FIC (LotR): "A Thousand Seasons of Cold" (Elrond/Gil-galad, PG)
Title: A Thousand Seasons of Cold
Author: pen_and_umbra
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Elrond/Gil-galad
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I pour beetles down the waistcoat of the suggestion that I own these characters.
Summary: On the elven lay that is called The Fall of Gil-galad and how one Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit, came to teach it to Samwise Gamgee.
Notes: Had this sitting around for a while and now thought, why the hell not? Beta read by the darling snapesgrrl; any mistakes remaining herein are mine. All feedback appreciated. 5,730 words, complete.
A Thousand Seasons of Cold
* * *
On a morning of cloudless skies, long ago when fields were greener and the lands less populous, a wizard appeared in Hobbiton and knocked on the door of one Bilbo Baggins. A hobbit, Mr. Baggins was, as befitted a resident of the Shire; he was the master of Bag End and considered a most unusual fellow amongst his kind.
"Gandalf!" cried Bilbo upon the sight of his old friend. "Why, I haven't seen you since last harvest!"
Leaning on his staff, Gandalf smiled and stooped lower, for wizards were of the Big Folk, not hobbits. "I seem to have arrived just at the right moment. Tea-time, is it not, in these parts?"
"It's always tea-time in these parts when you visit! Come in, doff your hat, and have a seat. I'll go put the kettle on."
While Gandalf shook mud off his travelling cloak, Bilbo fetched tea cakes and butter and loaves of bread and a blackberry pie from his larders, heaping food upon the table until it groaned. Soon, the tea was ready, and they sat down.
"Tell me, then, Gandalf. What brings you to the Shire? Hopefully no business involving dwarves, for I will have no more part in such enterprises."
"Nay, no dwarves this time. I am journeying, for I have business in the east," Gandalf said and glanced towards the south windows. Bilbo looked, too, but all he could see there was his well-tended garden and what was left of the year's carrots sticking out of the loam. "There are matters that bear discussion and decisions that must be made."
Bilbo poured more tea and asked, "Whereabouts in the east? Surely not the mountains, not so close to winter?"
"Only as far as Rivendell, no further, but even that is a long road when travelled alone. I wonder if I could find a companion hereabouts, someone to share a pipe of leaf and a good story on the road." When Gandalf said this, his eyes fairly twinkled.
"You're going to the elves?" Bilbo said and sat up straighter.
"Indeed, to the House of Elrond, to speak with its master."
After his adventure with the dwarves, Bilbo had once journeyed to Rivendell, for his curiosity often got better of him and in any case, he had had Elrond's fine red handkerchief to return. He had stayed long enough to learn the songs and to read the elven tongues passably, leaving only when he started to miss Bag End and fried eggs and bacon too much, for the elves did not eat as often as Bilbo would have liked.
That had been years back, and suddenly Bilbo was overcome with a longing to see the airy halls of Rivendell and speak with their master once more. "Do you reckon Master Elrond still remembers this poor hobbit?" he asked.
Gandalf let out a laugh, a great bellow that made the teacups tinkle on their saucers. "Elves do not forget people, not even halflings, Bilbo Baggins. In fact, the last time I visited, he asked of you, and was gladdened to hear you were in hale spirits."
Bilbo's heart leaped at this, and his mind was set. He stood up, cleaned the plates and cups away, and found his travelling cloak and hood. While Gandalf sat, smoking and blowing rings of many colours, Bilbo packed boiled eggs and loaf of bread and a side of bacon, and shouldered his pack.
"The air is fair to-day, so we should be off now," he said, to Gandalf's apparent amusement. "Though I wonder if I have taken enough for a luncheon."
"A good journeyman I have made out of a hobbit, it seems. Do you have your pocket-handkerchief with you, dear Bilbo?"
Bilbo patted his waistcoat. "I do, two of them in fact. Though these days, I find I care not whether I leave with a pocket-handkerchief, for the road will always provide."
Gandalf rose and stuck his still-smoking pipe into his pocket. "Let us be off, then."
* * * * *
Not much can be told of their long walk, for it was a pleasant one and such walks make poor tales. Through their long days on the road, hard as they tried, they did not manage to exhaust their supply of either pipe-weed or stories, and so the days passed in high spirits. Bilbo found he had missed the open road and sleeping under the stars, and on their last evening outdoors, he told Gandalf as much.
"The road ahead leads ever on, and it calls spirits such as us, Bilbo," said Gandalf and settled down on a knoll of grass. Bilbo followed suit and together, through the glowing rings of smoke Gandalf exhaled now and then, they gazed up into the sky.
"The stars seem brighter and bluer here than they are in the Shire, as if they, too, are glad of the open skies."
"The very same stars they are, though here, some of them are closer to home. The evening star draws ever nearer," Gandalf mumbled around his pipe and pointed at the sky, "watchful of his children and those around him."
Bilbo gazed up at the high airs and the bright light there, and wondered at this world, where stars gave birth to elves. "Is it really Master Elrond's sire, or was what I heard in a song as I suspect -- a nonsense elven fable?"
Gandalf laughed and rapped Bilbo on the arm, quite hard. "Ask not such impetuous questions tomorrow, for the elves revere their parentage as much as the hobbits do."
Bilbo smiled and fell asleep under the starry dome, dreaming of deep forests and times long gone. When he awoke, the sun was already high, and they hastened to make the last leg of their journey. At the crossing of Bruinen, they were met by elves in the trees and their voices brought spring to their steps, all the way up to the path that led to the hidden vale.
The wonder of the elves had lessened in his mind, for familiarity breeds such things, but still Bilbo considered them to be the fairest of beings, both in deed and form. The green of their grass seemed luminous and the air in their abodes strung with forces that made every step he took feel lighter; soon Bilbo was singing with the elven songs that rose around them, smiling at Gandalf's laughter.
At the lowlands of the valley, they were met by the master of the Last Homely House and his kinsfolk. Bilbo bowed low and said, "I bid you good day, Master Elrond of the great house of learning and reflection, and bring good tidings."
"Welcome back, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. It brings me joy to see you so well, for the years seem to have no hold on you."
Only then did Bilbo straighten and replace his hood, looking up into the ageless face of his host. Dark of hair and fair in countenance, unchangeable and immovable as the mountains themselves, yet kind as the summer sun, had Lord Elrond always been in his mind, and naught had changed. Bilbo voiced his profuse gratitude for his warm welcome, to the apparent amusement of all.
"Well met, once more, my friend," said Gandalf to Elrond as he clasped his forearm.
"Though you are always welcome here, I wish you would once journey to Imladris with better news, Mithrandir. Upon your brow, I see the trouble that you carry," said the elf-lord in his tongue. Bilbo could hardly keep up with Elrond's words, so low was his voice.
"Nevertheless, it must be discussed," Gandalf replied before turning to Bilbo. "I will see you at dinnertime, Bilbo. I trust even you cannot find yourself in too much trouble before that."
