitted. "Yet I do not know this word. What is a burglar, Master Baggins?"
"A burglar, well, that is..." Bilbo swallowed. The situation was getting uncomfortable for him. "A burglar is someone who slides into your room in the dead of night and takes all your treasure and gold, unseen, unheard. Not uncommonly, paid by your enemies… a professional burglar, that is. Many of them are mere thieves, though, who steal from warehouses and slit the throats of stable boys, if they have to; they are murderers and outlaws, yet people still call them burglars. Even if they have not much to do with them."
And here I am, defending burglars, he thought bitterly. What does that make me?
Elentirmo was still looking at him with that unnerving, razor-sharp gaze of his.
"You cannot fool me!" he said. "You have not stolen a thing in your life! I see it on your face."
"Well, no I haven't, not until now," Bilbo sighed. "But I suppose I shall have to. Valar help me, I will have to rob a dragon!"
"To rob-"
"A dragon, yes," Bilbo repeated, crossing his arms. "It all happened so suddenly. I invited Gandalf for tea, and he was late. I forgot about it, but he did come; and he brought thirteen Dwarves with him – thirteen! – and then, they drank all my ale and emptied my pantry. Apparently, Gandalf filled the Dwarves' heads with tales on how I was a professional burglar and how it was me, any only me they would need on their Quest to reclaim Erebor, their homeland. All the treasure of King Thror – Thorin's grandfather, make no mistake –, lies there, beneath the Lonely Mountain, in the heart of their ancient Kingdom; and the terrible dragon Smaug is guarding it. Their Quest is pure insanity, and here I am, having to become a burglar..."
"Having to?" Elentirmo raised his brows. "You could have kicked them out of your house. Your house, your rules!"
"Yes, I could have. Maybe I should have, but I did not! It all happened so suddenly – there was a bargain I was meant to sign, and I hesitated; it seemed insane. But when I heard Glóin saying that I was more of a grocer than a burglar, something lit up in my heart, and I... I just broke into the room, then, probably, made the biggest mistake of my life."
Elentirmo smiled.
"Oh, I believe you did the right thing. Pride is not always harmful. Master Baggins, you have no idea how fervently I wish I could go with you!"
"You wish?" Bilbo looked at him uncertainly. "There is a dragon at the end of the road."
"Yes, there is, and I never saw a dragon in my waking life. They must be marvellous creatures!"
"And deadly."
Elentirmo was silent for a moment.
"You must have already met my lord father, Master Baggins," he said.
"I have," The hobbit nodded, knowing that he was thinking of Elrond.
"And what do you make of him?"
That was difficult for Bilbo to word. "He is very old," he said at length, "and wise. His eyes are deep and mysterious, but gentle. He is strong and powerful, but just."
"And are you fool enough to think, Master Baggins, that he is not also deadly? Have you seen him in his wrath?"
"No... never!" Bilbo said, uncertain.
"Nor will you, if the Valar are kind. But never forget that the flame is there; it only has to be kindled. Likewise with the dragon. Yes, it is deadly. Frightening… and most probably, also very clever. Reason with him you may not; but do not think of the terrible Smaug as some mere fire-spitting brute! He hopes, he dreams and he wants, just like we do."
"You know," Bilbo admitted, "I, too, wish that you could come with me. That would make me less of a burglar."
"Beren and Lúthien were burglars too, in a way" said Elentirmo. "Even the High King Fingon, if you squint. Very long ago, in the youth of the world he..."
He swallowed the rest as lightning came in a flash. The rumble of thunder followed almost immediately, from a terrifying proximity. The windows vibrated for a long time after the impact, and rain poured down heavier still, a steady choir of drums on the rooftop.
Bilbo sprang to his feet, following his instincts, his right hand reaching for the still alien-feeling weapon in his belt.
"You have a sword, Master Baggins?" Elentirmo glanced at him.
"I do have something of the sort," said Bilbo, "but I cannot use it. Gandalf tucked it in my belt when we were discovering a troll-cave; it was part of their treasure."
"And did you see the trolls?"
"Aye, we did. Almost giants, to my eye. They captured us, and quarrelled if they wanted to skin us first, or eat us the way we were. But it dawned before they could decide; and they turned to stone."
"Trolls are not very bright creatures, are they," Elentirmo laughed, and his voice reminded Bilbo of silver bells jingling in the wind. "Did you find anything else in the cave?"
"A treasure chest. We buried it, and marked the place to find it on our way back. If we come back, that is. Thorin and Gandalf also found two great swords: they showed them to Lord Elrond today after lunch, and he said that the blades were straight from Gondolin."
