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Frequently described as "unconventional", the name Hivallion is of the ancient and long-extinct Falathrin dialect of Sindarin. Thankfully Hivallion himself remains to recall that the Falathrin word hiválew once described an impressively-sized (and now similarly extirpated) seabird—similar in appearance and manner to our Snowy Albatross, the hiválew has not been seen anywhere in Middle-earth since the destruction of Beleriand. His first name combines this word with the common male suffix -iôn. Specifically the name means "son of [a] hiválew", though his father's name was Haegaear and his mother's name is Rosteth. Hivallion explains:

With so few Falathrim left in Middle-earth now, Hivallion is always glad to explain the meaning of his name to anyone who asks, as he feels it is a "precious scrap of proof" that such a creature once existed in the world.

Hivallion has a second name (or, Mother-name), but it is not known to most others, if anyone else at all. He maintains that the name is "a bit personal" and prefers to keep it to himself.

His best known epessë (after-name) Pellithorn is also Falathrin and roughly translates to "Fading Secret", which is likely an oblique reference to his trade as a master of lore.

Born near the coastal elf-haven of Eglarest, Hivallion's nascent years were uneventfully formative, though war came to the Beleriand—and thus, to Hivallion—fairly early in his life, with the first siege of his homeland occurring in Y.T. 1497. When Morgoth's forces sacked and destroyed the Falas in F.A. 473, Hivallion (along with his mother) escaped with Círdan to the Isle of Balar. He narrowly escaped death in the Third Kinslaying (F.A. 538), and later still he participated in The War of Wrath (F.A. 545-587) as a reconnaissance scout and envoy.

Although the elves ultimately emerged victorious over Morgoth's machinations, forty or so years of warring left most of Beleriand totally annihilated, forever lost in the depths of the Belegaer. Now bereft of a home like countless others, Hivallion once again followed Círdan, this time to the Grey Havens where he spent most of the Second Age in relative peace and stability. During this time, he continued working as a scholar and occasional teacher, and he produced a number of illustrated books on the various animals of his home. Among his most popular works is The Land of Little Songs, a guide to the numerous songbirds of Lindon (whose Sindaran title was a bit of a pun). Although Hivallion was respected in his community, and beloved by all who knew him and his gentle heart, he never married.

In any case, his quietude came to an end in S.A. 3430 when several of his colleagues (perhaps most notably his friend and fellow lore-master Elrond Halfelven) convinced him to join the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. In S.A. 3431 he began the long march eastward under his lord Círdan's banner, though he did so reluctantly. His fears manifested into a horrifying reality when he fell while reccying at the Battle of Dagorlad in 3434, following an extreme breach of personal space courtesy of an Edged Weapon of Morgul-steel wielded by the Witch-king of Angmar. Hivallion ultimately Survived the ordeal, largely due to the intervention of Elrond and his suggestion to bear the injured elf back to Imladris so he could receive a more thorough treatment for the wound. However, his recovery would not be easy or swift; he spent the next 3025 years in a dreamless torpor in Tham Send (Hall of Rest).

While Hivallion himself has yet to fully comprehend the extent of this, the story of "the irrefrangible Falathrim" touched the hearts of many who heard it, elevating the humble seaside scholar to something of a minor folk legend.

After Surviving an Edged Weapon at the Battle of Daglorad (S.A. 3434), Hivallion did not regain consciousness until the late autumn of T.A. 3015. He spent the next several weeks at Imladris, bed-bound and swarmed by well-wishers at first, but eventually finding his "sea legs"—a development that delighted the long-suffering Falathrim for this enabled him to get up and hide from said swarms of well-wishers. The following spring, Elrond suggested that he should continue convalescing in the remote elven hamlet of Celondim, located along the River Lhûn, not far from the gulf and the Grey Havens.

The suggestion came with a choice to consider: To remain in Middle-Earth or to sail west to the Undying Lands. Hivallion chose to bide a while in Celondim, sharing a small house with an old Scholar's Guild-mate of his named Taerthon, whose enthusiasm for the impending voyage to Valinor complicated Hivallion's own feelings about it. Taerthon would describe his friend affectionately, as "very much the same—I mean as if dredged up from the wreckage of a lost era, abandoned to the inexorable passage of time. Now that I think about it, I suppose that is precisely what happened to him…"

In fact, Hivallion was having second thoughts about leaving Middle-Earth. Rather, he dearly wished to reunite with his dearest companions—the warrior maiden Harthalín, and the famed elf-lord Gildor Inglorion, neither of whom were at Imladris when he awakened. Of the two, he suspected that the latter could be somewhere to the near east; Elrond informed him that Gildor was currently spending much of his time escorting wandering companies of elves to Elostirion, the tallest of the so-called White Towers, to view its palantír.

Early one morning, Hivallion packed his meager belongings and left Celondim, leaving naught behind but a note for Taerthon saying that he was "going for a walk, or perhaps an extended wander" and that he would "decide along the way". After browsing through the nearby village of Duillond, Hivallion indeed decided to continue wandering the road east, towards the old Elven hunting lands he knew as "Arassien". To his surprise, the road did not peter out at the edge of the woods (as he remembered it doing), but kept going and going—and what choice did he have but to follow it…

…until he found himself in yet another village! This one entirely populated by dwarves! Dapper dwarves in little ornamental waistcoats and calico frocks, with no shoes and no beards! My my, really things have changed in Middle-Earth, Hivallion thought to himself, gobsmacked. The residents of this village seemed equally surprised to see an elf amidst their folk, but they quickly referred him to the town (called "Gamwich", as Hivallion gleaned) tavern, The Brimful Quiver.

Yes, it was right here in humble Gamwich that Hivallion learned of The Shire, and of the Hobbits who now claimed these lands. And after experiencing his first ever bite of that beloved repast—bread and blackberry jam—Hivallion could not help but wonder if the feeling growing in his heart was not identical to what his Falathrim ancestors must've felt after beholding the seashore for the first time. He would remain in Yondershire for the next two years, eventually taking up with the "highly eccentric" Askew family in Long Cleeve, serving as a live-in tutor for their tween son, Arlen.

Hivallion is an excellent artist, and in fact earned a small bit of renown during the Second Age for publishing a number of illustrated books about the wildlife of his homelands, both current (Mithlond) and extinct (The Falas). He specializes in swift but precise sketches of flora and fauna, especially birds.

Such skills may also come in handy during his more clandestine missions on the battlefield, but as High King Gil-galad himself once remarked in the early days of the Battle of Daglorad, after seeing an eyewitness sketch account that Hivallion produced during a recce: "Ae, 'tis Gwetherain for sure, although I do not recall them looking quite so much like pelicans…"

Later, while traveling south with several of his fellows in the Grey Company, the famously po-faced Ranger Radanir noticed Hivallion—accompanying the group at Elrond's request—sketching away in his journal. With his favorite pipe dangling moodily from his nether lip, Radanir watched in silence for a time, before finally rustling up the nerve to ask the elf if he wouldn't mind doing his portrait. Hivallion agreed, and within a half-hour's time presented Radanir with a terribly detailed depiction of a Trollshaws Nutcracker, smoking a long-stemmed pipe and wearing a ranger's hood, producing a brief but welcome spasm of laughter from the subject.

During the late 1100's S.A., Hivallion's dear friend Harthalín gifted him a rather fashionable ring that she procured after a visit to Eregion. The ring, named "Hiþwa" (meaning "foggy"), was forged by the famous jewelers of Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Its design is simple: A modest moonstone cabochon, clear and grey, set within a thin band of gold. Although lesser rings of this provenance would later become dangerous due to the meddling of Sauron, this particular ring represents no such evil as it was crafted before his arrival to Tham Mírdain. Although Hiþwa may possess some minor enchantment on its own—Hivallion reports that staring into the stone will effect a "calming sensation" (this may be purely psychological)—it is not subject to the influence of the One Ring.

Interestingly, the ring is part of a matched set; its partner "Calina" ("bright") resembles it precisely save for it being a silver ring, set with a glittering faceted sunstone. Harthalín obtained this ring along with Hiþwa but kept it for herself, creating something of a mizpah between the two friends.

Although Harthalín insisted that the ring was but "a trifle, a little novelty, a souvenir if you like", her notion was nevertheless subject to much good-natured teasing from their mutual friend Gildor Inglorion, who would continue to pester the two about the "upcoming wedding" for years to come. Alas, both would maintain that the rings symbolize nothing more than a long-standing friendship; nevertheless, Hivallion and Harthalín are still rarely seen without them, even after all these centuries.

I can't adequately explain why, but I'm absolutely obsessed with the 3000-year coma aspect of Hivallion's backstory. I can't imagine what waking up from that must've felt like, but I also can't imagine the months afterwards, that transitional period where he's just constantly like "Oh, so that whole thing¹ is this whole thing² now, I see…"

But the thing that really cements the weirdness in my mind is, while Hivallion surely lost a lot of friends over that time (and especially during the Last Alliance of Elves & Men), he didn't lose all of them. He knows so many elves who actually lived through those 3000 years, and my god how they must've changed too.

