The River is Flowing by StarSpray  

Oh, where are you going,
So late in returning?
The river is flowing,
The stars are all burning!
- The Hobbit

- - 

Frodo Gardner was not, as a rule, adventurous. He was of solid Gamgee and Cotton stock, and was more than content to put down roots and let them sink deep into the rich earth of Hobbiton and Bag End, even if he did love his Sam-dad’s books and stories—of the Elder Days and of his own travels and adventures. He liked to spend his own days weeding the garden or walking well-known paths around the Hill and over the Water, or maybe venturing a bit farther afield to Buckland or Tuckborough. 

Sometimes, though, as he got older and his tweens started to pass him by, his feet got an itch, and he wished to venture beyond the bounds of the Four Farthings. His mother said, fondly, that it was because of his namesake. Frodo Baggins had gotten that itch sometimes too, especially in autumn, though he’d only ever acted on it once.

On a sunny day in spring, Frodo got the urge to go north and west, up into Arnor, which was still quite wild and uninhabited outside of newly-built Annúminas, and the slow trickle of work happening around the ruins of Fornost, which even the Dúnedain were still sometimes reluctant to visit. When he spoke of his plan, his dad told him to remember to pack enough food and not to forget a bit of rope, and his mother said not to forget his cloak. Most of his siblings were too young yet to be permitted to go along, but Elanor immediately asked if he wanted company.

“Certainly!” he said, and the two of them went to pack their things. 

It was a beautiful time for a walking holiday. They struck off through the fields and meadows, encountering the occasional pair or group of other tweens out and about. “If we go far enough we can come home by the North Road,” Elanor said after some days, as they hopped over a stream that marked something of an unofficial boundary. Past it they would find no more hobbit holes. “What do you say to finding the River Lhûn and following it all the way to Annúminas?”

“We could follow it the other way, and come back home by way of the Tower Hills and Far Downs,” said Frodo. They both stopped to consider that. It would mean going all the way to the coast, to the Gulf of Lhûn that opened up in its turn to the wide waters of the Sea. It was unspoken knowledge in their family that Sam would go back down that road someday, still far in the future, and when he did he wouldn’t come back. “…Or maybe not,” Frodo said. He didn’t think he was quite brave enough to seek the Sea.

“No, not yet,” Elanor agreed. “Someday maybe, but not today.”

They walked on, going more or less northwest, confident that the river would be impossible to miss once they came to it. The meadows were full of spring flowers, and Frodo picked a bunch of celandine to weave into a garland to set over Elanor’s curls. She picked anemone and fragrant wild thyme to crown him in turn. They sang walking songs that Sam had taught them, that he said old Mister Bilbo had made the words to, and then they made up new words of their own to the same old tunes. The weather remained fine, sunny and clear with warm days and cool nights. The stars were very bright, and Elanor showed Frodo how to find the constellations some of the old stories spoke of. The Sickle was easiest to find; it was how they found their way when they weren’t tired enough to stop at night. Gil-Estel was easy to find, too, though it did not shine long enough in the evenings to steer by. 

“Is that really a ship, do you think, or is it just poetry?” Frodo asked one evening, after they’d sung their way through Mister Bilbo’s song of Eärendil. “How d’you sail a ship through the skies like that?”

“Magic, dummy,” said Elanor. “Next time we meet an Elf maybe we can ask them.”

“But how would they know, if they’re here and Eärendil isn’t allowed to come back?” Frodo asked. “All they’ve got are the same stories we do!”

“Well, we can ask them that, too! Maybe we can ask Queen Arwen when we come to Annúminas.”

“Is she there?”

“Oh yes. I heard Mama and Sam-dad talking about it before we left. The king isn’t, I think, but maybe he’ll be there by the time we arrive.”