Miffed, Bilbo assured him that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much, and marched up towards the house. Many of the elves followed him and for the rest of the day, he was besieged with questions, for it was not often that hobbits ventured this far outside the Shire.
* * * * *
For many days, it was not often that Bilbo saw Elrond, and even more rare was the occasion when he saw Gandalf. The two and a handful of other elves seemed to be spending an awful lot of time together, that much Bilbo could discern from glimpses seen through windows, always seeing all of them deep in conversation over maps and old books of lore.
During his wanderings of the halls of Rivendell, Bilbo had come to decide that it was not so much a house as a library. Everywhere, there were thin books and thick books, books bound in leather and books in golden covers, books smaller than Bilbo's hand and books so large Bilbo imagined it would take three elves and an Ent to lift them off the shelves.
One evening, he came upon a small, secluded room, equally crammed full of books and book-reading tools and candlesticks and maps. Amidst it all sat a handsome desk, and behind the desk a most handsome chair of carved wood. Though outside, the night had fallen long ago and the only light was that of the stars, in the room, the fire was blazing in the hearth, bringing warm light to it. It came to Bilbo's head to look further in, for it was a comfortable-looking reading-room. The tall chair looked most comfortable, the polished flowers and trees engraved into it so very life-like.
The chair was elf-sized and so it took Bilbo three tries to get up on it. Once he did, he sat down, huffing and puffing, his eyes darting around for sign of on-lookers, but the late hour at Rivendell seemed deserted.
"Who is your master, then, desk of serious work and your companion, the fair chair?" asked Bilbo of the papers and books and quills set in front of him. He didn't mean to snoop, only look for a bit, but in his curiosity he wound up rifling through the papers, stopping to gaze at a gold-gilded map here or admire an engraved, raven-black quill there.
Underneath the tallest pile of the dustiest maps, he uncovered a small book. It was bound in red leather and gold and had the touch of ages about it. The cover bore no title, and that made it especially interesting to Bilbo; upon opening it, he saw that it was undeniably old. It had pages upon pages of text, gone grey with time on the fine paper; some passages were written in hurry, others with leisure and a fine hand.
At length -- for his command of the high-elven tongue was still patchy -- and to his horror, Bilbo came to realise it was a journal, not a book of tales. He made to close it but instead of behaving like a good book should, it flopped open like a gutted fish, upon the entry he saw to be the last one. To his eyes, it looked like a poem.
"A poem cannot be dangerous to see, and it could very well be a song. Yes! A tune to speed the ale or spice the mead, or perhaps a rousing tale of adventures," Bilbo muttered to himself, and picking a verse at random, he read out loud:
"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea."
When he paused to puzzle over the unknown elven king and his realm, a voice arose from nearby. The ballad was sombre, not the gay singing of the elves in the trees, and it held an ounce of sadness and enough hidden histories to make Bilbo's breath catch. The voice filled his mind with waking dreams of a mountain of black stone, ash, and bodies in armour; at his feet, the soiled ground ran in ankle-deep rivers of red and black. It was the voice of Elrond that sang thus:
"His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
His guise was a wonder to see
from his love, my heart could not flee;
but beasts of mind and evil make
were in the hide of my soul's snake.
My dark, foul dreams he did not heed
his devotion he thus decreed;
on fields of green, under skies of white,
he called us endless, ever-bright."
As Elrond sang and stepped into the light, Bilbo sat enthralled, his finger forgotten between the book. It was not of the nonsense songs of daytime; it was a ballad of grief. There were tears in Bilbo's eyes from the solemn beauty of it, and as the dreams faded away, he wiped his face with his hand.
Elrond paused and asked, "Why is such a noble tale so sad in tune, you wonder, do you not?"
Bilbo opened his mouth to reply but by the time he had got his words arranged in his head into any sensible order, Elrond had moved to the windows and continued with his lonely lament:
"His stars still call the light of dawn,
of dreams of youth and bonds long gone;
through a thousand seasons of cold
no dreams but him could my heart hold.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are."
Upon the last word, there was nothing but silence so sudden that Bilbo ceased breathing, in fear of breaking it. The birds had fallen silent and no elven voices had joined Elrond's; it appeared all of Rivendell held its tongue when its lord sang.
At length, Elrond turned away from the skies and to Bilbo. "There are words of heroes and there are words of the heart, Bilbo Baggins. Take heed which you should learn, lest you feel the weight of sorrows that are not meant for your kin to bear."
When Elrond took the book away from him, Bilbo felt the heat flush his cheeks. "Forgive me, Master Elrond, for I did not mean to pry. I came upon the book quite by accident and was taken in by its spell."
"There are no spells here that I have not wrought, nor words that are more well-known," said Elrond, and there was no scold in his voice. "Indeed, it has been years, nay centuries, since I have last sung of the star-fall, for all now know the story."
"This was the first time I heard it," said Bilbo. "Though stories of heroes are liked, hobbits prefer songs of our own affairs, sung in our own tongue."
When Elrond said nothing, Bilbo dared finally look up, and there was a great weight that rolled off his chest. It was not quite a smile that was on Elrond's face, nor a frown, but a distant expression that was somewhere in between. There were lines between his brows, like cleaves on a cliffside, worn by rain; his eyes were like silver and glass, ageless in their calm.
"It is a tune of great beauty, if without the merrymaking I enjoy in songs," Bilbo ventured, eager to chase away the curious melancholy that had permeated the air.
"I fear it was not a time for making merry songs when this one was written."
Elrond looked away again and Bilbo, ever-curious, followed his gaze and strained to see over the desk. What he saw was in a shadowed corner between bookcases and caskets and candelabras, a stand that held an elven armour. Bilbo's fingers itched to clean it of its grime, for he was certain it would gleam with gold and mithril if properly cared; now, it was dull with dust and dark blood. Bilbo shuddered, for his own memories were familiar with the black foulness of the orcs.
Elrond reached at the cuirass, yet not quite to touch it, and then straightened, still silent. He seemed sunk in his own dark thoughts, the book forgotten in his hand.
"It was a dark time?" Bilbo asked, curious.
"So dark that since those days, I have not taken up arms. Nor shall I ever again, unless the gathering darkness in the East reaches us," said Elrond and added, so quietly that Bilbo was not sure he had heard it at all, "May the grace of the Valar save us all from such a day."
"Long ago, it was, I suppose?"
Elrond nodded and did a curious thing: he touched his unadorned forefinger, twisting the air around it. Bilbo thought him mad, until he remembered that elves could not go mad; then he just thought Elrond old of body and forgetful, until he remembered that elves could not be those things, either.
"Those were the Days of Strife and of the Last Alliance. I was there, at the end of Elendil, at the birth of our Age, and at the fall of Gil-galad of the great sagas. For three thousand years, I have sung the verses, here and there, to Men and elves alike," he said slowly and turned to Bilbo, a curious smile on his face. "And now it seems I have sung them to a hobbit as well."