He has to feel completely alien, and there must be times where he still feels terribly alienated even among those he knows best.

"Nothing to it, really. I paid my coppers and then he pulled out a very large knife, like something one might use to gut a trout, and he cut off the bulk of it in one fell swoop, everything below the barrette—that fell onto the floor with a great clattering thunk. Then the barber's wife bustled over and swept the lot into a dustpan. And that was it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, as if to allay the phantom sensation of a cold blade. "As I said, I have relatively little familiarity with the ways of Men, but so far I do admire their efficiency."

"But Hivallion! Your hair…!" Arlen cried. "You lopped off all your long, beautiful golden elven hair—well, 's not really golden though, is it? I'd say 's more of a sort of reddish-brownish-greyish sort of… It makes me think of an old knit jumper of the kind that might get lost in a root cellar for a few years, maybe forgotten beneath a crate of taters, and when at last you reunite it's all dusty and damp and it sort of smells like taters now but you're ever so glad to see it again. Your old jumper friend. It's that color."

Hivallion smiled and nodded. While the words defied everything he believed about courtesy, he knew the hobbit meant them as a compliment and he thanked him warmly for it.

"Oh. Nobottle is nice, very nice. Very, very…" Hivallion mulled a bit. "Very nice."

"Friendly? They're very friendly here in the Yondershire," added Arlen.

"Yes! Absolutely. Very friendly, very nice. Except… Well, please don't take this the wrong way, but everybody in here is a, er, little folk. A hobbit."

"Oi, yeah! Yeah, lots of hobbits here in The Shire. Oi, Hivallion," Arlen said, peering curiously at the elf. "Didn't you know that?"

"Well, yes, of course—"

"I mean, if you've been living eight thousand years or so and you don't know the Shire's got hobbits in it, maybe I ought to be the one tutoring you!"

Hivallion inhaled, attempting a restart, knowing there was no coming back from that one. "I mean, I rather stand out in here, don't I?"

Tactfully understated; even for an elf, Hivallion stood tall and lean, such that every step he took within The Fox and Fiddle saw him stooping or lifting an arm to protect his head from colliding with some impending rafter. In reality the tavern's headroom was more than adequate for even the loftiest of folk, but this could be difficult to reconcile amid such low lighting and general merriment. Hivallion already felt a touch woozy and he had yet to drink a single drop.

"You stand out wherever you go, so what? 's because you're so jittery all the time! That just draws even more attention to you, y'know? You're more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs!" declared Arlen. He'd already helped himself to an open chair at a long table, whereupon several others of his ilk were whooping and hollering, knees up without heed to where (or into whose dinner) their feet were landing. "C'mon, Mr. Pellithorn, relax! Have a seat! Have a drink!"

He gingerly maneuvered into the opposite chair, though he had yet to decide on the rest of Arlen's directive.

"Maybe later," he said, uneasily absorbing the thuddering vibrations of the tabletop, while a pair of overtly merry hobbits used it as a dance floor. "Will this thing hold? Oh!"

He yelped, narrowly dodging a whirling foot to the septum.

"Yeah, sure!" said Arlen, mid-swig off a nearby tankard, without heed to its original owner, who was no doubt plastered under the table by now. "We build 'em for this kind of thing, nice and sturdy. Look. Oi. Don't you feel better now? Not stickin' out so much when you sit down."

But even while seated, Hivallion still rose head and shoulders above the others; it was no use.

"I suppose," he conceded. "Maybe I'll feel better after a little pie."

"Oi! Look Mr. Pellithorn, I found some tall folks for ya!"

"You certainly did, Arlen…"

"I guess you elves are a handy lot after all," said Mr. Diggle. "Putting up that there curio cabinet for Hubo, without needing a stepladder or anything. Do you do ceilings too?"

Hivallion noticed the man subtly gesturing upwards with the tumbler he was cleaning. A strain through the shadows revealed the state of The Fox and Fiddle's loft, spattered with years of dust and spiders and merriment; a woebegone combination indeed.

"Eh? I got a broom right back here behind the bar," he went on, grinning.

"Might need more than a broom for all that," noted Hivallion.

"Aye, aye. It's one reason why I keep the lights so low in this place. That, and so nobody can get too much of a gander at the food. Bless the old lady, but she's not much of a cook."

"I'm sure she does her best," said Hivallion, though he would never forget the memory or the peculiar molecular structure of that apple and cheddar pie, and how it defied all his attempts to skewer his slice with a fork.

Overhead, the skies over Yondershire appeared a velvet cloak, smooth and soft, violet-black—the real blue-ribbon stuff of hometown poetry festivals.

Poetry is fine enough, Arlen thought, although he did like pretzels better. He chewed thoughtfully.

Night skies are also fine enough by their lonesome, especially in the Shire, especially in June. Nevertheless, how kind that someone, perhaps some celestial elf-maid, thought to spatter a million stars across the whole thing, and they even twinkled a little. It wasn't an overt twinkle, Arlen observed, nothing too ostentatious but sort of like the way the Elbow's Bend Inn studded their pretzels with those big crystals of salt.

They were simply better with the salt, but beyond taste and texture, there was some other quality to a coarse salted pretzel that he could not adequately describe. He continued to chew, lamenting his own lack of vocabulary: What kind of bard should have such profound difficulty describing his love for a pretzel?

While revelers milled around him and his company, the crickets purred wordlessly in the wildflowers. Suddenly seized by curiosity, Arlen looked up at the other elf who had joined them earlier, an apparent close friend of Hivallion's whom he identified as "Gildor", last name In-Glory-something-or-other that Arlen forgot after his first ale. Their reunion was all laughing surprise and "How long has it been?" with a lot of very large numbers being bandied around and then a strange shift, smooth as the sky above, into what Arlen could only assume was their native tongue.

Arlen was never good with elven languages and he was even worse with large numbers. No no, he was better with pretzels, much better, or at least he thought he was.

"So," he finally spoke up, now that he felt suitably merry. "Who is Hivallion, anyway?"

Gildor registered surprise, while the elf in question napped nearby, where some hens milled around a patch of black-eyed Susans, delivering the occasional curious peck.

"He is your tutor, is he not?" he replied, then smiled, as warm as the breeze circulating the garden, ruffing everyone's hair. "Oh, I see. You want to hear the story from an old friend, eh? Well, I suppose you picked the right person to ask. I have known Hivallion since he was quite young—since I was quite young, really. We are roughly the same age, I would wager."

"Are you really? What did he do, way back when? I mean, Did he ever do anything, uh, I dunno, adventurous…? Foolhardy?"

"Foolhardy!" Gildor laughed a little. In his hand, he balanced a half-full tumbler of scrumpy. "Well, foremost he was well known among us as a scholar, albeit one who spent most of his time out and about, if that should count as adventurous in your book. His field of interest primarily lied within our environment, especially its creatures, especially the small ones, especially those with wings. Oh, birds, butterflies, bees, bats, snails…"

Arlen stopped chewing momentarily. "Snails? Those don't have wings."

"No, my friend. No, not anymore, not anymore, sorry to say…"

Arlen eyed the elf's tumbler; perhaps he too was feeling a bit too suitably merry. "Say, did he ever wear armor like that? Like yours? All shining, like the moonlight?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "Did he ever go to battle?"

Gildor nodded. "Indeed. Well and often, though war never suited him. For certain occasions he would wear a jerkin of finely tooled calf, and over that, a breastplate of…" He took a drink as he reminisced. "…oh, it was some kind of metal scale like the belly of a fish, shining pale blue like—yes, like the moonlight, like a reflection of the full moon over the Belegaer."

Ah. Now that was some poetry.

If only such wonderful words could somehow become applicable to the ineffability of pretzels…

"I wonder if he still has it?" said Arlen. "Reckon I'd like to see that. Maybe try it on m'self…"

"His mother likely keeps it, if Hivallion himself knows not where it is. Still, you should ask him about it. Whenever he wakes," said Gildor, muttering as he offered his slumbering friend a spare glance. "Honestly, old as the blessed sun and he still can't hold his drinks…"

"There. The finishing touch," said Hivallion, as he draped the shimmering mantle over Arlen's shoulders. Like the rest of the ensemble, it was obviously not fitted for a young hobbit's body and did not quite meet end-to-end in the back.

Thankfully he would not be wearing this into battle, as Hivallion Pellithorn must've done countless times, centuries ago. Still, it was just as Gildor described, if not even more breathtaking to behold in person. The armor's foundation was a jerkin, or perhaps more like a robe—yes, a robe, or a long blouse, a dress…? the bard in Arlen mused—of leather, thin and soft, full and supple, intricately tooled and easy to move in. If not for the alarming draft now chilling Arlen's backside, where he wore it open to the world (for alas, the gracile elf and the pudgy hobbit could claim few physical commonalities), he supposed he could even nap away an entire afternoon in it.

