Years pass swiftly for those who live through many ages. Of the news of the wide world Tinwen was most interested in matters somehow connected to Sauron. The Gondorian royal line ended and she mourned, remembering the children in her lap. Celebrian was wounded and went to the West. The tribe of Durin lost Mount Erebor to a dragon. The fair town of Dale, which Tinwen also had visited, was destroyed. With it the knowledge that Mirkwood had once been called Greenwood the Great was lost from mortal memory. The world was full of enemies and wars. Heroes also, heroes of battle.
A time came when Tinwen decided to go to the Grey Havens. She had not looked towards the sea since Eönwë had left Middle-Earth, and she felt it was time, before she forgot what sunset over the shoreless waters looked like.
The Great West Road went through the forsaken land of Arnor, and even more forsaken was the green-covered southern road when she looked at it near the small village at the crossroads. Soon after that village there was a bridge over the river Baranduin, and a strange land opened before Tinwen after that bridge. The people of this land were halflings, short like dwarves but beardless and lithe. They walked barefoot and smoked pipes. Tinwen changed her shape to resemble them, a grey-haired, sun-browned hobbit woman, for she wished to learn more of this unique people. They seemed to possess characteristics of all other free peoples: they were hardworking like dwarves, loved the sun and fertile land like humans, they were merry like elves, and they could hide in woodland as skilfully as the Ents. Most Tinwen loved their delicious ale and the stories told beside the pints.
The hobbits had some reservations in regard of this stranger woman, but they accepted her among them because she assumed most of their habits and never put herself forward. She moved about in different parts of the Shire until she happened to see an attractive little burrow for sale. She paid for it in foreign silver, and when the seller, one Mr Sackville, saw her money, he said:
'Bagshot Row Seven seems a suitable address for you, Miss Hawkfeather!'
'How so?' Asked Tinwen, who used the Westron version of her latest name.
'You are not the first one to bring elven silver to Hobbiton Hill! Up there, in Bag End, I'm sure you know the place, happens to live one Bilbo Baggins - don't tell me you haven't heard of him!'
'I have heard, good things and bad things, and weird things most of all. He has travelled with dwarves and robbed a treasure from a dragon, hasn't he?'
'I don't care if he had robbed a treasure from dwarves with a dragon, it ain't many that ever get to see that silver of his. You must be different. And you are very sensible to be satisfied with this small burrow instead of trying to dwell a place the size of Bag End all by yourself.'
'Mister Sackville, I don't have that many coins left. They call me a vagabond, so I thought to settle down. What my neighbours do is none of my business, but this much I will tell you: You should not say anything nasty about dwarves or their friends to me. You see, ' Tinwen lowered her voice into a whisper;
'I was once engaged to a dwarf!' And she laughed out loud and poor Mr Sackville had no idea whether she was joking or not. It caused a good rumour to be told, of course, and something else as well; Bilbo Baggins decided to meet his newest neighbour.
Tinwen Hawkfeather opened the door wearing an apron round her waist. She saw Bilbo for the first time and was surprised by his youthful appearance.
'Good day, how may I help you?'
'Well, um, I'm your neighbour. Bilbo Baggins is my name.'
'How nice to meet you. Do come in, please.'
'Thank you, Miss Hawkfeather. Your name is rather special, by the way.'
'Call me Tinwen. Would you like some tea? I have no cake or anything, but I did bake bread this morning.'
Bilbo took a basket from behind his back.
'I, um, brought you some cake. I made it myself. It is, um, cinnamon and ginger cake.
'Oh, thank you, master Baggins.'
'Call me Bilbo.'
'But that won't do, I mean, you are, how should I say it, better folk.'
'Not for you, Miss Tinwen, there is no folk better than you.'
'What do you mean? You hardly know me.'
'I know your reputation. You sit the evenings in the Green Dragon with the men, telling stories from faraway lands. You sing in elven tongues. You ask the dwarves for news like an old friend, and wish them farewell in their own language. You are exactly the sort of folk that is needed in this land.'
Beside a cup of tea Bilbo lost the last of his shyness, and he soon found himself telling his story to Tinwen without leaving out a single detail, save one; the Ring he did not mention. They sat together late into the night, and many nights after that, in the hall of Bag End or in Tinwen's small living room. Tinwen listened, telling hardly anything of herself, judged Bilbo's poetry with the voice of an expert, and recounted old legends. Miss Hawkfeather admitted she had been to Rivendell and told even something of Durin, although not his position or the way of his death.
All over the Hobbiton village rumours were about, of course, that old Bilbo had fallen in love. If he had, his new friend never noticed it. Or was there a strange fervour in Bilbo's poems, mysterious dream-images of a woman, fair as an elf, with shining flame-red hair? Nothing could hardly be further away from the old maid Tinwen, who bound her grey hair in a loose bun and often rested her feet on a table, Tinwen, whose only fire was the spark in her pipe, which habit she had learned in her old days.
At some point a third person entered the friendship: a small boy quietly listening to his uncle's stories. The child was called Frodo. Tinwen loved the boy like a favourite auntie, especially after he was orphaned and Bilbo adopted him. Sometimes the kid was a real bother; in a few years Tinwen learned to always reserve part of the fruits of her garden for Frodo and the other mischievous boys to rob. They were always caught, it seemed that Miss Hawkfeather counted the fruits every morning and evening. She never punished the boys physically; instead, she wrote official-looking bills and presented them to Bilbo with Frodo listening.
'Master Baggins,' she might say, 'I see your young protégé has taken half a basketload of white apples from my garden. The price of the day is three and a half pennies, but I ask for four, for the transaction also contained a halfpenny's worth of my best brambleberries.'