Bilbo sat back down with a gasp of sorts. The stories he had read of the dawn of Ages had seemed dusty and improbable, as if they were imaginary heroes that graced the pages, characters invented fancy fables and nothing more. Yet, there stood an elf from those fables, right before his hobbit eyes, and his hobbit head was awhirl with wonder. He found he no longer doubted that stars could sire elves.
"It seems to me that it's a very long time to sing one song," said Bilbo, for want of something more profound.
"There are songs that should not be lost, yet that has been the fate of many things that should not have been forgotten." He gave the book back to Bilbo. "The story is yours to tell now, for you would have better uses for it than I."
"I should not have this!" Bilbo protested and held the book as if it burned his hands.
"It is time for new voices to sing and tell the tales of old. I carry the memory of my king, here," said Elrond and touched his breast, over his heart. "I no longer need words on paper to be reminded of who and what he was, to my kind or to me."
Bilbo cradled the book against his chest, his fingers nervous on the worn leather. It seemed to him this king of yore had been many things, to many people, but still not a real person at all. "What was he, then?"
"That, which cannot be lost to even time or death," replied Elrond, and stepped back into the shadows. "I bid you good night, master hobbit."
Before Bilbo could speak again, Elrond had disappeared, leaving Bilbo to his solitude amongst the books once more. Yet, he saw none of the books around him save the one he was clutching, and did not hear the night-birds begin their songs anew. He only heard his thoughts, and the hiss of the fire.
* * * * *
Bilbo read the rest of the lay before he retired, for there was much more to it -- passages about the dreads of Mordor and words of such misery that he felt his eyes blur at the thoughts. All through the night, Bilbo dreamed of battles that turned green fields black, and of endless, heart-breaking hopelessness. When he awoke at first light, he felt he had not rested at all.
After breakfast, he found Gandalf outside, a book in hand and a pipe between his teeth. When he stepped on the veranda, Bilbo shivered; it was a cool autumn morning and mist hung low in the valley.
"Would it not be warmer inside?" he asked of the wizard as he took the chair next to his.
"Inside, the smoke would get to the books, and that would lead to Erestor chasing me from here to Bruinen and back," Gandalf said and gave him a sideways look. "Not to mention the master of the house forbidding me access to his books, which would be very unfortunate indeed."
With that, he blew a ring of smoke that turned golden and then blue, dancing between the branches that were their awning. Bilbo followed its path smiling, his hand in his waistcoat pocket that had the ring. At length, he came out of his early-morning trance and said, "What do you know of the Last Alliance, Gandalf? Were you there?"
"Before my time here, that was, though there are some in Rivendell who remember it well. Why do you ask, my dear hobbit? Have you suddenly sprung up with an interest in the histories of other races, or are you playing riddles with me?"
Bilbo thought of the book, now on his pack in his room. "My curiosity has been tickled, you could say. I spoke with Master Elrond last night. He sung to me of a king called Gil-galad, but I don't think I've ever heard of him before."
Gandalf inhaled through his pipe so hard it whistled, and blew out another enormous smoke ring, so large he could've fit Bilbo through it twice over. "Gil-galad. Now that is a name one does not often hear in this house."
"Is it a secret name?"
"The High Kings are no secret of history; any Noldorin elf could speak volumes of them, for they are the favourite legends of their people. But that name," Gandalf said and paused to suck on his pipe again. "That name, like none other, brings stillness to this house and turns the sky grey, for the elves forget no-one, least of all those that they have lost forever."
"But who was he?" Bilbo asked, growing impatient in his curiosity.
Gandalf eyed him. "I thought Elrond spoke to you about him?"
"He said and sang many a fine word, but they made as much sense as elves always do when they explain large things to little people," Bilbo huffed. "Why must they talk in these confounded riddles?"
"If I recall correctly, you have done yourself well in games of riddles in the past," said Gandalf, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. "This one should not prove to be a difficult one, for it is the oldest of all riddles. If you cannot sort it out yourself, I am not certain it is my place to explain it to you."
"If you will not, I shall go and ask Master Elrond, or else rifle through his library until Master Erestor indeed comes and chases us over Bruinen, with no invitation to come back!"
Gandalf laughed and stood, straightening his back with a mighty crack. "Come, let us take a walk."
* * * * *
As they made their way into the gardens, the mist lifted and the day turned warm, though the coming winter could be seen in the way the green of the leaves was paling. There was a melancholy air about and it made Bilbo contemplative in a way he rarely was in the Shire; he saw none of the still-flowering meadows through which Gandalf guided him.
"You seem very quiet today."
Bilbo started. "I suppose I am. Something about this air and the calm of this house makes time stand still."
"Perhaps. If not the time, then at least the hearts of Men and elves, as I have seen."
In a secluded nook of the gardens, in a pool of light that streamed through the oaks and willows, was a marble bench, and next to the bench stood a marble statue. The statue was the likeness of a woman so beautiful Bilbo took her to be elven royalty, though the same sadness that permeated the air of Rivendell seemed to mar her stone face, too.
Bilbo sat down and gazed at her visage, enthralled. "Who is she?"
"Celebrían, wife of Elrond."
Bilbo's gasped and glanced at Gandalf. "Wife? But why have I not seen her before? Her, I would have noticed, even amidst all the loveliness here."
"As there are many kinds of deaths, so are there many kinds of love. Yet, they do not overcome all pain nor are they all perfect. Suffice to say that, long ago, she left the sanctuary of this house and sailed West, driven by a nameless sorrow."
His eyes on the statue again, Bilbo was reminded of the sons of Elrond and their great likeness to this statue in their fair features and in the strong set of their jaws -- much like the daughter, Arwen, was the image of her father, a noble beauty with a sharp edge of longing in her. These were things he had observed, yet it had never occurred to him to wonder about the lady of the house, for even her sons and daughter had seemed as old as the stones beneath his feet. Bilbo imagined he had thought of them as children readily sprung from the mists of time, the very light of stars and the darkness of the deep night giving them birth through some elf-magic of Elrond's.
Thinking of the lineage and the eternal loveliness of the statue, Bilbo suddenly felt uncomfortable; though hobbits above all loved family trees and the research of relations, this story seemed too private a sorrow for him to hear. It weighed down his heart.
"Why did you have to tell me this, Gandalf? I feel sad, now that I know such beauty has left our shores."
"I told you simply because you asked." Gandalf paused to re-light his pipe. "I also told you so that you could understand the meaning of the name Gil-galad in this house, for Celebrían was not the first keeper of Elrond Halfelven's heart."
Now completely baffled and his melancholy forgotten, Bilbo turned to Gandalf again. "But I thought..."
"Married they were, yes, but she still was not his first love," said Gandalf with a smile and mischief in his eye. "That honour belongs to Ereinion Gil-galad alone."
The full meaning of the words of Elrond's lay finally dawned on Bilbo; were he not already seated, he would've sought a chair that instant. "'That, which cannot be lost to even time or death'," said Bilbo quietly and recalled Elrond's voice, silver and stone, saying those same words.