Then over this fine garment, one would wear the most spectacular part of it, the breastplate. By the recollection of Gildor Inglorion, it resembled "the belly of a fish" and that it shined like "the reflection of the full moon over the Belegaer", words that severely impressed Arlen at the time, bearing in mind that the both of them had already had quite a bit of scrumpy by that point in the evening (to say nothing of poor Hivallion sleeping away his merriment under a nearby shrub of daisies). But now, seeing the thing with his own eyes, he understood that even such evocative prose was wholly inadequate.

Rather made him feel better about his own inability to describe the deliciousness of a Tighfield pretzel.

The breastplate's metal scales—yes, some kind of metal, steel, silver, mithril? the bard in Arlen mused—glimmered, catching the eye like a glimpse of a treasure half-buried in the shore, at low tide where the water is still clear. The ensemble even smelled faintly pelagic, but in a pleasant way that brought to mind only the good things about the ocean and its promise of adventure and discovery and fascinating birds, yes, albatrosses and gulls and such.

"How does it feel?" Hivallion asked, beholding the hobbit benevolently, if slightly amused.

"Incredible! Like a dream! Why, I daresay I feel downright elven! It's remarkable!"

"It is remarkable, Arlen. I can't even see where the armor got damaged," he added as he tapped at a spot right beside Arlen's heart. "Where I was stabbed."

"S-stabbed?"

"Elrond must have had it repaired before he passed it along to my mother."

"Y-you got stabbed, did you…?"

"Yes, by a Nazgûl. I think you would call it a Black Rider."

(Did that croak come from Arlen or a local frog…?) "You got stabbed, then, i-in this armor?"

"The same." Hivallion nodded, calm as ever. "Did I not tell you about this? Surely I did."

"My my. A Black Rider, really?"

"No worries, Arlen. It happened some three thousand years ago, during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, when we went to Mordor and defeated Sauron. Though I'm afraid I did not get to see such momentous events transpire myself, for I was injured at the Battle of Dagorlad, right at the Black Gate." Hivallion noticed the awful grimace on his student's face and decided then and there to elide the details of his injury and all that transpired afterwards. Rather, he offered a gentle smile, with hopes that it wouldn't fail to convince. "And I doubt we'll ever see anything like all that again, eh?"

"Indeed! Hah!" Arlen chuckled, unconvincingly. "Still! Perhaps I ought to take this off before the neighbors notice and start to stare, y'know, before they get the wrong impression of why I might be standing around the garden in elf-togs. You know how we hobbits love a good bit of gossip…"

Excerpt from the birding journal of Hivallion Pellithorn:

Special Secret Subscriber Bonus Content: Let's identify the birds on the bird portrait wreath in Lord of the Rings Online!

So, starting from bottom left and moving clockwise, we have:

• Hawfinch (Coccothraustes coccothraustes)
• European Robin (Erithacus rubecula)
• Eurasian Nuthatch (Sitta europaea)
• Eurasian Bullfinch (Pyrrhula pyrrhula)
• Eurasian Golden Oriole (Oriolus oriolus)

And in Middle-Earth, these birds are called:

• Hawfinch (Flinc-en-dadhos - Finch of the Hawthorn)
• Red-breast Robin (Glavradir amosgarn - Ruby Red-Breast)
• Nuthatch (Pechirthir mornif - Black-faced Nut-Pecker)
• Bullfinch (Flinc lachadir - Flaming Finch)
• Goldenthrush (Ligroval lórin - Golden Wax-Wing)

I used the closest matching birds for the Middle-Earth equivalents, but curiously, they do not all use the expected bird icon. For example, the Bullfinch entry has an icon of a wren. This is because (I think?) the category of the bird determines which icon it has in the collection list… 🤔

Even though the lone collectible Nuthatch also shows an icon of a wren…

And even though there actually is a nuthatch icon… 🤨

And then, the collectible Wren actually uses this nuthatch icon… 😭

"Now, you call that place Weathertop, but I—well, we knew it as Amon Sûl," said Hivallion, his sea blue eyes squinting into the middle distance. "There was a great tower there, but it appears to be in ruins now. Uh…"

Although his own pony added extra loft to his stance, Arlen craned his head upwards, naturally as hobbits must do when trying to make conversation with elves. Hivallion spoke of such things well and often, old sorrows, inextricably pinned to modern bewilderment.

"What's Amon Sûl mean?" Arlen repeated, wondering if it fell beneath his minstrel's mission to start writing all this down.

"Hill of the Wind. And there was a great tower there once, last I recall. Did I say that?"

"Mm."

"And within that great tower was something called a palantír," Hivallion went on. "Do you know what a palantír is?"

Arlen shook his head.

"Well, you could describe it as a sort of crystal ball, where each one has the power to look in on the others, so to speak." Hivallion hesitated before moving on. "Even in my day, not many of us knew that such things existed in our world, for they hold great power that could be abused very easily, if one had the notion."

"Oh dear! But surely all that's been gone for centuries, Mister Pellithorn!" laughed Arlen. "There's nothin' up there now, for sure, and there hasn't been nothin' up there since ancient times."

"Ancient?"

"Ancient for me, anyway. If my history's correct, that tower got destroyed in the 1400s, when this old place got sacked by Angmar, and the evil Witch-King what lived there, on his way down to sackin' Cardolan."

Hivallion's eyes widened, only for a moment, as if suddenly, sharply pained.

But, "Is that right…?" was all he said.

"Aye. Now we sing ballads about those days, but it's all pretty rotten, depressing stuff. Always gets people sobbin' into their ale, even though it happened so long ago. Doesn't sound like a real story, y'know?" Arlen muttered. "Crystal balls and Witch-Kings, bah. Sounds like fairy tales, if you ask me."

"He was real enough when he stabbed me," Hivallion lobbed back. "Uh. Tell me, Arlen. Does the Witch-King of Angmar yet live, and conspire in his home to the north? Or elsewhere?"

Arlen shrugged. "How should I know? If he does, I've ne'er seen him sobbin' into his ale at the Golden Perch."

"Well I find it very exciting," Arlen said, vibrating faintly with the aforementioned. "How can you not be practically ready to fly out of the seat of your trousers? 'tis Rivendell. Rivendell! Where all the elves go! To grow out their golden hair! So it may blow in the breeze while they pose heroically in the middle of the forest with a bow and arrow! Eh wot?"

Hivallion shrugged. He already knew that the hobbit held some rather odd beliefs regarding what elves like to do. "I s'ppose some do, yes," he agreed, diffidently.

"Oi, Hivallion! Do you know any elf songs, then? Maybe you could sing one while we stroll around town?" A terribly earnest grin stretched across Arlen's face, cheek to fat rosy cheek. "Help us get into the Elf Mood, eh wot? I bet you're real good at it."

Hivallion shrunk further into his mantle. Arlen's instincts were spot on as usual; indeed he had a lovely singing voice but the prospect of somebody actually hearing it ranked perilously high on his list of Things That Would Definitively Mortify Hivallion Pellithorn To Death, Right To Death, It Would.

Ashen-faced, he took a hard gulp of that fresh Rivendell air (which did not help him get into the Elf Mood either, for the record), subconsciously picking up his pace the way spiders might do when in proximity of a hand-wielded slipper. "Nah. You're the minstrel, are you not? Why not sing a nice Hobbit Song for everyone instead?" he said. "I'm sure the fine people here are sick of hearing the same old ballads."

"You think so, eh?"

"Positive. Why not that one you just penned about Bingo Boffin's Water Wings?" Hivallion considered. "It probably won't get us thrown out of town…"

"Well yes, that part is true, Arlen. In fact, I slept in this very room, in this very bed for a very long time. Though I'm afraid it's not the most exciting story, especially if you are not familiar with the Last Alliance of Elves and Men." He paused, partly surprised that he could still feel that dull ghost of a wicked ache, a sickly feeling lingering in the bones about his heart. "You… aren't familiar with that at all, are you?"

Arlen laughed. "Not at all! I s'ppose that's why my parents hired you to tute me in such things. They do so wish for me to become a well-rounded hobbit, and not just from eating all sorts of pies. Though the pies are also important, vitally so, I should think," he said, adding hopefully, "I can only assume one can find some absolutely cracking pies somewhere here in Rivendell."

Hivallion could only assume so; it had been a very, very long time after all, but from what he had seen so far of this exciting new Third Age, the overall make and mission of a pie had not changed at all. Blueberry, blackberry, mushroom, shepherd's, pecan, apple…

"Apple and cheese," Arlen went on with a dreamy haze to his eyes. "Oh, I could do with a splendid apple and cheese pie right now. Actually, may I confess something to you, Mr. Pellithorn?"

"Of course."

"Even if it comes off as a bit rude?"

"We can only see."

