Seeking to bypass the denizens of Little Delving, Feveren and his companions followed the tributary northwards, leaving behind the refuge of the friendly wood wherein the young elf had watched the awakening hobbit village. It was his hope to find a ford across to the east-side of the river, so they kept to the bank of the deep cleft it had carved into the chalk downs. A mile upstream the sound of a rushing torrent heralded a high waterfall where the river fell foaming down into the gully.
   A furlong beyond the brink of the falls stood the dark bole of an ancient willow, its gnarled feet stood in the stream and its silver branches hung low over the water. Beside this graceful guardian the gurgling river slowed, spreading out into a wide pool before cascading over the narrow crest, and to the young elf's mind the shallows seemed a fitting crossing place for both boy and beast. Holding his pack aloft to save it from a soaking, Feveren waded across to the far bank; at its midpoint the swirling river came up over his head, but the pack in his upstretched hands remained safely above the dancing ripples. Gwedal paddled beside him, his head and snout held above the stream, and his strong legs pushing him steadily through the water.
   Once ashore, Feveren stripped off his wet clothing and scrubbed it clean of the stains of travel, then with a gleeful whoop he plunged gratefully into the river's cool embrace, delighting to feel the flowing water on his bare skin. Like all Lindar, in his heart he held a great love for the province of Ulmo.¹

   Refreshed, the dripping elf-lad lay upon the grassy riverbank, his washed tunic and breeches spread out beside him to dry in the shining sun. His fair hands were folded upon his breast, and his eyes unclosed, blending waking thought and deep dream, as is the way with Elves.² It was an hour before noon when at last he arose and garbed himself in his dried clothes; then chewing on honey cakes and sipping sweet mead from his wineskin, he sat in silent thought upon the riverside.
   Though he had resolved to not allow his gay spirit to be overcome by fear and doubt, Feveren's heart was troubled by the knowledge that he had somehow forgotten his conversation with Dorongúr, and he therefore took some time to pen an account in his journal lest it should again be lost to his memory. At the back of his mind there still lingered a shadow of the dismay he had felt from learning of Arda Marred, and as he regarded the peaceful countryside of the Shire the elf-lad wondered at the profound love he held for the world, even though he knew so little of it.
   But as he listened to the music of the falling river and the merry bird-song among the trees, and watched the low scudding clouds and the wind playing in the drooping willow-fronds, the young Green-elf felt the vitality of the earth teeming beneath the soles of his feet. Then he laughed aloud, for suddenly he understood that it was Life itself that he loved: not just the earthly aspects of the world, but its spirit, which in the Ainulindalë was named the 'Flame Imperishable'. Indeed, it seemed to him that as a whole the world was a living being like himself: at its heart lay the Secret Fire, the lands were its flesh and bones, and in its veins coursed the living waters. 'And my kindred were made from the flesh of Arda and slept in the womb of the Earth, beneath the green sward,'³ he remembered from the childhood tale.⁴
   What, Feveren wondered, had broken the heart of Belegurth and filled it with such hatred that he sought the ruin of all that was fair and joyful? Dorongúr had said only that he desired dominion over the world, to surplant Aran Einior⁵ as lord of the realm of Arda and ruler of all that dwell therein; but denied the Light, he had fallen into Darkness.⁶ The elf-lad was grateful that in this, at least, the Dark Lord had failed, for he could not imagine living under a cruel and dreadful tyranny.

