The Hour of our Meeting

The only relief for the restlessness plaguing Bilbo since his return from the Lonely Mountain was a long walk. When his chair by the fire at Bag End became more confining than cosy, Bilbo would travel the paths of the Shire and remember all the other roads that branched off from them.

Today he found himself humming the silly ditty the Elves of Rivendell had loved to sing. It seemed almost like Elvish voices were echoing his; Bilbo stopped to listen. A faint harp trill floated over the hill and resolved into the opening notes of the Lay of Leithian. Bilbo dropped his walking stick and ran, shouting breathlessly, “Hello!”

The music halted suddenly, and so did Bilbo. It was no use; he’d scared them off, and now he’d never see another elf… He turned back toward the path, stooping to pick up his hat.

“Are you Bilbo of the Shire?” A towering, golden-haired elf smiled down at him. “Elrond has spoken of you often. I am Gildor Inglorion.”

Remembering his manners, Bilbo bowed. “Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo.”

Gildor laughed. “A scholar! Too seldom in these days do we meet one who knows our tongue. Come and share our meal.”

 [For Marion, who wanted something about "young Bilbo." She gets a double drabble, since I couldn't condense this to a hundred words!]