At last, they came to the River Lhûn. It was wide and deep, flowing swiftly along down south and west. They walked along the stony banks that then changed to grass as the river widened a little, and willows grew along the banks. They remembered the stories of the Withywindle and Old Man Willow, and laughed about it as they walked under these much younger and kinder trees, whose leaves quivered gently in the breeze. Other trees grew along the river, stately oaks and slender ash. Everything was green and soft. Birds were busy nesting and tending to their eggs or chicks, flying about and calling to one another. They disturbed a goose’s nesting place by mistake and had to run very quickly away from the angry mother as she gave chase, wings flapping, neck out and beak open to honk and hiss at them.

Once they escaped the goose and fell onto a grassy portion of the riverbank to catch their breath, something else even more remarkable happened. They heard a voice on the breeze, floating down from somewhere not far upstream. Elanor sat up straight, listening hard. Frodo also listened, but he did not sit up. He did not want to get up for another hour at least, but if that voice kept singing he thought maybe he could be convinced in ten minutes or so. “You hear that?” Elanor asked. “It sounds…”

“Mournful,” Frodo said. That was the word, underneath the breathtaking, rich beauty of it. No hobbit’s voice, that. Or a Man’s. “Elvish?”

“Oh yes,” said Elanor, “and singing in the old tongue of the High Elves. Hear that? Arien, he’s singing about—that’s what they sometimes call the Sun! You remember the old tales, Frodo-lad—I bet anything I know exactly who that is. Come on!”

“Not yet!” Frodo protested, but Elanor hauled him up anyway and dragged him onward. “My legs hurt, Elanor. I think the goose bit me.”

“She never even came close, don’t be a ninnyhammer.”

“Don’t you be a bossy know-it-all—”

“You were the one that wanted an adventure, Frodo Gardner!”

“I do! I just want to catch my breath first!”

“You can catch it when we find him! You think just anyone ever gets to meet Maglor? Sam-dad would have a fit if he learned we’d wasted such a chance!” 

She had a point, and the singing really was wonderful. Frodo had heard plenty of Elvish singing, on trips to Rivendell and even in the Shire when one of the Wandering Companies came through and stopped to visit them in the Party Field under the mallorn tree. If this was Maglor—and he really didn’t know who else it could be, for there was no other elf in the tales that was said to be wandering forever lost—then he really did deserve all the praises heaped on him. Frodo was only disappointed that they would like as not never get to hear the other great singer, what’s-his-name, the one from the Beren and Lúthien story, who was said to be even better. Frodo tried to remember his name, but before he could give up and ask Elanor, who had a much better head for all those names than he did, she came to a sudden stop and he nearly crashed into her. 

Just up ahead the riverbank grew stony again, and there were boulders scattered about. One of them sat half in and half out of the water, and on top of its wide flat surface sat an Elf. His hair was long and dark, and his clothes were worn but not very tattered, Frodo thought, for someone who was supposed to have been roaming about alone for years uncounted. He had a harp case beside him but did not have the instrument out, instead just singing along to the music of the river and the breeze whispering through the grass behind him, where irises bloomed, blue and purple, bright as gems in the sunshine. 

For a long time neither Elanor nor Frodo moved. They just watched and listened, and Frodo caught his breath only to lose it again. When the song ended, the Elf seemed to sigh, and leaned back on his hands, tilting his head back, letting the sun fall on his face. Elanor grabbed Frodo’s hand and dragged him on; the movement caught the Elf’s attention and he turned his head before sitting up, apparently quite surprised to find a pair of hobbits on his riverbank. 

Once they were close enough to speak without having to shout, Elanor dropped into a curtsy, and Frodo hurriedly bowed as she said, pronouncing the words very carefully to get them right, “Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo!”

The Elf blinked at her in surprise, and then his face broke into a smile, bright as the sunshine, and he laughed. “Good afternoon!” he said, in the Common Speech. Even only speaking his voice was lilting and fair. “I did not expect to meet any hobbits out here, and certainly none who speak my own tongue.”

“I only know a little, I’m afraid,” Elanor said, “and my brother doesn’t know any!”