"Indeed, wisely put, Bilbo, and exactly what they are even in death, Elrond and his king."
"They were," Bilbo said and made a little fussing motion with his hand, "as well?"
"Though I do not think they ever wed in the sense that you and I understand, theirs was most certainly a union of like minds. I was not there to see it myself, but those that were always speak of great love, of respect and admiration, and above all, of deep trust between the High King and his Herald. It lasted unchanging through the Second Age, I am told, until that day of great gains and souls lost."
"The war against Sauron, you mean?"
"Which beget the fall of the king," Gandalf said, and sat down on the bench. "Soon after, Elrond wed Celebrían and made himself the family you see here in Rivendell, and some of the hurt was healed. But as long as I have known Elrond -- and that would be a long time for hobbits, at least -- I have never seen him, even for a moment, forget either his king or his sorrow. Once more alone, he now calls his existence here 'lingering', as if it were not a life at all. Personally, I find that view rather too depressing."
Bilbo looked around, for the first time noticing the splendour of the gardens around him. The smell of autumn flowers was thick in the air. "I cannot imagine anyone being able to remain in a foul mood in a place that has this much beauty."
Gandalf smiled down at him, the mischief back in his eyes. "When you have seen six thousand summers, my dear hobbit, a century of melancholy is but a long day." He sucked on his pipe and the smile faded from his face; he would no longer meet Bilbo's eyes. "Time finds its own strange paths and paces in us all. Strange paths, indeed, and stranger fates still."
Bilbo watched Gandalf exhale more smoke and watch its airy dance of gossamer with unseeing eyes. When the quiet became too oppressive, Bilbo said, "Apart from the song, I have not read the story of Gil-galad's fall, or heard it in full. Do you know more of the war?"
"Certainly, and it is a good day for long stories. I will tell what I know of it; the rest, you will have to read yourself."
Sitting on the bench and in his patch of sunlight, Gandalf related to Bilbo the story of the War of the Last Alliance, of the long siege and the victory that was almost lost, yet won again at a great cost. It took him most of the morning, for it was a long and sad story that Bilbo had chosen.
"Sauron was defeated, but what a terrible, terrible cost it was," Bilbo said at the end of the tale. His hand once more stole to the ring in his pocket; its presence gave him comfort of a cold sort.
"Yes, Sauron was defeated, but not for good, for his Ring remains. It is a wicked thing -- rings of magic are many, yet none so powerful as the Ruling Ring." Gandalf paused and glanced at Bilbo. "But even if they are lesser rings, there are dangers inherent to them."
Bilbo shifted in his seat, feeling mildly peeved, for this was an old topic between them. "Oh, you and your rings and dangers, Gandalf. Never mind those on such a beautiful day! Do you know any stories of the first elven High Kings?"
Gandalf gave him a long, sharp look, but said nothing more of the Ring, or of any rings for that matter. Instead, he spoke of the First Age in stories that made Bilbo gasp and fear and laugh, and they talked so until the bells called for lunch.
* * * * *
On the morning of their leave, Bilbo tarried in his room. He sat on his bed, Elrond's book in his lap, and his mind somewhere beyond miles and years. At length, he opened the book and read the poem once more, though by now, he knew it by heart. He sang out loud:
"Through a thousand seasons of cold
no dreams but him could my heart hold."
After that, he fell silent and brought the book closer until he could smell the ancient ink and the dusty paper, and the blood that had seeped into the words. He turned the empty pages after the poem until he came to the bloodstain he knew to be there, and stopped.
"I do wonder whether this is your heart's blood or his, elf-lord," he said to himself, though it mattered not. "If it is his, yours is in the words herein."
With that, his decision was made. Shouldering his pack, Bilbo took one last look at the sanctuary of his room and descended to the great hall, where Gandalf and Elrond were already waiting for him. As was their habit, they were in deep conversation of low words that sounded grave even to Bilbo's ears.
"Fair weather, Bilbo, for our long walk," was Gandalf's greeting.
"And many a grass knoll for us to rest our weary bones on, I hope." Bilbo turned to Elrond and gave the book to him. "Here. You ought to have it back."
Elrond frowned. "Are you refusing my gift, master hobbit?"
"Oh, certainly not! I have taken the words of heroes with me," he said and patted his coat pocket; inside was his notebook, where he had copied all except those passages that he had deemed too private. "Though we are generally a homely folk, more inclined to discuss the brewing of ale than the art of waging wars, some hobbits love stories of heroes as well. One day, the song of the Elven-king will be sung from one end of the Shire to the other."
"You would teach the lay to your kin, sing these songs of my king?"
Bilbo bowed. "That, indeed, is my lofty plan, Master Elrond. Under many new skies and with many new mouths shall his glory be praised, that I promise. In the meanwhile, the book appears much more at home here than it ever would in my hobbit-hole. The words suffice for me."
At that, Elrond laughed, and his was a smile that held the radiance of endless days of summer. Caught in the luminance of the elf-lord, Bilbo blinked, and did so again as Elrond bowed down and kissed him upon his brow.
"I name you Elf-friend, Bilbo of the Shire, and may the stars shine bright upon your road. Perhaps one day, that road will lead you back here and you will sing us a hobbit's song in the Hall of Fire."
Bilbo felt a little dazed, and some of the magic of the elves came back to him. He thought of words to say but none of them seemed enough, so he stayed silent.
"Now, it is time for us to be on the long road," said Gandalf and put his hat on. He clasped Elrond's arm. "Farewell, and until next time."
"May the winds speed your seek, Mithrandir, and make your findings fair."
"I dare not hope for such luck, but you always were one to wish for the impossible, my friend," replied Gandalf with a smile.
They set off with the sun on their backs and their eyes on the horizon, sad to leave a place of such wonder as Rivendell was, even as the road called them. Bilbo thought of his sunny kitchen, where he would make tea and tell tales of the elven High Kings to anyone who would listen. He once more patted his pocket that held his notes and smiled -- for many would listen to his words, he was certain of that.
* * *
End.
NB: The bits of The Fall of Gil-galad that JRR Tolkien wrote are of course from The Fellowship of the Ring.
* * * * *
I'm knackered and overworked and LJ won't give me comment notifications. Ugh. I know the entire Internet has been excited to the point of moistness about the GoF movie, but I'm not seeing it until tomorrow. Will possibly rave and gibber about it, if only because there seems to be so much attractive... everything in it!
Managed to finish my jedi__santa in time and will now need to work on my three (three!) slashfest prompts. Efforts thereof currently resemble my drunken forays into building spaceships from popsickle sticks and Silly Putty. But I've had the pleasure of re-reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. To wit:
"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect."
Oscar, how much do I love thee?
Oh! And the opera season is winding to a close, though I still have Salome in December. Just saw Manon Lescaut where Raili Viljakainen as the title character was, alas, a few ledger lines short of a full stave. Otherwise, a delightful show, and Puccini is always a joy. In spring, oh ah, Le Nozze di Figaro is back on the Nat Opera roster. Woo hoo!
