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Mirkwood was a dark place, full of the sort of gloom that one could never quite get rid of, even with a warm fire and good food and song. Bilbo simply couldn’t stand it, walking along in the silent darkness – he felt he must start up a conversation of some sort, or he might too become quiet and gloomy .
None of the dwarves were speaking however, the talk had died from them within the first hour of entering the forest, so Bilbo contented himself his own thoughts.
The company were out to reclaim their home, but also to retrieve the treasure, and he had a sneaking suspicion that the gold was foremost in many minds – it had been in their song a lot after all. But Bilbo couldn’t help but feel that all the precious jewels and metals in the world were nothing compared to the comforts of home. He would take the soft golden glow of the sun shining on buttercups, the warming yellow of fresh butter, and the ‘golden treasure’ inside an egg above a pile of gold twice the worth of the Shire.
An old verse came back to him then: ‘Daisies are our silver, buttercups our gold. I’d not exchange these glowing flowers, for heaps of wealth untold.’
‘Indeed, quite right’ he thought to himself ‘Not all that is gold is glittering baubles.’
He began to twist the words around in his head, as a child he had been fond of wordplay and poetry, and would often beg his mother to read him some Elvish poems in the place of a bedtime story.
‘All that is gold does not glitter…’ yes that worked, now then, the next line would be about… about the wanderings of the dwarves, they weren’t lost, he supposed, merely without a place to call their own. And that would fit nicely.
‘All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost,
The old… that is strong…’ yes, Thorin was nearly two hundred! Perhaps not so old for a dwarf, but this was a hobbit’s poem, so, ‘the old that is strong… does not wither!’ yes, that would do quite nicely, and then perhaps a comparison.
Trees seemed the most obvious thing at that point, Bilbo was surrounded by them after all, and the party tree back home was very strong, despite being at least 500 years old (he honestly had no idea, but as a child that was what his Took cousins had claimed). So, trees, leaves, brances, roots, twigs, ah – roots. Yes, ‘as deep roots are not reached by the frost.’ Or maybe without the ‘as’ at the beginning, it was a bit redundant after all.
So that was one verse done and dusted. And now perhaps to talk about them rebuilding their home. What meant home to a dwarf? Bilbo had some idea, but not really, their ways were quite alien to him at times. So, he’d have to make do with hobbit homey things. A nice crackling fire to put your feet up in front of. Yes, they did seem to like fire too. So, something about ashes and fires. And then, light, in the darkness. A bit of light would be very welcome right now! And then… ‘rebuilt shall be home long forsaken’ ooh, yes, that one’s rather good. But would it rhyme with the fire line…?
Aha! ‘From the ashes a fire shall awaken, something about light and darkness, rebuilt shall be home long forsaken, aaannndd…’
Hmmm, what next. ‘treasures forgotten reclaimed?’ no, that wouldn’t do, he’d started his poem with the thoughts that gold wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be. So that wouldn’t do at all.
Bilbo trudged along, following the path, onward and onward, it seemed a never ending trek. He glanced up and caught sight of Thorin. He was doing his kingly pose again. Most likely in an attempt to ward off the nasty creeping feeling of the forest.
Bilbo hid a snicker as he imagined Thorin’s thought processes ‘I’m king you know, you can’t scare me, you’re just a load of darkness, I’ll have you know I’ve fought a dragon, aye, and an army of orcs. I might not have a crown or a kingdom, but that doesn’t stop me from being king and neither will a load of shadows. Now stop reducing my majesty, it’s distracting, not to mention demoralising for everyone else.’
Oh! But that was it, the last line, perfect. ‘The crownless again shall be king.’ It had a nice ring to it, and then that would make the sixth line…’from the darkness a light shall spring’…maybe. Or perhaps ‘a light from the shadows shall spring’ yes, there, all done.
‘All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost,
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall awaken,
A light from the shadows shall spring,
Rebuilt shall be home long forsaken,
The crownless again shall be king.’
Seventy years later, sat outside in Rivendell smoking his pipe, Bilbo contemplated his poem once more. He had rather liked it at the time, and it had all come true in a way, save perhaps the last line, but that could apply to Dain he supposed. He’d never told this poem to anyone, he’d been too embarrassed at the time, and afterwards, it just held memories he’d rather not dwell on.
But meeting Aragorn and hearing his story, well, Bilbo supposed history did repeat itself, in a way. He’d never have thought it would do so in his lifetime!
“You’re getting old Bilbo Baggins” He murmured to himself
“Old?” came a voice behind him “why, I’d wager you’re the youngest person here!”
Bilbo turned round “Gandalf! How wonderful to see you. Sit down and have some of my pipeweed. Still got a bit of Longbottom leaf left!”
“Ah, lovely” said Gandalf, sitting down. “I hear you have met Estel, or Aragorn as he may have been introduced to you.”
“Yes, the Dunadan. Nice chap, head over heels for Lady Arwen though.”
Gandalf smiled and blew a smoke ring. “Indeed, but what are trivial things such as mortality when it comes to love.”
Bilbo sighed “I suppose so. Gandalf… He reminds me… Well, of Thorin really.”
“Thorin? Go on.”
“Well, for a start, they’re both kings in exile. And I don’t quite know what it is, but they both possess some… quality… yes, there was a quality about Thorin Oakenshield that I see in Aragorn. I – I wrote a poem…”
“Another poem. Goodness me, you’ll have enough for a book if you don’t watch out.”
Bilbo chuckled slightly “It was one of the first ones I wrote. When we were in Mirkwood, about Thorin and their quest, but recently it seems more to apply to Aragorn, if I change a line or two.”
“I would very much like to hear this poem of yours my dear fellow.”
“Very well then.” And Bilbo softly recited his poem, the original version he had though up all those years ago. “But you see Gandalf, I changed the last verse slightly, and I never thought I would see history repeat itself, not in my lifetime. But here goes
‘All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost,
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring,
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.’”
“Very apt,” said Gandalf, and then the conversation moved on and no more was said on the matter. But Bilbo never forgot that though the verse might fit Aragorn, it was not written about him. No, it was Thorin’s.