All that is gold…

Imladris, May 1^st 2942

The lines of marching warriors had not moved since the last time he checked.

With a bored sigh Estel closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to fall asleep immediately –to no avail. On their own accord his eyes snapped open again and his gaze rested for the tenth time that night on his collection of wooden elves and horses, arranged in victorious parade upon the chest that contained the rest of his toys.

A shaft of moonlight filtered inside his room, and by its position Estel could tell that it was not yet midnight. The rest of the household would surely be still in the Hall of Fire, he thought with mild resentment, celebrating with the Wizard and the Perian.

He punched his pillow half-heartedly and rearranged the heavy blanket, trying not to think of the two mysterious visitors and the dangerous, awe-inspiring adventures that they were surely recounting.

He inhaled deeply and forced his eyes closed again.

He lay there for a while, listening to his own even breathing, trying to keep his mind blank as Elladan had told him that all warriors learnt to do. That trick always ended up with Estel falling asleep, and he secretly wondered the convenience of it, since warriors were not supposed to fall asleep while readying for battle.

Unfortunately the trick was not working tonight, and after lying motionless for some time, Estel was still fully awake and more alert than when he had been sent to bed.

He turned again and moaned in hopeless exasperation as he faced the other side of his chamber, which had not changed in the very least since the last inspection.

With a cold foot he furiously scratched an itchy shin under the soft fabric of his nightshirt. He was too nervous to find sleep, he admitted, wondering whether some water would calm his restlessness. With sudden decision he kicked the blanket away and stood up quickly; fresh and eager as if he had already rested a full night. He walked to the washstand, picked the jar there and poured a glass of water.

He looked around as he drank, studying his chamber in search of inspiration. Since he was outside the bed, he told himself reasonably, it was clear that he had given up trying to sleep for now, so he’d better entertain himself until he got all heavy-eyed and drowsy. He set his eyes on his pack, ready and waiting for tomorrow’s adventure, and decided to check it once again.

That morning, tired of hearing his bitter complaints about being forced to remain out of sight of those visitors while the weather was so fair, Elrohir had offered to take Estel to the spring grasslands for a few days, to check on the mares and the new colts. Excited with the prospect, the child had busied himself for the rest of the day helping Cook prepare provisions for the trip and checking the items that they needed to carry with them. Then the visitors arrived and Estel was unceremoniously banished from the kitchens by a worried Glorfindel, who knew of the Perian’s fondness for Cook’s company –and for his renowned honey cakes. After that, he had wandered the corridors and back yards mournfully until it was time for bed, hoping to get a glimpse of the adventurers, his boredom only eased by the prospect of next day’s trip.

Now, comfortably seated on the woollen rug patterned with stars that his naneth had woven for him, Estel searched frantically the contents of his pack. Panic seized him for a moment when he realized what was missing. The sharp, short dagger that Glorfindel had given him for his eleventh birthday –a warrior’s weapon, he had told his naneth proudly- was not there, nor anywhere else in his chamber, of that he was sure.

“You must be responsible for your things, Estel. Every time I find something that belongs to you out of place I am going to keep it for as long as I deem fitting!” Erestor’s admonishing voice resounded in Estel’s ears, and he winced in chagrin, for he usually disregarded the stern councillor’s warnings with the light-heartedness of youth. Fretting, he tried to remember when he had last used his beloved knife. He had taken to wearing it inside his right boot –as warriors did- since his birthday, but it had not been strapped to his ankle when he had bathed that evening –he now realized. Close to tears, he bit his lip and thought furiously.

“The kitchens!” he exclaimed aloud, and then groaned in dismay. He had been sitting there, laboriously carving a whistle out of a grouse bone that Cook had gifted him in return for his help, when Glorfindel arrived and urged him away to the family quarters, claiming that the Wizard and the Perian were already coming up from the stables.

What was he going to do now? Estel pouted in despair. If Erestor found it there next morning he would surely keep it for some time, and the precious knife was currently Estel’s most valuable possession.

Besides, he could not go on a mission unarmed.