"Now that is a wonder! And what about yours, Master Baggins?"
"I do not know," Bilbo shrugged. "The Dwarves said it was more like a letter opener than a sword, anyway; I doubt it would have a great name, or an ancestry. Yet to me, it is beautiful; and of Elven make."
Elentirmo extended his hand. "Show me!"
Bilbo drew the blade from its scabbard, and handed it over. The Elf ran his fingers through the carvings on its hilt, touched its edge with a thumb, gasped when it left a mark. The blade seemed to gleam softly amongst the blinding flashes of lightning.
"Reading annals comes handy sometimes, Master Baggins," said Elentirmo. "If I am not mistaken – and usually, I am not..."
Abruptly, he sprang to his feet, and disappeared behind a row of stuffed bookshelves, blade still in hand. When Bilbo found him, he was standing on top of a ladder, browsing a set of black-bound books; and Bilbo's letter-opener was hanging from his belt.
"I have paged through something, not so long ago," Elentirmo said. "I was bored, everything was covered in mud and there was not much to see in the Valley. So I came here to read, and I found... ah, there you are!"
He took a thick roll of parchment from the top of the shelf, and descended the ladder with grace.
"And what is that?" Bilbo wanted to know. "A catalogue of famous blades?"
"This," said Elentirmo, not without pride, "is the account of a squire on the Fall of Gondolin. Very rarely do I find an occasion to read it – as you might have noticed, we are now standing in the restricted section."
Bilbo tried to act as though he had noticed; and Elentirmo laughed softly.
"Have no fear, Master Baggins! Most books and parchments here are forbidden to touch only because they are old and fragile. The rest of them... well, that I will show you another day."
They sat back next to the fireplace, and the Elf rolled the parchment down, about to halfway.
"The tale starts a week before disaster stroke," he began in a low voice. "Whoever wrote it, penned it much-much later, in the kingdom of Lindon."
"How do you know that?"
"The seal."
"All right, you win," said Bilbo. "Now, what have you read that could do anything with my letter-opener?"
"That is not a letter-opener, Master Baggins, but a hunting dagger. If we are to believe the author of this scroll, that is."
"A hunting dagger?" Bilbo arched an eyebrow. "Did they go hunting in Gondolin? I thought it was a hidden valley amongst mountains, much like this one..."
"Yes, Master Baggins, it was; and no, it was nothing like this one. Gondolin – or Ondolindë, or the White City, or whatever you call it –, had been built to mirror the beauty and grace of Tirion itself, across the Sea. The mountains around it were sharp and deadly and terribly high. The Valley of Tumladen was but one of many, and grass grew green at the bottom of it (or so they say); and the Hidden City stood there, in the heart of that hidden sea of grass, unseen by the Enemy until that fateful day when its glory turned to darkness. And no, its proud lords were not known to hunt, either; at least, not frequently. Still, your letter-opener is truly a hunting dagger, wrought for those who guarded the first three Gates of Gondolin: those who spent their lives out in the mountain-lands to keep Gondolin safe. They used these daggers on their patrols and wanderings. Apparently, Master Baggins, our squire was sent out there by his lord for a year of service, to watch and learn; and he was given a dagger of this kind by Maeglin Lómion himself."
"The traitor?" Bilbo's eyes widened.
"Yes, the traitor. It does not surprise me that you know his name."
"That squire must have been someone important, then," Bilbo remarked. His curiosity was rising; reading the mysterious parchment suddenly seemed no less of an adventure than exploring a troll cave, or robbing a dragon. "And what makes you think that my hunting dagger would be one of this kind?"
"The description," Elentirmo pointed, rolling the parchment down a few inches.
"You could show me a bunch of swearwords, Master Elf, and I would not recognize them. What does it read?"
"Oh, indeed!" Elentirmo exclaimed, and he slid a finger through the lines. Bilbo could almost hear the clatter of cogwheels in his head.
Poor fellow, he thought, it must be a challenge to translate such an old text to his own fancy elven tongue, and then again to mine.
"It would read something like this in Westron," said Elentirmo at length "...Lord Lómion then stepped back to the shadows, and I was standing out there below the open sky. The wind was tieing knots in my hair. When he came back, there was a dagger in his hands; that of a slender kind, such as my lord... uh... brother-of-father?"
"Uncle," Bilbo suggested.
"Yes, that. But my lord uncle sounds strange to my ears."
"Leave the lord out of it, then."
"You cannot just leave a lord out of anything, Master Baggins! These are the words of a squire, and in the tongue of the High Elves. A lord is a lord, whether he is an uncle, or not."