Anyway. How are you all doing?
Author: pen_and_umbra
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Elrond/Gil-galad
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I pour beetles down the waistcoat of the suggestion that I own these characters.
Summary: On the elven lay that is called The Fall of Gil-galad and how one Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit, came to teach it to Samwise Gamgee.
Notes: Had this sitting around for a while and now thought, why the hell not? Beta read by the darling snapesgrrl; any mistakes remaining herein are mine. All feedback appreciated. 5,730 words, complete.
A Thousand Seasons of Cold
* * *
On a morning of cloudless skies, long ago when fields were greener and the lands less populous, a wizard appeared in Hobbiton and knocked on the door of one Bilbo Baggins. A hobbit, Mr. Baggins was, as befitted a resident of the Shire; he was the master of Bag End and considered a most unusual fellow amongst his kind.
"Gandalf!" cried Bilbo upon the sight of his old friend. "Why, I haven't seen you since last harvest!"
Leaning on his staff, Gandalf smiled and stooped lower, for wizards were of the Big Folk, not hobbits. "I seem to have arrived just at the right moment. Tea-time, is it not, in these parts?"
"It's always tea-time in these parts when you visit! Come in, doff your hat, and have a seat. I'll go put the kettle on."
While Gandalf shook mud off his travelling cloak, Bilbo fetched tea cakes and butter and loaves of bread and a blackberry pie from his larders, heaping food upon the table until it groaned. Soon, the tea was ready, and they sat down.
"Tell me, then, Gandalf. What brings you to the Shire? Hopefully no business involving dwarves, for I will have no more part in such enterprises."
"Nay, no dwarves this time. I am journeying, for I have business in the east," Gandalf said and glanced towards the south windows. Bilbo looked, too, but all he could see there was his well-tended garden and what was left of the year's carrots sticking out of the loam. "There are matters that bear discussion and decisions that must be made."
Bilbo poured more tea and asked, "Whereabouts in the east? Surely not the mountains, not so close to winter?"
"Only as far as Rivendell, no further, but even that is a long road when travelled alone. I wonder if I could find a companion hereabouts, someone to share a pipe of leaf and a good story on the road." When Gandalf said this, his eyes fairly twinkled.
"You're going to the elves?" Bilbo said and sat up straighter.
"Indeed, to the House of Elrond, to speak with its master."
After his adventure with the dwarves, Bilbo had once journeyed to Rivendell, for his curiosity often got better of him and in any case, he had had Elrond's fine red handkerchief to return. He had stayed long enough to learn the songs and to read the elven tongues passably, leaving only when he started to miss Bag End and fried eggs and bacon too much, for the elves did not eat as often as Bilbo would have liked.
That had been years back, and suddenly Bilbo was overcome with a longing to see the airy halls of Rivendell and speak with their master once more. "Do you reckon Master Elrond still remembers this poor hobbit?" he asked.
Gandalf let out a laugh, a great bellow that made the teacups tinkle on their saucers. "Elves do not forget people, not even halflings, Bilbo Baggins. In fact, the last time I visited, he asked of you, and was gladdened to hear you were in hale spirits."
Bilbo's heart leaped at this, and his mind was set. He stood up, cleaned the plates and cups away, and found his travelling cloak and hood. While Gandalf sat, smoking and blowing rings of many colours, Bilbo packed boiled eggs and loaf of bread and a side of bacon, and shouldered his pack.
"The air is fair to-day, so we should be off now," he said, to Gandalf's apparent amusement. "Though I wonder if I have taken enough for a luncheon."
"A good journeyman I have made out of a hobbit, it seems. Do you have your pocket-handkerchief with you, dear Bilbo?"
Bilbo patted his waistcoat. "I do, two of them in fact. Though these days, I find I care not whether I leave with a pocket-handkerchief, for the road will always provide."
Gandalf rose and stuck his still-smoking pipe into his pocket. "Let us be off, then."
* * * * *
Not much can be told of their long walk, for it was a pleasant one and such walks make poor tales. Through their long days on the road, hard as they tried, they did not manage to exhaust their supply of either pipe-weed or stories, and so the days passed in high spirits. Bilbo found he had missed the open road and sleeping under the stars, and on their last evening outdoors, he told Gandalf as much.
"The road ahead leads ever on, and it calls spirits such as us, Bilbo," said Gandalf and settled down on a knoll of grass. Bilbo followed suit and together, through the glowing rings of smoke Gandalf exhaled now and then, they gazed up into the sky.
"The stars seem brighter and bluer here than they are in the Shire, as if they, too, are glad of the open skies."
"The very same stars they are, though here, some of them are closer to home. The evening star draws ever nearer," Gandalf mumbled around his pipe and pointed at the sky, "watchful of his children and those around him."
Bilbo gazed up at the high airs and the bright light there, and wondered at this world, where stars gave birth to elves. "Is it really Master Elrond's sire, or was what I heard in a song as I suspect -- a nonsense elven fable?"
Gandalf laughed and rapped Bilbo on the arm, quite hard. "Ask not such impetuous questions tomorrow, for the elves revere their parentage as much as the hobbits do."
Bilbo smiled and fell asleep under the starry dome, dreaming of deep forests and times long gone. When he awoke, the sun was already high, and they hastened to make the last leg of their journey. At the crossing of Bruinen, they were met by elves in the trees and their voices brought spring to their steps, all the way up to the path that led to the hidden vale.
The wonder of the elves had lessened in his mind, for familiarity breeds such things, but still Bilbo considered them to be the fairest of beings, both in deed and form. The green of their grass seemed luminous and the air in their abodes strung with forces that made every step he took feel lighter; soon Bilbo was singing with the elven songs that rose around them, smiling at Gandalf's laughter.
At the lowlands of the valley, they were met by the master of the Last Homely House and his kinsfolk. Bilbo bowed low and said, "I bid you good day, Master Elrond of the great house of learning and reflection, and bring good tidings."
"Welcome back, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. It brings me joy to see you so well, for the years seem to have no hold on you."
Only then did Bilbo straighten and replace his hood, looking up into the ageless face of his host. Dark of hair and fair in countenance, unchangeable and immovable as the mountains themselves, yet kind as the summer sun, had Lord Elrond always been in his mind, and naught had changed. Bilbo voiced his profuse gratitude for his warm welcome, to the apparent amusement of all.
"Well met, once more, my friend," said Gandalf to Elrond as he clasped his forearm.
"Though you are always welcome here, I wish you would once journey to Imladris with better news, Mithrandir. Upon your brow, I see the trouble that you carry," said the elf-lord in his tongue. Bilbo could hardly keep up with Elrond's words, so low was his voice.
"Nevertheless, it must be discussed," Gandalf replied before turning to Bilbo. "I will see you at dinnertime, Bilbo. I trust even you cannot find yourself in too much trouble before that."
Miffed, Bilbo assured him that he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much, and marched up towards the house. Many of the elves followed him and for the rest of the day, he was besieged with questions, for it was not often that hobbits ventured this far outside the Shire.
