Hold On To That Feeling by StarSpray

Hold On To That Feeling

With the wars in the south ended and rumors of the restoration of the kingdom in the north, Bree had seen more travelers coming and going and passing through than it had since—well, Barliman thought, since before the fall of Norbury long ago. Deadman’s Dike it had been called for many a long year, but now the Rangers were talking of rebuilding it, calling it Fornost again, and talking also of rebuilding the even greater city of Annúminas on the shores of the lake up away north.

Barliman didn’t know anything about great cities or lakes, but he knew his business, and business was quite good. They were even seeing more hobbits out of the Shire these days. Tooks and Brandybucks, mostly, but a few others with more unfamiliar names had also come out. One bright-eyed lad—a Bracegirdle, though his mother was a Brandybuck—had even stayed, marrying one of the Underhill lasses and settling down over in Staddle.

Elves even passed through town openly these days. Nearly all of them were heading west, though occasionally a party came through heading eastward. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when one elf blew in on a rainy evening, travel-stained and a bit tattered, although Barliman soon heard that he’d come down from the north, which was unusual. But Barliman had never had any trouble from his elvish guests, and this one was quiet and courteous. And, Barliman noticed as he showed him to an empty room, he carried a small harp case, well made but worn from much handling.

Since the debacle of Master Baggins and his companions’ first stay at the Prancing Pony, Barliman had been less quick to invite strangers out to the common room. But everyone loved a good song and a bit of news, and he said so as he left the room. “You’d be right welcome if you wanted to join us,” he added. Anyway, it seemed unlikely there’d be any strange vanishings from this stranger, or Black Riders coming after him—all that sort of thing was over and done with nowadays.

The elf smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said, “perhaps I will.”

In the end he did come out to join them, having bathed and dressed in clean clothes. He was quite tall, with dark hair, now neatly brushed and braided over his shoulders, and dark eyes that seemed to glint with a secret light all their own. He carried his harp with him, and settled himself at a small table between the hearth and an open window—the chimney had been smoking of late, and what with all his other duties keeping him on the go Barliman hadn’t had a chance to get someone to fix it. But it was a warm evening with no call for more than a small fire, and the windows let in a fine breeze and carried away the heaviest smoke, so no one was complaining. Beer and wine were flowing, and when it became known that they had a minstrel in their midst—and an elvish minstrel at that—it was not long before someone called for a song, something they hadn’t heard before.

The elven minstrel smiled again and said, “Very well.” And he began to sing. Barliman had only recently learned a greeting or two in the Elvish tongue, but he could recognize it when he heard it—but he’d never heard proper Elvish singing before, only an echo on a rare summer evening. This performance was positively magical—it was a merry song, and the music was like a river splashing over smooth stones and flowing beneath great towering trees the likes of which were not to be found in the world anymore. Barliman almost fancied he could smell the woodland flowers, and hear the songbirds calling. It was not a song to learn and sing along with, as was usual in the Pony; and even more unusual, it brought the whole inn to a halt. Later, Nob told Barliman that even the horses and ponies in the stable went quiet and still, listening attentively while the song lasted. When the song ended there was a moment of silence, long enough for a sigh, and for Barliman to recall himself and hurry away to fetch meals and tankards for his hungry and thirsty guests before they too recovered and remembered that they were hungry. When he returned the music had started up again, this time a well known drinking song. Somehow even that seemed fresh and new in the elven minstrel’s voice, and it wasn’t long before nearly everyone was singing—and some of the hobbits jumped up to clear a space for dancing.

The minstrel stayed for several days, and brought in so much business each evening with his performances that Barliman refused payment from him. His music was more than enough. “Safe travels, Master Elf,” Barliman said as the minstrel shouldered his pack. “You’ll be very welcome at the Pony should you pass by this way again.”

“Thank you,” said the minstrel, “but my road now goes only west. May the stars shine always upon your inn, Master Butterbur. It has been many long years since I stayed in such a fine inn!” He bowed, swift and elegant, and strode away into the dewy morning. Once he was out of sight Barliman heard his voice lift up again, singing in the elvish tongue a song that seemed to be a farewell—but not a sad one. Barliman stood listening for a moment—but no longer. He had breakfast to see to, and a hundred other tasks before him that day. But even by the evening the elvish singing had not left his mind, and he found himself—and Nob, and Bob, and various guests—humming the tunes to songs whose words they didn’t know, but that struck and stayed in the heart.