"Go with the lord brother of my father, then," Bilbo said. He found himself a lot more concerned for finding the best possible translation than he thought he should be.
"Fair enough!" Elentirmo nodded. "Well, such as the lord brother of my father always had hanging from his belt. Proud I was to receive it, and my heart was glad; and the Lord Lómion looked at me, knowing – he watched and knew a lot –, and he smiled. 'I have made this myself, youngling,' he said, 'so it would help you face the perils of the mountains roads. Though I do not fear for you, young lord of the Fountain –"
"The Fountain?"
"The House of the Fountain means the House of Echtelion," said Elentirmo. "It was one of the most powerful clans in Gondolin; though I cannot tell if the squire was related to them, or was merely part of their household."
"If he was a lord of the Fountain, he must have been related to him," Bilbo objected.
"No, in fact, he mustn't have; only if he was holding his ancestry in secret for some reason, which is what I personally suspect. This is yet another turn of our tongue I cannot put to Westron words!"
"Could you not say that he was a Fountain-lord, then? Or a lordling? Or a sworn sword?"
"You have a gift for translation, Master Baggins! You should do it more often."
"I should learn Quenya for a start," said Bilbo, slightly disheartened.
"Sindarin, for a start," the Elf corrected him gently. "Quenya is more than a tongue; it is a way of thinking. Once you have learned it, you will see everything in a different light."
"All languages are like that, in a way," Bilbo said. "Do you not find thinking easier when you can speak in your own tongue? The true difficulty in translation, I believe, is switching from one way of thinking to another; and still not erring, still not distorting your original message."
"I will try my best not to distort this one," Elentirmo smiled. "It goes on: '…though I do not fear for you, young Lord of the Fountain; you are gifted in service and loyalty. May your days upon the Gates be... productive...?"
"Fruitful?"
"Fruitful – and adventurous, and may your blade greet the rising sun every dawn; may it salute the Sun in its setting every eve.' And with that, he was gone; a shadow disappearing amongst greater shadows..." Valar, that sounds clumsy in Westron... "And I pulled the blade from its scabbard and studied it. Beautiful it was and delicate: but I could not expect less, since it had been wrought by crafty hands, the hands of one who mastered hammer and steel like the King Turukáno mastered my beloved lord's pride.' Oh, King Turgon that is. Forgive me. And mastered might not be the right word."
"Turukáno," Bilbo muttered under his breath. The name sounded strange to his ears.
"It was light in my hands; a long dagger, such as hunters used. The blade was slightly bent – just like yours, Master Baggins –, and its edge seemed razor-sharp to my eyes; it shone with a light from within. The sigils of my House were carved into the sides of its hilt, with lines thinner than a single hair. At first glance, it was a plain and modest-looking weapon, but if you studied it closer, you saw more and more carvings, more and more details. Flowers and bells of silver and gold; three small, delicate white gems at the bottom of the hilt..."
Bilbo turned his formerletter-opener, now hunting dagger slightly, and almost dropped it in awe.
"...leaves and the linings of a silver flute at its backside, and the water dripping from a delicate fountain..."
Bilbo turned the weapon again, and now dropped it for real.
"The blade was thin and I deemed it was made of pure mithril; and I could not help but wonder why did the Lord Maeglin care to grant me such a gift. Why me? Why a mere youth from a House he despised; why a young squire, one swore to serve the proud lord..."
Now it was Elentirmo who had share of bewilderment.
"...Laurefindil!" He exclaimed.
Bilbo emerged from the dusty floor, clutching his dagger.
"What is it? Do you know that name, lad? Does it ring any bells for you?"
And Elentirmo laughed. And he laughed, and the parchment fell from his lap, unfolding on the floor. But before Bilbo could ask him what on Arda was the matter with bells, another voice interrupted them.
"Tirmo? Is that you, child?"
Bilbo saw a tall shadow on the doorstep, which soon materialized as another Elf: one of noble face, golden hair and piercing blue eyes that shone with a light Bilbo had never seen before. He shivered under their gaze.
"Lord Glorfindel!" said Elentirmo said, regaining his composure. "Always a pleasure!"
And all of a sudden, Bilbo understood. If anything, he was gifted in languages...
"It is the third hour of the day, young lord," Glorfindel's eyes narrowed. "And yet I find you in the library, wasting the time of our honoured guest, with... let me guess! Annals of kings?"
"He was not wasting a mere minute of mine, lord, I beg your pardon," Bilbo spoke up. "We were discussing my... well, my, my taste in languages. He told me..."
Elentirmo's eyes narrowed along with Glorfindel's, and Bilbo realised he was about to break a promise.
