Chapter 25. First Foot

The Thorn sat before Elladan on the great grey steed Gwilohíth, feeling the ripple and surge of muscles beneath his feet as they climbed the steep zig-zag path out of the deep valley. The air grew ever colder, and the young leader of the Fallohides shrugged deeper into the fine cloak Elrond had pressed upon him as they walked from the Homely House. They emerged into a stinging storm, pellets of icy snow that lashed against their cheeks.

 ‘Lovely!’ the hobbit shouted, hearing Elladan’s laughter in reply. He was glad for the warm horse-hide under him and the light but warm cloak. ‘Real weather!’ He breathed deeply of the freezing air.

 ‘The valley is protected,’ Elladan said close to his ear, and he nodded. While he had hoped to see the Sun, and perhaps Moon and stars, for night came early in this time of the year, he’d settle for the stimulation of stinging snow, all the better for the feast and fire that would await them upon their return. Not for the first time, the hobbit wondered just how the valley was protected... that was one of the questions Elrond never quite answered, no matter how many different ways it was phrased.

The horse plunged forward into drifting snow, prancing playfully until a word from Elladan halted him. Ghostly figures loomed before them and Elladan slid from Gwilohíth’s back, shouting greetings. Squinting against the assault of the snow, Blackthorn thought he recognised Glorfindel, yes, and Elrohir, Tarion, Faron, Cúnirion, Lagoron, Nórion, other Elf-warriors he could not name, and in their midst, Arwen, snowflakes glinting like diamonds in her dark hair.

The hobbit was wearing several layers of clothing including a multi-coloured jumper, topped off by the Elven cloak, muffler wrapped over all, yet he shivered. The Elves, by contrast, were lightly clad yet seeming to feel no discomfort as they gathered around Elladan, exchanging greetings.

 ‘Blackthorn!’ Glorfindel said, turning from greeting Elladan. The hobbit slid from the horse’s back, trusting the snow, shallow as it looked, to give him a soft landing. To his surprise he found himself nearly buried, floundering in snow that felt as if it had no bottom.

A laughing Elrohir pulled him out of the snow, setting him firmly on the horse’s back. ‘Don’t try that again!’ he warned. Blackthorn looked in wonder at the Elves, all standing atop the snow as if it were a bare dusting upon the ground. Looking more closely down the horse’s flank, he saw that Gwilohíth stood nearly to his hocks in snow.

‘But let us not stand about taking the air!’ Elladan said. ‘The feast is laid, the Master is waiting and the other guests will grow hungry if we linger.’

Arwen walked beside the great horse in the dimming light, one graceful hand entwined in the long mane. ‘Other guests?’ she said. ‘Are your People at Imladris, then, Black?’

 ‘We are,’ Blackthorn answered, ‘Rescued from an untimely end and brought to the Homely House to recover our strength before setting out to find our new land.’

 ‘Untimely end!’ Glorfindel said, exchanging glances with Elrohir. He didn’t like the sounds of that.

 ‘There are stories to be told,’ Elladan said, ‘as well as plans to be made, but such can wait until after the feast.’

 ‘Indeed,’ Blackthorn said. ‘I’m perishing of hunger!’

 ‘We cannot have that,’ Arwen began, but her brother Elladan laughed.

 ‘When are you ever not hungry?’ he said.

 ‘Plenty of times!’ Blackthorn shouted back, but they had begun the descent into the valley and his words rang loud, no longer fighting to be heard above the wind. ‘After each meal,’ he added in normal tones. ‘For at least half an hour, or more, depending on the meal!’

 ‘The People are eating us out of House and Home,’ Elladan said behind his hand with a grin.

 ‘Your cooks are glad to be so appreciated,’ the hobbit retorted. ‘They have threatened to follow us to our new home, for they fear the time will hang heavy on their hands after we depart.’

Talk and laughter made the long, steep descent go quickly, and in no time it seemed they were crossing the narrow stone bridge. Elladan lifted the hobbit from the horse’s back and sent the steed on to the stables, to his own feast of oats, and thick bed of straw.

As the group approached the door, a small figure detached itself from the shadows. ‘Welcome!’ a small voice cried, assuming much the same tone as an official greeter might take. ‘Welcome to the House of Elrond!’

 ‘Pick!’ Arwen laughed, running forward to scoop the small hobbit up and whirling around until both were breathless with laughter.

