A Trusty Tune

Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien. Thanks to Finlay for beta reading.

With mild amusement and gentle concern, Varda's stars looked down on a clearing in the Woody End. The grassy place was lined on three sides by trees and fell in a steep slope into the valley on the fourth. Here the Firstborn had stopped for the night like they had done so many times, but never before had they entertained any of the little folk as their guests. A dome of Elven song curved over their camp. It held the shimmer of the fires within its embrace. Darkness encroached it.

Gildor Inglorion sat, chin on hand, on the trunk of a fallen oak and stared into the gloom beyond the edge of the clearing. He had watched the hobbit Frodo Baggins fall asleep on a fragrant bed of grass and fern. A frown on the halfling's brow had smoothed out when the breeze blew another fragment of song into his ears. He would slumber peacefully now. No matter how insightful he was – and Gildor had found reason this night to marvel at Frodo's mind – he could not know that there was more to the song than simple merrymaking. Gildor, however, was only too keenly aware of this. Night lent power to the Elves, but also, and more so, to the servants of the Enemy. He could sense them vaguely, three clusters of menace slinking around the circumference of the dome. The Elven music kept them at bay, but it was a thin, thin veil. Note wound around note, voice hovered by voice as the tune brooded over the clearing. For now, the magic held. While the praises of Elbereth rose and met the starlight streaming down from above, the three Nazgul would not dare attack. What would happen, though, if more should join their number, of if clouds should hide the stars? Gildor twisted a strand of dark hair round his finger and wondered how he could best protect the hobbits.

It was not entirely by chance that the Elves had caught up with the hobbits earlier that night. The puzzled pondering of a fox had alerted them that something was amiss. Like some of his companions, Gildor had read the animal’s mind in passing. Three hobbits out in the woods at night, the fox had thought, were a strange enough thing; stranger still the big black men on the big black horses. A shudder had gone through the fox's body at this point and hastened the steps of the Elves.

Now Gildor was worried that he had unwittingly led the hobbits into a trap. He could not hold off the Nazgul forever, and how would the hobbits get away from here with enemies on three sides and a sheer drop on the fourth? He didn't know enough about the little people to gauge how able they might be to tackle the challenging terrain. As for defences – none of them seemed to carry weapons, and indeed Gildor could not remember ever seeing a hobbit wielding anything fiercer than a pitchfork. And even if they had been well-armed, how much use would a piece of sharp metal be against the terrors that pursued them? His hand went to his belt and lightly touched his short sword.

“Faeldis!” he called softly. An Elf-woman rose from the circle around one of the fires. The hem of her dress rustled among the grasses as she came over to him. She knelt down.

“You are worried,” she said and rested her hand on his knee. “Do you think the song will not hold?”

“I cannot say.”

They both listened. Gildor felt that the shield of music had become patchy in places as some of the singers grew weary. He knew he would have to join soon to add the power of his voice. First, though, he had to make a decision.

“When dawn comes...” he began.

Faeldis nodded. “We will have to try,” she said. “It will be easier in the daylight.”

“How far could we chase them?”

“Far enough, I should think, to throw them off the track. Drive them West while the hobbits travel East. That is what you have in mind, isn't it?”

“Yes. So you agree?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, Gildor had to laugh. “You cannot be an Elf!”

“Why not?”

“Because Elf-friend Frodo told me that one shouldn't come to the Elves for advice, since they will say both yes and no.”

“Well, you know me,” she replied and left it at that.

Gildor began to hum, and she followed his lead in close harmony, and slowly words emerged to mingle with the song of the others. The notes spanned the clearing, arched across the dome which had faded by now to cobweb thinness. Their voices revived the faltering tune and the Nazgul, who had sensed their chance and drawn nearer, melted back into the shadows again.

For a while, the renewed dome seemed strong. It rang with the name of Elbereth and echoed between the boughs of the trees. Gildor wove in words that evoked the Powers across the sea. Faeldis summoned the might of root, leaf and bark, of rock and of soil. The Nazgul crouched and winced. An hour or so passed in this manner. Then clouds moved in from the South. One by one, the stars winked out. Gildor felt the strength drain from the dome and he saw in his mind, as clearly as if he had seen it with his eyes, how the Nazgul straightened up and prepared for attack. He reached out with his voice to save the dome, but suddenly he knew it would be futile. To withstand the onslaught, the song would have to draw power right out of the earth on which they sat. This land, though, no longer yielded to the wishes of the Firstborn as it would have in ages past. It had known other masters for far too long.

“We are not enough at home here,” he whispered to Faeldis. She pressed his hand but didn't stop singing. The Nazgul could be seen now, inky chasms in the night. As soon as the song gave way anywhere...

“Are we in trouble?”

It was the hobbit called Peregrin. He stood, blanket clutched around his shoulders, next to Gildor and stared at him with anxious eyes.

Gildor acknowledged the hobbit's question with a nod and sang on without missing a note. Faeldis took Peregrin by the elbow and bade him sit beside her.

“I wonder,” she said, “if you could teach me a song of your people.”

Even in the firelight, Peregrin's blush was visible. He raised a hand to push back his curly hair.

“I could, dear lady. Later, when your friends are finished.”

“They will sing all night. They cannot stop now, or our troubles would be much greater. You could help us by singing one of your own songs. Don't worry about the pitch. It will match somehow.”

Peregrin looked bemused, but he raised his head and cleared his throat.

“I will give you one of Uncle Bilbo's songs then. They're as good as any you will find in the Shire.”

And with a clear and youthful voice he began to sing.

When hop and oats are golden ripe

And pear and apple fall

I sit at home and smoke my pipe

And hear the wild geese call

I hear the wild geese call at night

And wait for morning come

When autumn sun shines clear and bright

To kiss the purple plum.

To kiss the purple plum and keep

The winter chill at bay

And grant another day to reap

The brambles in the brae

The brambles in the brae are sweet

As apple, plum and pear

And baked into a crumbly treat

They are a joy to share

They are a joy to share with friends

Come far from hill and glen

No matter that the summer ends

The spring will come again

Gildor let the words flow through himself and felt them surge up into the dome. The pale, hazy veil that covered the camp began to fill with new power. It rang with the call of the geese. It shimmered in the golden hue of hops and the sun-kissed purple of ripe plums. It hung heavy with the sweetness of brambles. It pulsed with the scent of crumble tarts. The land under their feet had awoken and fed its strength to their shield. Out among the shadows, the Nagzul shrank back.

“Sing it again,” Faeldis whispered when Peregrin had ended. And Peregrin sang it again. He sang it three times, four times, five, until his eyelids began to droop and the could fight off sleep no longer. Anxious, Gildor stretched out a hand to shake the hobbit by the shoulder, but Faeldis touched his arm.

“Look,” she said. High up in the night sky, the clouds were dispersing. Starlight touched the dome and covered it with a milky sheen that sealed in the bounty of Peregrin's song. “We shall be safe till morning. And when the sun comes out to kiss the purple plum...”

“Yes.” Gildor wrapped his arm round the sleeping hobbit and carried him back to his bed beside Frodo. “When the sun comes out,” he murmured, “you will be granted another day.”