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“The stars are far brighter
Than gems without measure,
The moon is far whiter
Than silver in treasure:
The fire is more shining
On hearth in the gloaming
Than gold won by mining,
So why go a-roaming?
O! Tra-la-la-lally
Come back to the Valley.”
Glorfindel hums to himself as he passes the singing elves. They’ve been singing that particular little tune for a few days, but he doesn't know what they mean by it and he does not care to ask. The weather is lovely, the flowers are already blooming, and a song does not have to be meaningful to be agreeable.
He twirls a few times in the grass and climbs the stairs to the porch, where the sons of Elrond and Lindir are having a frowny conference, looming over the railing and looking at something below, down in the garden.
Glorfindel approaches to see what the fuss is about. There is a little thing sitting amidst the flowers, shoulders hunched and head bowed.
“Honestly,” Lindir murmurs. “That is what comes of Mithrandir’s little games. Look at this.”
“Poor thing,” says Elladan. “He looks so sad.”
“What is it?” asks Glorfindel, peering down at what he assumed was a child. “Oh,” he says when recognition hits. “A hobbit!” In Rivendell, no less. It is a great pleasure of his to encounter hobbits when he can. They're such good little mortals.
“It’s the son of Belladonna Took,” says Elladan. “The grey wizard took him on an adventure. They made a stop here on their way back to the Shire.”
Glorfindel grins. “Belladonna’s son? How delightful.”
“Don’t get attached,” Lindir says. “He’s wasting away. He’ll be dead before winter.”
“Why? Is he ill?”
“Might as well be,” says Elrohir.
“He is grieving,” says Elladan. “His love died.”
Glorfindel observes the unmoving creature. Lindir makes a disapproving sound. “What a disgrace. Halflings are supposed to eat and to sing and to smile. This is what comes of exposing them to the harshness of the world. Mithrandir should be ashamed of himself. And the Elvenking named him Elf-Friend, mind you, so we’ll have to mourn him.”
“The son of Belladonna Took will not die of a broken heart,” declares Glorfindel.
“No? She did,” says Elrohir.
Glorfindel does not command his hand, but still, it finds its way to Elrohir’s ear and twists it. Elrohir cries out in a distinctly inelegant squeak.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he yelps. Glorfindel releases him and walks away.
The little thing raises his head when Glorfindel makes his way towards him. His eyes, red from crying, widen when they land on his face. “Well-met, son of Belladonna,” he greets. “I am Glorfindel, of Gondolin and Rivendell.”
The hobbit gapes for a moment before he remembers his manners and gets up. “Good morning,” he says. “I am Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.” He attempts a clumsy little bow.
Glorfindel bows as well, and takes advantage of it to look at his new friend more closely. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he remarks with pleasure. Though they are shiny with shed and unshed tears, he can see encouraging things in them. Kindness, and more importantly, the potential for joy. Belladonna had the most charming laugh; he wonders if Bilbo has it too.
“You really knew her, then?” asks Bilbo. “I always rather thought that it was something she said to annoy my father.”
Glorfindel chuckles. “I did know her, some years ago. I am ashamed to say that I never honoured her invitation to visit her home in the Shire, though I meant to. I was sorry to hear of her passing.”
Bilbo nods. “It must be difficult to keep track of the time, when you have so much of it.”
“Something like that.” Glorfindel considers him for a moment, and decides to sit on the ground, which places them more or less at the same height. “Would you sit with me? I would love to hear of your adventures.”
Bilbo sits and sighs. “I’m afraid they didn’t end well.”
“So they’re not worth telling?”
“Maybe not.” He looks down at his hands. “I lost my friend. The King under the Mountain. He was. He was dear to me.”
Glorfindel tries very hard not to say something unsympathetic. He knows that his relationship with death, his own or others’, is complicated to understand for mortals. “I understand if it is too difficult to speak of now,” he says carefully. “One day, perhaps. I would like to offer comfort, though I don’t know how. Living as long as we do, every story ends in death. If not a tragic one, then a timely one.”
Bilbo frowns. “He was not old enough to die of old age. And what about the children?”
“The children?”
“The… The princes. His nephews.” He pauses, closes his eyes. “The oldest was eighty-two. Fili. He once told me that he had refused to celebrate his coming-of-age because he wanted to wait for the Lonely Mountain to be reclaimed. The youngest, his name was Kili, and his beard wasn’t grown yet. He called me Master Boggins to annoy me. They finished each other’s sentences. I wanted to ask them if they rehearsed it ahead of time, but I never thought of it. Once, I was sick, and Kili sat in front of the fire with me and sang me a song to cheer me up. They had sworn that one day they would beat their uncle in combat. They told me they would introduce me to their mother.” Bilbo draws in a sharp breath through his tears, looking up at Glorfindel. “Why must their story end this way? How is it fair?”
“It is not,” says Glorfindel.
“They were supposed to have a future, and it’s all gone, and I will never see them again. I’ll never get to… To tell them. How much they meant to me.”
He falls silent. A light breeze blows around them, making Bilbo shiver. Glorfindel wonders if he would appreciate warmth or if it would only pass over him, a distant physical comfort, meaningless compared to the dark pit of sadness his heart has fallen into.
“Do you really believe that?” he asks Bilbo. “That you will never see your friends again?”
“I don’t know where hobbits go after death, but I know that whatever it is, it is not a place we share with dwarves.”
Glorfindel scoffs. “No, that is despair speaking. You’re a bright fellow, I can tell, and I refuse to believe that you lack imagination in such a way. Eru Iluvatar loves all of his children, adopted or otherwise, and he would not allow one to spend his afterlife in misery. Structure is one thing, but love is quite another, and those you love never leave you, that is a fact. You may miss them and grieve them, but you must not lose hope of finding your way back to them. There is joy in the world, still, and it is your duty to find it, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, so that you can report it back to them when you see them again.”
Bilbo nods, his eyes blazing. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“But of course!” exclaims Glorfindel. “I am an elf, and I was told that the Elvenking had called you Elf-Friend.”
“Yes, that was very nice of him.”
“That’s why I was surprised.”
“I was Dwarf-Friend, first.”
“So was I, in the First Age. We were all friends back then.”
“You were?”
“Well. Perhaps not all of us,” Glorfindel allows, pondering this for a moment. “You know, we may have a book in Westron about this. Can you read?” Bilbo nods. “Splendid! Did Bella teach you some Sindarin?”
“Not beyond hello,” says Bilbo. “Bella?”
Glorfindel grins. “We had to give your fathers reasons to be annoyed, now, didn’t we? I’ll teach you, if you want to learn. Oh, have you been to the Hall of Fire yet? We gather there to sing. Perhaps you can teach us a hobbit song or two.”
“I don’t know if I…” Bilbo trails off, shrugging his shoulders. “Yes, maybe.”
“Wonderful. And have you met Estel?”
Bilbo shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You’ll love Estel. Everyone loves Estel. He’s a darling little child of men Elrond adopted. It’s pretty secret, but never mind about it now. Come, Master Baggins.” Glorfindel stands up, and offers his hand to Bilbo to help him up, and squeezes it before letting go. “Let us eat something, first. Belladonna once told me about second breakfast; I have not forgotten it, though you have, and it is my duty to remind you.”
Bilbo gives him a shaky smile. “Thank you,” he says again.