The Lord of the Rings

by J. R. R. Tolkien

  ‘Why, sitting and thinking. I do a lot of that nowadays, and this is the best place to do it in, as a rule. Wake up, indeed!’ he said, cocking an eye at Elrond. There was a bright twinkle in it and no sign of sleepiness that Frodo could see. ‘Wake up! I was not asleep, Master Elrond. If you want to know, you have all come out from your feast too soon, and you have disturbed me – in the middle of making up a song. I was stuck over a line or two, and was thinking about them; but now I don’t suppose I shall ever get them right. There will be such a deal of singing that the ideas will be driven clean out of my head. I shall have to get my friend the Dúnadan to help me. Where is he?’

  Elrond laughed. ‘He shall be found,’ he said. ‘Then you two shall go into a corner and finish your task, and we will hear it and judge it before we end our merrymaking.’ Messengers were sent to find Bilbo’s friend, though none knew where he was, or why he had not been present at the feast.

  In the meanwhile Frodo and Bilbo sat side by side, and Sam came quickly and placed himself near them. They talked together in soft voices, oblivious of the mirth and music in the hall about them. Bilbo had not much to say of himself. When he had left Hobbiton he had wandered off aimlessly, along the Road or in the country on either side; but somehow he had steered all the time towards Rivendell.

  ‘I got here without much adventure,’ he said, ‘and after a rest I went on with the dwarves to Dale: my last journey. I shan’t travel again. Old Balin had gone away. Then I came back here, and here I have been. I have done this and that. I have written some more of my book. And, of course, I make up a few songs. They sing them occasionally: just to please me, I think; for, of course, they aren’t really good enough for Rivendell. And I listen and I think. Time doesn’t seem to pass here: it just is. A remarkable place altogether.

  ‘I hear all kinds of news, from over the Mountains, and out of the South, but hardly anything from the Shire. I heard about the Ring, of course. Gandalf has been here often. Not that he has told me a great deal, he has become closer than ever these last few years. The Dúnadan has told me more. Fancy that ring of mine causing such a disturbance! It is a pity that Gandalf did not find out more sooner. I could have brought the thing here myself long ago without so much trouble. I have thought several times of going back to Hobbiton for it; but I am getting old, and they would not let me: Gandalf and Elrond, I mean. They seemed to think that the Enemy was looking high and low for me, and would make mincemeat of me, if he caught me tottering about in the Wild.

  ‘And Gandalf said: “The Ring has passed on, Bilbo. It would do no good to you or to others, if you tried to meddle with it again.” Odd sort of remark, just like Gandalf. But he said he was looking after you, so I let things be. I am frightfully glad to see you safe and sound.’ He paused and looked at Frodo doubtfully.

  ‘Have you got it here?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘I can’t help feeling curious, you know, after all I’ve heard. I should very much like just to peep at it again.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it,’ answered Frodo, feeling a strange reluctance. ‘It looks just the same as ever it did.’

  ‘Well, I should just like to see it for a moment,’ said Bilbo.

  When he had dressed, Frodo found that while he slept the Ring had been hung about his neck on a new chain, light but strong. Slowly he drew it out. Bilbo put out his hand. But Frodo quickly drew back the Ring. To his distress and amazement he found that he was no longer looking at Bilbo; a shadow seemed to have fallen between them, and through it he found himself eyeing a little wrinkled creature with a hungry face and bony groping hands. He felt a desire to strike him.

  The music and singing round them seemed to falter, and a silence fell. Bilbo looked quickly at Frodo’s face and passed his hand across his eyes. ‘I understand now,’ he said. ‘Put it away! I am sorry: sorry you have come in for this burden; sorry about everything. Don’t adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story. Well, it can’t be helped. I wonder if it’s any good trying to finish my book? But don’t let’s worry about it now – let’s have some real News! Tell me all about the Shire!’