“A warrior must take good care of his own weapons, because his life -and others’- depend on them,” his brothers told him when he wondered why they spent so much time polishing and greasing and generally caring for their long knives and swords and bows –an activity he found most exasperating since he was not allowed to get close to them when they were thusly engaged.

What if Elrohir got trapped and Estel could not release him with his bare hands, or a wild beast attacked them and his brother counted on Estel’s dagger to deliver them from danger? A grim look set on his face as he made up his mind. He would risk being caught wandering the house in the middle of the night -and his naneth’s wrath- but he would not remain idle in bed without redressing that mistake that could have terrible consequences.

Certain that he was on a noble quest, he felt the excitement of danger pound within as he went to the door and opened it silently, then peered cautiously and made sure that no light or sound filtered from his naneth’s bedroom, at the other side of the living room that they shared.

Advancing with the stealth and ability of an Elf in a scouting mission, Estel made his way carefully across the room. Unexpectedly, he stepped upon something sharp and jumped away, yelping in surprise and pushing a chair that scraped the wooden floor. Frozen in place, he waited anxiously.

Reassured that his naneth had not been disturbed by the noise, he looked down and found out that he had walked on one of his wooden blades, carelessly abandoned on the floor. “Erestor is right,” he admitted warily. “This forgotten toy could have cost me the mission.”

Estel released a deep sigh as he finally reached the long, half-lit corridor of the family wing without more incidents. He silently closed the door to their suit of chambers and leaned against it while considering the fastest and safest way to the kitchens through the many passages in the Last Homely House. His heart was beating so loudly in his chest that he feared those lingering in the Hall of Fire would hear it if their singing stopped for a moment. With a deep intake he forced himself to calm down before proceeding to the next stage of his quest.

~*~ ~*~

“And a good night to you as well, my good elves!” Bilbo closed the window with a smile and shook his head in resignation, as a new round of the refrain reached him mixed with soft, silvery laughs.

Sing we now softly, and dreams let us weave him!

Wind him in slumber and there let us leave him!

The wanderer sleepeth. Now soft be his pillow!

Lullaby! Lullaby! Alder and Willow!

Despite their countless years, the gravity of their wisdom and their unfathomable sadness, those creatures were unbeatable at merrymaking as well, Bilbo concluded with the certainty of a year’s worth of experiences among elves. He walked back to his inviting bed followed by the fading echo of the most beautiful voices he had ever heard.

“It seems impossible that it has been almost a year!” he had wondered in awe that afternoon as a chorus of “Come! Tra-la-la-lally! Come back to the valley!” greeted them on arrival. Tuluniben, the young butler’s assistant, and his friends were again rehearsing for the Midsummer’s festival, and it seemed that their rhymes were not much changed since last year’s winning refrain, although how the news concerning the Battle of the Five Armies and the fall of the dragon had reached them in time for a welcome song to be ready was a mystery to Bilbo.

“The Lord of Eagles keeps an alliance with Lord Elrond,” Gandalf had told him after he wondered aloud. “And there are other ways for messages to reach elven ears.”

They had been greeted as heroes, and given food -and a wine that reminded Bilbo of King Thranduil’s- to their hearts’ content. After dinner they had all gathered ceremoniously in the Hall of Fire, where they had sung of Bilbo’s deeds to the hobbit’s shameless delight. Many other songs where sung and many old, wonderful tales were told that night until even the scholar deep in Bilbo Baggins began to nod helplessly. He took his leave from his kind host and his cheery company then and followed one of the lord’s twin sons to the chambers assigned to him.

He had not slept in a room like that since taking leave from Thranduil, and Bilbo’s more sedentary side awoke with a vengeance at the sight of the comfortable, big bed. Soon he was fast asleep.

He was sure he had barely had time to close his eyes when the chorus of merry voices called him back into vigil singing again that ridiculous lullaby in the garden, loudly enough to pull a wintering bear from his slumber. He had dragged himself to the window and had exchanged witty barbs with the merrymakers, and such was the healing power of the Homely House that he now felt refreshed and renewed as if he had slept the whole night away, although by the position of the moon he could tell that actually less than an hour had passed since he had went to bed.

