Chapter 23. In the Last Homely House

By the light of the lanterns shining upon them, the grey one saw Pick wiggling and hastened to lift him down from the tall horse before he fell and undid all the healing that had been accomplished. The little one ran to the doorway, threw his arms around Elrond’s legs and pressed his face against the bemused elf-friend’s knees.

 ‘We found them!’ he cried happily. ‘O All-Around! We found the People and have brought them safe!’

Elrond bent and carefully lifted the small teen until they were eye to eye. ‘I see,’ he said, and his smile was as kind as summer. ‘Come now, young Pick, let us lead them to supper.’ He settled Pick in the crook of his arm and waited.

Elves were lifting hobbits down from the tall horses, setting them on their feet where the little ones stood as if rooted to the ground, staring at the grand dwelling.

 ‘This is your hole, Ell Adan?’ the Thorn whispered, his eyes wide with awe.

 ‘This is my hole, Thorn,’ the son of Elrond answered with a smile, lifting down the last hobbit from his horse, a tiny lass with enormous eyes who stared silently, thumb in mouth.

 ‘Come!’ Pick was shouting from the doorway. Thorn took Lily’s arm and walked slowly to the doorway, his head lifting as he approached. He stopped before Master Elrond and bowed.

 ‘Lord,’ he said. ‘We thank you for the timely rescue.’

 ‘I am glad that it was timely,’ Elrond replied. ‘Please, come, enjoy the hospitality of my House.’ He turned and escorted Blackthorn and Lily while the rescuers shooed shoals and eddies of hobbits before them into the house.

Supper was indeed prepared. Elrond had ordered the legs sawed off from two of the long tables and their accompanying benches in the great hall. The tables were set with the smallest dessert plates and tiniest implements. Fingerbowls awaited the steaming soup that stood in tureens at intervals; tiny cups meant for the strong elvish liquor held fresh, cold water; baskets were piled high with bread formed into hobbit-sized loaves.

Though the little ones were obviously starving, they took their places and stood waiting.

 ‘What is the matter?’ Elrond whispered to Pick. ‘Is something missing?’

 ‘They wait for you to take your place at the head,’ Pick whispered back.

 ‘Ah,’ Elrond said, nodding wisely. He moved to the head of one of the tables and lowered himself to the floor. As one the hobbits bowed to him, saying their thanks and waiting for his acknowledgement before they took their seats.

Elves quickly dispensed thick, meaty soup to each hobbit. Despite their appearance—they were filthy and clad in dirty, tattered furs—the little ones used spoons to eat their soup, did not grab at the piles of bread but passed the food politely, did not gulp their food but ate it with decorum. Of course, even the smallest ate more than a full-grown elf. It was amazing how the hobbits could eat and talk at the same time without choking or missing a bite.

Eventually the demands for second and third and fourth helpings diminished, the chatter quieted, and the smallest heads began to droop.

 ‘What now, my lord?’ Blackthorn said quietly. He seemed to have relinquished all command. Exhaustion was etched plainly in his features.

 ‘A bath, I think,’ Elrond said.

The Thorn nodded, a wry smile on his face. ‘I am surprised we were allowed to cross your threshold in our present state,’ he said. ‘My mother always made us wash before we would sit down to eat.’

 ‘An oversight on our part; my apologies,’ Elrond said smoothly. ‘Come along.’ He rose, and the hobbits rose from table as well, bigger ones picking up sleepy little ones and carrying them along.

Sleep was forgotten for a space in the wonder of hot baths; there was much splashing and giggling and elven laughter involved. Flannels sufficed to wrap the hobbit children emerging from the water, while hand-towels accommodated their elders. Their filthy, tattered garments had been spirited away while they bathed. Towel-wrapped, the guests were led to their beds.

Elrond had directed mattresses to be laid upon the floor, and sleepy hobbits tumbled on to these, two or three families to a bed. They burrowed under the blankets, snuggling together, clean, safe, warm, and full of good food.

Elves worked through the night, cutting and sewing simple garments for the guests. Leatherworkers took up unaccustomedly slender needles, tapestry embroiderers left off their intricate stitchery, cooks and stable workers and scribes and smiths laid down their usual implements to tackle the task. By the time the hobbits roused with the dawning, neatly folded piles of small shirts and breeches, tunics and undertunics, skirts and overskirts lay by each bed.

So began a time of rest and healing for the hobbits, wonder and laughter for the elves. The Big Folk learned quickly to look before they stepped. It seemed as if small hobbits were always underfoot, and as the children did not reach even the knees of an elf, “underfoot” they were in truth. The hobbits went everywhere in the great House, exploring every nook and cranny, asking questions wherever they went.

The cooks in the kitchens grew used to preparing in-between meals for their guests, and were flattered at the way all their offerings were happily consumed.

More than once, Elrond was interrupted with a question, but it hardly seemed to matter. Elves had time enough to spare. He spent long hours with the Thorn, going over maps, talking about the land to the west of the Misty Mountains. Mithrandir came and went. Upon his arrival he was always mobbed by small, excited hobbits. Even some of the elves began to call him “Gandalf”.

The days slipped slowly by, one running into the next in a seemingly endless stream.

 ‘What are you doing?’ It had become a common question in the Last Homely House. Now a rope-maker looked up from his work.

 ‘Twisting rope,’ he said.

 ‘Ah,’ Oakleaf said. ‘Beech here, his family twisted ropes for all the People.’

 ‘That’s so,’ Beech said. ‘May I see?’

The rope-maker nodded, and Oakleaf led Beech forward until he could put his hands on the rope. Beech blinked to try to clear his vision, running his hands along the finished length, then moving back to finger the individual strands. ‘It is much the same way we used to do,’ he said at last. ‘I do not recognise the fibre.’ He settled down happily to a discussion of tips and techniques, and eventually the elvish rope-maker found two capable assistants sitting with him, twisting rope as they continued to talk.

A weaver had the feeling of being watched, like a tickle on the back of her neck. Finally looking up, she saw a silent hobbit mother standing near enough to touch the loom. ‘Good day,’ she smiled.

The hobbit did not smile in return but only nodded gravely. ‘You’re weaving,’ she said.

 ‘Yes,’ the weaver answered, and while the hobbit watched, a few more fingerlengths were added to the cloth that was emerging from the loom.

It was time to vary the pattern. As she picked up a skein of the silvery yarn, the weaver heard an intake of breath from the little one. Looking at the hobbit, she saw the hazel eyes fixed hungrily on the yarn. ‘I’ve never seen such a colour,’ the hobbit whispered. ‘It shines like the river in the moonlight.’

Impulsively the weaver presented the skein to the hobbit. ‘It’s yours,’ she said. ‘If you have use for more, tell me. We have many colours you may choose from.’

The hobbit mother hugged the yarn to herself, tears in her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and was gone.