"Well. Ever since we got here, the only real thought I've been able to think is why anyone would ever want to leave the Shire. Now, don't get me wrong; this place is beautiful to look at," Arlen said, "but there's nowhere you can really sit back, undo your belt, put your feet up and really enjoy a really nice pie, is there? I mean, not really, is there?"

At that, Hivallion tried to imagine the likes of, say, Elrond Halfelven rocking back in his chair, feet up on one of these fine wrought wood tables, waistcoat open, belt unbuckled, snarfing his way through an entire mushroom pie in one sitting, perhaps chatting between bites about mathoms or golf…

He failed spectacularly.

"You make a fair point," he agreed, tilting his head in contemplation. "In truth, Imladris, lovely as it is, is not my home either. Still, Elrond has done the world a boon in founding this place, as much as he did me a boon by allowing me to recover right here in this bed for as long as I needed, so that I could one day leave and see what became of the world during my absence from it, and then one day return—to pass along your suggestion about the pies, I suppose."

"Yes, yes! Please do!" Arlen nodded. "Apple and cheese. Don't forget."

I like how whenever Hivallion tries to talk to Glorfindel, he gets blasted with his hi-vis xenon headlights, forcing him to blindly stumble around Rivendell for the next several minutes, praying he doesn't fall into a ravine again. Last time it happened, they had to fish him out of the Bruinen like a salamander in a pool skimmer.

"It's the Light of Hope, Hivallion. Stop making that face."

"Something is not right here, Hivallion…"

"Well, if I may hazard a guess—"

"—go on."

"I think, perhaps, that lurid chartreuse-colored horizon might have something to do with it. Unless this is normal for—uh, where are we, anyway?"

"Ost Brandras, due west of Rivendell. Have I not been repeating the name throughout our journey to this accursed place?"

"No, mostly you were going on about different makes of hair tonic."

"…I only think that you would benefit if you put simply a little more effort into your daily toilette, that's all."

"What new terror is this?!"

"It appears to be some foul variety of fell spirit, Glorfindel."

"Could this diseased creature truly be the doing of the Gaunt-lord Ferndúr?"

"Well, I do doubt it got that way because it wasn't using the correct make of hair tonic, Glorfindel."

"…"

"Ah! So the mighty Glorfindel finally graces me with his presence… With his silky and manageable golden hair… And, uh, it would also seem that he felt compelled to bring along some toady of his, who could really use some intense conditioning, perhaps some hot oil or a mask…"

"Beauty tips from a Gaunt-lord? In all of my 8000 or so years of life, that might be a first."

"Indeed. And with split ends like those, I doubt it will be the last, Hivallion."

"…you really do take this sort of thing very seriously, eh?"

"I'm sorry," he then spouted, pausing abruptly at the foot of the bridge. "I am not very good company tonight, am I."

Hivallion looked down at the hobbit—in a purely literal sense—upon hearing such a needless apology.

Actually. He wanted to walk that one back a bit; what was the best way for an elf to address a hobbit? Would it be more polite to kneel to his address or would it come off as condescending? Thus far he could only consider his own dealings with a student of his, a native of the Shire village of Stock, and Arlen Askew didn't seem to mind whether Hivallion stood or knelt or even passed out beneath a shrub after having a single pull of cider from the Bent Elbow in Tighfield.

Actually. The less said about that particular episode, the better.

However, this Baggins character seemed entirely unlike the hobbit Hivallion knew best. For one thing, unlike Arlen's insouciant (if utterly gormless) approach to the grand carnival of life, Frodo handled his affairs with a great deal of introspection—alas, to such a degree of anxiety that the likes of Gandalf the Grey himself asked Hivallion to take a stroll with the fellow through the fresh and hopefully ameliorative air of Rivendell.

Perhaps the opportunity to speak frankly with a relative stranger—yet one known to myself and others—might go a long way towards easing a troubled heart, the hoary old wizard ventured. Besides, no doubt our mutual friend Elrond has already made him aware that he has something in common with you…

But when Hivallion asked Gandalf what that something might be, he chose not to disclose the specifics, only that it would come as a surprise, should he ever find out.

"That's alright," he said, electing to remain upright; this weather was already making his knees ache. "Honestly, I am not usually very good company myself."

"Oh? But you've listened to everything I've said so far, I can tell, and I would ask nothing more of a stranger," Frodo returned with a shrug. "And should I have anything else to say on our walk, I am sure you'll listen to that too."

"Rather trusting sort, are you?"

"Elrond himself recommended you to me! He said you were an elf to ride the river with, right as a trivet. That's a turn of phrase straight out of Tookland, and it sure sounded funny coming from his mouth, but there you have it. He seemed awfully proud to know you."

Hivallion lowered his head, feeling his face burn about the cheeks. In absence of a fierce breeze, he could only attribute the sensation to his own overactive bashfulness.

"Besides, I already know that Gandalf asked you to take this walk with me," Frodo went on. "It was kind of you to humor us, especially on a cold winter night!"

"The air does have a strange sort of bite to it lately, does it not?" Hivallion noticed, carefully.

"It is December," Frodo reminded him.

"Indeed, but Rivendell doesn't bite. Not normally. I wonder if—"

"Well, Master Elrond did tell me that a Morgul-wound might make you feel that way for a long time after receiving it. As if sometimes you simply cannot warm up, even when you're sitting right in front of the fire. Even after the wound heals, the chill can sort of linger within you like a ghost haunting your very bones."

"Master Elrond told you all that, did he…?"

"He did. And he told me that you were so badly wounded by a Black Rider's blade that you slept for years and years! Right there in his house, in the Hall of Rest!"

"Mm." Hivallion nodded, grimly; he did so wish Elrond would stop telling tourists about this, though he had to concede that it was as much Elrond's story as it was his own. "'twas during the Battle of Dagorlad, at the end of the previous age, if you recall your history. I was wounded by the Witch-King of Angmar himself, and yes, I really did spend the subsequent millennia convalescing in Tham Send. But there is no need to trouble your own imagination with such nasty things! That war happened a very, very long time ago," Hivallion stated, adding sheepishly, "and I am a very, very old elf."

"Older than Elrond?"

Hivallion nodded again.

"Older than Glorfindel?"

Hivallion tipped his head. Perhaps?

"Older than Gandalf?"

"Well! Not that old." Hivallion didn't think so, anyway. "But Elrond spoke true, and in such matters he is an expert: Morgul-steel can do many dreadful things to a person, though I suppose whatever becomes of the victim ultimately will depend on the intent of whoever is wielding the blade."

"But what did the Witch-King intend to do with you?" Frodo asked. "What happened? And why did it happen?"

And how many times had he been questioned so? Hivallion wondered this as he chafed his bare hands and watched his breath coalesce, delicately frosted plumes visible against twilight and tree-silhouettes. Though far-removed in time and space, the mere reminder of that day only served to amplify the hollow sting of a lonely winter night.

What happened? His friends and allies had been asking him that question ever since the what happened happened, but never Why. To ask Why of a Nazgûl usually felt about as productive as asking Why of a marmot obliterating one's garden peonies.

But Frodo Baggins obviously possessed good hobbit-sense, and coming from his mouth the question sounded strangely sensible, and produced the notion that perhaps one really should ask Why of such things more often.

"As I remember it, or at least as Elrond and several other friends of mine have helpfully remembered for me, I was scouting an enemy encampment while trying to investigate what became of an ally of ours named Thelaron," Hivallion told him. "I cannot tell you what I was expecting to find at that overlook, but I can say for certain that I did not expect to meet the Witch-King of Angmar himself, face-to-face—well, face-to-whatever passes for a face to a Nazgûl."

"Did you exchange words?"

"Oh yes, I should think so. He had a few words for me, at least."

"Did you exchange blows?"

Hivallion shook his head. "Did we do battle, you mean? Oh no!" He laughed. "Imagine the likes of this old Falathrim trying to defeat a Nazgûl in single combat! No, I am no warrior, Mister Baggins. And anyway, I was so petrified—"

"But then he stabbed you anyway, just like that…?"

Hivallion held his arms together, close and tight against the encroaching cold; their walking pace had slowed to a near stand-still and it would not do for much longer. "Forgive me. The encounter challenges my memory now as much as it challenged my senses back then. But yes, he stabbed me, just like that. I do know that his blade pierced my armor, very close to my heart, and yet I do not think he intended to kill me, not outright…"

Those last words he recalled hearing from the Witch-King, stuffed like an unwanted Mathom into a shadowy, abandoned cobweb-corner of his memories. Probing deeper, Hivallion felt a curious thickening deep within his ears and throat, muddling his balance and producing a vague queasiness and the sensation that he was falling into darkness like a loosened star…

Fortunately his lapse into such disquiet was briefer in reality than it felt to him; Hivallion returned his attention to the hobbit, asking brightly, "This is by the by, but know you the story of the Witch-King, Lord of Angmar? I mean, the man himself, the Númenórean, not the Nazgûl he eventually became."

