Disclaimer: all characters, places & events belong to Professor Tolkien, save those poor contributions which are mine (and easy to spot). “The Harper’s Last Lament” (all 4 sections of it) however, is *mine*. :)

Wandering Days

1060
The elfling had stumbled, breathless and weeping, into Rosella’s garden. Reviving in the shade of the summer pavilion, the child had begun to cry again, until Peredyr had drawn song and slumber from his harp.
The elf king had greeted them at the eave of his wood, seeming relieved, yet somber.
“Beware, my friend,” the king had murmured. “Ill winds are blowing.”
Peredyr Tûk carried back to his clan the sad news of King Thranduil’s loss and his ring of twined gold and silver, for the kindness shown his son.
The king’s words Peredyr held to his heart with dread.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1120
“The family is waiting, Percyval. You must set off at once.”
“And what of you? Why linger here, Grandfather?”
“I will gather those too stubborn for haste, and we will follow ere Winter claims the pass.”
“But…”
“I am old, min heorte,” Peredyr murmured, leaning his forehead to his grandson’s, “… and lame and proud, besides. I would slow you, and endanger the others. But trust that I have no wish yet to die. Here,” the old hobbit said, placing the twining ring into Percyval’s hand.
“No!”
“Hush! The doubters will follow you now. I’ll meet you in the West.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1125
Past desperate flight and dwindling hope, Percyval finally returned. But among the ruins of home he found only Peredyr’s remains and his trove of song.
“We came too late. I am sorry.”
The hobbit turned to face the elf king.
“I believe you came not at all,” Percyval said bitterly. “To the end, he trusted you, but you abandoned us to the Dark.”
Thranduil bowed his head and retreated, face inscrutable.
High upon the first ridge westward of his ravaged home, Percyval clutched his grandfather’s unstrung harp and sent his voice winging into the dusk, carrying the harper’s last lament.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1126
“Why do you hide to sing of fair Tinúviel?”
Percyval rose, startled by the stranger’s voice, but could see no one in the gloom.
“You’ve come with every sunset, alone, to sing the elven lays of Ages gone, but you no longer share them with your kin. Why?”
“Who are you?” the hobbit demanded.
“A friend,” came the enigmatic reply, as an old man, robed in weary grey, stepped near and peered down with eyes piercing clear though not unkind.
“I sing them for my grandfather’s sake, but the living need no reminder of our loss,” Percycal said, walking away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1132
“I would that others could hear you conjure the old songs, min heorte…”
Lisella pressed a kiss upon his brow and Percyval turned to wrap his arms about her rounded form, cheek loved against the swell of their unborn child.
“Only ill dreams can come of ill memories, even conjured by song,” he said softly.
“No… Rootless in our wandering, I think a taste of home would be welcomed.”
“After all I’ve said against them…” He gazed up into her green eyes, seeing there understanding and hope. “Well, perhaps someday… Perhaps, for him,” he finally said, stroking his coming child.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1141
“Your heart is glad in song again, harper’s scion…”
Though fifteen years had passed since the singular encounter, Percyval recalled the voice instantly, and he turned to find again the grey traveler standing in the flickering firelight. He had not changed a jot.
“Bitterness serves no heart,” the hobbit replied, smiling.
“Indeed.”
“Have you seen the elf king, master?”
“He is well, though hard pressed, and his kingdom shrinks before the encroaching dark.”
“Then there is no turning back… Is there?”
“No. But the elf king does wish you well, little Tûk,” the stranger answered, compassion clear upon his face.

~~~~~~~~~

1144
“Hello? I come on friendly errand,” the strange hobbit called, approaching the abandoned fire and scattered belongings of their camp. He was a Fallohide at least, and he carried himself with assurance, blade still sheathed, despite the oddity of the situation.
Percyval dropped from the branch he had perched on when the alarm had been raised.
“And what errand is that?” he asked, and the other whirled to face him.
“Well, trade, of course,” the stranger replied, smiling easily. “Carrendoc Oldbuck.”
“Percyval Túk.”
“Túks! We thought you lost entirely!”
“Not quite…” Percyval said, warmed by the other’s gladness and surprise.