  Frodo hid the Ring away, and the shadow passed leaving hardly a shred of memory. The light and music of Rivendell was about him again. Bilbo smiled and laughed happily. Every item of news from the Shire that Frodo could tell – aided and corrected now and again by Sam – was of the greatest interest to him, from the felling of the least tree to the pranks of the smallest child in Hobbiton. They were so deep in the doings of the Four Farthings that they did not notice the arrival of a man clad in dark green cloth. For many minutes he stood looking down at them with a smile.

  Suddenly Bilbo looked up. ‘Ah, there you are at last, Dúnadan!’ he cried.

  ‘Strider!’ said Frodo. ‘You seem to have a lot of names.’

  ‘Well, Strider is one that I haven’t heard before, anyway,’ said Bilbo. ‘What do you call him that for?’

  ‘They call me that in Bree,’ said Strider laughing, ‘and that is how I was introduced to him.’

  ‘And why do you call him Dúnadan?’ asked Frodo.

  ‘The Dúnadan,’ said Bilbo. ‘He is often called that here. But I thought you knew enough Elvish at least to know dún-adan: Man of the West, Númenórean. But this is not the time for lessons!’ He turned to Strider. ‘Where have you been, my friend? Why weren’t you at the feast? The Lady Arwen was there.’

  Strider looked down at Bilbo gravely. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the Wild unlooked-for, and they had tidings that I wished to hear at once.’

  ‘Well, my dear fellow,’ said Bilbo, ‘now you’ve heard the news, can’t you spare me a moment? I want your help in something urgent. Elrond says this song of mine is to be finished before the end of the evening, and I am stuck. Let’s go off into a corner and polish it up!’

  Strider smiled. ‘Come then!’ he said. ‘Let me hear it!’

  Frodo was left to himself for a while, for Sam had fallen asleep. He was alone and felt rather forlorn, although all about him the folk of Rivendell were gathered. But those near him were silent, intent upon the music of the voices and the instruments, and they gave no heed to anything else. Frodo began to listen.

  At first the beauty of the melodies and of the interwoven words in elven-tongues, even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as he began to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened out before him; and the firelit hall became like a golden mist above seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike, until he felt that an endless river of swelling gold and silver was flowing over him, too multitudinous for its pattern to be comprehended; it became part of the throbbing air about him, and it drenched and drowned him. Swiftly he sank under its shining weight into a deep realm of sleep.

  There he wandered long in a dream of music that turned into running water, and then suddenly into a voice. It seemed to be the voice of Bilbo chanting verses. Faint at first and then clearer ran the words.

  Eärendil was a mariner

  that tarried in Arvernien;

  he built a boat of timber felled

  in Nimbrethil to journey in;

  her sails he wove of silver fair,

  of silver were her lanterns made,

  her prow he fashioned like a swan,

  and light upon her banners laid.

  In panoply of ancient kings,

  in chainéd rings he armoured him;

  his shining shield was scored with runes

  to ward all wounds and harm from him;

  his bow was made of dragon-horn,

  his arrows shorn of ebony,

  of silver was his habergeon,

  his scabbard of chalcedony;

  his sword of steel was valiant,

  of adamant his helmet tall,

  a
n eagle-plume upon his crest,

  upon his breast an emerald.

  Beneath the Moon and under star

  he wandered far from northern strands,

  bewildered on enchanted ways

  beyond the days of mortal lands.

  From gnashing of the Narrow Ice

  where shadow lies on frozen hills,

  from nether heats and burning waste

  he turned in haste, and roving still

  on starless waters far astray

  at last he came to Night of Naught,

  and passed, and never sight he saw

  of shining shore nor light he sought.

  The winds of wrath came driving him,

  and blindly in the foam he fled

  from west to east, and errandless,

  unheralded he homeward sped.

  There flying Elwing came to him,

  and flame was in the darkness lit;

  more bright than light of diamond

  the fire upon her carcanet.