"…he told me, mind you, that I could not understand him, because... See, he speeks Westron. Very well, I must say. And still, sometimes we do not understand each other. And Lord Tirmo told me that Elvish was not only a way of speaking but a way of thinking, and that is why we erred in our talk. And then, I told him that all languages were like that…" Bilbo found himself blushing. "It was rather me wasting his time, I believe. But we, Hobbits always like a good talk; and this was one of excellence, I must say."
"Master Baggins is very humble and kind," said Elentirmo, and he rolled the parchment together with one swift pull. "I most valued his insight on languages. In fact, I am thinking I should ask Master Erestor to join us next time. Would it please you, Master Baggins?"
"Definitely," Bilbo nodded.
Glorfindel looked at them with great wonder, and a glint of amusement in his eyes, and Bilbo knew that he knew. He saw right through them.
"It seems to me that I erred," the lord said, smiling. He settled in the chair Elentirmo had sprung from a mere minute ago. "It iis the third hour of the day indeed, but it would be a shame to put an abrupt end to such a debate. I hope you would not mind if I assisted."
Elentirmo smiled, and he stood before Glorfindel, crossing his arms in a half-dignified, half-childish manner; and the golden lord looked at him fondly, but with a flicker of scorn.
"You can only stay if you can keep a secret, Lord Laurefindil. Two, in fact. One secret of mine, and one of Master Baggins'."
There was a flash in Glorfindel's eyes when he heard his ancient name; because that was his ancient name, Bilbo now knew. But he said nothing; he only gave a slow nod.
"Wonderful!" said Elentirmo cheerfully, and he unfolded the parchment. "So, Master Burglar," he went on casually, "according to the description I cited from the account of our dearest Gondolin squire, I believe your blade is now identified."
Glorfindel stared at the back of scroll, his eyes suddenly intent; but his face remained unchanged.
"Now," Elentirmo went on, rolling the parchment a whole twenty inches further, "it seems that nothing else is written here about your blade. Sadly, the text mentions no name, which is curious, given that its previous owner was so fond of this dagger; and yet weapons of this kind were never particularly... cherished, or guarded. I do not know how to say that in your tongue; by all means, I mean that they do not require any... special assistance. Looking after, that is."
"Tending," said Glorfindel softly.
"Yes, tending," Elentirmo picked up the word. "Also, they are deadly sharp. They do not even need to be sharpened that regularly; only once in every five hundred years."
"Quite often, isn't it!" Bilbo laughed.
"...and the blade will remain your faithful companion until the end of your days, Master Baggins. It is made of good steel, and by the crafty hands of Master Lómion, as we now know. And the hands of Master Lómion were gold, even if his heart was dark as coal."
"It was not," said Glorfindel, just as softly as before.
"Wha-" Elentirmo turned to him, mouth agape. "But he... he was…"
"…a traitor, and a very bitter one. A traitor I despised, a traitor I would have killed, had Tuor not been swifter than me. A traitor I hated, at the end. But he was no evil. I knew him better than that. He was broken and marred."
"A true lord never breaks, and is never marred," said Elentirmo with pride.
"Well," said Bilbo, "things might get a tad more complicated than that from time to time."
"Listen to your friend, Elentirmo Anardilion," said Glorfindel, "for he is wise beyond his years. And now tell me, when and where did you learn to read the Old Tongue?"
"From Master Erestor, of course!" Elentirmo shrugged. "The rest came by... harmless curiosity."
"You are about as harmless as a dragon," Glorfindel glared at him.
"Why, I am flattered!"
"You are flattered by everyone and everything, and you hear laughter and praise where there is none," Glorfindel scolded him, but his eyes were gentle. "How great your grief must be whenever someone locks the restricted section properly!"
"Tears unnumbered I shall shed," said Elentirmo. "But you are brave and just; and thus you will keep my secret, just as you promised you would."
"I promised nothing – and do not jest with that!"
"Please!"
Something flashed though Glorfindel's face – even in the shelter of his thoughts, Bilbo did not dare to call it a smirk, though if it was remarkably similar to one –, and he said,
"A mere minute ago, you were plotting something with a professional burglar, and now you beg me with tears in your eyes. Why would I ever believe you, lordling?"
"Because if you shan't keep our secrets, you will never know why we searched for this parchment at the first place," said Elentirmo. "A worthy tale, I must say."
"All right," said Glorfindel, "I promise I will not even suggest to Erestor that he should find a lock. Now waste my time no longer; and see that your tale is truly entertaining. I could still take that parchment by force, you know."
