Like New Flowers on Ancient Hills by StarSpray

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Like New Flowers on Ancient Hills

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It was still quite early in the year, but the weather had been unusually warm and sunny. Perfect for working outside. Elanor had spent the winter tending to her ever-growing collection of books, and it was a pleasure and a relief to get outside again. Not that she disliked her books or the library there at the Undertowers, but she was a gardener ’s daughter, and she loved just as well ending the day with dirt underneath her fingernails as with ink.

She sang as she worked—old Shire growing songs that her dad had taught her as a small girl, and other working songs she ’d learned from her mother and her grandmothers. If either of them had been ones for singing, Elanor would have surely learned even more songs from her grandfathers, but she had heard neither Hamfast Gamgee nor Tom Cotton ever sing a note, not even after a beer or two.

As she sat back on her heels Elanor heard a voice call out from the lane, and she looked over her shoulder to find, of all people, an elf standing there. He was quite tall, with dark hair, and good quality but worn with travel, and patched and darned in places. His cloak was thrown back over one shoulder, and was held in place by a silver brooch. “Good afternoon!” she called. “Do come in, the gate is open.” She got to her feet as the elf stepped through the gate and into the garden.

Elves were not infrequent visitors; just a few weeks before Elanor had entertained Legolas and one of his sisters, and occasionally some of the Wandering Companies stopped for a chat on an evening. But usually they came around twilight, and almost never did one come that Elanor had never met before. “I do beg your pardon, Master Elf,” she said as she wiped her hands on her apron. “I was not expecting visitors.”

“I heard you singing from the road,” said the elf. “And I recalled that I was near the Undertowers, where a great loremaster among halflings dwells.”

Elanor could feel herself blushing. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know about great— or loremaster, come to that—but I do have a bit of a library here. And it ’s growing all the time—my husband Fastred has gone to the Great Smials to fetch more, in fact, sent up to us from Gondor. I was to go with him, but our Elfstan is feeling poorly. But did you want to see the library? Do come in! I’ll brew us some tea.”

She settled the elf in the library and told him he could look at whatever he liked, and then hurried into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and to see what was in the larder that would be suitable to serve to a visiting elf—clearly a loremaster in his own right, and much more deserving of the title than she was, certainly.

Just as the kettle started to sings its merry tune (it had been a wedding gift from Gimli), Elanor heard little footsteps in the corridor, and then Elfstan appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hullo, my love! Are you hungry?”

Elfstan nodded, rubbing his eyes with his fists. “Mama, there’s an elf in the library.”

“Yes, I know. He’s a guest. You hop up to the table, now, and I’ll fix your lunch after I take him some tea, all right?” Elanor quickly put together some biscuits and a seed cake along with a bowl of fruit and the teapot, and went into the library, where she found the elf already perusing one of the books. “I do beg your pardon, Master Elf, but I’ve neglected proper introductions.” As he turned she dropped into a proper curtsy, the way she’d learned from Queen Arwen, and said, “I am Elanor Fairbairn, at your service!”

He returned her curtsy with a very elegant bow. “I am very pleased to meet you, Mistress Elanor,” he said. “I am Daeron, once of Doriath.”

It was a good thing Elanor had already set the tray down, or else she would have dropped it. “ Daeron? ” she repeated, and it came out practically a squeak. “Not—not the Daeron, the one who made the Runes, the one that ’s the greatest singer of all the Elves? The one from the Beren and Lúthien tale?”

He smiled. “The very same, and I do thank you for listing my Cirth first.”

“Goodness gracious. Daeron of Doriath in my library—just wait until I tell Dad!”

At this Daeron laughed. “And when I introduced myself to Master Samwise he said, ‘Wait until I tell my Elanor!’”

“Well, do help yourself, Master Daeron—to the books and to the tea. I’ll just be down the hall in the kitchen if you have any questions.”

As Elanor busied himself with Elfstan, who was clearly feeling better because his appetite had returned, she nearly forgot about her sudden and auspicious visitor—until she began to hear singing coming from the library. She ’d known his reputation, of course, but having heard of it and hearing it were two very different things she found, and both she and Elfstan paused to listen.

Daeron was singing one of the old Shire songs that Elanor had written down for her library. It was a harvest song, sung by hobbits as they brought in grain or hay. The tune was, it was widely agreed, older than the hills. Or at least older than even the eldest gammer could recall. Listening to it now, even muffled through the walls, Elanor felt as though she ’d been transported from her kitchen to a wide field surrounded by waving stalks of grain, golden beneath the blue skies and bright sun with the promise of a rich harvest; she could almost smell the rich earth and feel the breeze on her face.

Then the song ended, and she was back in front of the sink, and Elfstan was seated on the counter top beside her, his big blue eyes opened wide. “Was that the elf, Mama?” he asked.

“Yes, it was. He’s a very great singer, you know.”

“Why is he singing those songs, though?” Elfstan asked. “Why isn’t he singing elvish songs?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t we go ask him?”

Elfstan had a bit of a coughing fit before they went into the library, where he half hid himself behind Elanor ’s skirts, peeking around them to stare at Daeron where he was seated cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by books. Upon closer inspection, Elanor found them all to be books of songs of all kinds. “Master Elf, why are you singing harvest songs?” Elfstan asked when Elanor nudged him forward.

