"Quel andune; saesa omentien lle . . . Quel andune; saesa omentien lle," Frodo repeated under his breath, trying to get his accent right on his greeting for when the elves appeared; they had reached the edge of the wood and the music of aspens and beechwood filled the air. As he had feared, his shirt was soaked through; damp curls kept falling into his eyes and his arms were aching from the load of the picnic basket. He'd also brushed by a patch of nettle; his calves were itching something fierce.
All these annoyances disappeared, however, as he suddenly heard from a glade to his right the sound of laughter and song in a tongue so smooth his awkward mouth would never get the music of it right. Bilbo pulled him along, chuckling at something—perhaps something they were saying—Frodo was still a novice in Quenya, and it seemed there were two tongues being spoken here, both Quenya and Sindarin, almost interchangeably.
They passed into the glade and the rich sunlight after the shadows of the forest blinded Frodo momentarily; he stood blinking dumbly, still holding the picnic basket against the ache in his back and trying to separate the tall glowing figures who seemed to flow about him in a dance from the dance of sunlight on leaves and bark. It was indescribable; it was like being in a stained glass window. He realized he must look the utter fool and found tongue enough to speak, "Quel saesa; omentien lle andune."
The elves laughed; Frodo blushed as he realized his error, but their laughter was so infectious he found himself laughing too, and then a tall dark-haired elf lord was relieving him of his basket and speaking to him in the common tongue, "Welcome, Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Bilbo has spoken much of you. Come refresh yourself; there is a stream just there beyond the glade, then we shall serve your bountiful gifts. Be not afraid of us; be merry, for today you dine with the elves!"
At the stream he found Bilbo washing up as well; apparently now that the elves had seen him there was little reason to remain buttoned up and sweating; he stripped to his linen shirt and poured a pitcher of water over his head, gasping at the cold of the water and the blessed relief from the heat. Once he'd shaken out most of the water from his hair, he heard a tittering giggle and looked up to find two elven maidens sitting on a rock just down from him, soaking their tiny feet. How they managed to do that with their long wispy gowns without getting so much as a hemline damp, Frodo could not fathom, but as he slowly brought his gaze up to their faces, he no longer cared.
The first elf was lovely.
The second elf was breathtaking.
"Mae govannen, Peredhil Frodo," she said, and her voice was even more beautiful; no bird could possibly match its rich deep timbre.
His throat had gone dry; he was dripping wet and he was staring like a fish, and for the life of him every elvish word had fled clean out of his skull.
Her hair was brown—no, too common a word for that hue, and not entirely accurate—amber and oak, the fine-grained color of polished walnut—dark, rich, but also sprinkled with lighter tones of gold, it was like looking into an entire forest where all the wood tones came together. A heart-shaped little face, so delicate, and as young appearing as himself, with a pert little upturned nose and a wide gracious smile. Most amazing of all, blue eyes; bluer than his own, a dark blue that almost seemed to stray into violet.
She was short for an elf, though of course when she stood she still towered over him. He blushed hot, recognizing she was far beyond his station, and lowered his eyes, trying to salvage some sort of decency. He struggled to remember the words in elven, "I'm sorry, Lady, for my manners; we are well met indeed. You are the fairest one I have ever seen."
She laughed again, bowing, and took his hand in hers to lead him back to the glade as her friend followed behind with Bilbo, tittering something in what must be Sindarin, for Frodo could not make heads or tails of it.
Upon rejoining the others (now Frodo could see there was a party of perhaps twenty elves, some fair-haired, others dark, obviously wood elves), Bilbo took Frodo's other hand and formally introduced everyone--the names slipped through his hands like fine sand, each a long tangle of unfamiliar syllables . . . except for her name. Mornenêl of Mirkwood. And her male escort--her cousin Legolas, son of King Thranduil.
She was kin of royalty.
And he was but a hobbit.
***
(tbc . . . )
All these annoyances disappeared, however, as he suddenly heard from a glade to his right the sound of laughter and song in a tongue so smooth his awkward mouth would never get the music of it right. Bilbo pulled him along, chuckling at something—perhaps something they were saying—Frodo was still a novice in Quenya, and it seemed there were two tongues being spoken here, both Quenya and Sindarin, almost interchangeably.
They passed into the glade and the rich sunlight after the shadows of the forest blinded Frodo momentarily; he stood blinking dumbly, still holding the picnic basket against the ache in his back and trying to separate the tall glowing figures who seemed to flow about him in a dance from the dance of sunlight on leaves and bark. It was indescribable; it was like being in a stained glass window. He realized he must look the utter fool and found tongue enough to speak, "Quel saesa; omentien lle andune."
The elves laughed; Frodo blushed as he realized his error, but their laughter was so infectious he found himself laughing too, and then a tall dark-haired elf lord was relieving him of his basket and speaking to him in the common tongue, "Welcome, Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Bilbo has spoken much of you. Come refresh yourself; there is a stream just there beyond the glade, then we shall serve your bountiful gifts. Be not afraid of us; be merry, for today you dine with the elves!"
At the stream he found Bilbo washing up as well; apparently now that the elves had seen him there was little reason to remain buttoned up and sweating; he stripped to his linen shirt and poured a pitcher of water over his head, gasping at the cold of the water and the blessed relief from the heat. Once he'd shaken out most of the water from his hair, he heard a tittering giggle and looked up to find two elven maidens sitting on a rock just down from him, soaking their tiny feet. How they managed to do that with their long wispy gowns without getting so much as a hemline damp, Frodo could not fathom, but as he slowly brought his gaze up to their faces, he no longer cared.
The first elf was lovely.
The second elf was breathtaking.
"Mae govannen, Peredhil Frodo," she said, and her voice was even more beautiful; no bird could possibly match its rich deep timbre.
His throat had gone dry; he was dripping wet and he was staring like a fish, and for the life of him every elvish word had fled clean out of his skull.
Her hair was brown—no, too common a word for that hue, and not entirely accurate—amber and oak, the fine-grained color of polished walnut—dark, rich, but also sprinkled with lighter tones of gold, it was like looking into an entire forest where all the wood tones came together. A heart-shaped little face, so delicate, and as young appearing as himself, with a pert little upturned nose and a wide gracious smile. Most amazing of all, blue eyes; bluer than his own, a dark blue that almost seemed to stray into violet.
She was short for an elf, though of course when she stood she still towered over him. He blushed hot, recognizing she was far beyond his station, and lowered his eyes, trying to salvage some sort of decency. He struggled to remember the words in elven, "I'm sorry, Lady, for my manners; we are well met indeed. You are the fairest one I have ever seen."
She laughed again, bowing, and took his hand in hers to lead him back to the glade as her friend followed behind with Bilbo, tittering something in what must be Sindarin, for Frodo could not make heads or tails of it.
Upon rejoining the others (now Frodo could see there was a party of perhaps twenty elves, some fair-haired, others dark, obviously wood elves), Bilbo took Frodo's other hand and formally introduced everyone--the names slipped through his hands like fine sand, each a long tangle of unfamiliar syllables . . . except for her name. Mornenêl of Mirkwood. And her male escort--her cousin Legolas, son of King Thranduil.
She was kin of royalty.
And he was but a hobbit.
***
(tbc . . . )