Elrond laughed. 'He shall be found,' he said. 'Then you two shall go into a corner and finish your task, and we will hear it and judge it before we end our merrymaking.' Messengers were sent to find Bilbo's friend, though none knew where he was, or why he had not been present at the feast.

In the meanwhile Frodo and Bilbo sat side by side, and Sam came quickly and placed himself near them. They talked together in soft voices, oblivious of the mirth and music in the hall about them. Bilbo had not much to say of himself. When he had left Hobbiton he had wandered off aimlessly, along the Road or in the country on either side; but somehow he had steered all the time towards Rivendell. 'I got here without much adventure,' he said, 'and after a rest I went on with the dwarves to Dale: my last journey. I shan't travel again. Old Balin had gone away. Then I came back here, and here I have been. I have done this and that. I have written some more of my book. And, of course, I make up a few songs. They sing them occasionally: just to please me, I think; for, of course, they aren't really good enough for Rivendell. And I listen and I think. Time doesn't seem to pass here: it just is. A remarkable place altogether.

'I hear all kinds of news, from over the Mountains, and out of the South, but hardly anything from the Shire. I heard about the Ring, of course. Gandalf has been here often. Not that he has told me a great deal, he has become closer than ever these last few years. The Dunadan has told me more. Fancy that ring of mine causing such a disturbance! It is a pity that Gandalf did not find out more sooner. I could have brought the thing here myself long ago without so much trouble. I have thought several times of going back to Hobbiton for it; but I am getting old, and they would not let me: Gandalf and Elrond, I mean. They seemed to think that the Enemy was looking high and low for me, and would make mincemeat of me, if he caught me tottering about in the Wild.

'And Gandalf said: "The Ring has passed on, Bilbo. It would do no good to you or to others, if you tried to meddle with it again." Odd sort of remark, just like Gandalf. But he said he was looking after you, so I let things be. I am frightfully glad to see you safe and sound.' He paused and looked at Frodo doubtfully.

'Have you got it here?' he asked in a whisper. 'I can't help feeling curious, you know, after all I've heard. I should very much like just to peep at it again.'

'Yes, I've got it,' answered Frodo, feeling a strange reluctance. 'It looks just the same as ever it did.'

'Well, I should just like to see it for a moment,' said Bilbo.

When he had dressed, Frodo found that while he slept the Ring had been hung about his neck on a new chain, light but strong. Slowly he drew it out. Bilbo put out his hand. But Frodo quickly drew back the Ring. To his distress and amazement he found that he was no longer looking at Bilbo; a shadow seemed to have fallen between them, and through it he found himself eyeing a little wrinkled creature with a hungry face and bony groping hands. He felt a desire to strike him.

The music and singing round them seemed to falter and a silence fell. Bilbo looked quickly at Frodo's face and passed his hand across his eyes. 'I understand now,' he said. 'Put it away! I am sorry; sorry you have come in for this burden; sorry about everything. Don't adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on the story. Well, it can't be helped. I wonder if it's any good trying to finish my book? But don't let's worry about it now – let's have some real News! Tell me all about the Shire!'

Frodo hid the Ring away, and the shadow passed leaving hardly a shred of memory. The light and music of Rivendell was about him again. Bilbo smiled and laughed happily. Every item of news from the Shire that Frodo could tell – aided and corrected now and again by Sam – was of the greatest interest to him, from the felling of the least tree to the pranks of the smallest child in Hobbiton. They were so deep in the doings of the Four Farthings that they did not notice the arrival of a man clad in dark green cloth. For many minutes he stood looking down at them with a smile.

Suddenly Bilbo looked up. 'Ah, there you are at last, Dunadan!' he cried.

'Strider!' said Frodo. 'You seem to have a lot of names.'

'Well, Strider is one that I haven't heard before, anyway,' said Bilbo. 'What do you call him that for?'

'They call me that in Bree,' said Strider laughing, 'and that is how I was introduced to him.'

'And why do you call him Dunadan?' asked Frodo.

'The Dunadan,' said Bilbo. 'He is often called that here. But I thought you knew enough Elvish at least to know dun-udan: Man of the West, Numenorean. But this is not the time for lessons!' He turned to Strider.

'Where have you been, my friend? Why weren't you at the feast? The Lady Arwen was there.'

Strider looked down at Bilbo gravely. 'I know,' he said. 'But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the Wild unlooked-for, and they had tidings that I wished to hear at once.'

'Well, my dear fellow,' said Bilbo, 'now you've heard the news, can't you spare me a moment? I want your help in something urgent. Elrond says this song of mine is to be finished before the end of the evening, and I am stuck. Let's go off into a corner and polish it up!'