* * * * *
For many days, it was not often that Bilbo saw Elrond, and even more rare was the occasion when he saw Gandalf. The two and a handful of other elves seemed to be spending an awful lot of time together, that much Bilbo could discern from glimpses seen through windows, always seeing all of them deep in conversation over maps and old books of lore.
During his wanderings of the halls of Rivendell, Bilbo had come to decide that it was not so much a house as a library. Everywhere, there were thin books and thick books, books bound in leather and books in golden covers, books smaller than Bilbo's hand and books so large Bilbo imagined it would take three elves and an Ent to lift them off the shelves.
One evening, he came upon a small, secluded room, equally crammed full of books and book-reading tools and candlesticks and maps. Amidst it all sat a handsome desk, and behind the desk a most handsome chair of carved wood. Though outside, the night had fallen long ago and the only light was that of the stars, in the room, the fire was blazing in the hearth, bringing warm light to it. It came to Bilbo's head to look further in, for it was a comfortable-looking reading-room. The tall chair looked most comfortable, the polished flowers and trees engraved into it so very life-like.
The chair was elf-sized and so it took Bilbo three tries to get up on it. Once he did, he sat down, huffing and puffing, his eyes darting around for sign of on-lookers, but the late hour at Rivendell seemed deserted.
"Who is your master, then, desk of serious work and your companion, the fair chair?" asked Bilbo of the papers and books and quills set in front of him. He didn't mean to snoop, only look for a bit, but in his curiosity he wound up rifling through the papers, stopping to gaze at a gold-gilded map here or admire an engraved, raven-black quill there.
Underneath the tallest pile of the dustiest maps, he uncovered a small book. It was bound in red leather and gold and had the touch of ages about it. The cover bore no title, and that made it especially interesting to Bilbo; upon opening it, he saw that it was undeniably old. It had pages upon pages of text, gone grey with time on the fine paper; some passages were written in hurry, others with leisure and a fine hand.
At length -- for his command of the high-elven tongue was still patchy -- and to his horror, Bilbo came to realise it was a journal, not a book of tales. He made to close it but instead of behaving like a good book should, it flopped open like a gutted fish, upon the entry he saw to be the last one. To his eyes, it looked like a poem.
"A poem cannot be dangerous to see, and it could very well be a song. Yes! A tune to speed the ale or spice the mead, or perhaps a rousing tale of adventures," Bilbo muttered to himself, and picking a verse at random, he read out loud:
"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea."
When he paused to puzzle over the unknown elven king and his realm, a voice arose from nearby. The ballad was sombre, not the gay singing of the elves in the trees, and it held an ounce of sadness and enough hidden histories to make Bilbo's breath catch. The voice filled his mind with waking dreams of a mountain of black stone, ash, and bodies in armour; at his feet, the soiled ground ran in ankle-deep rivers of red and black. It was the voice of Elrond that sang thus:
"His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
His guise was a wonder to see
from his love, my heart could not flee;
but beasts of mind and evil make
were in the hide of my soul's snake.
My dark, foul dreams he did not heed
his devotion he thus decreed;
on fields of green, under skies of white,
he called us endless, ever-bright."
As Elrond sang and stepped into the light, Bilbo sat enthralled, his finger forgotten between the book. It was not of the nonsense songs of daytime; it was a ballad of grief. There were tears in Bilbo's eyes from the solemn beauty of it, and as the dreams faded away, he wiped his face with his hand.
Elrond paused and asked, "Why is such a noble tale so sad in tune, you wonder, do you not?"
Bilbo opened his mouth to reply but by the time he had got his words arranged in his head into any sensible order, Elrond had moved to the windows and continued with his lonely lament:
"His stars still call the light of dawn,
of dreams of youth and bonds long gone;
through a thousand seasons of cold
no dreams but him could my heart hold.
But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are."
Upon the last word, there was nothing but silence so sudden that Bilbo ceased breathing, in fear of breaking it. The birds had fallen silent and no elven voices had joined Elrond's; it appeared all of Rivendell held its tongue when its lord sang.
At length, Elrond turned away from the skies and to Bilbo. "There are words of heroes and there are words of the heart, Bilbo Baggins. Take heed which you should learn, lest you feel the weight of sorrows that are not meant for your kin to bear."
When Elrond took the book away from him, Bilbo felt the heat flush his cheeks. "Forgive me, Master Elrond, for I did not mean to pry. I came upon the book quite by accident and was taken in by its spell."
"There are no spells here that I have not wrought, nor words that are more well-known," said Elrond, and there was no scold in his voice. "Indeed, it has been years, nay centuries, since I have last sung of the star-fall, for all now know the story."
"This was the first time I heard it," said Bilbo. "Though stories of heroes are liked, hobbits prefer songs of our own affairs, sung in our own tongue."
When Elrond said nothing, Bilbo dared finally look up, and there was a great weight that rolled off his chest. It was not quite a smile that was on Elrond's face, nor a frown, but a distant expression that was somewhere in between. There were lines between his brows, like cleaves on a cliffside, worn by rain; his eyes were like silver and glass, ageless in their calm.
"It is a tune of great beauty, if without the merrymaking I enjoy in songs," Bilbo ventured, eager to chase away the curious melancholy that had permeated the air.
"I fear it was not a time for making merry songs when this one was written."
Elrond looked away again and Bilbo, ever-curious, followed his gaze and strained to see over the desk. What he saw was in a shadowed corner between bookcases and caskets and candelabras, a stand that held an elven armour. Bilbo's fingers itched to clean it of its grime, for he was certain it would gleam with gold and mithril if properly cared; now, it was dull with dust and dark blood. Bilbo shuddered, for his own memories were familiar with the black foulness of the orcs.
Elrond reached at the cuirass, yet not quite to touch it, and then straightened, still silent. He seemed sunk in his own dark thoughts, the book forgotten in his hand.
"It was a dark time?" Bilbo asked, curious.
"So dark that since those days, I have not taken up arms. Nor shall I ever again, unless the gathering darkness in the East reaches us," said Elrond and added, so quietly that Bilbo was not sure he had heard it at all, "May the grace of the Valar save us all from such a day."
"Long ago, it was, I suppose?"
Elrond nodded and did a curious thing: he touched his unadorned forefinger, twisting the air around it. Bilbo thought him mad, until he remembered that elves could not go mad; then he just thought Elrond old of body and forgetful, until he remembered that elves could not be those things, either.
"Those were the Days of Strife and of the Last Alliance. I was there, at the end of Elendil, at the birth of our Age, and at the fall of Gil-galad of the great sagas. For three thousand years, I have sung the verses, here and there, to Men and elves alike," he said slowly and turned to Bilbo, a curious smile on his face. "And now it seems I have sung them to a hobbit as well."
Bilbo sat back down with a gasp of sorts. The stories he had read of the dawn of Ages had seemed dusty and improbable, as if they were imaginary heroes that graced the pages, characters invented fancy fables and nothing more. Yet, there stood an elf from those fables, right before his hobbit eyes, and his hobbit head was awhirl with wonder. He found he no longer doubted that stars could sire elves.