*      *      *

   Hildifons had told Feveren that it was thirty miles "as the crow flies across the White Downs" from Little Delving to Michel Delving, the chief town of the Shire, and the three friends crossed the ten leagues swiftly. The night was yet young -- it was still two hours ere midnight -- when they saw the twinkling lights of the hobbit-town shining between the trees that grew upon its outskirts. Looking back at the shadowed tree-clad vale through which they had passed, Feveren saw the faint lights of a farmyard they had skirted, and in the western sky he watched the thin crescent of the moon sinking behind the darkened tree-tops. Behind them lay the Shire, and within the Shire lay Hobbiton and Bag End, where he would find this Frodo Baggins the Bounder spoke of. Then perhaps he might learn the whereabouts of Bilbo Baggins, and hear at last the tale of the quest of Dwalin's Company and the downfall of the Great Worm, Smaug.
   But first and foremost he must visit the Mathom-house and its Keeper, Brombard Foxtail. The elf-lad grinned at the name and wondered whence it came. In this treasure-house -- or so he took Hildifons' words to mean -- it was his hope to indeed find the treasure that he sought, and from the hobbit's description he recognised the house perched atop a lone low hill in the lee of the Far Downs' escarpment. A narrow lamplit road ran up on his right hand, and disappeared behind the amon (or so he named it in this thought, for it brought to his mind Amon Ereb, the lonely hill in East Beleriand where Denethor son of Denweg⁷ had, long ago in the Elder Days, perished in the first battle in the Wars of Beleriand. He hoped this hill would prove less perilous!)

   Feveren bade farewell to Gwedal, who trotted off to root among the trees; Glavror flew ahead, and the young elf crept after him. The night-dew upon the shorn lawn was cool and damp beneath his feet, and the starlight sparkled on the wet grass. Together, boy and bird followed alongside the path, keeping well outside the pools of  glowing lamplight; it rose behind the lonely hill, then struck steeply eastwards up to the round door of the Mathom-house. Feveren carefully peered ahead: light poured from many round windows set in the front walls of the house, and in their golden gleam he could descry a small figure sitting alone on the stone steps leading up to the doorway. Its back was turned toward the watching elf, and suddenly its small head was wreathed with clouds of white smoke!
   The startled elf-lad saw that it was indeed a hobbit, and it seemed that his thatch of pale hair was afire! On the stair beside him stood a large tankard; white foam rose above its brim, so Feveren guessed that it was filled with quenching ale. Without another thought he sprang out from the shadows, seized the flagon, and emptied it over the smoldering head.