Strider smiled. 'Come then!' he said. 'Let me hear it!'

Frodo was left to himself for a while. for Sam had fallen asleep. He was alone and felt rather forlorn, although all about him the folk of Rivendell were gathered. But those near him were silent, intent upon the music of the voices and the instruments. and they gave no heed to anything else. Frodo began to listen.

At first the beauty of the melodies and of the interwoven words in elven-tongues, even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as he began to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened out before him; and the firelit hall became like a golden mist above seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike, until he felt that an endless river of swelling gold and silver was flowing over him, too multitudinous for its pattern to be comprehended; it became part of the throbbing air about him, and it drenched and drowned him. Swiftly he sank under its shining weight into a deep realm of sleep.

There he wandered long in a dream of music that turned into running water, and then suddenly into a voice. It seemed to be the voice of Bilbo chanting verses. Faint at first and then clearer ran the words.

Earendil was a marinerthat tarried in Arvernien;he built a boat of timber felledin Nimbrethil to journey in;her sails he wove of silver fair,of silver were her lanterns made,her prow was fashioned like a swan,and light upon her banners laid.In panoply of ancient kings,in chained rings he armoured him;his shining shield was scored with runesto ward all wounds and harm from him;his bow was made of dragon-horn,his arrows shorn of ebony,of silver was his habergeon,his scabbard of chalcedony;his sword of steel was valiant,of adamant his helmet tall,an eagle-plume upon his crest,upon his breast an emerald. Beneath the Moon and under starhe wandered far from northern strands,bewildered on enchanted waysbeyond the days of mortal lands.From gnashing of the Narrow Icewhere shadow lies on frozen hills,from nether heats and burning wastehe turned in haste, and roving stillon starless waters far astrayat last he came to Night of Naught,and passed, and never sight he sawof shining shore nor light he sought.The winds of wrath came driving him,and blindly in the foam he fledfrom west to east and errandless,unheralded he homeward sped. There flying Elwing came to him,and flame was in the darkness lit;more bright than light of diamondthe fire upon her carcanet.The Silmaril she bound on himand crowned him with the living lightand dauntless then with burning browhe turned his prow; and in the nightfrom Otherworld beyond the Seathere strong and free a storm arose,a wind of power in Tarmenel;by paths that seldom mortal goeshis boat it bore with biting breathas might of death across the greyand long-forsaken seas distressed:from east to west he passed away. Through Evernight he back was borneon black and roaring waves that rano'er leagues unlit and foundered shoresthat drowned before the Days began,until he heard on strands of pearlwhen ends the world the music long,where ever foaming billows rollthe yellow gold and jewels wan.He saw the Mountain silent risewhere twilight lies upon the kneesof Valinor, and Eldamarbeheld afar beyond the seas.A wanderer escaped from nightto haven white he came at last,to Elvenhome the green and fairwhere keen the air, where pale as glassbeneath the Hill of Ilmarina-glimmer in a valley sheerthe lamplit towers of Tirionare mirrored on the Shadowmere. He tarried there from errantry,and melodies they taught to him,and sages old him marvels told,and harps of gold they brought to him.They clothed him then in elven-white,and seven lights before him sent,as through the Calacirianto hidden land forlorn he went.He came unto the timeless hallswhere shining fall the countless years,and endless reigns the Elder Kingin Ilmarin on Mountain sheer;and words unheard were spoken thenof folk of Men and Elven-kin,beyond the world were visions showedforbid to those that dwell therein. A ship then new they built for himof mithril and of elven-glasswith shining prow; no shaven oarnor sail she bore on silver mast:the Silmaril as lantern lightand banner bright with living flameto gleam thereon by Elberethherself was set, who thither cameand wings immortal made for him,and laid on him undying doom,to sail the shoreless skies and comebehind the Sun and light of Moon. From Evereven's lofty hillswhere softly silver fountains fallhis wings him bore, a wandering light,beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.From World's End then he turned awayand yearned again to find afarhis home through shadows journeying,and burning as an island staron high above the mists he came,a distant flame before the Sun,a wonder ere the waking dawnwhere grey the Norland waters run. And over Middle-earth he passedand heard at last the weeping soreof women and of elven-maidsin Elder Days, in years of yore.But on him mighty doom was laid,till Moon should fade, an orbed starto pass, and tarry never moreon Hither Shores where mortals are;for ever still a herald onan errand that should never restto bear his shining lamp afar,the Flammifer of Westernesse.