“I do so,” Frodo hissed, and hurriedly dodged out of the way of Elanor’s elbow. He just read it better than he spoke or listened, that was all.

Ignoring him, Elanor said, “I am Elanor Gardner, at your service, and this is my brother Frodo.”

“At your service, sir!” Frodo bowed again, and spoke the words in Quenya just to spite Elanor, though he was afraid the effect was ruined when he stumbled over them and had to repeat himself. The Elf laughed, and Frodo switched back to his own tongue to add, “And we have guessed that you are Maglor, the great singer. Are we right?”

“You are.” Maglor slid off of his rock and bowed, graceful in spite of his slightly bedraggled looks. “Elanor does not sound like a very hobbitish name, if I may say so.”

“It’s an elvish flower,” said Elanor, “that my dad saw in Lórien on his travels. It was Mister Frodo that suggested it when I was born. Mister Frodo Baggins, I mean, not my brother, of course.”

“Of course,” said Maglor. “I’ve heard of both Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. Will you come sit with me a while and share news? It has been some time since I last learned what went on in the wide world.”

“How did you hear about our dad and Mister Frodo?” asked Frodo as he and Elanor got out their picnic blanket to spread over the grass, and as Elanor pulled out lunch. They had plenty to share, and it seemed that Maglor, however great an Elvish singer he was, didn’t mind plain hobbit fare. “If you’ve been wandering alone, I mean, all solitary and sad like the old tales say.”

“Frodo,” Elanor snapped.

“The old tales often exaggerate, and anyway it’s been quite a long time since they were written,” Maglor said. He seemed quite cheerful, in spite of the melancholy notes of his music. “I meet other travelers sometimes, though fewer Rangers these days than I used to—they aren’t really Rangers anymore, I suppose. It was old Bombadil that told me of the War of the Ring, and of your father and the Ringbearer. I have heard he was sorely wounded; I hope he has recovered.”

“We expect so,” said Elanor. “He sailed away with Lady Galadriel and Master Elrond and old Mister Bilbo and Gandalf, away back when I was still little, and before my brother Frodo was born.”

Maglor went very still. “Master Elrond is gone?” he said after a few moments, very softly.

“Oh yes,” said Elanor. “All the Ringbearers went. There was the Three Elven Rings—do you know about all that?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Maglor with a small smile. “I know there was one particular ring that needed destroying, but Tom was not very clear on why or what it was for.”

“There were lots of rings,” said Frodo, “but they’re all gone now, and worthless besides, since the One was destroyed. Anyway, Mister Frodo and old Mister Bilbo, they went away with the Elven Ringbearers, and Gandalf, off into the West where all the Elves go. Our Sam-dad says it’s so they can find healing from whatever the Ring did to them, because they each carried it for so long, and it was such an awful thing.”

“I hope that is so,” said Maglor. He smiled, but it no longer reached his eyes. “I seem to have missed a great deal since I last ventured into the Old Forest. He said nothing of anyone sailing away.”

“You must have visited just before they left, or maybe just after the war ended,” said Elanor. “It was just a few years between.” She talked more of what had gone on in Eriador since, between the Shire and Bree and Fornost and Annúminas in the north, and how the North-South road wasn’t really the Greenway anymore because so many more people were using it again. Maglor seemed particularly interested in Queen Arwen and her brothers, and Elanor was always happy to talk about the Queen, for she had asked that Elanor come to serve in her court for a few years, and their parents had finally decided that Elanor was old enough, being in her late tweens now. 

“Queen Arwen is in Annúminas now, you know,” Elanor said as she ran out of news that she thought Maglor might find interesting. “That’s where we’re headed.”

Maglor’s mouth quirked. “You have gone terribly out of your way if you wish to go to Annúminas,” he said.

“Well, we thought we’d find the river and then follow that back toward Lake Evendim,” Elanor said. “Our Sam-dad’s got lots of maps, so we know more or less where to go—and it isn’t as though it’s dangerous, these days.”

“There’s always a little danger, even if it’s only poor weather or wild animals,” said Maglor. 