   With a cry of dismay the hobbit leapt to his feet, wiping his drenched head with his hands. Looking up with an angry glare, he saw the young elf standing wide-eyed before him with the dripping tankard in hand, and his mouth fell open with astonishment.
   'Bless me!' he exclaimed. 'An Elf!'
   Feveren nodded dumbly as he examined the hobbit's head for scorching, but nothing could he see. Again the hobbit glowered at him.
   'But why in the Shire did you drown me in beer?' he asked, wiping foam from his eyes. 'That's no friendly greeting, nor do I think it a merry jest!'
   'Alas,' Feveren earnestly replied, 'I did it not in merriment. Your head was aflame, though you did not seem to notice! I doused it and saved you from burning!'
   'Aflame?' the hobbit exclaimed. 'My head? Absurd! Why would you think such a thing?'
   'The smoking cloud that engulfed it,' Feveren explained, his cheeks warming.
   To the elf-lad's amazement the hobbit broke into raucous laughter, bending at his stout waist and slapping his knees. 'And where there's smoke, there's fire, eh?' he chortled. 'Indeed I was smoking, but it was only my pipe!' He waved a small curved object at Feveren.
   'Pipe?' he asked in bewilderment.
   'Indeed,' said the hobbit, raising his brows. 'But first, I think, I need to wash and don dry clothes. Come with me.' He led Feveren up the stair and opened the round door. 'An Elf in Michel Delving,' he muttered, shaking his wet head. 'Whatever next?'
   The door opened onto a large wood-panelled hall, and Feveren, ducking his head to pass under the lintel, saw another hobbit standing beside a roaring hearth. 'This is my son, Baldwin,' the first said, 'and I am Brombard Foxtail, Keeper of the Mathom House here in Michel Delving.' He gave a curt bow. 'Baldwin,' he called, 'please welcome our guest. I shall be along shortly.'
   Baldwin's brows shot up in astonishment, but he recovered quickly and bowed. 'Hallo! It is an honour to welcome one of the Fair Folk to our house,' he said smoothly, his eyes never leaving Feveren. 'Though, I must say, a very surprising one! Please have a seat.'
   'The surprise is not yours alone,' said the young elf, bowing in return. 'I am Feveren son of Gladlil, a wanderer in your land.' He paid no heed to the wooden chairs and benches, and sat down on the long carpet that lay before the hearth with his knees drawn up to his chin.
   'Indeed?' said Baldwin, drawing a flagon of beer from a nearby cask and passing it to Feveren. He studied the young elf's face which was now level with his own. 'Is there something amiss?' he asked.
   'I know not,' Feveren replied uncertainly. 'It was my thought that I saved your father from flame, but it seems I was mistaken.' He sipped the beer. It was less fruity than dwarven ale, but no less tasty. He licked the froth from his lips. 'This is is pleasant to my tongue,' he said, 'though strange, for my people are more accustomed to wine than brew. I give you my thanks.'
   'A strange tale, I'm sure' said the hobbit. 'But it can wait, for now. If it is wine you would prefer, I have a few bottles of a lovely red; which although isn't Old Winyards, is certainly passable!'
   'Er, there is no need...' began Feveren, somewhat nonplussed.
   'Nonsense! One moment, please.' Baldwin bowed himself from the hall, and disappeared through a doorway.
   Feveren shook his head. To his bewildered mind it seemed an age since he had crept up the path to the Mathom-house, though little time had passed. And he had reckoned himself the hero of this tale, but his rescue of Brombard Foxtail was being completely disregarded; then he laughed at his thinking, remembering Dorongúr's lesson. 'I must not expect all Hobbit-kind to be like Hildifons!' he thought. He looked curiously about the hobbit-hall, the first he had ever seen.
    The long table before the fire held the remains of a lavish meal, and along the walls the young elf saw many stange objects on display. In a nearby corner a small spruce tree stood morosely in a barrel of earth, and above the stone-wrought hearth was proudly hung a large framed map marked Eriador in the common tongue. This bode well for his quest, he reckoned. He glanced down the hall at the three round windows set in the furthest wall, and in the midmost saw Glavror outside perched upon its rim with his head cocked. Feveren gave him a small wave and the sparrow fluttered away into the night.

