Among the Ainur and Other Animals by bunn  

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The Road to Valimar

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Bilbo looked up at the horse, and then further up, with an expression of some alarm.  The horse leaned down an enormous velvet nose, and snorted at him. He took a step back. 

“Now really, Master Elrond!” he said.  “You can’t expect me to ride a creature that size!  I am only an old hobbit!  What if I fall off? I should end up as flat as a pancake!”

Elrond gave him a look of amusement.  “I am afraid, Master Baggins, that Aman is sadly lacking in hobbit or dwarf-sized ponies trained for riding.  Everyone here is far too tall!  But it would be a very long walk to Valimar, and since you are indeed the very oldest of hobbits, I thought such a walk might be a little much for you.  In any case, I am going to ride, and you would have to run very fast to keep up!  You can ride with me, and if you do manage to slip off in such a way that Rohael here cannot catch you, I will do my best to do so myself.” 

“Hmph!”  Bilbo said.  “I thought my riding days were long over.  But I must say, my aches and pains are greatly improved nowadays.  I am feeling twice the hobbit I used to be, and a good fifty years younger at least.  But how do I get up there? Her legs are taller than I am!”

“I will lift you,”  Elrond told him.  “Shall we go?”

 Bilbo looked up at the horse again and sighed.  “Well, a chance to explore the shining city of Valimar is not to be passed by lightly!” he said. “It’s hardly something that most hobbits ever get a chance at. Come on then.”

“Excellent,” Elrond said. “I have never been to Valimar either. I am looking forward to seeing it.”  He lifted Bilbo up carefully and placed him on the horse’s back, where he clung somewhat nervously to her mane, then mounted behind and put an arm around him to hold him in place.  “Try not to wriggle!  That will improve your chances of not becoming a pancake considerably.” 

“You don’t even have a saddle!” Bilbo protested. “Where do you put your feet?” 

“At the end of my legs, Master Baggins,” Elrond told him, “I find that’s the most convenient place for them!”  He urged the horse forward towards the road that led from the long quays of Alqualondë beside the sea, up towards the pass of the Calacirya and the white city of Tirion.    

Bilbo laughed. “Oh, very funny. But surely you used to ride with a saddle and stirrups in Rivendell?  Or is my memory playing tricks on me?” 

“I did, most of the time,” Elrond told him. “When fighting from horseback, stirrups are a great help, and most horses feel a saddle is more comfortable then, to spread the weight of a rider in armour evenly across the horse’s back, and help him stay there if he hits something.  But we are not going to war.  In Valinor, horses are unaccustomed to saddles.”

“How far are we going today, anyway?  From the map it looks like several days journey, even for a horse this size!”

“I thought we would ride today as far as the city of Tirion, and stay there tonight in the house of my great-grandfather, Turgon,” Elrond suggested. “We can stay for a while in Tirion, depending on how tired you are, before we go on west.  It’s not too long a ride.” 

Bilbo sat up cheerfully and began to recite;

“The fair white walls of Tirion, upon a high green hill
high in the tower a shining star, the silver lamp shines still
In the City of the Deep-elves,  the work of cunning hands
Looks West to golden roofs and bells, and East to wider lands 
Looks east across the Open Sea, where wild waves foaming curl
winds blow forever wild and free, into another world.

Not that that exactly does justice to the original, mind you.  And I need to polish it a bit. But it is a bit more cheery, at least. Not so much of the doom and gloom.”

“Does Maglor know that you are making a cheerier version of the Noldolantë, in the Westron of the Shire?”  Elrond enquired laughing.

“I haven’t finished it yet,” Bilbo said.  “When I do, no doubt he will groan and clutch his head while I read it, and that will be a very fitting revenge for his Song of the Sackville-Bagginses.  It almost made me feel sympathy for Lobelia!   And it’s a terrible ear-worm, you can’t stop humming it. Not that I wouldn’t still jump into the hedge to hide from her, if I saw her coming.”

“Hmm.  A tempting approach to handling meetings with relatives.”

“You still haven’t decided what to say to the ladies Indis and Findis, then?” 

“Not really,” Elrond said. “They have very deliberately taken themselves very far away from anything that I know anything about.  But perhaps seeing Valimar will help me talk to them.  I feel very much the young country cousin.  Here I am, appearing from the distant, war-torn and forgetful East beyond the limits of this world, into a land of perfect memory and peace. All those long hard years trying to preserve the memory of times long gone, in Rivendell, and here they have barely noticed the years at all.”

Bilbo chuckled. “If you’re young, what does that make me?  A new-laid egg?” 