"I—"

"Wait! So long as we are posing the Why of things, why would anyone, much less Elrond, ever see cause to dredge up such appalling subjects with you in the first place? Cursed Morgul-steel and ghastly wounds and Black Riders!" Hivallion groaned and apologized. "Oh dear, oh dear! And I was supposed to be helping you clear your mind, not stuff it to bursting with even more horrible things!"

"But you did help, Mister Pellithorn!" Frodo insisted. "There I was, maundering on about my own troubles when there are so many things about my life that I should treasure! My health, my friends! True, I have been given a most frightful task, but at least I am still walking amidst the warmth and wonder of Middle-Earth! When I could have been laid up in a bed for the next 3000 years…! Imagine that!"

Hivallion, of course, did not need to imagine such a thing. "Well! I am full glad that some measure of good came from my misfortune," he jested, "and that I was able to provide some small comfort for whatever was plaguing you. Just as well, as I believe our little talk is over."

"Oh?"

The overly conspicuous rustling from a nearby abelia shrub eventually revealed the tumbling form of another hobbit, whom Hivallion did not recognize outright.

"Sam?" Frodo guessed, squinting through the gloom.

"There you are, Mister Frodo! You really ought not go off by yourself, y'know!" huffed the eavesdropper—(Sam, yes Samwise Gamgee is this one's name, Hivallion strained to recall)—as he brushed the twigs and dried leaves from his hair.

Even in the darkness, Hivallion could feel the bore of this Samwise's keen eyes, aware that he was now being evaluated from top to bottom, and that whatever the hobbit observed failed to impress.

"As for you—Hivallion, was it? I'm sure you're a perfectly respectable elf but I'd prefer you left Mister Frodo alone, just the same," Sam reported.

"Of course," said Hivallion, dipping into a stunted half-bow. "But there is no need for alarm. I accompanied him at Gandalf's request."

"That may be so, and I don't mean no offense, but Mister Frodo's gotten himself into trouble with strange folk before, if you take my meaning."

"Oh honestly!" Frodo protested. "Mister Pellithorn is hardly strange! He is Elrond's friend! And he is familiar with the you-know-whats. A you-know-what did a you-know-what to him, with a you-know-what."

"Do I know-what?"

"Yes! The things, Sam. The things that are doing the thing because they seek the thing that Gandalf told us not to talk about here."

"That covers an awful lot of things, Mister Frodo."

Hivallion excused himself with a pointed cough. "Ahem! Then I do hope you will forgive my intrusion into the business of you and your friend, Mister Gamgee. I had no idea things were evidently so, uh, thing-ish," he tried. "In fact, perhaps I should be on my way now; I am supposed to be meeting an old friend of mine in town for supper, and no doubt she is now peering into her drink and wondering where I've gone. But never mind that, you two will surely catch your death of a cold out here! Then old Gandalf might never forgive me for that, hm?"

With that, Hivallion and the two hobbits exchanged their good nights and good lucks, with the former graciously leaving the latter with their privacy intact. He did not need any more detail than what Frodo had provided: A you-know-what did a you-know-what to him, with a you-know-what. And that was that. And now the hobbits' assemblage was about to undergo what he suspected was some Incredibly Important Endeavor, with which he absolutely did not, under any circumstances, want to involve himself.

However, as he continued down the path, veering west towards the markets, his long ears helplessly caught Frodo's parting shot by the tail end:

"3000 years—! That could've been me, Sam!"

"Mister Frodo, what are you talking about…?"

"I doubt I shall ever enjoy taking the life of another," Hivallion admitted, somberly.

His raven questioned this with an unusual little whob sound, almost human in timbre.

"No no, Tuffy. There's no but there," Hivallion replied in perfect understanding of his avian companion's mode of speech. "I meant what I said. Whether it makes me a craven, or simply lacking insight, I mislike killing things, anything really. War or no, it's awful, isn't it?"

"Whob"

"Well, yes of course, I do agree with that. However awful, 'tis imperative to defend one's self, and moreover these lands from those who would see them abused and destroyed. That I believe with my whole heart."

"Whob"

"Eh? You want a…?" Hivallion blinked. "Another one of those Dale-men's Crams…?"

"Whob" Tuffy clicked her beak in the affirmative. "Tkt tkt tkt tkt, ha-ha!"

"Oh, alright. The last one of the lot, all yours," he said as he dug into a waxed paper wrapper, kept near the top of his pack. "The good people who produce these might as well try marketing them as bird biscuits for birds. I say, I think they make them stale…"

"By the by, Gorothúl. How do you know my name? I never told you my name. By the way all of you lot seem to know me by my father-name, one might think I was passing it around like mint turtles for Harvestmath."

"Everybody knows you, Hivallion Pellithorn. The Irrefrangible Falathrim? That dithering ninny Elrond had a booth set up in Tham Send where visitors could fork over five coppers and gaze upon your sleeping body. And for another ten, they could have a picture drawn on a postcard to send home to the kiddies."

"…oh. Right, that. But you—"

"Are an Angmarim sorcerer who dutifully serves the Necromancer here in Dol Guldur? Naturally. But I also happened to have five coppers in my pocket, so what…? The economy here in Middle-Earth has not collapsed to the point where amassing an entire five to fifteen coppers is some monstrous task. Or perhaps it is for you, I'm not sure how much Círdan is paying his gofers these days."

"But Elrond let you in??"

"Of course he did. He said I'm not sure I really like this, mind you, but fair is fair. And he let me into the booth with all the other tourists, yes. The Witch King of Angmar himself could have showed up, Hivallion, and if he had the five coppers…"

"We must gather the Dúnedain, the Rangers of Eriador," sighed Elrond.

At once, Hivallion understood precisely why he had been summoned to the Hall of Fire, but he kept quiet.

"You must do this, Hivallion," continued Elrond, fully in line with the Falathrim's expectations.

"I see. But surely there are others more qualified to handle such an important matter," he replied, carefully. "Uh. Lord Glorfindel, for one, continues to loiter around just outside the house."

Elrohir glared into the fire, muttering. "If ever we need someone to dispatch a balrog, we shall send for Glorfindel."

"Right. If ever we need someone to pose heroically for the front of a packet of lembas, we shall send for Glorfindel," added Elladan.

"Right," Elrohir smirked. "If ever we need someone to frighten away the Lord of the Nazgûl with a very very bright light, we shall send for Glorfindel."

"Right. And if ever we need someone to be the back half of a pantomime horse—"

"The back half, right, because you, Hivallion, shall be the front half—"

"On account of your tremendous height!"

"Taller than father, even!"

"Right, taller than father!" Elladan nodded vigorously. "And if ever we need someone to be the back half of the aforementioned pantomime horse, we shall send for Glorfindel."

"This all sounds a bit too premeditated for my liking," Hivallion mused, his imagination slowly but helplessly drifting towards a place even darker and stuffier than the Warg-pens of Dol Guldur.

Elrond massaged his temples, his well of patience without bottom or bucket. "Worry not; it is all beside the point. The reason why I have selected you is because I know that you know the roads and paths of Eriador. Someone must bring this news to the Rangers."

"But your own sons both know—"

"Someone reliable must bring this news to the Rangers," Elrond went on. "They must uphold their oath. They will become the Grey Company and ride to the aid of their chief."

"Their chief…?"

"Yes. Aragorn. Err—Estel. Strider. Longshanks. That guy, Hivallion."

"That guy, of course." Hivallion considered this for a moment. "He is rather tall too. Taller than me, even," he said, facing one of the twins. "Do you not think he would make a better candidate for the front half of your pantomime horse, Elrohir?"

"Elladan," he replied, correcting.

"Oh! Forgive me. It would seem I still can't always tell the two of you apart."

"No worries," said the other one. "Neither can we."

"Can you travel to the inn at Brockenborings and tell my friend Lotho Sackville-Baggins that—"

Halros continued talking; at the very least, his mouth continued to move and sounds continued coming out of it. Hivallion heard naught, for his own mind repeated the words "my friend Lotho Sackville-Baggins" so loud that he momentarily feared others could hear it.

Unlike Halros, Hivallion appended an interrobang: "My friend Lotho Sackville-Baggins‽" and a cresting wave of regret that threatened to knock him off his feet.

"—llion? Hivallion!" The Ranger's voice took hold. He snapped his fingers in the elf's face "Eh? You still with us?"

"O-oh, yes." He laughed, sheepishly. "Of course."

"Your mouth fell open all of a sudden."

"Thought I was about to sneeze. Uh. Say, Halros," Hivallion said. "Well. Are you absolutely sure about that decision? To leave the Shire unattended and join Aragorn in his Grey Company, I mean."

Halros appeared puzzled. "You said it was for the best."

"But you know how us elves are about giving advice. Dangerous gift, advice! Even from the wise to the wise, and all courses may run ill."

"You sound like Gildor."

"Probably where I heard it." Hivallion shook his head. "Never mind. All I'm saying is, well, don't let the words of one old elf—a funny old elf who is very rapidly diminishing in relevance to this funny old world of ours—do not let the likes of him sway your opinion so."