  The Silmaril she bound on him

  and crowned him with the living light,

  and dauntless then with burning brow

  he turned his prow; and in the night

  from Otherworld beyond the Sea

  there strong and free a storm arose,

  a wind of power in Tarmenel;

  by paths that seldom mortal goes

  his boat it bore with biting breath

  as might of death across the grey

  and long-forsaken seas distressed:

  from east to west he passed away.

  Through Evernight he back was borne

  on black and roaring waves that ran

  o’er leagues unlit and foundered shores

  that drowned before the Days began,

  until he heard on strands of pearl

  where ends the world the music long,

  where ever-foaming billows roll

  the yellow gold and jewels wan.

  He saw the Mountain silent rise

  where twilight lies upon the knees

  of Valinor, and Eldamar

  beheld afar beyond the seas.

  A wanderer escaped from night

  to haven white he came at last,

  to Elvenhome the green and fair

  where keen the air, where pale as glass

  beneath the Hill of Ilmarin

  a-glimmer in a valley sheer

  the lamplit towers of Tirion

  are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

  He tarried there from errantry,

  and melodies they taught to him,

  and sages old him marvels told,

  and harps of gold they brought to him.

  They clothed him then in elven-white,

  and seven lights before him sent,

  as through the Calacirian

  to hidden land forlorn he went.

  He came unto the timeless halls

  where shining fall the countless years,

  and endless reigns the Elder King

  in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;

  and words unheard were spoken then

  of folk of Men and Elven-kin,

  beyond the world were visions showed

  forbid to those that dwell therein.

  A ship then new they built for him

  of mithril and of elven-glass

  with shining prow; no shaven oar

  nor sail she bore on silver mast:

  the Silmaril as lantern light

  and banner bright with living flame

  to gleam thereon by Elbereth

  herself was set, who thither came

  and wings immortal made for him,

  and laid on him undying doom,

  to sail the shoreless skies and come

  behind the Sun and light of Moon.

  From Evereven’s lofty hills

  where softly silver fountains fall

  his wings him bore, a wandering light,

  beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.

  From World’s End then he turned away,

  and yearned again to find afar

  his home through shadows journeying,

  and burning as an island star

  on high above the mists he came,

  a distant flame before the Sun,

  a wonder ere the waking dawn

  where grey the Norland waters run.

  And over Middle-earth he passed

  and heard at last the weeping sore

  of women and of elven-maids

  in Elder Days, in years of yore.

  But on him mighty doom was laid,

  till Moon should fade, an orbéd star

  to pass, and tarry never more

  on Hither Shores where mortals are;

  for ever still a herald on

  an errand that should never rest

  to bear his shining lamp afar,

  the Flammifer of Westernesse.

  The chanting ceased. Frodo opened his eyes and saw that Bilbo was seated on his stool in a circle of listeners, who were smiling and applauding.

  ‘Now we had better have it again,’ said an Elf.

  Bilbo got up and bowed. ‘I am flattered, Lindir,’ he said. ‘But it would be too tiring to repeat it all.’

  ‘Not too tiring for you,’ the Elves answered laughing. ‘You know you are never tired of reciting your own verses. But really we cannot answer your question at one hearing!’

  ‘What!’ cried Bilbo. ‘You can’t tell which parts were mine, and which were the Dúnadan’s?’

  ‘It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals,’ said the Elf.

  ‘Nonsense, Lindir,’ snorted Bilbo. ‘If you can’t distinguish between a Man and a Hobbit, your judgement is poorer than I imagined. They’re as different as peas and apples.’

  ‘Maybe. To sheep other sheep no doubt appear different,’ laughed Lindir. ‘Or to shepherds. But Mortals have not been our study. We have other business.’

  ‘I won’t argue with you,’ said Bilbo. ‘I am sleepy after so much music and singing. I’ll leave you to guess, if you want to.’

  He got up and came towards Frodo. ‘Well, that’s over,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It went off better than I expected. I don’t often get asked for a second hearing. What did you think of it?’