“Well, if I cannot sleep surely I can have something to eat,” Bilbo told himself without remorse as the elven voices faded away towards the river, patting his stomach and finding that it wholly supported the suggestion.

As his sense of respectability dictated, he dressed again to a minimum –trousers and his wrinkled tunic- and barefoot and silent as one of the Firstborn he trusted his senses to lead him to the kitchens.

It took him some time to make his way through the many passages and flights of stairs, since they had been given different chambers on a different side of the big house this time, but in the end Bilbo managed to find the right stairway and made his way carefully and silently into the empty kitchen, where two of the mighty fires still blazed lazily, the frenzy of dinner already forgotten.

Although there were a couple of lamps hanging from hooks beside the door, Bilbo had the sharp eyes of his race and needed not help to make his way across the wide, neatly arranged kitchen and into the larder. The dim glow of the fires was enough for him to find what he was looking for.

Engrossed in choosing his favourite dainties for that second dinner, he almost missed the soft steps that came from the corridor and towards the kitchen. Suddenly panicking that he would be caught once more helping himself uninvited from an Elf-lord’s store, he fumbled nervously in his pockets stuffing them with apples, honey cakes and dried fruits, while looking for a hiding place. As he fought to make room for a last apple, he found Gollum’s ring unexpectedly –he was sure he had left it in his waistcoat- and without thinking he pushed his finger into it and vanished from sight.

~*~ ~*~

The excitement receded in the Hall of Fire after the younger ones went outside to continue with their revelry under the stars. The fires glowed a dim twilight by then and the remaining elves were scattered in small groups over the vast chamber.

The Lord of the House sat at his accustomed corner in a high, delicately carved chair, his back to the wall and surrounded by his counsellors, one of his guests, the youngest of his twin sons and an empty chair. There was not much discussion at that moment, and the expressions were slightly embarrassed and confused.

“I apologize on behalf of my son,” Elrond sighed in a harsh voice, wincing slightly as the door closed with a dull sound and several worried glances were cast his way.

“Dwell not upon what might have been, Elrond, for no one knows where all roads might lead,” Mithrandir finally said, barely lifting laden eyelids to meet his host’s troubled gaze. “And that goes as well for you and your brother, young one,” he warned Elrohir, adding a defiant puff of his stinking pipe for deeper effect. Thankfully, Elrohir had the good grace of nodding humbly and keeping his peace and Erestor took advantage to wisely steer the conversation towards deeper examination of the arrangements between the restored kingdom under the Mountain and Thranduil’s realm.

Elrond followed the pattern of twisted vines carved upon the arms of his chair with restless fingers while his friends discussed the new situation. There was something so discomfiting about the good news that Mithrandir had just brought from the East that he could barely fault Elladan for his less than courteous remark.

“We could have done this five hundred years ago!”

Of course, as Mithrandir had sagely pointed out, there was no way of knowing how things would have gone, had they engaged the Orcs of the Misty Mountains before they grew bolder and more numerous back then, before Celebrían… He closed his eyes briefly. There was no point, yet it was impossible not to think that they could have done it before and perhaps save her…He turned his attention back to the conversation to stop his rebellious thoughts from following a path that only led to renewed suffering and self-doubt.

“I cannot help thinking that it was too easy…” Glorfindel was saying.

“Easy? If we heed Mithrandir’s accounts, this victory has cost Thranduil even more than what he was willing to risk –not to speak of the dwarven halls…”

Elrond recognized the faintest hint of disdain in his son’s voice. But he could not agree. He knew how hard Thranduil fought to keep his people and his trees free of the Shadow, and how difficult it was each passing ennin for them to survive the encroaching darkness. Thranduil could not be faulted for not keeping the orcs at bay; not when he could barely maintain his own stronghold free of those terrible spiders that infested the mighty forest.

“…speaking of Sauron, not of Erebor,” Glorfindel was explaining with a subtly warning glance towards Elrohir. Elrond sighed again, curious to hear Mithrandir’s opinion on the subject. For their part, they had begun discussing that as soon as the wizard rode north in all haste in the aftermath of their successful foray against Dol Guldur.