~~~~~~~~~

1168
It really was a lovely garden, Percyval thought contentedly. Nothing like the lush vales they had left, but the earth here was rich with the wealth of two rivers, and even this small corner would provide well for his kin.
“Daydreaming, Harper?”
The low rumble of his friend’s voice deepened the smile on Percyval’s face.
“Enjoying the garden… And may I say it quite surpasses yours, my dear Carrendoc.”
“’Tisn’t fair to compare your imagination with my eyesight,” the other gently teased.
“My nose tells me all I need to know…” Percyval countered, laughing, “… And I’m the lorekeep hereabouts.”

~~~~~~~~~

1172
“I’ll see you in the West.”
Carrendoc turned the words over in his mind, tasting and testing once more what his friend had tried to share, even at the last. Percyval had often spoken of the Farthest West, a paradise reserved for the Elves that yet held out hope for the mortals denied its shores. Though Carrendoc had lived a life turned to more practical things, even he could not deny the light that stirred within his heart when his friend sang of Elves and The Ones Beyond.
Fingers smoothing the new grave, Carrendoc sighed. “In the West, my friend.”

~~~~~~~~~

Cierre, min heorte,
From the danger at hand,
Through the pass to the Wilds,
For to find a new land.
My hope rests in your trek
And I watch for the day
When I take up my load
And come walking your way

Ah, cierre, min heorte,
Evil creeps under bough
And I dare not now leave,
To the truth I must bow.
The wolves circle the lea,
I should long since have gone;
Never more will I see
Your face shine in the dawn.

So, cierre, min heorte,
When the bright day is done,
Turn your eyes to the East
And away from the Sun;
Past the tall peaks of stone
To the valley below
And to dream of your own,
Lost to shadow and woe.

An End To Wandering

1346
“I’ve no coin for praise of elves, stranger!” the hobbit innkeeper of Staddle barked over the song.
The flame-haired harper stopped mid-verse. The Tuks and their kin were newcomers to Arthedain, having fled the evil that had come over the mountains and once again, they had little left. Merangrim had hoped to earn them a place among these hobbits with the old songs.
“I’m sorry it displeases. Perhaps the Fall of Gondolin will better suit?” he offered sharply.
“None here care for elves or their tales, Songspinner. You “Tooks” may as well learn that right off.”
“I will remember it.”

~~~~~~~~~

1402
The harper smiled, immensely content despite his rainy turn on guard at the South Gate. Fifty years ago, they had been refugees, penniless and unwanted, but now, looking at the multitude of windows that winked in the rising Breehill, Merangrim was proud of the home they had made for themselves. By cunning and hard work, they had shown their worth to the Breeland Men that held the crossroads.
Though the Tooks now kept the old songs close, shared only among their kin, in all other ways they now had a home they could defend and strong allies to fight beside.

~~~~~~~~~

Year 1, Shire Reckoning (1601 T.A.)

Ilsegrim watched with eager eyes as his father and the other clan leaders approached the Bridge. The King’s Messenger awaited them there, the written grant of lands in his gloved hand.
Although he knew some had wept to leave those who had chosen to stay behind, the youth couldn’t imagine a more exciting adventure than this move. He had listened for so long to his father’s enraptured description of the lush hills and woodlands beyond the river, and the prospect of settling their families away from the conflicts of Men.
They would be travelers no more: the Shire was theirs.

~~~~~~~~~

36
‘No need to build new smials this year,’ Ilsegrim thought bitterly, throwing down his spade. Of the three score families that had come westward to settle the new lands, nearly a third had perished. The ravaging fever overcame farmers in their fields and goodwives in their kitchens; it carried off, in a matter of days, the youngest and oldest of every household, leaving the survivors drained and grieving. They had dug endlessly in its wake, burying hope instead of seed, carving out graves instead of homes.
“What now?” he murmured, kneeling between the mounds of his father and his sons.

