Author's Notes:

Once upon a time, hobbits lived in harmony with Men, farming the upper vales of the Anduin. They lived so quietly, as a matter of fact, that none of the Great noticed them at all. (The Great are more likely to notice troublemakers than folk doing what they ought.) Times changed, a darkness crept over the land, shadowing the hearts of Men, and some Little Folk made the dangerous crossing of the Mountains to the West, while others were driven into the shelter of the forest, where they passed quite a few years in pleasant obscurity once more. It is not always a misfortune being overlooked...

Readers taking the time to review are muchly appreciated. The Muse seems to run on virtual piña coladas and reviews...

Catta: Nice to meet you! Glad you found the story again. I hate it when I get interested in a story and then lose it. I try to remember to put it in my favourites, but sometimes I forget...

Hildegard: There is actually spinning in this next chapter! Hoorah! (Are you a fibre-worker, by chance? Our oldest dd is saving up for a spinning wheel, she says... and then I suppose a loom will follow.)

If ffnet is giving you fits and you are faithfully writing reviews, you can always send them along to me at The Muse will bless you.

"Small and Passing Thing" was updated today as well.

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Chapter 24. The Ravelled Sleeve

Elladan sought out Blackhorn in the armoury where he was discussing fletching with an elf twice his height. 'A word, if I might,' he said.

'If you'll excuse me, Belethorion,' the hobbit said, rising to bow. 'I look forward to continuing our discussion.'

'As do I,' the fletcher said with a bow of his own.

As they walked down the corridor the son of Elrond said, 'Glorfindel is coming over the pass with my brother and sister. Would you like to come with me to meet them?'

'Has the snow melted then?' the Thorn said in surprise. Here in Imladris there seemed to be no passage of seasons corresponding to those in the lost wood he'd known all his life. The trees had dropped leaves, true, but the weather continued mild and no snow or ice was found in that valley.

'Snow is no hindrance,' Elladan said. 'We often travel in the depths of winter, when the passes are empty. We find it much more convenient, as a matter of fact.'

The two walked to the Hall of Fire, where a group of new and expectant hobbit mums was often to be found, sitting in a circle, talking and knitting. The littlest babes snuggled in slings that cuddled them against the bodies of their mothers; those slightly older lay on their backs on warm furry rugs, playing with their toes; toddlers piled the blocks some Elven carpenter had shaped for their amusement. Older ones rolled a ball back and forth whilst making sure none of the tiny tots strayed near to the great hearth. Elven musicians played softly in the background, adding to the peace of the cosy domestic scene, while the mothers-in-waiting busily knitted.

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In their early days amongst the Elves they'd sat silent and solemn, thinking of fathers and brothers gone--and mothers, who'd not survived their husbands. The silent hobbits sitting by the fire had husbands yet because of Thorn's decree, but in those early days, when the novelty of Imladris was wearing off but their wounds were still fresh, they wondered sometimes if it had been better for all the People to perish rather than linger as a burden and a trouble to these Big Folk, kind as they might be.

The littlest ones played of course, as little ones do, spreading smiles throughout the Last Homely House. They were watched over by their older sisters—so many brothers had fallen! The remaining fathers and lads applied themselves to learning as much as they might from the Fair Folk who sheltered them. Skills that they'd been in danger of losing, such as shearing and spinning and weaving, were being cultivated and nurtured once more.

Very few of the older hobbit mums survived the death of their husbands, so strong was the life-bond between mates. Mistress Thorn stayed to honour her husband's last request, but she seldom spoke to any, ate little, and wandered the halls like a small, sad wraith.

It was not long after Araniliel the weaver gave her the ball of silvery yarn that she saw the little mother tucked up in a secluded window seat, knitting busily with two sticks that had up until this time held her hair atop her head. Now her greying curls cascaded upon her shoulders and the sorrowful lines of her countenance had smoothed into concentration upon the task.

This gave Araniliel an idea, and she pulled Mirthalwen into her plans. Together weaver and spinner patiently filled a basket with small balls in an assortment of colours and textures. Between them they carried their burden into the Hall of Fire where the silent hobbits sat in their circle, setting the basket down nearby, settling themselves with weary sighs.

'The fire is so restful,' Mirthalwen said. 'Will there be song this evening?'