“He is weakened and fearful. He has lost all power. He will not disturb the lands of the west for a long time.” For some reason, Curunir’s over confident words had ringed wrong to Elrond back then, and sounded no truer now.

“…and you both know of the treacherous drifts in the Firth of Mithlond at every change of tide. The waters rush then wildly from every corner, in or out, and it is most dangerous to sail then,” Mithrandir was addressing now Erestor and Glorfindel. “This is a change of tide indeed,” he added in a soft, deep voice; and as he said so he met Elrond’s eyes.

All of a sudden, the Lord of Imladris felt as if everyone had been turned into silent stone around him. His vision got sharper and clearer than ever and the Hall seemed to withdraw into a vast distance while he stood alone in the middle, looking around as the world passed quickly before his eyes.

Elrond felt as if stricken by lightning, as if a sudden light had seared him and all things –the Hall, the Valley, the world beyond- shone brighter before his eyes on their own accord, but as if poised against a shadowed backdrop –a darkness that was pooling and lurking at the edge of reality, extending probing fingers and searching blindly for a way in. He looked around in confusion, only to meet Mithrandir’s intense gaze. Elrond gasped almost soundlessly at the depths that he saw there, suddenly reminded of the wizard’s true nature.

Assuming that Mithrandir was somehow using his hidden powers to reassure him, he forced himself to relax and get used to that strange feeling that resembled more a bad dream than a comforting experience. Avoiding the wizard’s searching glance Elrond strained to follow his friends’ conversation, which sounded distant and muffled to his ears, until some time later the strange feeling began to fade away and the world stood again before his eyes, familiar and yet expectant.

~*~ * ~*~

Peeking from his hiding place behind one of the big barrels that contained apples and protected by his invisibility, Bilbo watched in amusement as an elfling made his way cautiously into the kitchens. The boy was not taller than Bilbo himself, and he seemed not to have full coordination of his overlong limbs, his movements also hindered by the nightshirt.

And yet he managed not to hit any chairs or stools as he made his way decidedly to one of the tables, and began searching over the clean surface, mumbling to himself in disappointment. With an exasperated grunt, the child walked back to the door, picked up one of the blue glowing lamps and returned to his search. Under the steady glow Bilbo could see the frown in the youthful face and the growing despair in the big eyes. Moved by the look of hopelessness in the child’s face as he searched in vain, Bilbo unconsciously took a couple of steps forward as if to help him, and in doing so he stepped on a loose board that creaked ominously. The child’s head snapped quickly in his direction, the lamp held forward defiantly.

“Who is in there?” the boy demanded in a commanding voice that almost intimidated Bilbo. “Elrohir?” he asked then uncertainly, taking two steps towards the larder. Although invisible, Bilbo remembered only too clearly that he still cast an almost imperceptible shadow, and he shrunk as he could between the barrel and the wall, looking down so the light of the lamp would not hit his eyes. He stopped breathing until the child decided to ignore whoever was hiding in there and returned to his search, casting nervous, wary looks towards the larder from time to time.

“Here you are!” A few moments later the exclamation of triumph reached Bilbo’s ears. Peeking again from his hiding place he barely saw that the child had finally walked in all fours under one of the wooden benches that lined the kitchen wall, so Bilbo could not really see what it was that he had been searching for with such dedication. “Oh, Arda!” He sounded discomfited now, and the crashing sound that followed was telling enough, yet Bilbo still risked a glance. Somehow, as he reached blindly for support to pull himself up, the boy had pushed a clay jar that was upon the table.

Shrugging in resignation, Bilbo had to wait in his uncomfortable hiding place until the boy picked up all the pieces of the broken jar and put them away. Only then, with a last wary look, the boy placed the lamp back on its perch and walked away as silently as he had come.

With a sigh of relief, Bilbo pulled the ring off his finger and waited for a while, until he could hear no more footsteps on the stairs or the corridors, and then got out of hiding, carrying his second dinner in his pockets and deciding that it was time to be back in his comfortable chamber.

He walked out of the kitchen cautiously and made the first flight of stairs safely. Then there was a short stretch of corridor, a turn to the right, another staircase and then...

“Got you!”