“Would you like to come with us?” Frodo asked. “Queen Arwen would probably like very much to meet you.” 

“Oh, yes!” Elanor agreed. “You would be most welcome—on our adventure and in Annúminas!”

Maglor looked away, out over the water. The sadness was back, Frodo thought. He could see it in the unhappy set of Maglor’s mouth, and the way the light in his eyes went dim, somehow. Then he put on a smile as he turned back to them. “I will see you at least to the shores of Lake Evendim,” he said. “Safe though these lands may be, I would rest much easier knowing the children of Samwise the Stouthearted reached their destination in one piece.”

They did not continue the journey that afternoon, to Frodo’s great relief. His legs still hurt, even though the goose hadn’t really gotten him. The next morning they went on, all three of them. Maglor asked them to teach him their favorite walking songs, and then he taught them some that he knew in return, and it was a very pleasant day, singing and walking in the sunshine. The breeze was a brisk counterpoint to the warm sun, and the land was even, the grass soft and perfect for walking on. Maglor told them stories, too, of battles fought around the river and how it had once been the border between the Elven realm of Lindon and Elendil’s kingdom of Arnor. “Is it not still?” Frodo asked him. “There are still Elves in Lindon, aren’t there?”

“Yes, of course. Círdan still dwells in Mithlond, from what I have heard, but they are a dwindling people—and few folk live in this part of either realm, so the river is less a border now and just—well, just a river for young hobbits to explore.”

There was no danger to be found as they went on north and east, not even poor weather to slow them down. It was as fine a spring as any travelers could hope for. Soon they came to another smaller river that joined with the Lhûn, flowing out of the Emyn Uial. Frodo tried to remember its name, but could not remember seeing it on any of the maps in Bag End. He asked Elanor, preparing for her to roll her eyes at him, but she just shook her head. “It doesn’t have a name,” she said. “Not on any of Sam-dad’s maps, anyway.”

“If it has a name, I have not heard it,” Maglor agreed. “When I passed through these lands before, everyone just called it The River.”

“Sensible of them,” said Frodo. “Like The Water back home, and The Hill.” 

“Perhaps, but it does get confusing when there is more than one river to keep track of,” Maglor said. “There were many who called the Lhûn only The River, too.”

They followed that river to the hills, and found its headwaters in a small lake fed by springs and rain, and there they camped for a few days when the weather finally turned rainy and chilled. There were plenty of fish to be caught in the lake, and herbs and roots to be foraged in the surrounding hills. Maglor was a very merry traveling companion, Frodo thought, but as they had drawn closer to the hills he had gotten quieter, and that melancholy and mournful tone had crept back into his singing. 

When they left the lake and wandered on through the hills, at last they came within sight of Lake Evendim. It was very big—the biggest body of water Frodo had ever seen in his life, and though he knew the Sea was much bigger he found it impossible to imagine. It sparkled in the sunshine, blue and white with the reflected sky. “Can you see Annúminas from here?” Elanor asked Maglor, who lifted a hand to shade his eyes as he looked southward.

“Yes,” he said, “I can see the white towers, and the banner of the King flying in the wind, black with the White Tree upon it. And I can see a road by the lakeside, and other travelers upon it. There’s little fear of you getting lost here!”

“Oh, but you aren’t going to leave us!” Frodo protested. “Do come to Annúminas. I’m sure Queen Arwen would be very happy to meet you! And the king! He must be there now too, if his banner is raised.”

Maglor did not answer. He lowered his hand, and glanced back toward the hills, over his shoulder. “I should not,” he said finally. 

“But why?” Elanor asked. “If all the stories are true, you’ve been wandering about for such a very long time. Wouldn’t you like to spend at least a few nights in a proper bed? And eat a proper meal at a table, on plates and everything?”