"It seems to me that it's a very long time to sing one song," said Bilbo, for want of something more profound.
"There are songs that should not be lost, yet that has been the fate of many things that should not have been forgotten." He gave the book back to Bilbo. "The story is yours to tell now, for you would have better uses for it than I."
"I should not have this!" Bilbo protested and held the book as if it burned his hands.
"It is time for new voices to sing and tell the tales of old. I carry the memory of my king, here," said Elrond and touched his breast, over his heart. "I no longer need words on paper to be reminded of who and what he was, to my kind or to me."
Bilbo cradled the book against his chest, his fingers nervous on the worn leather. It seemed to him this king of yore had been many things, to many people, but still not a real person at all. "What was he, then?"
"That, which cannot be lost to even time or death," replied Elrond, and stepped back into the shadows. "I bid you good night, master hobbit."
Before Bilbo could speak again, Elrond had disappeared, leaving Bilbo to his solitude amongst the books once more. Yet, he saw none of the books around him save the one he was clutching, and did not hear the night-birds begin their songs anew. He only heard his thoughts, and the hiss of the fire.
* * * * *
Bilbo read the rest of the lay before he retired, for there was much more to it -- passages about the dreads of Mordor and words of such misery that he felt his eyes blur at the thoughts. All through the night, Bilbo dreamed of battles that turned green fields black, and of endless, heart-breaking hopelessness. When he awoke at first light, he felt he had not rested at all.
After breakfast, he found Gandalf outside, a book in hand and a pipe between his teeth. When he stepped on the veranda, Bilbo shivered; it was a cool autumn morning and mist hung low in the valley.
"Would it not be warmer inside?" he asked of the wizard as he took the chair next to his.
"Inside, the smoke would get to the books, and that would lead to Erestor chasing me from here to Bruinen and back," Gandalf said and gave him a sideways look. "Not to mention the master of the house forbidding me access to his books, which would be very unfortunate indeed."
With that, he blew a ring of smoke that turned golden and then blue, dancing between the branches that were their awning. Bilbo followed its path smiling, his hand in his waistcoat pocket that had the ring. At length, he came out of his early-morning trance and said, "What do you know of the Last Alliance, Gandalf? Were you there?"
"Before my time here, that was, though there are some in Rivendell who remember it well. Why do you ask, my dear hobbit? Have you suddenly sprung up with an interest in the histories of other races, or are you playing riddles with me?"
Bilbo thought of the book, now on his pack in his room. "My curiosity has been tickled, you could say. I spoke with Master Elrond last night. He sung to me of a king called Gil-galad, but I don't think I've ever heard of him before."
Gandalf inhaled through his pipe so hard it whistled, and blew out another enormous smoke ring, so large he could've fit Bilbo through it twice over. "Gil-galad. Now that is a name one does not often hear in this house."
"Is it a secret name?"
"The High Kings are no secret of history; any Noldorin elf could speak volumes of them, for they are the favourite legends of their people. But that name," Gandalf said and paused to suck on his pipe again. "That name, like none other, brings stillness to this house and turns the sky grey, for the elves forget no-one, least of all those that they have lost forever."
"But who was he?" Bilbo asked, growing impatient in his curiosity.
Gandalf eyed him. "I thought Elrond spoke to you about him?"
"He said and sang many a fine word, but they made as much sense as elves always do when they explain large things to little people," Bilbo huffed. "Why must they talk in these confounded riddles?"
"If I recall correctly, you have done yourself well in games of riddles in the past," said Gandalf, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. "This one should not prove to be a difficult one, for it is the oldest of all riddles. If you cannot sort it out yourself, I am not certain it is my place to explain it to you."
"If you will not, I shall go and ask Master Elrond, or else rifle through his library until Master Erestor indeed comes and chases us over Bruinen, with no invitation to come back!"
Gandalf laughed and stood, straightening his back with a mighty crack. "Come, let us take a walk."
* * * * *
As they made their way into the gardens, the mist lifted and the day turned warm, though the coming winter could be seen in the way the green of the leaves was paling. There was a melancholy air about and it made Bilbo contemplative in a way he rarely was in the Shire; he saw none of the still-flowering meadows through which Gandalf guided him.
"You seem very quiet today."
Bilbo started. "I suppose I am. Something about this air and the calm of this house makes time stand still."
"Perhaps. If not the time, then at least the hearts of Men and elves, as I have seen."
In a secluded nook of the gardens, in a pool of light that streamed through the oaks and willows, was a marble bench, and next to the bench stood a marble statue. The statue was the likeness of a woman so beautiful Bilbo took her to be elven royalty, though the same sadness that permeated the air of Rivendell seemed to mar her stone face, too.
Bilbo sat down and gazed at her visage, enthralled. "Who is she?"
"Celebrían, wife of Elrond."
Bilbo's gasped and glanced at Gandalf. "Wife? But why have I not seen her before? Her, I would have noticed, even amidst all the loveliness here."
"As there are many kinds of deaths, so are there many kinds of love. Yet, they do not overcome all pain nor are they all perfect. Suffice to say that, long ago, she left the sanctuary of this house and sailed West, driven by a nameless sorrow."
His eyes on the statue again, Bilbo was reminded of the sons of Elrond and their great likeness to this statue in their fair features and in the strong set of their jaws -- much like the daughter, Arwen, was the image of her father, a noble beauty with a sharp edge of longing in her. These were things he had observed, yet it had never occurred to him to wonder about the lady of the house, for even her sons and daughter had seemed as old as the stones beneath his feet. Bilbo imagined he had thought of them as children readily sprung from the mists of time, the very light of stars and the darkness of the deep night giving them birth through some elf-magic of Elrond's.
Thinking of the lineage and the eternal loveliness of the statue, Bilbo suddenly felt uncomfortable; though hobbits above all loved family trees and the research of relations, this story seemed too private a sorrow for him to hear. It weighed down his heart.
"Why did you have to tell me this, Gandalf? I feel sad, now that I know such beauty has left our shores."
"I told you simply because you asked." Gandalf paused to re-light his pipe. "I also told you so that you could understand the meaning of the name Gil-galad in this house, for Celebrían was not the first keeper of Elrond Halfelven's heart."
Now completely baffled and his melancholy forgotten, Bilbo turned to Gandalf again. "But I thought..."
"Married they were, yes, but she still was not his first love," said Gandalf with a smile and mischief in his eye. "That honour belongs to Ereinion Gil-galad alone."
The full meaning of the words of Elrond's lay finally dawned on Bilbo; were he not already seated, he would've sought a chair that instant. "'That, which cannot be lost to even time or death'," said Bilbo quietly and recalled Elrond's voice, silver and stone, saying those same words.
"Indeed, wisely put, Bilbo, and exactly what they are even in death, Elrond and his king."
"They were," Bilbo said and made a little fussing motion with his hand, "as well?"