The fruit was paid for, and Frodo was given stern words and extra chores. Then Tinwen changed her tone of voice, sat down in an armchair in a relaxed way, and asked:
'Bilbo, how is your translation proceeding? Have you solved the problem of the fourth stanza yet?' While speaking the little old lady lighted her pipe and added wood into the fireplace. And Bilbo took out his notes and started working out the difficulty of finding rhymes for the fourth stanza of 'The Fall of Gil-Galad'. Tinwen listened, offered a simple but uncommon translation, and sent Frodo into the kitchen - for apples to be roasted in the fireplace.
One afternoon Tinwen was surprised to meet an old friend. She sat beside a glass of wine in the Green Dragon, watching people coming and going through the door. A grey-bearded, bent old man stepped in. Tinwen rose and helped the visitor by carrying his pint of beer into her table, for the man's hands were full - one held a long wooden staff and another his tall pointed hat he had taken off because the ceiling was so low for him. When they sat down she whispered:
'Gandalf - that is your name these days, is it not?'
'Gandalf, yes. But I am also still Olórin. But who are you these days? You certainly have not grown since I last saw you!'
'I am Tinwen Hawkfeather, former vagabond, now a cracked spinster.'
'Cracked? How so?'
'So they say, because I listen to Bilbo's stories about dragons and elves, and supposedly also encourage poor young Frodo to believe in fairy-tales.'
'Well. In that case, I am old Gandalf the magician, an incurable vagabond and extremely cracked!'
'Truly. Is it true that Gwaihir once rescued you from the top of a tree?'
'Yes. But how did you end up in the Shire?'
'I was on my way to the Havens, and I still am. Who knows, maybe one day I will actually get there. I haven't been in a hurry to get anywhere for ages. At the moment I live at Bagshot Row Seven. Near to Bilbo.'
They ordered some beer. Gandalf asked:
'On your way to the Havens? Is - are you finally free to sail West?'
Tinwen showed the chain on her neck.
'No.' He looked into the eyes of the old wizard.
'Olórin - couldn't you set me free? There is hidden power and red fire in you.'
'What are you talking about? My power is not enough, even Saruman could not do it. But what do you know of the fire?'
'I don't care for Saruman! Well, ask anyone here and you'll hear three rumours of me. The first one claims I've got my eye on a certain wealthy bachelor. That is a lie. Another says there is something shameful in my past - but those who tell it have not an inkling of the truth. The third rumour is that I have been engaged to a dwarf. It is true. And I once wore Durin's ring. Glorharn.'
'Tinwen. All things considered it might be best for you to depart from the Shire. Your chain binds you to Sauron. He knows where you are. Your presence may bring a curse to this land and put your friends in danger. Say farewell to Bilbo while you still can leave without breaking his heart.'
'Something is happening, right?'
'Perhaps. Go to the Havens, go to the wilderness, go to the elves. Your enemy is growing stronger all the time. When war breaks over all the land, take arms and revenge all your loved ones. Durin. Gil-Galad. The Entwives. Celebrian's broken heart. The royal house of Gondor.'
'I will do as you say, Gandalf.'
And only a week from that day she wished farewell to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins.
Tinwen stayed for a while in the Havens, thinking about her future, gazing westwards, listening to the gulls. Then she travelled once again to Lórien. And once again the mirror showed her herself. Nine names, nine faces, last of all the halfling Miss Hawkfeather. But Lúthien she did not see anymore. Instead she saw a familiar face, although uncommonly serious and pale.
'Bilbo! But he is younger, only thirty perhaps. And what is that black land. I have seen those mountains. Morgai, the land of Mordor, Orodruin… what is he doing there? At that age Bilbo lived in his father's house. He looks at me… no it isn't him. The eyes are too dark. Frodo! This must not happen! Why? I left them so that they would not be put in peril, but here he walks in the shadow of Barad-Dûr… and despair dwells in his heart. What does this mean, Galadriel?'
'I do not know. I know nothing of these halflings. Time will tell, perhaps. But I think you have no part in that time. A mere coincidence led you to know them.'
'If there is such a thing as coincidence. I think Mandos has decreed this so.'
'Sing to me, Galadriel! Maybe I too shall sing…
Years like rushing waters stream away bearing golden leaves…'
'…long years numberless as the wings of trees! The years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West…'*
'Time is a rapids like the fury of Rauros, ice-cold like the despair of Nimrodel!
The wilderness swallows me and drinks me dry, I cannot reach the Sea…'
'But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?'*
In the storms of the war Lórien is a haven, also for eight walkers on their secret journey. None of them knows the silver-haired elf-woman in Galadriel's court above the trees. Her name is El-Carnil. When Gandalf arrives only a day later he recognises her and gets her involved into planning the defence of the realm of the Galadhrim. The war in its full rage will not leave any land untouched. When the attack comes, the bows are ready, the hunting-horns play a call to battle. Lórien endures. And finally Sauron falls. The chain round the neck of a warrior falls to pieces. A black stone crumbles into dust. Beside Celeborn and Galadriel El-Carnil marches to destroy Dol Guldur.
Tinwen is free, at last she is free.
She travels West and crosses the ocean in spirit form, lands on the island of Eresseä and finds peace. Eönwë greets her there, but she remembers all the oaths she has sworn;
'You did not set me free. We are not one and we do not belong together. I shall not return to the Immortal Lands. On this islands the notes of my heart are sung. Here are the graves of the Teleri who fell in the Kinslaying. This is a world between worlds, here I will stay.'
And the story could end here. Maybe it would be more beautiful if it ended here, in sorrowful elven songs on the Lonely Isle. But Tinwen asks me to write one last chapter.
*Galadriel's songs are from 'The Lord of the Rings'.