That startled Maglor into laughter. “That does sound quite lovely,” he said, “but it is also true that so many long years of wandering have rendered me rather unfit for a royal court.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Frodo. “Sam-dad’s always going on about how he doesn’t know the first thing about bowing and manners and all of that, but no one cares, because—well, because he’s who he is. And you’re who you are, and who’s going to be bothered if you don’t know which spoon to use at the table, when they know you’re going to sing something beautifuler than beautiful later?”

“I suppose,” said Maglor, and he let them each take one of his hands to pull him along after them down the hill to the road. It was lined with oak trees, and eglantine grew around them, twining about the thick trunks, sweetly pink and smelling of apples. People had ventured back to build little homesteads and small villages around the edge of the lake, tilling the land, planting orchards, and bringing sheep and goats to graze the hills. Annúminas was still a far cry from what it had once been and would be someday, but there were towers and fine houses, and the palace (only just finished enough for the King and Queen to dwell there comfortably, until more of the city was rebuilt) was located on the lake’s edge. The king’s banner waved elegantly in the breeze, soon visible even to hobbits’ eyes, black with the White Tree and the seven stars shining brightly in the sunshine. Underneath it another banner flew, lighter in color, with a six-pointed star surrounded by white flowers upon a deep blue background. Maglor halted and stared at it for some time. “That is Queen Arwen’s banner,” said Elanor. 

“It was the banner of her father,” Maglor said softly, and it was only when Frodo took his hand that he tore his gaze away from it and followed them through the streets.

They earned surprised looks as they entered the city, coming from the north rather than the south—two young hobbits accompanied by a tall and hooded companion in worn clothes—but no one tried to stop or question them. “I bet you anything they think we’re Tooks,” Frodo said to Elanor, who laughed.

“What does that mean?” Maglor asked them, distracted from staring at some of the buildings they were passing, and the builders working busily as bees. 

“We’re Gardners, not Tooks,” said Elanor. “Well, Gamgees, really, but no one calls Sam-dad Sam Gamgee anymore except his own relations. The Tooks, though, that’s the family that all the most adventurous hobbits are from. The Brandybucks are little better. Old Mister Bilbo was half a Took—grandson of the Old Took—and Mister Frodo had Took in him too, on his mother’s side. Brandybuck, too. I suppose our family is gaining a sort of reputation for that sort of thing now, but only the gaffers and gammers have much much to say about it. There’s lots of hobbits traveling out of the Shire these days, with the King returned and all the old roads made safe. Why, there’s pipe weed from the Southfarthing sent all the way down to Minas Tirith every single year!”

Maglor laughed softly. “Is it really an adventure if you follow well-maintained roads with a clear destination in mind?”

“If you’re a Boffin or an Proudfoot it is,” said Frodo. 

They came at last to the palace, where the guards greeted Frodo and Elanor with smiles, and Maglor with curiosity. They were shown into the palace and through familiar hallways to a bright receiving room with high windows overlooking Lake Evendim, where Queen Arwen sat with some of her ladies and with Eldarion, who was close to Frodo’s age but of course much taller. The queen was beautiful, with dark hair and clear grey eyes, and her smile was bright and warm as she rose to greet them. Elanor and Frodo bowed, and Maglor bowed even deeper when Elanor introduced him. Frodo looked up to see Queen Arwen’s eyes go very wide for a moment at the sound of his name. As Maglor straightened he greeted her with very fair words in the Elven tongue, though he spoke too quickly for Frodo to catch much of it, besides something about stars and something about a queen. Queen Arwen replied in the same language, something else about stars and something about hope.

Then she stepped forward and smiled at Frodo and Elanor. “Thank you,” she said, “for doing what all the Wise and even my father could not, for so many long years!”

“Oh, we didn’t really do anything!” Frodo protested. “We just went on a walking holiday and got chased by a goose!”

Arwen laughed, and Maglor smiled. “Then it was chance—if chance you call it,” said the queen, “that brought your paths together, and so brought one long lost home at last, bringing a final end to ancient griefs in this new Age. You are truly your father’s children, Elanor and Frodo Gardner!”

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