 ‘I thought you’d never come,’ Pick said when they stopped spinning.

 ‘Have you been waiting long?’ Arwen asked solicitously.

 ‘No, but I’m hungry!’ Pick announced.

 ‘We cannot have that,’ Elrond said severely from the doorway. ‘Put him down, daughter, so that he may run to tell the cooks to serve.’ He just took enough time to kiss Arwen and greet her escort before he was ushering them to the feast, ‘For we must not keep our guests waiting!’

Arwen stopped short at the door to the hall, her gaze sweeping the tables. ‘There are so few,’ she said, turning to her father.

Glorfindel added quietly, ‘Are there only a few of the Little People come to the feast? I do not see Thorn.’

 ‘All are come,’ Blackthorn said. ‘And I am now Thorn. My father was slain by goblins in the passes of the mountains, with many other of our folk.’

 ‘And too many others died at the hands of the Men of Rhudaur,’ Elladan said grimly. ‘We will drink to their memory.’

 ‘It is our custom,’ Blackthorn said. ‘At the turning of the year, to remember those who will not see the return of the Light.’

 ‘Yes,’ Elrond said. ‘And we will drink to the Light, as well, and hope for the future. Come, Thorn.’ He led Blackthorn to the high table, for the Thorn and his mate would sit elevated on cushions to join Elrond and his children at the feast this evening. Beech presided over one of the tables of Little People, and Leaf headed the other.

Arwen’s eyes lighted as she recognised Pick’s mother, walking arm-in-arm with a hobbit lass heavy with child. ‘Mistress Thorn,’ she said, bowing to speak at hobbit height.

The hobbit mum smiled faintly, though she did not lift her eyes from the floor. ‘I am Violet,’ she said. ‘Only Violet. Lily here, she’s Mistress Thorn now, though we are hardly formal these days. Indeed, it is a wonder that there are any Fallohides at all.’

 ‘Call me Lily,’ that hobbit said firmly. ‘My husband ought to be called “Thorn”, but he answers to “Blackthorn” at the moment. He says he led the People to their deaths, and does not deserve the title.’

 ‘Not all the People,’ Arwen said, glancing at the two tables crowded with hobbits, not a grey head among them, and a disproportionate number of small children, she thought. Any further conversation was forestalled as Elrond called the feasters to their places. Lily escorted Violet to a place beside her oldest daughter Holly, then joined her husband at the head table. She looked in dismay at the pile of cushions.

 ‘You expect me to climb up there?’ she asked. Shaking her head, she turned to Blackthorn. ‘I’m sorry, my love,’ she said. ‘I simply cannot manage it.’

 ‘I have an idea!’ Arwen said brightly. ‘Wait just a moment...’ She was not gone long, for she knew what she sought stood near the kitchen door, holding pots of herbs. A quick wash, a dab of polish with a dry cloth, and it would serve.

Lily couldn’t help laughing at the idea of a giant-sized high chair. ‘It was mine,’ Arwen said, ‘and one of my brothers used it before me. There is another, if...’

 ‘Cushions are fine,’ Blackthorn said hastily. The idea of sitting in a toddler’s chair to be at table height, at his age! If he had any hopes at all of leading the People after they left Imladris, he’d better avoid presenting such a sight.

Lily had no such compunctions. Arwen and Elrond lifted her into the chair and she settled back with a sigh. ‘I do feel safer,’ she confessed. ‘I have no sense of balance these days.’

The feast was served, a lengthy and varied affair, accompanied by much talk and laughter. Arwen noticed that Elves sat on the floor to join the hobbits at their tables, and hobbits sat on cushions to join the Elves at theirs.

When the feast finally ended, and even the hobbits declared themselves replete with good food, Elrond and Arwen rose and lifted Lily down from her high chair, setting her gently on her feet. Blackthorn slid from his cushions to take her hand, and the two hobbits walked between Elrond and his fair daughter down the hall, through the doors, across a wide passage and through the farther doors of the Hall of Fire.

Elrond moved to his accustomed seat, placing Thorn and his mate beside him. Lily sighed as the music began. ‘I have listened to them practice each day,’ she said, ‘and I never tire of their songs.’ She rested her head against Thorn’s shoulders and before long her eyes closed and she dozed, a smile upon her face.

 ‘I am sorry Gandalf could not join us at the feast,’ Blackthorn said.

 ‘He had an errand,’ Elrond replied. ‘He did hope to return in time for the music, however.’