Only his good reflexes saved Bilbo from falling on his back as the child jumped upon him from round the corner, where he had been hiding patiently. He caught a glimpse of big grey eyes alight in triumph, an expression that changed quickly into confusion and shame.

“But you… you are not Elrohir… I… I am sorry…” the boy stammered. Even under the dim gleam of moonlight that filtered through a tall window up the stairs Bilbo could see that he was blushing furiously.

“It is me who apologizes, young one,” he said pleasantly, waving his hand in dismissal, “at least for not being the one you were expecting…” Bilbo was pleased to see that the child relaxed visibly at his friendly opening.

“Was it you hiding in the larder? I thought it was my brother playing a trick on me, Master Perian, my apologies again…”

“And again it is me who has to apologize, for though I have met your brothers I seem to have missed your name, while it is evident that you know mine… Forgive me, young master…”

“Estel,” the child set after a brief hesitation. “I am Estel.”

“Pleased to meet you, Master Estel, Bilbo Baggins at your service,” he said with a wide smile and a courteous bow executed in all seriousness, which the child hastened to return, surely remembering his best manners.

“So what are you doing wandering the halls this late, Master Estel?” Bilbo asked genially, hoping to avoid the same question directed to himself. The child blushed again and showed him a short dagger and what looked like a bone whistle.

“I forgot my knife in the kitchens…and I need it because tomorrow morning I am going on a trip with Elrohir…I was not supposed to be around, and less meet the guests, since I am too young to be up at this late hour,” he added with an unhappy frown. Sensing the child’s discomfort Bilbo decided to confide his own little secret to his young host.

“Well, I was supposed to be in bed as well, but see, I felt hungry and slipped downstairs to steal some extra food from the larder. Would you like to share?”

Soon Perian and child were sitting on the stairs munching apples that were sharp-tasting but juicy.

“You are very good at getting out of sight, Master Bilbo. I knew there was someone hiding in there but I could not see trace of you…”

“My people are very good at disappearing, especially from the Big Folk, with whom we have had very few deals in the past centuries.” Bilbo explained cautiously, reluctant to uncover the secret of his useful ring. “But you truly have the keen senses of your race, child, to have felt my presence even if you could not see me, and to ambush me like that!”

“Perhaps your race has something to do with the Elves, so that is why you are so stealthy?” the boy asked in turn, glowing in pleasure at the compliment. Bilbo needed no more encouragement than a willing audience to launch himself into a detailed description of life in the Shire and the history of Hobbits.

“When I grow up I will chase the fell creatures that roam your lands, Master Bilbo,” Estel informed him in earnest after Bilbo ended a tale of the Fell Winter and the attack of the wolves. “But please, tell me now about your adventures with the dragon,” he pleaded then, obviously eager to hear the story from the hobbit’s lips, rather than the songs that were sung around. Disarmed by the entreating expression in the serious face, Bilbo finally gave in and began his tale.

“I left Imladris in the morning of Midsummer, in the company of thirteen dwarves and a mighty wizard who is also my good friend…” he began in a cavernous, dramatic voice that made the child giggle and squirm in anticipation.

Estel turned out to be a rewarding audience, Bilbo thought as he got on with his tale. He was obviously used to listening; gasping at the appropriate moments, laughing briefly so as not to interrupt the flow of narration and wincing and even closing his eyes when the tale got too exciting and the situation too dismal. He only interrupted to ask for more details about the Elven king and his realm, and how his warriors hunted the horrible spiders which he seemed to find undeservedly interesting, in Bilbo’s more than informed opinion.

Yet as his tale got closer to the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo wondered how to soften the harsh reality that he had witnessed. The memories still haunted his dreams, and he wondered what lesson an elven child that age could derive from that awful experience. He was surprised when the child demanded details about the disposition of the armies, the strategies, the weapons and Bilbo’s own role and position in the battle.

“I was a minor player, Estel,” he confessed without shame. “I am no warrior and the battle seemed too terrifying to me. And depressing,” he added, remembering the cries of the wounded, and the still forms of the dead, and the sad, shocked expressions on the faces of the survivors, from the Elven King to Bard to his good friend Balin. “I would not like to take part in –or even witness- another battle for the rest of my days.”