Daeron looked up, apparently startled—he hadn ’t noticed them come in. Elanor had worried a little that he would not like a child’s intrusion, but his smile was warm as he set aside his book and focused his star-bright gaze on Elfstan. “Because I want to learn them,” he said. “You can learn quite a lot about people from their songs, you know.”

Elfstan wrinkled his nose. “But doesn’t everyone have to harvest things? ” he asked.

“Certainly! But not everyone sings about it. And the melodies, too, interest me a great deal.”

“They’re all the same old tunes we’ve used for ages and ages,” said Elanor, taking a seat on a nearby chair. “Merry Brandybuck thinks some of them go all the way back to our Wandering Days.”

“And you keep making up new words to go with them!” Daeron exclaimed. “Like new flowers blooming in the spring upon ancient hillsides. But when you have known the hills all your life I suppose it is harder to see what a marvel they are.” And with that he picked up a book seemingly at random and began to sing. This song was a walking song, one meant for the start of a walking journey when spirits were high and you felt as though you could go on for miles and miles without ever needing a rest. When Daeron sang it, it really felt as though strength was flowing out of his voice and into all of Elanor’s limbs. She felt like she could climb the Misty Mountains to the very top, if she so desired.

Oh, and his voice! He lent the old tune new life, and Elanor thought she could sit there for ever listening to him. This was what Mister Frodo had been trying to describe, she thought, when he wrote about the singing in the Hall of Fire. But those had been elvish songs, and this was a song from her own land, and she did not feel at all sleepy—though if she closed her eyes it was as though the Shire lay spread out before her, like a map come to life, and all the paths and roads picked out clear as anything.

When the song ended Elanor opened her eyes. “Oh,” Elfstan said, in a very small voice. Then, recovering himself, “Will you sing another?”

“Now, Elfstan, he came here to read,” Elanor began.

“Of course!” Daeron said, and picked up another book. “Ah, these are the songs of Master Bilbo Baggins, of whom I have heard so much!”

“If only Mister Bilbo were still with us!” Elanor said. “I think he would be positively astonished to hear Daeron of Doriath singing his old songs. But he went sailing away years ago, and even if he hadn’t, well, he was older than the Old Took even then.”

“Well, I am sailing myself very soon,” said Daeron as he flipped through the book. “If Master Bilbo is no longer living even in the Undying Lands, I hope I shall meet Master Frodo.”

“Mister Frodo never wrote any songs, I don’t think,” said Elanor. “But my dad does sometimes. He’d hate for me to tell you so.”

“He has! Do you have any written down?”

“Why yes, of course! He used to sing them to us when we were all little, and he sings to our children now.” Elanor hopped up and went to a smaller shelf tucked away near her desk, almost hidden. She kept trinkets there, mostly, and a slim volume bound in green leather. “One of his songs made it into the Red Book—that was Mister Frodo’s doing, because he knew Dad hated to change anything he wrote. It’s the one about the troll. My brother Ham loves that one. Here you are!” She presented the book to Daeron. “The songs of Samwise Gamgee.”

Smiling, Daeron flipped through the pages. “Thank you for showing me this.”

“May I ask why you’re so interested in Shire music, Master Daeron?” Elanor asked. “We don’t have any songs like you’d find in a fine Elvenking’s halls, I’m sure.”

“I am still a loremaster,” said Daeron, “and the folk of the Shire are quite as important as any of the other folk who think themselves great. The time for me to leave these shores is fast approaching, and when I do I wish to take as much knowledge, and as much music, with me as I can, so that it can be recorded and remembered for ever in the West.”

“Oh,” said Elanor, and sat down again. When she recovered from the idea of the Very Great Folk of the West—of the Powers themselves, even—taking an interest in the Shire’s little doings, she said, “Well, if you wish to take any of my books with you, please let me know. I have more than one copy of most, and I can always make more.”

“That is very kind of you, Mistress Elanor.”

“In fact, I hope you will take that book at least,” she said, with a sudden thought. “The one of my father’s songs. I think Mister Frodo would very much like to have it.”

“Then I will certainly take it.”

Daeron stayed at the Undertowers for the better part of a month, studying not just the songs but many of the other books that Elanor had in her library. And he did as much teaching as learning, including showing Elanor the very first version of his Cirth that he had devised so long ago. He sang a great deal of the time, songs about anything and everything, and some of them Elanor was convinced that he made up on the spot, like the one about a spotted puppy that he sang after Fastred returned home with one for Elfstan. Elfstan, for his part, was enchanted by their guest; when he was not doting on his new pet he was following Daeron around like a duckling—and the puppy followed after him.

But at last the time came for Daeron to leave. He had a new satchel that Elanor had made for him, and it was filled with books—of songs, of Shire tales and Shire lore, and in one safe pocket a little letter that Elanor had written to Frodo, who she remembered only very dimly, but very fondly. At the garden gate, Daeron bowed low to Elanor, Fastred, and Elfstan. “I thank you for your kind hospitality, and for allowing me to take so many books away,” he said. “May the stars shine ever upon you!”

“Fare well!” Elanor said. “I hope your voyage is swift and safe across the Sea!”

Daeron set off away down the road toward the Tower Hills, waving over his shoulder. As he approached a bend that would take him out of sight, his voice lifted up like a lark song, singing a very old but popular walking song, one that spoke of heading towards home and warm hearths and laden tables, and smiling faces waiting at the door.