'I believe some will sing during the day, for the Lord Elrond has declared a feast to welcome those returning, and so the musicians will practice in the coming days and prepare.' Music was food and drink to Elves; they sang as easily as they breathed, needing no practice, but Elladan had told his father of the hobbits' singing in Greenwood the Great before the terrible crossing of the mountains. Elrond had ordered music in the Hall of Fire as a balm to the wounded spirits of the surviving Fallohides.

'Ah,' Mirthalwen said, nodding. 'Perhaps if we rest here a bit longer we'll hear the start of the practice. I must admit my spirit is heavy within me, to cast away the work of my hands, even if it is just little bits and remnants.' She carefully did not look at the basket. Several of the expectant hobbit mums had crept closer and were fingering the soft yarn, exclaiming in low voices over the colours.

'Do you like it?' Araniliel said, as if noticing them for the first time.

'The colours are so pretty,' Lily said, dropping a ball of yarn the shade of spring leaves, a flush coming to her cheeks. 'I'm sorry, we should not have...'

'No, no,' Mirthalwen said quickly. 'It's just remnants, not enough for the weaving. We were going to discard them, but...' As if struck by a new thought, she added, 'Would you like the yarn? Could you find use for it?'

That was only the first of the baskets that found their way to the Hall of Fire. Ever more little hobbits were wearing multi-coloured scarves and jumpers and the group of knitters grew as younger lasses learned the skill. The music and busywork were soothing to the hobbits' frazzled nerves, and before long the young mums began to talk as they worked. It was a signature day when the first laughter was heard, and one of the musicians laid down his lute and went to tell the weaver that her healing "balm" was having the desired effect.

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Now Elladan and Blackthorn paused to hear the end of the story Lily was telling a group of youngsters while her needles clicked industriously. The yarn had begun to appear in loose skeins and the little ones were busy rolling these into balls for the knitters as they listened. Lily reached the end of her story and the end of her row at the same time, then smiled to see her husband. Blackthorn stepped forward to kiss the hand she extended to him. 'My love,' he said. 'Elladan has invited me to ride out with him.'

'Just as long as you do not stray too far or for too long,' she told him, arching her back to try to ease the burden of the growing babe.

'Well Elladan?' Blackthorn said, cocking an eye upwards.

Elladan placed a hand to his breast. 'My solemn word,' he said. 'Your husband will be back in time for the feast this evening.'

'Very well,' Lily said regally. 'I do not expect the babe this day at any rate, but cannot speak for the morrow.'

'Is it Last Day already?' the Thorn said in surprise.

'Already!' Lily bristled, and several of the other expectant mums laughed. 'Each day my burden grows, and you speak as if the time has flown! I will welcome the passing of the ever-longer nights and the promise that the babe will arrive with the Sun's return.'

'Last Day?' Elladan said, lifting an eyebrow. 'It is a special day of observance?'

Blackthorn laughed. 'We observe no days,' he said. 'Seasons, more like, and moons, though I have not seen the Moon since coming here. We might have been here a few days or a lifetime for all I can reckon.'

'Then what is Last Day?' the son of Elrond asked. Just when he thought he'd learned all there was to know about the Fallohides, simple straightforward folk that they were, they'd surprise him again.

'The days grow ever shorter as the year slows,' Blackthorn said. 'The nights grow longer, devouring the light, and it seems as if Darkness must triumph and cover all...' His hand tightened on Lily's as she shivered, and he added, 'but always there is the hope that Light will return.'

'The Sun retreats under the onslaught of Darkness, pressed backwards, wounded, failing,' Holly murmured, remembering her father's teaching. 'But then the Lady lends her grace and she returns renewed to fight for the sky.'

Coming back to Elladan's question, Blackthorn said, 'Last Day is not a day, actually,' he said. 'I mean, it is a day, but we know it only when it is behind us, already passed.'

'The days grow longer as the Light returns,' Lily said simply. 'And so we know Last Day has passed and First Day has followed, and the Darkness has been driven away once more.'

'I see,' Elladan said slowly. The Little Folk were sensitive to Light and Darkness, more it seemed even than the Elves, who gave more attention to the time of Quickening than the winter solstice.

'And there is a grand celebration to welcome the Light,' Holly said firmly.

'Indeed,' Elladan said. 'The feast this evening will serve to welcome more than returning Elves, I think.'