“But I want to be a warrior like my brothers, Master Bilbo,” the boy said excitedly. “They are the best orc hunters in Middle-earth and the servants of the enemy flee before them. I am going to be like them.”

“Well, I suppose that someone has to fight to defend those who cannot –or know not how,” Bilbo admitted. “But I wished that you would not loose sight of other important things beyond warring and killing, young Estel. There is nothing like a well-tilled land, a glass of cold beer, a walk in the grasslands, a good meal shared with friends…Those are important things, things that feed the soul,” he added thoughtfully, and suddenly he felt a pang of longing so sharp that he would have stood up and run away, as he had done on an April morning a year ago, had he not got hold of himself. He sighed deeply and turned to look at his young friend, who had a distant, almost brooding look on his face.

“But let us go back to my tale, Master Estel. Is there anything else that you would like to know?” he asked merrily, hoping to dispel the gloomy feeling that had taken seat on them.

“Did Thorin pay you in the end? Did he give you the gold that he had promised to you?” the child asked with undisguised curiosity. Bilbo could not fault him. The treasures hoarded by dragons were legendary; he would not forget the sight of Smaug sitting upon that glistening pile of gold and jewels in all his living years. But as he was about to depict the blazing glory of that treasure the pale face of Thorin as he lay dying came to his mind and he almost choked in the memory. He sighed deeply and looked into the child’s grey, expectant eyes.

“They paid me indeed. And Thorin gave me something of more worth than gold,” he said slowly, in a voice than sounded suddenly thick with tears. The child leaned towards him, his eyes glittering in excitement, mistaking Bilbo’s emotion for secrecy.

“More valuable? Jewels? Mithril? Do you have it here? Can I see it?” he asked eagerly, his wild imagination surely picturing piles of glistening treasures in the hobbit’s chamber.

For a moment Bilbo had been toying with the cold ring inside his pocket. He let go of it and raised his hand to his chest.

“I have it here,” he whispered confidentially, as the child craned his neck to get a better view of what the hobbit was hiding under his tunic. Bilbo gave a short laugh and shook his head.

“No, Estel,” he said in a kind manner. “All that is gold does not glitter. Thorin gave me his friendship and that is a treasure that I will carry within myself for as long as I live and beyond. That is of more worth than gold,” he added soberly, nodding categorically as he met the child’s questioning gaze.

“That sounds like something my adar would say, but I think that you are right,” the child admitted after some pondering. “You are a strange adventurer, Master Bilbo, and I am happy that I have met you, even if I am not supposed to talk to visitors,” he added with a chagrined expression on his face.

“No one will be the wiser, if that worries you,” Bilbo offered, placing one finger across his lips and offering discretion with a conniving wink.

“I could not ask that of you. Besides, I will have to report about the broken jar, so I better explain everything,” the child added with a small smile and the grace of one who had learned that lying was not an option, and so accepted the consequences of his actions with equanimity.

“You are a strange child as well, Estel,” Bilbo said with a warm smile, “and I am also happy that we met. I would gladly name you my friend, son of Elrond, for there is a great heart within one still so young,” he added following a sudden impulse. With a wide, bright smile on his part, Estel stood up and brought the hobbit to his feet as well.

“Let us exchange an arm grip, as warriors do!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I name you friend, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, and I will treasure your friendship more than gold or jewels or mithril,” he pronounced then, pressing Bilbo’s arms. The hobbit smiled and returned the arm grip.

“I name you friend, Estel of Imladris, worthier than gold. May the stars shine on your path and may we meet again to exchange our tales as old friends do!”

“We are sworn friends now, Master Baggins,” the child informed him solemnly. “Even if we never meet again. But now I must take my leave,” he added, stifling a yawn. “Tomorrow we will be on our way early... May your path lead you home in safety,” he offered, and with a courteous bow he walked away to his chambers, leaving Bilbo to find his way to his.

~*~ ~*~

The flames had almost died out in the Hall of Fire.

Only two figures remained in the deserted chamber. They had sat motionless for a good part of the night, so still that to an untrained eye they could have passed for marble statues.