"So you think I shouldn't go, then…?"

A presage of Aragorn, son of Arathorn (and also known as Estel, Strider, Longshanks, That Guy) his arms a-folded, his foot a-tapping an exasperated rhythm, coalesced in the corner of Hivallion's consciousness:

"Eh?" The jingling and rustling of a ranger's heavy leather baggage forced Hivallion from his latest reverie. "Halros!"

The man grunted as he hefted a weatherbeaten kit bag over his shoulder. "This long road isn't going to tread itself, my friend," he returned with a wave. "Off I go! I'll see you in Imladris."

A grin, crooked but confident, flashed across the face of the man called Horn, as he eased his bottom into the grass, so warm and welcoming by his expertly crafted fire. "Ahh! I say, you are fortunate to have friends among the elves, Hivallion," he said.

The statement was so very ordinary, it threatened to pass through the expanse between Hivallion's ears without further event; he directed a sideways glance towards Horn. "Oh?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to make this journey without a guide, and Corudan appears to know what he is doing."

He meant Corudan, the Galadhrim, who was now making a heroic attempt to to secure their swan-dinghy to a post he had hammered into the shore. Every so often he would pause to swat at the air, peppered with a tight formation of biting gnats who had followed them all the way from Lothlórien. Nona stood nearby, turning Galadriel's favorite kettle (on kind but very pointed loan) about her hands. The angle of her eyebrows suggested doubt.

"Indeed, he does," Hivallion agreed, carefully.

"Indeed. But it isn't, uh," Horn searched, "it is not seemly for a Man of Rohan to mingle with elves, as you saw in Stangard. Of his kind, my people have little to say but this: Long-lived and dangerous."

"Y-yes, long-lived."

"Yes! And dangerous! Mustn't forget the danger," said Horn. "Thus far the Dwimordene and their queen have shown us kindness and generosity, but I think we Men would do well to keep the danger in mind as well."

Hivallion scratched his temple. "Of course. But, er…"

"But what?"

"Horn, you do know that I am also an elf, yes?" Quickly realizing, Hivallion brushed aside a portion of his shaggy hair, revealing a long, pointed ear.

Like a cube of butter slowly melting into the fluff of a freshly-baked tater, the bard's face began to contort into an interesting and entirely new shape, from which there could be no return.

"However, I am not from Lothlórien. I hail from Mithlond, far to the west of here," continued Hivallion. "Although my natal nest now rests forever beneath the Belegaer, for I was an elf of the Falas, born some 8000 years ago, before the light of the sun graced this world with its warmth."

"…oh. So the All-Feather is also an elf. Hah."

"Indeed, he is. And as you said: Long-lived!"

"Long-lived, yes." Horn nodded.

"And dangerous?"

Horn decided then that his silence, smiling sheepishly, could handle the rest of this conversation better than words.

The fire popped and crackled unabated. A local choir of crickets and wrens commenced its nightly serenade, while Corudan contributed a selection of classic Sindarin curses against his flying foes. Nona cared naught for night music and she stomped towards the campfire, bringing the kettle and some bone to pick.

"Are you sure the Lady of the Woods said we can actually cook with this thing? It looks much too fancy and useless, like everything else those elves make," she blurted, but quickly recoiled from her own tongue. "Oh. Sorry Hivallion. I didn't mean any offense."

He shrugged and laughed. "It's alright Nona, none taken."

But Horn glared at the woman, his eyes huge with betrayal. "You knew—?!"

Surprisingly, it was Corudan who first came forth. "You honor us with your praise, Reeve. As for our own business, you may address us collectively as the Fantastic Four," he told the Rohirrim leader with about as much modesty as such a moniker might muster, adding wisely, "if it pleases you."

"Fantas—" Horn truncated his protest, also wisely. "W-we can't call ourselves that! Have you gone crackers? No fellowship of mere mortals could possibly withstand the litigious might of the Mouse, if you get my meaning."

They weren't supposed to, logically speaking, but for the sake of the continuation of this narrative let us say that they fully understood the implications of Horn's words (in a very real and legally binding sense)…

"Well, what are we calling ourselves these days, then? I thought we had this all sorted out at breakfast," Corudan grumbled.

"No; you burbled out some nonsense in Elf-tongue and then you said well, that's all sorted out!, and then you fell asleep in your fry-up," Nona reminded him. "Anyway, I came up with the new name! It's Nona's Angels."

"I thought we were the Fellowship of the Auk?" said Hivallion, his voice tiny and somewhat confused. Apparently much had transpired in his absence, including yet another breakfast that saw the fellowship's "beating heart"* riding out into the cold crack of dawn to go fetch (or deliver) one thing (or another) for (or to) someone he just met; the life of a career gofer was ever thus, rife with such gustatory tragedies. Handheld meals hastily crammed down the gullet while balancing a canteen of coffee in one hand, while bouncing nauseously down the barest suggestion of a road, while saddled atop the sagging back of some long-suffering prole of the equine variety, invariably named Freckles or Peaches or Taffy.

Even Glorfindel, who on ceremonial occasions rode a pure white stallion who glimmered in the moonlight and whose luxuriously limpid mane brought to mind the blessed luminescence of of the legendary Silmarils, actually had the gall to name the poor creature "Fánarocco"—simply "White Horse" in the old Quenya tongue.

For all of his other qualities, the Eldar evidently had precious little energy to spare for creative pursuits.

"Nona's Angels! Really!" Horn scoffed. "Might as well call ourselves Horn's Hornbags!"

A dangerous flare arose in Nona's eyes. "Like hell! I am not calling myself a hornbag! I'd rather be an auk!" She paused. "Hivallion, what is an auk, anyway?"

"An auk is a kind of bird—a pelagic bird who spends most of its life at sea, not unlike our murres and puffins."

Corudan scratched his head. "Do they also spend a lot of time running around and arguing with each other about what to call themselves?"

"No, mostly they swim and dive and catch fish," Hivallion went on. "Our smaller auks can also sort of hoover up plankton through their beaks."

"What is plankton?" wondered Nona, at her own peril.

"Tiny little creatures who live in the sea. Like fish lice."

"Great," muttered Horn. With a sigh, he resumed, affecting professionalism: "My apologies, Reeve Athelward. Acute exhaustion may perhaps be taking more of a toll on our operations than previously assumed."

The Reeve jolted upwards in his seat. "Oh no! No worries. Please, I must insist that you take as much time as you might need to consider my offer. Cliving could benefit from the inspiration provided by such diversity! A good, strong Rohirrim man. A woman who carries the pride of Dunland in her sword arm. A Dwimordene of the Lórien, fair of face and sharp of wit. And, uh."

He stopped speaking as his gaze at last settled on Hivallion. His grey eyes crinkled at the corners as his brow turned and furrowed, as if trying but ultimately failing to realize something in the low light of his mead hall.

"Fish lice…?" was all Athelward could manage in that moment.

"Bit of an ordeal, trying to get that wean's sword back. Sperling, his name, I think? One of yours, Horn? Brother or cousin or some such? No? Anyway, as it happened, another lad named—oh! I promised I wouldn't say—so, another lad (whom I shan't name) borrowed the sword from Sperling's other mate, and he misplaced it elsewhere in town. Then a dog ran off with the sword, and he ran straight out of Eaworth and into the hills, and I can only assume he would've continued in that direction forever if not for the unfortunate intervention of the business end of an Orcish spear. And then… a drake—yes, a drake, really!—must've swooped down from the heavens to conduct some business of its own with the Orc. I only saw the grisly aftermath, but I found a bit of what looked like a toy sword near the corpse and I realized that the drake must've flown off with the rest of it…

"So I spent the rest of the day tracking drakes until I found the culprit, stalking the local aurochs. I'll spare you the particulars, just say that I eventually retrieved the toy sword, and I also found where your local drakes are, er, making more drakes. Yes, up in the Wyrmdelf, where else? What an exhausting trip for biscuits that was! But the view at the top of Fang Tor made it all worthwhile. I crawled out of the cave on my hands and knees, just as the sun started to set. And that was that. All's well. All the weans made amends. Good thing too, I don't think I could stand to see any more strife in these parts…

"…so, uh? Well, what have you three been up to today? Oh? Meat pies and blankets, huh?"

—Hivallion Pellithorn, chatting and supping with his fellow members of "Nona's Angels"

BONUS CONTENT FOR PEOPLE STICKING WITH ME THIS LONG:

Hivallion settles in for a well-deserved washing up…

…or not!

Note: The towels were very graciously donated at Galadriel's behest when Hivallion and Corudan and Nona first set out from Caras Galadhon (and they were NOT stolen from the Caras Galadhon Days Inn, as any vicious and frankly outrageous scuttlebutt might suggest).

"But which one of us looks better?"

"Yeah Horn, which one of us looks better? Go on, tell the truth. Hivallion's feelings won't be hurt, I promise."