"It is all about my dagger," said Bilbo. "Were you there yesterday, when Thorin and Gandalf showed their new blades to Lord Elrond?"
"I was," said Glorfindel, "though if Glamdring and Orkrist are new by any means, then so am I."
"My mistake!" Bilbo laughed. "Yet they were found in a troll-cave; and so was my little blade." He drew the dagger from its scabbard. "I meant to ask Lord Elrond about it; but my companions told me that it was more of a letter-opener than a sword. And the evening after, when Estel and Elentirmo were stealing down my balcony, I was wondering if..."
"Master Baggins!" Elentirmo groaned.
"Oh! I mean, they were not stealing, of course; they were rather courteous if you ask me. They were climbing very-very silently, for they did not mean to disturb me at all."
"How helpful!" said Elentirmo.
"So you are now stealing the children of the Dunedain," Glorfindel mused. "How many more dark secrets you have, I wonder?"
"It was Estel's idea in the first place!"
"If you ever put him in danger again – when you do it, that is –, I will drag you to Lord Elrond by the ear."
Elentirmo frowned.
"Only me – or Estel, too?"
"What a generous friend you are!" Glorfindel scolded him, and Bilbo had to laugh.
"I merely wanted to... explore my situation," said Elentirmo with dignity. "The same way Master Baggins did when I offered to look at his weapon. And when I studied it, I was very closely reminded of this parchment I had read – I tried to translate the important parts to Master Baggins, and that is how it happened that we delved into the philosophy of languages. When you arrived, we were discussing hunting daggers, and we made an interesting discovery."
"Which is…?"
"The scroll was written by a young squire, who escaped the Hidden City after its fall," Bilbo could not remain silent any longer.
"And your squire it was, Lord Glorfindel!" said Elentirmo. "From the House of the Fountain. He mentions you!"
Speechless, Glorfindel he extended his hand, and Elentirmo gave him the parchment. Glorfindel's face was still; he went on reading for a few minutes, then softly, he sighed.
"I am surprised," he said, "to find such a thing after so many years. Its author would be spitting flames if he knew that we read his secret notes!" He chuckled. "And still, my heart is glad that you have showed me this; I would love to go on reading, but I fear that the rest was not made for anyone's eyes. I hold too dear the one who penned these words to thusly invade his privacy. I shall treasure this parchment, but it will be taken from these rooms, and you will never see it again. Do not even try to look for it," he added a moment later, eyeing Elentirmo.
"But I must know what happened to him!" Elentirmo begged. "I must finish his story!"
"That story might not be entirely over yet," said Glorfindel a smile playing on his lips. "But yours will be soon, if you continue disobeying me. As for you Master Baggins, I doubt you want to be late from tomorrow's breakfast table!"
Clutching the precious scroll in his left, he headed to the door; and just as abruptly as he came, he was gone.
"Elves!" Bilbo exclaimed, forgetting himself.
Elentirmo shook his head.
"There are the Elves, Master Baggins," he said, "and then, there is the Lord Glorfindel."
Author's notes:
My Sindarin is simply awful, but "rhaich" should mean "curse it", and "an ngell nîn" should mean something like "please" [for my joy].
Elentirmo is an OC. He has nothing to do with Tolkien's Elentirmo – or Anardil with Tolkien's Anardil. I simply like to steal cool names from the Professor from time to time.
(If you have read 'The Seven Gates': yes, it is THAT Anardil, and Elentirmo is his son).
A headcanon on the usage of Quenya: I have always had a problem believing that Thingol's idea of banning Quenya worked that well. Come, on, the Noldor letting go of their beloved language? I believe they were very, VERY reluctant to stop using it. On the other hand: forcing all those proud Noldorin lords to learn your own speech is a great move. Language is power. Thingol is smart. Thingol is cool.
As for the passage in the Silmarillion that mentions the difficulties Sindarin elves faced learning Quenya... well, no doubt they had a hard time doing that. But: there are two "but"-s. One: come on, we're talking about ELVES! And two: Tolkien had always insisted on him being not the *writer*, but a mere *translator* and *collector* of Arda-related texts. In 90% of cases, the scribe writing down the Great Tales MUST have been a Noldo, eh? (or some Noldorin culture geek, like Bilbo, Frodo or Sam). And if the scribe favours the Noldor, doesn't it just sound sweet for him to say"well, those poor-poor Moriquendi were too dumb to learn Quenya; so the Noldor, generous lords that they were, learned Sindarin for them?" I guess it sounds slightly better than, "okay, we're a HUGE diplomatic failure, time for a crash course in Sindarin, lads!"
Of course, this is no more than my own humble opinion.