"Though I do not think they ever wed in the sense that you and I understand, theirs was most certainly a union of like minds. I was not there to see it myself, but those that were always speak of great love, of respect and admiration, and above all, of deep trust between the High King and his Herald. It lasted unchanging through the Second Age, I am told, until that day of great gains and souls lost."
"The war against Sauron, you mean?"
"Which beget the fall of the king," Gandalf said, and sat down on the bench. "Soon after, Elrond wed Celebrían and made himself the family you see here in Rivendell, and some of the hurt was healed. But as long as I have known Elrond -- and that would be a long time for hobbits, at least -- I have never seen him, even for a moment, forget either his king or his sorrow. Once more alone, he now calls his existence here 'lingering', as if it were not a life at all. Personally, I find that view rather too depressing."
Bilbo looked around, for the first time noticing the splendour of the gardens around him. The smell of autumn flowers was thick in the air. "I cannot imagine anyone being able to remain in a foul mood in a place that has this much beauty."
Gandalf smiled down at him, the mischief back in his eyes. "When you have seen six thousand summers, my dear hobbit, a century of melancholy is but a long day." He sucked on his pipe and the smile faded from his face; he would no longer meet Bilbo's eyes. "Time finds its own strange paths and paces in us all. Strange paths, indeed, and stranger fates still."
Bilbo watched Gandalf exhale more smoke and watch its airy dance of gossamer with unseeing eyes. When the quiet became too oppressive, Bilbo said, "Apart from the song, I have not read the story of Gil-galad's fall, or heard it in full. Do you know more of the war?"
"Certainly, and it is a good day for long stories. I will tell what I know of it; the rest, you will have to read yourself."
Sitting on the bench and in his patch of sunlight, Gandalf related to Bilbo the story of the War of the Last Alliance, of the long siege and the victory that was almost lost, yet won again at a great cost. It took him most of the morning, for it was a long and sad story that Bilbo had chosen.
"Sauron was defeated, but what a terrible, terrible cost it was," Bilbo said at the end of the tale. His hand once more stole to the ring in his pocket; its presence gave him comfort of a cold sort.
"Yes, Sauron was defeated, but not for good, for his Ring remains. It is a wicked thing -- rings of magic are many, yet none so powerful as the Ruling Ring." Gandalf paused and glanced at Bilbo. "But even if they are lesser rings, there are dangers inherent to them."
Bilbo shifted in his seat, feeling mildly peeved, for this was an old topic between them. "Oh, you and your rings and dangers, Gandalf. Never mind those on such a beautiful day! Do you know any stories of the first elven High Kings?"
Gandalf gave him a long, sharp look, but said nothing more of the Ring, or of any rings for that matter. Instead, he spoke of the First Age in stories that made Bilbo gasp and fear and laugh, and they talked so until the bells called for lunch.
* * * * *
On the morning of their leave, Bilbo tarried in his room. He sat on his bed, Elrond's book in his lap, and his mind somewhere beyond miles and years. At length, he opened the book and read the poem once more, though by now, he knew it by heart. He sang out loud:
"Through a thousand seasons of cold
no dreams but him could my heart hold."
After that, he fell silent and brought the book closer until he could smell the ancient ink and the dusty paper, and the blood that had seeped into the words. He turned the empty pages after the poem until he came to the bloodstain he knew to be there, and stopped.
"I do wonder whether this is your heart's blood or his, elf-lord," he said to himself, though it mattered not. "If it is his, yours is in the words herein."
With that, his decision was made. Shouldering his pack, Bilbo took one last look at the sanctuary of his room and descended to the great hall, where Gandalf and Elrond were already waiting for him. As was their habit, they were in deep conversation of low words that sounded grave even to Bilbo's ears.
"Fair weather, Bilbo, for our long walk," was Gandalf's greeting.
"And many a grass knoll for us to rest our weary bones on, I hope." Bilbo turned to Elrond and gave the book to him. "Here. You ought to have it back."
Elrond frowned. "Are you refusing my gift, master hobbit?"
"Oh, certainly not! I have taken the words of heroes with me," he said and patted his coat pocket; inside was his notebook, where he had copied all except those passages that he had deemed too private. "Though we are generally a homely folk, more inclined to discuss the brewing of ale than the art of waging wars, some hobbits love stories of heroes as well. One day, the song of the Elven-king will be sung from one end of the Shire to the other."
"You would teach the lay to your kin, sing these songs of my king?"
Bilbo bowed. "That, indeed, is my lofty plan, Master Elrond. Under many new skies and with many new mouths shall his glory be praised, that I promise. In the meanwhile, the book appears much more at home here than it ever would in my hobbit-hole. The words suffice for me."
At that, Elrond laughed, and his was a smile that held the radiance of endless days of summer. Caught in the luminance of the elf-lord, Bilbo blinked, and did so again as Elrond bowed down and kissed him upon his brow.
"I name you Elf-friend, Bilbo of the Shire, and may the stars shine bright upon your road. Perhaps one day, that road will lead you back here and you will sing us a hobbit's song in the Hall of Fire."
Bilbo felt a little dazed, and some of the magic of the elves came back to him. He thought of words to say but none of them seemed enough, so he stayed silent.
"Now, it is time for us to be on the long road," said Gandalf and put his hat on. He clasped Elrond's arm. "Farewell, and until next time."
"May the winds speed your seek, Mithrandir, and make your findings fair."
"I dare not hope for such luck, but you always were one to wish for the impossible, my friend," replied Gandalf with a smile.
They set off with the sun on their backs and their eyes on the horizon, sad to leave a place of such wonder as Rivendell was, even as the road called them. Bilbo thought of his sunny kitchen, where he would make tea and tell tales of the elven High Kings to anyone who would listen. He once more patted his pocket that held his notes and smiled -- for many would listen to his words, he was certain of that.
* * *
End.
NB: The bits of The Fall of Gil-galad that JRR Tolkien wrote are of course from The Fellowship of the Ring.
* * * * *
I'm knackered and overworked and LJ won't give me comment notifications. Ugh. I know the entire Internet has been excited to the point of moistness about the GoF movie, but I'm not seeing it until tomorrow. Will possibly rave and gibber about it, if only because there seems to be so much attractive... everything in it!
Managed to finish my jedi__santa in time and will now need to work on my three (three!) slashfest prompts. Efforts thereof currently resemble my drunken forays into building spaceships from popsickle sticks and Silly Putty. But I've had the pleasure of re-reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. To wit:
"How dreadful!" cried Lord Henry. "I can stand brute force, but brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect."
Oscar, how much do I love thee?
Oh! And the opera season is winding to a close, though I still have Salome in December. Just saw Manon Lescaut where Raili Viljakainen as the title character was, alas, a few ledger lines short of a full stave. Otherwise, a delightful show, and Puccini is always a joy. In spring, oh ah, Le Nozze di Figaro is back on the Nat Opera roster. Woo hoo!
Anyway. How are you all doing?