   'Hullo, again!' Brombard's voice broke into the young elf's musing. The hair of his head was damp and neatly combed, his curly toes were freshly brushed, and his apparel clean and dry. In the firelight Feveren saw that his hair was grey, and wrinkles lined his face. He had learnt that amongst Dwarves this marked a great age,⁸ and he guessed this was alike with Hobbits. He wondered how many years Brombard had seen.
   'Now, I have told you who I am, Master Elf,' said the hobbit, 'so who may you be, and what may you be wanting?'
   'I am Feveren son of Gladlil, a wanderer in your land,' Feveren repeated, standing to greet his host. 'At your service,' he added with a bow.
   'Oho!' laughed Brombard. 'An Elf with Dwarvish manners! It is my guess that you have wandered far?'
   'From Harlindon I have travelled hither,' Feveren said. 'And aye, I have met the Longbeards of Ered Luin. But there is much of Middle-earth I have yet to tread.'
   The hobbit eyed him thoughtfully. 'Rarely do any of the Elf-folk pass through Michel Delving,' he said. 'But I have sometimes spoken with the Wandering Companies that follow along the great East Road. Not often, mind you, yet enough to see that you are unlike them.' He glanced at the young elf's bare feet.
   'Verily,' the Feveren agreed, 'for I am a Green-elf from deep within the forests of southern Lindon.'
   'Never have I heard tell of Green-elves,' said Brombard eagerly, 'nor did I know that anyone dwelt these days beyond the Grey Havens. How very splendid!' He read the question in Feveren's eyes. 'Before you ask, I should say that I know only of the Grey Havens. I myself have never ventured further west than Nobottle, and the Fair Folk I have met were wayfaring High Elves from faroff Rivendell, pilgrimaging to the Tower Hills.'
   He seated himself in a wooden chair, motioning for Feveren to do likewise. The young elf sat again on the floor and crossed his legs.
   'So, Feveren of Lindon,' the hobbit said, 'am I right in guessing this is your first visit to the Shire, and you have not met hobbit-folk before? It seems to me you know little of us.'
   'Indeed,' said Feveren, tugging on his toe. 'Alas, I have met but one hobbit in all my life, a marchwarden -- Bounder, I mean to say -- in the Yondershire, and I am unaccustomed to your ways.'
   'Ah,' Brombard nodded with a smile. 'Hence your misunderstanding.'
   'Misunderstanding?' wondered the elf-lad.
   At that moment Baldwin returned, his arms filled with wine bottles. 'I thought you'd like a selection,' he grinned at Feveren. 'O! Hallo, Dad!' He turned his attention to Brombard. 'I was just fetching some wine for our guest.' He laid his load carefully on the nearby table, and prised a cork from the neck of one of the bottles. As he poured its contents into three clay goblets, he continued, 'Feveren here says he saved you from a fire. What in the Shire does he mean?'
   Brombard smiled. 'Fetch my spare pipe for me, my lad. And bring your pouch; my leaf's all wet!' Baldwin hurried away, returning in a moment with the requested items.
   'Now,' said the elder hobbit, rubbing his hands together. 'We shall show Feveren the ancient hobbit-art!' He took a long curved object from his son  -- it brought to Feveren's mind a large acorn cap upon its slender twig of oak -- and a bulky leather pouch. 'This is pipe-weed,' he told the young elf, holding up a wad of what seemed to be dried herbs. 'Longbottom Leaf, to be precise.' He nimbly filled the bowl, then rose and with a pair of tongs took a glowing coal from the hearth, which he set atop the leaf. With the tip of the stem clasped between his lips, he sucked and puffed his cheeks until smoke billowed from his mouth. Feveren watched him with amazement. When Brombard blew a line of smoke-rings, the elf-lad was utterly astonished! The hobbit smiled at the young elf with a twinkle in his eye.
   'So what do you think of that?' he asked.
   'I think I should like very much to try!' grinned Feveren.

*      *      *

1. "It is thus to the love of the Nelyar for song, for vocal music with or without the use of articulate words, that the name Lindar originally referred; though they also loved water, and before the Separation never moved far from the lake and waterfall of Cuivienen, and those that moved into the West became enamoured of the Sea. [...] For this reason the most frequently used of the 'titles' or secondary names of the Lindar was Nendili 'Water-lovers'."
     - The War of the Jewels, "Quendi and Eldar"

2. The Two Towers, "The Riders of Rohan"

3. "For he coveted Arda and all that was in it, desiring the kingship of Manwë and dominion over the realms of his peers [...] He began with the desire of Light, but when he could not possess it for himself alone, he descended through fire and wrath into a great burning, down into Darkness. And darkness he used most in his evil works upon Arda, and filled it with fear for all living things"
      - The Silmarillion, "Valaquenta"

4. "While their first bodies were being made from the 'flesh of Arda' the Quendi slept 'in the womb of the Earth', beneath the green sward, and awoke when they were full-grown.'
      - The War of the Jewels, "Quendi and Eldar: Appendix: The legend of the Awaking of the Quendi (Cuivienyarna)"

5. "Actually written [...] to be a surviving Elvish "fairytale" or child's tale..."
      - ibid

6. "Elder King" (Q. Manwë)

7.  Lenwë, The Quenya name of the leader of the Nandor.

8.  "“Their average age (unless they met a violent death) was about 250 years, which they seldom fell far short of, but could occasionally far exceed (up to 300) [...] By forty all Dwarves looked much alike in age, until they reached what they regarded as old age, about 240. They then began to age and wrinkle and go white quickly (baldness being unknown among them), unless they were going to be long-lived, in which case the process was delayed."
      - The Peoples of Middle-earth, The Making of Appendix A: IV Durin’s Folk

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