~~~~~~~~~

36
“Are you truly ready to abandon what thirty years of love and sweat have made of this good earth?” Ilsegrim asked the laden families readying to cross the Bridge behind him.
“See how the fields flourish, even without our hands upon the plough? This is our land, fair and fertile and sweet! Would you really leave all this to return, beaten, to the doubters? To live under their shadow all your days, though there is nothing better there than you will find here?” Ilsegrim watched as his words and their fears collided.
“This is our home. This is our future.”

~~~~~~~~~

Oh, cierre, min heorte,
‘Ware the road that you tread,
In your flight from green eaves
And the shadows of dread.
Take what aid you may need;
Be wise and not too proud,
And remembrance of friends
Let not bitterness cloud.

Ah, cierre, min heorte,
Love and life are not vain;
Hope that springs as it does
Over ash pours the rain.
Though home be far behind,
And our weary feet ache,
We have grown in our search
For a new home to make.

Cierre, min heorte,
When at last you find rest
And your children sleep safe.
I shall look to the West
From within the green wood
To the haven you’ve made
Past the count of long years
Beyond Death’s solemn shade

Divisions & Secrets

1145 S.R. (two years before the Battle of Brightfields)

They had often fought, as brothers will, over the most trivial of things. But now, Bandobras held something he could not simply cede to his brother.
“I am to be Took and Thain, Bandobras! The ring should be mine!”
“It has no relation to that office, Ferumbras…” Bandobras had tried to explain.
“Then why have Thains always worn it?”
“Happenstance. This is a responsibility, not a prize!” he had said, desperate to end the argument peaceably.
Jealousy had gleamed in Ferumbras’s eyes, and now no song or tale would erase the last stabbing sight Bandobras carried on his northward road…

~~~~~~~~~
1206 S.R.

“You’re a good lad, Gerontius, for all your rebellious ways… You’ve a good mind and a good ear.” The soft words wheezed from the dying hobbit.
The teen wished he could somehow ease the one who had taken him in, but there was no cure for time, not even in the oldest song.
“This is yours now,” Bandobras murmured, dropping a little circle of twined silver and gold upon his palm. "Keep it secret, lest my nephew prove as greedy as his sire. Seek the songs, always, Gerontius, and be sure to find a safe heart to give them to.”

~~~~~~~~~
1218 S.R.

“Hobbits truly are amazing creatures…” Gandalf murmured, watching the young Took disappear into his homeland.
It had been sheer luck that the lad had been traveling that stretch near the Shire’s borders, and that the keen intelligence behind those grey eyes had been coupled with as fearless a soul as he’d ever met.
Gerontius had simply stared up at the Rangers a moment before setting about to assist the Men in their task.
All he had asked for in return was a question and a song, and Gandalf had the sudden certainty they would trade again in years to come.

~~~~~~~~~

Cierre, min heorte,
From pride that doth divide
Brother from brother
And father from childe.
Rash vows lead to exile
And sorrows unseen;
And in place of love’s binding,
Dark wrath comes between.

Oh, cierre, min heorte,
For deep secrets do bind
And slow festering anger
Locks the fairest of mind;
Though there is no return,
No redemption for pride,
The noblest may earn
What the scornful deride.

Ah, Cierre, min heorte,
See the price of swift ire
That would lead Good astray
To find selfish desire.
And against such ill acts,
Faithful and constant heart,
Despite hardship and trial,
Never fails to take part.

Coming Full Circle

1345
“Well done, my lad! ‘Twas a long tale to recall, but it is yours now, forever!” Adalgrim praised his son. The twelve year old grinned, shyly pleased by his father’s words.
Adalgrim took up his harp and with a quick wink towards the young lass hidden beyond the open window he began to sing.
Esmeralda drew a deep breath, trying to resist the impulse to join her voice to his. Her mother said she was too young to train as yet, but next year she would choose: Great Smials and a ‘proper’ education, or music and her father’s wandering road.

~~~~~~~~~

1346
Silence hung coldly over everything, unbroken and unbreakable, and she watched as her uncles passed with their sad burden. Her father followed, but there was no comfort or reassurance to be found there, no word or song or sweet lament had crossed his lips since yesterday. To Esmeralda, in her child’s sorrow, it was as if the Sun had died and the Moon hidden His face. The world was hushed in grief.
Yet as they came to her mother’s waiting grave, birdsong echoed through the morning air, and she felt her heart answer. Somewhere, somehow, music and joy lived on.