  ‘I am not going to try and guess,’ said Frodo smiling.

  ‘You needn’t,’ said Bilbo. ‘As a matter of fact it was all mine. Except that Aragorn insisted on my putting in a green stone. He seemed to think it important. I don’t know why. Otherwise he obviously thought the whole thing rather above my head, and he said that if I had the cheek to make verses about Eärendil in the house of Elrond, it was my affair. I suppose he was right.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frodo. ‘It seemed to me to fit somehow, though I can’t explain. I was half asleep when you began, and it seemed to follow on from something that I was dreaming about. I didn’t understand that it was really you speaking until near the end.’

  ‘It is difficult to keep awake here, until you get used to it,’ said Bilbo. ‘Not that hobbits would ever acquire quite the Elvish appetite for music and poetry and tales. They seem to like them as much as food, or more. They will be going on for a long time yet. What do you say to slipping off for some more quiet talk?’

  ‘Can we?’ said Frodo.

  ‘Of course. This is merrymaking not business. Come and go as you like, as long as you don’t make a noise.’

  They got up and withdrew quietly into the shadows, and made for the doors. Sam they left behind, fast asleep still with a smile on his face. In spite of his delight in Bilbo’s company Frodo felt a tug of regret as they passed out of the Hall of Fire. Even as they stepped over the threshold a single clear voice rose in song.

  A Elbereth Gilthoniel,

  silivren penna miriel

  o menel aglar elenath!

  Na-chaered palan-diriel

  o galadhremmin ennorath,

  Fanuilos, le linnathon


  nef aear, sí nef aearon!

  Frodo halted for a moment, looking back. Elrond was in his chair and the fire was on his face like summer-light upon the trees. Near him sat the Lady Arwen. To his surprise Frodo saw that Aragorn stood beside her; his dark cloak was thrown back, and he seemed to be clad in elven-mail, and a star shone on his breast. They spoke together, and then suddenly it seemed to Frodo that Arwen turned towards him, and the light of her eyes fell on him from afar and pierced his heart.

  He stood still enchanted, while the sweet syllables of the Elvish song fell like clear jewels of blended word and melody. ‘It is a song to Elbereth,’ said Bilbo. ‘They will sing that, and other songs of the Blessed Realm, many times tonight. Come on!’

  He led Frodo back to his own little room. It opened on to the gardens and looked south across the ravine of the Bruinen. There they sat for some while, looking through the window at the bright stars above the steep-climbing woods, and talking softly. They spoke no more of the small news of the Shire far away, nor of the dark shadows and perils that encompassed them, but of the fair things they had seen in the world together, of the Elves, of the stars, of trees, and the gentle fall of the bright year in the woods.

  At last there came a knock on the door. ‘Begging your pardon,’ said Sam, putting in his head, ‘but I was just wondering if you would be wanting anything.’

  ‘And begging yours, Sam Gamgee,’ replied Bilbo. ‘I guess you mean that it is time your master went to bed.’

  ‘Well, sir, there is a Council early tomorrow, I hear, and he only got up today for the first time.’

  ‘Quite right, Sam,’ laughed Bilbo. ‘You can trot off and tell Gandalf that he has gone to bed. Good night, Frodo! Bless me, but it has been good to see you again! There are no folk like hobbits after all for a real good talk. I am getting very old, and I began to wonder if I should live to see your chapters of our story. Good night! I’ll take a walk, I think, and look at the stars of Elbereth in the garden. Sleep well!’

  Chapter 2

  THE COUNCIL OF ELROND

  Next day Frodo woke early, feeling refreshed and well. He walked along the terraces above the loud-flowing Bruinen and watched the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains, and shine down, slanting through the thin silver mist; the dew upon the yellow leaves was glimmering, and the woven nets of gossamer twinkled on every bush. Sam walked beside him, saying nothing, but sniffing the air, and looking every now and again with wonder in his eyes at the great heights in the East. The snow was white upon their peaks.