"Now see you, this is why we really need Nona here. Because if Nona was here, she would say that you both look like a couple of gits who got dragged through a rummage pile and that would be the end of it."

"…"

"…"

"…Corudan, did he just call us a couple of gits?"

"No. Nona said it, obviously."

"My sword, as you wish it, goes to whomever will bid me bloody it most," growled Béortnoth, putting paid to the question of whether the Thane of Thornhope would continue to obey his Wormtongue-addled king.

Thornhope… Hivallion struggled to recall it. Where is Thornhope, again…? East Wall, or…? The image dripped into his working memory like second breakfast coffee through a filter. The charred remains of a village and a handful of survivors, weeping or stony-eyed, swearing revenge on orcs. It was all terribly non-specific; Hivallion had witnessed many such scenes in Rohan. This would not do until a name shimmered to the top of the cup: Bote.

At once, Hivallion remembered. Ah yes! The child Léofrun and her doll. That specific memory, unearthing a toy from a pile of wreckage, brushing the dirt off its calico face—it dislodged the lot. Thane Béortnoth wandering the roads of Entwash Vale (yes, that was it), near the fringes of Fangorn, half-mad, babbling about trees with eyes. Ents, like the one who had rescued him.

Understandably, he hoped to rebuild his town too. And considering how Hytbold now thrived, having risen like a firebird from the ashes of its own pyre…

"—Hivallion, all here have learned to trust you." Harding's voice snapped the named elf clean out of his reverie. His tone portended a solicitation; Hivallion knew what was coming next. "What say you? Should we break faith with the King, or…"

Internally, Hivallion raced. Oh no, don't ask me, what do I know? This is nowhere near my wheelhouse!

Before he could stammer out some middling non-answer, someone cried from somewhere behind his back.

"My lord! Fear, fire, and foes! The West Gate burns!"

What remained of the Witan dissolved into clamor and confusion. Harding pushed himself away from the feast, rising to full authority. "Then the time for words is over," he declared. "Come, my friends! Draw your swords!"

"Fire?" Whatever relief Hivallion may have felt from his release from "the hook" swiftly gave way to cold stupefaction. "The West Gate? No, we just rebuilt that!" he lamented.

He felt the uneasy warmth of someone else's hand envelop one of his own. It was the widow Mildrith, Thane of Elthengels, and she was now pulling him towards the mead hall doors in lock-step with her peers, even those with whom she so ardently debated during the Witan.

"Come along, Thane of Hytbold," she instructed him as a mother to an unruly son. "It is time for you to defend your holdings!"

"My holdings!" he repeated, shrinkingly. "Forgive me, Thane Mildrith, I've never had holdings before."

"Yes, and if we do not hurry, you shan't have them for much longer…!"

"Hivallion."

The first time, Hivallion simply ignored the silvery, if currently rasping call of his name, sounding directly behind him. He already knew the voice belonged to Glorfindel, and by that logic he already knew what the fuss was about, and so far their little Wandering Company (of a sort) to Gondor had already produced much fuss, much of it not worth the trouble it would take to acknowledge in prosaic recollection.

"Hivallion!"

The elf rasped again, and this time Hivallion turned his head.

"Yes, it's a goose," he rasped back.

"Why?"

"Oh, that's a bit existential, don't you think?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "I mean, why is it here…? At the royal wedding?"

"Don't be silly. The goose is my guest."

"You're not serious!"

But Hivallion was, indeed. "The invitation said I could bring one guest," he returned, evenly. "Besides, this is no ordinary goose, 'twas a gift from the Yonder-watch—a pedigreed Shire White Arrow and a most esteemed specimen of waterfowl."

"Pedigree or no, your esteemed specimen has soiled the wedding aisle from yon to hither," Glorfindel reported, sourly.

"Oh dear. Well, he did promise me beforehand that he would behave. I can only assume that such natural functions would not be considered as rude for a goose as they would be for other bipeds."

Gildor moved in, perhaps unwisely. "What about the hobbit lad, your student, ah, what's his name…?"

"Arlen? He counts as a biped, yes, I think—"

"I mean the invitation. Surely you didn't bring him all the way out here only to leave him behind in the guest house?"

"Of course not. I extended the invitation to him but he told me that he had absolutely no interest in attending the wedding at all," Hivallion said. "He was quite taken with the sights and sounds and smells of Gondor. I suppose he must be sight-smelling elsewhere."

The city now teemed with endless venues for making merry, by nearly any definition one could imagine. As Hivallion considered all of these, in tandem with the hobbit who was (presumably) doing the making, his own evening began to take shape in his imagination and alas, it no longer involved simply enjoying some wedding cake, then retreating to the guest house and hiding beneath a duvet for the next 47 hours.

"Ow—!"

A sudden yelp and shuffle from behind snapped Hivallion from his grim reverie. Over his shoulder, he watched Glorfindel rub his reddening hand.

"Your esteemed specimen bit me, Hivallion," he announced, under his breath.

Hivallion cringed apologetically and shrugged, knowing that he and the goose would have to have a very long talk later; time would only tell if it would be the same talk he was going to have to have with Arlen later as well.

The banquet—as if such a collective could generate a single life of its own—bustled all about him, as banter buzzed in his ears like billions of bumblebees, as individual faces and voices and names and walks and words all fused seamlessly into the great impenetrable din that packed Merethrond's air all the way to its cavernous rafters. Hivallion could not help but try to pick out the faces and voices and names that he knew as he wandered beside and between and beyond table after table after table, for he took comfort in familiar things and busy places like this taxed his every nerve and sensibility; it was impressive, but perhaps a bit excessive, and thus not entirely unlike Minas Tirith itself in that regard (or at least in his opinion).

And anyway, he felt especially obligated to put a little more care than usual into his every step, for in his right palm he now balanced a VIP (Very Important Platter) while his left dealt with the same.

When he finally came within view of his assigned table—for their esteemed Hostess planned the seating for this banquet personally, with much tact and consideration as one would reasonably expect from Elrond's progeny—relief was instant and palpable. In fact, the entire table seemed to shimmer like the light of a full moon through a low-hanging mist, as one might imagine an elongated banquet table packed shoulder-to-shoulder with Eldar might do. But what a grand sight, even to Hivallion's experienced eyes! His dearest, oldest friends, all decked out in their finest, primped and polished to the nines, with more than a few of them appearing to be a similar number of sheets to the wind…

The open bar was, surprisingly, Arwen's design as well.

"Oh! There you are…!"

Harthalín hailed him first, before he could even wedge himself back into the tight spot he maintained between her, the end of the bench, and his boon companion Gildor, who had the fortune of scoring a seat at the head (or foot, depending on who you asked) of the table.

"We were starting to worry. Don't tell me you got lost in here," she said, her eyes deadlocked on one of the plates in Hivallion's hands, held delicately upright as he maneuvered his long legs around the bench and his backside into the perilously narrow slot set aside for him.

Fortunately for Hivallion, Falathrim were naturally rather tall and reedy, even for elves; most of his space requirements were vertical in nature.

"The dessert buffet is all the way on the other side of the hall, through a hero's gauntlet of merry-makers and well-wishers and so on, and they all know me as that elf-chap who slept in Elrond's house for 3000 years, which never fails to unnerve," he noted as he settled the plate in his right hand onto Harthalín's placemat. "They had one Leaf Pastry left and it was going in a blink."

"Hmm." She examined it, dubiously. "This doesn't look like hazelnut butter."

Gildor said nothing. He simply cleared his throat in anticipation, for he knew he would be the lucky recipient of the pastry on the plate in Hivallion's left hand: A hexagonal lump of golden sponge, its pores glistening with honeyed syrup, sticky and lethally sweet. Its crown, optimistically embossed with an image of a bee.

"Hazelnut?" Hivallion repeated.

"I did ask for one with hazelnut, right?"

Hivallion stammered, in a momentary lapse of sanity. "The fillings are all random, I think. That's the idea behind the whole thing, isn't it? You tear off a leaf, hope for the best."

"Bit like life in general," Gildor contributed with a mouthful of cake. "You may gamble as you like, but you cannot always count on receiving the outcome that you desire."

"Still, he could have put a touch more effort into it."

Hivallion shook his head. "What did you want me to do, lick the pieces? Nibble a little bit off each one before deciding?"

"You could have at least looked at the thing when you tore it off!"

"Beg pardon, but I am not sure that I would recognize hazelnut butter, even if it leapt from a hedge and stabbed me in the throat."

"'tis nothing more outlandish than pulverized hazelnut, Hivallion. Hazelnut!" Harthalín reiterated. "Y'know, it's a sort of nutty color!"

"They were all sort of nutty!"

"So out of a whole entire platter of sort-of-nutty leaf pastry—in your own words, mind—you mean to tell me that by some bizarre stroke of luck you pulled the only one with cream cheese inside?"

Hivallion sighed, conciliatory, if deeply weary. "I'm sure it tastes wonderful, just the same. Hm?"