 ‘You will tell me when the night is half-passed,’ Blackthorn said. ‘I fear I am not so well able to determine the passage of time in your valley. It seems to me as if time stands still here.’

 Elrond laughed. ‘I have already promised,’ he said. ‘When you see wine being served throughout the hall, you will know it is nearly time.’

 ‘Ah,’ Blackthorn said. ‘Very foresighted of you. Now you need not fear my asking you after every tenth breath whether it is yet time.’ Lily murmured in her sleep and moved her head upon his shoulder. He smiled tenderly at her, raising a hand to stroke her hair, then settled himself to listen to the music. Most of the resident Elves were in the hall this night, their expressions intent as the soft music filled the room, many cradling sleeping hobbit children in their laps.

Most of the adult hobbits were wakeful, faces solemn. Deep inside himself Blackthorn knew what they were feeling. Perhaps this time the Darkness had triumphed and the Light would not return. Yet, looking about the Hall of Fire at the many fair faces that had become familiar over the past weeks, looking into the face of the Lord who had opened his House to them, he felt hope stir afresh. The music soothed, pulling him into a half-dream where he walked in a fair land, fields and woods, well-kept roads and fences of neatly-piled stone, holes and houses with bright painted round doors, hobbit children playing in flowering meadows...

 ‘I beg your pardon, Thorn,’ a voice broke into his pleasant dream and he blinked, seeing Elrond holding two glasses, one blown to proper hobbit-size.

 ‘It is time, already?’ Blackthorn said, stretching. ‘How pleasantly the time passes here.’ He took the glass, gazing for a few moments into the bright fire, before standing to his feet. At a signal from Elrond the song ended and silence fell.

The other grown and half-grown hobbits shook off dreams and stood up as well, raising their glasses. The Elves waited.

 ‘We gather to remember,’ Thorn said in a ringing voice that filled the hall.

 ‘We remember,’ the hobbits murmured, and the Elves echoed.

 ‘We honour those left behind,’ he said, and his voice dropped, the next words spoken in a low tone. ‘Father. Apple. Box...’ All about the hall, the other hobbits were naming names, loved ones who were not with them now. Sobs were heard, and tears spilled, but the soft litany continued until every name had been said.

 ‘We gather in thanksgiving, for all our blessings, known to us, and beyond our knowledge,’ Blackthorn intoned.

 ‘Thanks,’ the hobbits repeated, lifting their glasses to the ceiling and then toasting their hosts and rescuers.

 ‘We gather in hope,’ Blackthorn concluded, ‘and to welcome the return of the Light.’

 ‘Light!’ the hobbits shouted, lifting their glasses once more, and then draining the contents. Blackthorn turned to Elrond. ‘May your cup never be empty,’ he said, ‘and may your heart ever be full.’ All about the hall the other hobbits were saying the ritual words to each other and to their elven friends, and the Elves found themselves repeating the sentiments.

A tall figure in grey appeared in the doorway and the hobbits chorused, ‘Gandalf! Welcome!’ Quite a few moved to the doorway, seizing his hands to draw him into the room, bringing him to where Blackthorn stood beside Elrond’s chair.

 ‘Your foot is first over the threshold,’ the Thorn told him. ‘To bring good luck for the new year we must gift you.’

 ‘Gift me?’ the grey one said, bemused, quirking a shaggy eyebrow.

 ‘Mother?’ Blackthorn said, and Violet stepped forward, a bulky parcel in her arms.

 ‘You must take it,’ she said. ‘It will bring us luck.’

The grey one took the parcel as the hobbits gathered about him. Curious, the Elves watched as well. He untied the string, unwrapped the paper to reveal a scarf knitted of silvery yarn the colour of moonlight on the river.

 ‘Put it on!’ Violet said firmly.

Grandalf fingered the soft yarn thoughtfully, and then a smile creased his aged face. ‘How does this come to me?’ he asked.

 ‘You were first to set foot over the threshold after we called to the Light to return,’ Thorn said. ‘Yours is the first foot. We must gift you for luck.’

 ‘Put it on,’ Leaf said.

 Beech added, ‘We need all the luck we can get!’

Gandalf laughed softly and placed the scarf around his neck. ‘Soft and warm,’ he said. ‘And just the right colour!’

 ‘You see?’ Lily said in satisfaction. ‘Already the luck is starting.’