~~~~~~~~~

1382
Adalgrim smiled up at his daughter, eyes clear for one miraculous moment. Reason, shattered by grief these forty years, shone bright beneath death’s coming shadow.
“This one is special, Esmie,” he murmured, laying a frail hand upon her pregnant belly. “Teach him well.”
“Da?”
“This is for him, for your son,” he said. Silver and gold shone in her palm as he pressed her fingers closed. She had never seen her father’s hand without that ring.
“But Paladin…!” she protested.
“Your brother’s heart sings no more… He has forgotten everything. But I know that you remember, Esmie. Teach them both…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1424
“…So you see, you already knew all you needed, save for this,” Esmeralda finished, smiling.
Merry considered his mother’s revelations, the true origins of a lifetime’s trove of songs learned at her knee.
“Only one thing more,” she added, pulling a fine chain from her neck.
The ring threaded upon it felt alive in his palm, filled with history and her warmth.
“Mother..?” Fear made the word tremble; this had only ever been passed at death, it seemed.
Esmeralda smiled reassuringly. “I’m alright… I only ever held it in trust for you, as you must for Peregrin, or his son.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1434
“I’ve something that was meant for you,” Merry said, holding up a twisted ring. He and Pippin were sitting together, watching their lads tumble in the summer grass. Paladin’s nearby grave was slowly greening over.
Pippin took it gingerly, turning it over.
“Your mother’s ring?” he asked, puzzled.
“Grandfather’s… And mine, for now,” Merry replied, taking it back.
“I thought you said it was mine!”
“It will be, if you still want it when you know what that means.”
“So long as it isn’t magic,” Pippin quipped.
“Oh, no… The only magic here is in the song and the singer…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1434
“It is indeed of elven make…” Legolas said.
“You remember it, then?” Merry asked.
“No,” Legolas shook his head. “I would have been very young if the tale is true.”
“Two thousand years is a long time, for hobbits anyway. Still, the ring has been passed down, father to son, along with the songs… But I don’t think they were ever meant to be kept secret,” Pippin murmured thoughtfully.
Merry nodded. “We almost lost them all.”
Legolas watched resolve brighten Pippin’s face.
“No more secrets,” the young Took suddenly declared.
“Then sing, harper’s scion!” Merry said, love and laughter in his voice.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ah, cierre, min heorte!
Oh, child of the land!
Through the storms of the world
‘Neath the StarKindler’s hand
Greet the morn with your song
Give your love to the day
Drink the sun and the rain
Under skies bright or gray.

Oh, cierre min heorte,
From what heartbreak may wreak
Find the solace of friends
When the Dark does you seek.
Run roots deep in the land
To hold fast against all
Once you start on your path
It will not let you fall.

Cierre, min heorte,
Where by oldest of ties
Lord the falcon and stag
Over wood and blue skies
In the deep hearty loam
Beyond searching and grief
Down the long years have come
Saplings grown to full leaf.

Author's Note: Tolkien states that Fallohide hobbits once associated with elves, but came to mistrust them. There is also the ‘rumor’ that some long ago Took had a fairy wife, and hence their oddities and fey ways. I’ve chosen to take both of these suggestions to link the ancestral Tooks with the elves of Greenwood (by patronage, not marriage!), and give two among them the odd glimpse past the veil of time; Peredyr, in the final song he composed right before his death, and Adalgrim, in seeing that Esmeralda would bear a son, and have a nephew to teach (again, right before his own death.). That they both share bloodlines with Frodo Baggins, a hobbit decidedly both unusual and fey even before Quest was truly begun (he dreamed of the sea at Crickhollow, before he even left the Shire.), helps me feel a little less ‘outlandish’ in my divagations.

Though entirely self-sufficient, this piece does reference back to a story told in “Moonlight On Summer Leaves”, wherein a very young Legolas, running from the news of his mother’s death, is found by some of the hobbits that then occupied the land between the Misty Mountains and Greenwood the Great. He only remembers this as a dream until he sees again the Took banner in Great Smials.

*I beg forgiveness for the usage of ‘elfling’, which I know some dislike, but it seemed to fit context and mindset, the same as other authors use ‘halfling’ instead of ‘hobbit’ (which hobbits do not care for at all! *wink*).

Disclaimer: all characters, places & events belong to Professor Tolkien, save those poor contributions which are mine (and easy to spot). “The Harper’s Last Lament” (all 4 sections of it) however, is *mine*. :)