Except that one of them stirred so minutely, and the other let escape a thin veil of smoke from his lips.

“So you felt it as well?”

“Indeed.”

“And it was not one of your tricks…”

“It was not. What tricks are you talking about, anyway?”

The Lord of the House shrugged quite unceremoniously.

“You tell me?”

His guest felt not the need to answer.

“It was very strange. And disturbing.”

“And powerful as well.” Mithrandir fixed his bright, alert eyes on his host’s. “There are many things hidden deep in the roots of the earth, and forces unaccounted lying in wait, for good and for bad. We must keep the watch.”

“That we have done for two ages of this world.”

“Let us not falter now,” Mithrandir insisted gently.

~*~ ~*~

A week later.

“Lord Elrond…”

“Master Bilbo?”

“There is something that I wished...” the hobbit began searching his pack furiously.

“Beware, Elrond, for he rewarded Thranduil for his hospitality with a necklace of emeralds, and he insisted so much that the King could not refuse it!” Gandalf chuckled gently. They had just taken their leave from the household and only the Lord, and Glorfindel, stood outside the big house to watch their departure on that splendid spring morning.

“Ah, but you had to pay for Thranduil’s wine, I have heard,” Glorfindel chimed in with an innocent smile. “Had you played the same trick here, you would have found that all the gold in Smaug’s hoard would not be enough to pay for our lord’s most valued wine, Master Perian!”

“You are an honoured guest and friend, Master Bilbo,” Elrond said gently and with deep sincerity, trying in vain to refuse a few pieces of jewellery that the Hobbit insisted on placing in his hands as he picked them out from his pack. “This house will always be open to you and your family for as long as you wish or need.” At that Bilbo bowed deeply, still rummaging in his pack, since hobbits valued hospitality greatly.

“At your service, Lord Elrond… now… Here, this is the last one. You surely know that I met your youngest child on the night of our arrival?”

“So he told me,” the lord nodded evenly, not meeting the wizard’s sharp, stunned glance.

“Please, give this to him on my behalf –as a memory of our encounter,” the hobbit smiled, proffering a small jewel. Elrond picked it up and studied it with curiosity. It was an eagle-shaped cloak pin that looked quite ancient, judging by the notches and scratches on its dull, lustreless surface.

“It does not glitter,” Bilbo explained with a conniving wink. “But it is still gold. He will understand.”

A wide smile brightened up the elven lord’s face as he nodded in realization. “He will indeed. And he will not forget you, or the valuable lesson that you taught him the other night, I hope. Thank you, Master Bilbo, and may Elbereth see you home safely.”

After a series of deep bows given and returned, the hobbit and the wizard finally walked away on the last stage of their journey.

The dragon is withered,
His bones are now crumbled;
His armour is shivered,
His splendour is humbled!

The merry voices of the elves that were working in the open floated after them as the two wanderers followed the tree-lined path to the Ford.

“There is far more to him that what meets the eye,” Elrond said thoughtfully, watching the small silhouette that walked eagerly beside the wizard. For some reason he could not help a strange feeling of unreality every time he set his eyes on the Perian. “My heart tells me that we will hear more of him and his adventures,” he added, as a strange foreboding took him unexpectedly. Glorfindel cast him a wary glance and then shrugged.

“That is beyond my knowledge, but I know for sure that Mithrandir will be at your door before the summer is old, asking about that youngest son of yours,” he sentenced with a mischievous grin. “Did you see the look on his face?”

“How could I not?” Elrond chuckled. “He would have learnt about Estel sooner or later, and he has met other Dúnedain fosterlings before, but I really enjoyed his expression of surprise when Bilbo mentioned him. Do you think we must fear retaliation for keeping such a secret from him for so long?”

“Who knows?” Glorfindel made a vague gesture with his hand as he followed his friend back into the house. “You know what Gildor says: “Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards…”

“…For they are subtle and quick of temper!” Elrond ended with a chortle. “And this particular wizard now wields a fearsome blade! I am afraid that we are in deep trouble, my friend,” he warned, closing the door behind them.

The End.

A/N: The verses are from The Hobbit. And many thanks to Daw the minstrel for the canon details!