Fortunately, Harthalín was the sort who could sense when her teasing went too far, and she knew how to rein it in. She simply heaved a theatrical groan and threw up her hands, accepting the turn of her cards without further argument. "Oh, fine. It'll do. It'll do, hanareg."

"It'll do, Hivallion," said Gildor. "Well done. That's as good as it gets with her, I think."

Harthalín shot him a dirty look before tucking in.

"Besides, did you not get anything for yourself?" he went on, surprised. "Not so much as a tea biscuit? Hmm. Good for you and your teeth, I s'ppose. And anyway, where is that hobbit friend of yours? I know he skipped the ceremony but to miss the banquet as well? Surely you told him there would be an endless bounty of top notch food here, far as the eye can see."

"Oh, I told him, have no doubt," Hivallion said. "Apparently he's too busy with his own misadventures to dabble in ours!"

Gildor tipped his glass to this. "Perhaps that is for the best. Frankly I'm surprised this place hasn't yet erupted into a full-scale riot."

"I say, just wait until the dessert table runs out of honeyed cake," Harthalín muttered into her own plate.

"Arlen did tell me that he was running an errand for one of the wedding planners, something about selecting a cask of wine to be served at this very banquet, if you can believe that. As for me, I reckon that my mind is so full right now, it's gone and spoiled every other aspect of my appetite. Something about this wedding…" mused Hivallion. "Well, all of this, really."

Gildor chewed for a while, his jaws obviously struggling through something perilously sticky. "Indeed. And I've had just enough wine to admit that sometimes I regret never marrying. Far too old for that now, of course—"

"No, it's not that. This just all feels so very… Final. I mean, this really is the end for us, is it not?" Hivallion lowered his voice. "I mean, did you know, even Elrond intends to sail west within but a few months?"

"I do know," Gildor replied. "Master Elrond, the lady Galadriel, even old Mithrandir—err, Gandalf, rather, or Mithrandir, yes—uh, among others, and I have been asked to lead the escort of their company to Mithlond, as usual."

"Are you sailing as well?"

Gildor arrived at a cold stop; even Harthalín took pause from picking at her pastry to stare at him, awaiting his answer.

"Well." He cleared his throat. "Well! You and I, we did make that promise, remember."

"We did." Hivallion nodded.

"That, if ever you decided it was time for you to sail west, that I would go with you."

"Right. And if ever you decided it was time for you to sail west—"

"Yes, yes. In either case, we'll go together. I still intend to hold to that." Gildor stabbed off another piece of cake. "But if our minds are so synchronized, then surely you must feel as though your work here is not quite finished."

Hivallion shrugged. "I'm not sure, actually. Though, in his most recent letter to me, Master Círdan suggested that he intends to stay in Mithlond until the very very last of us have left."

"Well! There you have it, then. Likewise, perhaps you and I should stay a little longer. Just a little longer, hmm?"

Harthalín slowly lowered her head, laughing to herself. "Oh, honestly. You two are never going to change, you know. You're both smitten with this place, totally smitten. I knew Hivallion's case was hopeless when I saw him being used as a maypole in that beer garden in Tighfield. Dressed like a hobbit and singing like one too!"

"Smitten, eh? Maybe so! But what about you…?" questioned Hivallion (he did not deny the maypole part of the story). "You haven't said anything about going west yourself."

"Just because I haven't said anything…"

"Ah ah! Now what did I hear from Glorfindel just yesterday? Our Harthalín has it in her head that she should travel back to Mordor…" recalled Gildor. "Remind me, is that to the west or east?"

The wrinkle of her nose and crinkles about her eyes hinted at keenly controlled vexation, something Harthalín preferred to direct silently into the white-knuckled grip of her fork. "Only for a little while, only to check on things," she said, evenly. "I've yet to decide if I shall be sailing west with Elrond and the others, and besides, we've all plenty of time yet to think it over. Really, 'tis a ridiculous thing to fret about now, especially when we ought to be making merry. Let me enjoy my pastry!"

"Even though it isn't hazelnut butter?" quipped Hivallion, grinning slightly.

"Perhaps you would like to try some for yourself? Maybe a nice noseful of it? Hm?"

"Ae! Glorfindel!" Gildor suddenly called across the full span of the table; the golden-haired elf at the other end hardly stirred, his expression so distant as to be considered utterly vacant, while he dandled a fluted glass within his hand.

"Yes, old friend?" he finally responded. "And no, I am not sailing west with Elrond and the others. At least, I have no intention of doing so at this time. I shall go on my own accord, whenever I feel ready to do so."

The lift of Hivallion's eyebrows betrayed wonderment. "I say," he whispered. "How did he know?"

"Then why so glum?" Gildor pressed on. "You look as though your pet canary has left you for a more handsome goose."

"If you must know, it's this wine." Glorfindel licked his lips, sourly. "This wine has sapped all the joy from my life. It tastes of wet dog and mouldy basements. Who selected this? Give my regrets to the vintner. Oof."

Nevertheless, he took another deep drink from the flute. After all, what was one more glass of sorrow to an Eldar?

Doing my own OC questionnaire for/as Hivallion, because I know nobody else will do it for me! "Thank you Swilly, for filling your own hole!"

(1) Signature "Magic Mushroom" Air Freshener Scent:

"The prospect of having a home perpetually smelling of whatever 'Nature's Bouquet' smells like sounds compelling to me. What could that possibly entail? Can you imagine? I can. I have spent a lot of time in nature and I have smelled a lot of different things, in combinations that one may conceivably describe as a bouquet. But, I am also not that daring so I would probably just go for 'Lemon Whisper'. You know exactly what you're in for with a name like that: A faint suggestion of lemon. Indeed, as if someone is merely whispering the word into the void while hiding in your coat closet."

(2) Personal Nickname, Title, or Epithet?

"We elves tend to accumulate many names; we sort of collect them like barnacles on an old skiff. One category of name is the epessë, which I would most liken to a epithet or professional title. Now you know my first name is Hivalliôn—some of my kin would call this the Father Name, though my name actually derived from the Falathrim word for a large seabird that once lived here, the hiválew. I never actually met my father, for the candle of his life got snuffed shortly before I was born. His name was Haegaear and he was a shipwright, but anyway, his epessë was Swan-Maker. And I too have had several such titles over the years. Lately people are calling me the All-Feather because I've taken it upon myself to document every species of bird that I encounter in my travels. Even the Rangers started calling me this, save Radanir, who started calling me Birdbrain instead. Well, whatever works!"

(3) Any compelling reasons for existing?

"Oh, headed straight into the hard philosophy, aren't we? And so soon after the one about air fresheners. Well. I suppose this question reads differently for an elf of the Fourth Age; it has long been our destiny to leave Middle-Earth and sail to the Uttermost West, and there are not very many of us remaining here at all. So, should I say that my main reason for existing here today is to fulfill this destiny? Seems a bit redundant. Yet I think, primarily, I continue to exist here because I feel my business is not yet finished, not quite. My heart beats alongside that of my master Círdan…

"…hmm. That answer sounds a bit vacuous, doesn't it? So, aside from all that, my most compelling reason for remaining here is to periodically return to Long Cleeve so I can visit the Askews for tea and conversation, and some apple brown betty. Sometimes they have ice cream to go with it—really, they say that now is the Age of Man, but I maintain that we might want to consider forfeiting this one to the Hobbits."

(4) Favorite Genre of Dessert?

"It is funny, I was never much of a sweet tooth all throughout my life. I suppose we elves don't really do dessert, or at least we didn't in the Falas, or even in Mithlond. But those Hobbits take their meals very seriously and they can cook. Pies, cakes, buckles, cobblers, muffins, tarts—I've never had a buckle in my life, 8120-something years old and I didn't even know what a buckle was until I came to the Yondershire. So I think my favorite sort of dessert is something not too sweet, something with loads of fruit and perhaps a crumbly topping for textural contrast. As for the specifics, well, I'm not picky!"

(5) Uh oh! You've been arrested! What's the crime and how do you plead?

"Oh, probably something related to protecting the environment, I should think. In cases where such a thing would constitute a crime, it is always one worth committing. Like chaining myself to a tree to stop someone from cutting it down, that sort of thing. Hmm. Of course, if that someone happened to be Saruman, I doubt something as inconsequential as my body would've prevented him—or more likely one of his Uruks—from taking a hatchet to the thing."

(6) Do you know where your keys are?

"I think so. I hope so! I have keys to a rental cottage in Falathlorn as well as my old place in Mithlond. Though the latter I haven't seen in over three millennia as I've yet to make my way that far west. Do you think the place still stands? If it does, whoever occupies it now has certainly changed the locks by now, and no doubt they've redecorated so I probably wouldn't recognize it anyway. I also have a key to a small box in the Rivendell vault that contains a few of my more important belongings. Elrond set that one up for me while I was vegetating in Tham Send. Wasn't that kind of him?"

(7) Favorite Unsolved Mystery?

"Why didn't they just fly the eagles into Mordor…?"