He Who Harps by StarSpray

Chapter 1

Bilbo had known for years that Elves sometimes came to the woods on the hill above Woodhall. His mother had taken him once as a child to visit them, but that had been so long ago that the memory had faded into something like a very pleasant dream—although his visit to Rivendell had brought many of the details back into delightful clarity.

That was several years ago, now, but Bilbo had been so busy since reestablishing himself in Hobbiton society (not to mention recovering or replacing everything from Bag End that had been auctioned off) that he had not had the chance to take a proper walking trip through the Shire. But now he had several weeks set aside to do just that. He'd gone up north to Scary to visit a fourth cousin once removed, and then down to the Marish to have a nice chat with the Maggots. He could have gone all the way out to Brandy Hall to visit his Aunt Mirabella and other relations there, but he had a few gifts for his aunt due to arrive from the Lonely Mountain soon, and had decided to wait a little bit.

So he took the road from Stock to Woodhall, and from there made his way into the trees of Woody End. There was only the slightest chance that he would arrive at the same time one of the Wandering Companies did, of course, but it would be well worth it if he could find their usual place, so that he could come back without too much trouble.

Like Rivendell, however, this Elvish place was not easy to find, and Bilbo spent most of the afternoon growing ever hotter and more uncomfortable trying to find it.

And then he tripped over a root and very nearly fell face first into the place, a wide and long space quite like a real hall, with the branches overheat coming together like a vaulted ceiling, through which bits of blue sky shone. The floor was brown with years of fallen leaves, and dappled with sunbeams that swayed and danced when the breeze moved through the trees. Fallen trees and their stumps stood in for seats and tables. But, to Bilbo's disappointment, his clumsy entrance was not met with bright laughter and teasing. The place seemed to be empty.

Only after a few seconds he realized that that was not quite true. There was someone there, an elf sitting beneath one of the tall beech trees with his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He looked a bit ragged, with travel-worn clothes showing signs of both patchwork and darning, though they were of good quality, as were his boots, which were only slightly newer. His hair was long and dark and lay loosely over his shoulders. He looked curiously at Bilbo from under it, with star-bright eyes and a slight quirk to one eyebrow.

"Oh!" Bilbo caught himself before he fell flat. "I beg your pardon, I didn't think anyone was here!" He looked around again, in case the other elves were only hiding.

"There isn't," said the elf, sounding ever so faintly amused. "No one but me."

"All by yourself?" Bilbo said, surprised. "I didn't think elves did that. Traveled about alone, I mean."

"You thought we travel in packs—like wolves?" There was a glint in the elf's eyes that might have been humor, but if it was it was not terribly happy.

"Goodness gracious," said Bilbo. "Certainly not. I've met wolves, you know, in the Misty Mountains. Or at least the ones that have dealings with the goblins, and they aren't at all anything like elves. And of course there were the white wolves during the Fell Winter, that came over the Brandywine when it froze and caused all sorts of trouble. I only meant I've never met an elf alone. You all seem to prefer company—the better for singing and laughing, I always supposed."

"That is true," said the elf. "But some of us are more solitary creatures."

"I do beg your pardon," Bilbo repeated. "I can leave if you like."

"There is no need for that," said the elf, smiling at him. He rose in one fluid motion, and retrieved a satchel from somewhere, out of which he brought bread and cheese, and a bottle of wine, and other trappings for a perfectly respectable picnic. "Stay a while and tell me of your travels. I had not thought hobbits ventured so far as the Misty Mountains."

"Oh, well, we don't, usually." Bilbo pulled out his own tea rations to add to the meal, which they laid out on one of the tree stumps, which made an excellent dining table. "It's rather a long story. And—my goodness, we haven't even properly introduced ourselves! Bilbo Baggins, at your service!" He bowed smartly.

The elf inclined his head and replied, "Maglor son of Fëanor, at yours." He paused afterward, watching Bilbo as though expecting something, though Bilbo could not think what. The name sounded somewhat familiar, but he had heard a great many of them while at Rivendell, listening to all of the stories the Elves liked to tell sitting out beneath the trees or in the Hall of Fire.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Maglor," he said, and they settled down to eat and chat about Bilbo's adventures. It was quite gratifying to have a willing and interested audience—only a handful of Bilbo's Took relations were at all willing to listen to his stories, let alone his forays into poetry. But Maglor was quite interested, and they spent several hours quite happily discussing meter and rhyme and the problems of translation, and Bilbo even shared a few snatches of his own verse.

It was when the conversation strayed into the song modes popular in Beleriand that Bilbo remembered where he had heard the name Maglor son of Fëanor before. He saw Maglor see him make the realization, but whatever reaction Maglor seemed to have expected was not what Bilbo felt—which was distinct mortification. "Oh dear," he exclaimed. "You're Maglor!"

Maglor sat back. "I am," he began.

"He who harps upon the far
forgotten beaches and dark shores
where western foam for ever roars,
Maglor whose voice is like the sea," Bilbo quoted—he had been struck by that passage from the moment he heard it. "One of the greatest singers of the Elves and I've had the cheek to argue with you about it all afternoon!"

The singer in question stared at him for a beat before starting to laugh. He laughed for quite a long while, as Bilbo sat with a red face feeling very foolish, before he took a deep breath and wiped at his eyes and said, "I assure you, Master Baggins, you've given me no offense. It has been a very long time since I had a good argument about music or poetry. I did not know there was such an interest in the old modes among hobbits."

"Oh, well, there isn't really," said Bilbo. "I picked it up in Rivendell—that's where I heard that bit about you, in the Lay of Leithian. It rather gives the impression that you don't come very far inland."

"That's only poetry," said Maglor. "There was some truth to it when it was written, but that was a very long time ago. But tell me now of Rivendell. I have never seen it."

From Rivendell they went on to talk about Hobbiton and Bag End, and Bilbo made sure to extend an invitation to tea, should Maglor ever find himself passing through. And when evening came, Maglor brought out his harp and sang songs from the Blessed Realm and from Beleriand, and Bilbo fell asleep and dreamed of bright banners and tall shining towers beneath a young and fierce sun.

When he woke up, he more than half-expected to find Maglor gone. And indeed he was. The only evidence that he had been there at all was a penny whistle made from ivory, decorated with delicate carving of bluebells and roses, and also a small book bound in soft leather filled with the words and notations for many of the songs that he and Maglor had spoken about the evening before. Smiling, Bilbo tucked both gifts carefully away into his satchel before making his way back down to Woodhall for a proper breakfast.