“In Rivendell,” Elrond said, amused, “I was almost the oldest person you knew, apart from Gandalf. Here, I must be one of the youngest.” 

“And I am youngest of all, apart from Frodo, and those two children we met in Avallónë.” Bilbo said “In the Shire, even the children would be in their tweens. And yet I still feel like a grumpy old man surrounded by giggling children sometimes, among elves!”

“It’s a strange land, with so few children, no Dwarves or Men, and only two Hobbits,” Elrond said.  “I’m glad you came with us, Bilbo, for my own sake as well as yours!  I always felt very elvish, in Middle-earth, but there is nothing like an entire land of elves to make it clear I was never quite one thing or the other before.  Living with nothing but elves forever will still take some getting used to. ”

“How long can hobbits live here, anyway?” Bilbo asked, looking around at Elrond. “Not that I’m complaining! I feel almost like a youngster again. But after all, I am older now than the Old Took, and old Gerontius was considered something of a marvel in his day.  It can’t go on forever.  It’s not natural, as we say in the Shire.”

“Nobody can take away death, which is the Gift of Men, forever,” Elrond said to his friend. “But time sits lightly here, and memory is strong.  It’s not hard for your body to remember its youth, here.  And the Valar do have authority to grant the grace of the Edain, to die only when you are weary and choose it.  They gave that to my brother Elros.  When we spoke with the Valar about bringing you both to Aman, Gandalf said that Frodo must come, and would need company of his own people here.  So I would say there is nothing to make you move on before Frodo chooses to do so, and maybe not then, unless you become weary yourself.”

“Well, just at the moment I don’t feel at all weary,” Bilbo said.

“I’m glad to hear it.  You have been sleeping a great deal,” Elrond pointed out. 

“So do babies!  I don’t think sleepiness and weariness are anything like the same, do you? There is a good deal to see here that I have never seen, and so many songs to hear in full that I have only heard in snatches. I don’t think I am likely to get weary of all that very quickly.  But I’m sure I read that the messengers that came to Númenor out of Valinor said something about mortals growing weary swiftly here. Moths in a light too strong and steadfast. I think those were the words.”

“Yes,” Elrond said,  “I too have wondered about that. But there are plenty of elves that prefer starlight to strong and steadfast light. The Valar do not go to Tol Eressëa, save for Ulmo. And there is my grandfather, Tuor. He isn’t an elf, nor is he half-elven. Yet, there he is, counted among the elves, and still living on Tol Eressëa! I think those caught up in a great story may be carried along by it to unexpected places, even if they think they have fallen out of it, as Frodo would say.  It was also said to Númenor: the mind of Ilúvatar concerning you is not known to the Valar. I’ve heard that many times, over the years... Usually when I asked a difficult question!  I think it means ‘don’t ask us, we have no idea’!”

“I don’t know if it’s comforting or fearsome, to think that the Powers might have no idea either!” Bilbo exclaimed. 

“Comforting, I think myself. Who’d wish to serve a lord who believes he knows everything, takes no counsel, and never admits to a mistake?  That sounds like Sauron.  All things weighed in the scales of malice, but only one measure to judge them by.”

“Or Smaug?” Bilbo suggested. “He was so certain of his jewelled armour, in his arrogance thinking he could never be slain, when there was a great big hole in it that anyone could see with half an eye, apart from him!” 

“I hear that dragons are notably arrogant.  I heard it from you, in fact: you’re the expert on dragons! See, we’re coming up into the foothills of the Pelóri now. You get a better idea of the scale of them from here, where the land opens out, and we can look up into the pass of Calacirya.”

“Bless me!” Bilbo said, craning upwards. “They make the Misty Mountains look small!  And these are the fortifications that they raised to protect them from their enemy?  They must have been sorely afraid.”

“Yes,” Elrond said. “And all the rest of us outside of it.  Very much a defence of the Ainur, don’t you think? Raise the mountains high until only an eagle can pass over them.   It reminds me of Ephel Dúath and Ered Lithui, on the borders of Mordor.  Angband, too, for that matter.  The Dwarves would look at that and consider the enormous potential for going underneath, and Men would look at it, see the pass and wonder how many warriors they would have to throw at it to get through if it were defended.  And they’d wonder if it’s really the only pass, and get out ropes and grappling hooks to check.”

“And hobbits would think, what an enormous pass that is, with hills and trees and bushes growing!  Nobody will notice us if we walk quietly and ignore the signs that say ‘no entry’ or ‘keep off the grass’!” Bilbo said cheerfully.

Elrond laughed. “And of course, once the hobbits have got in, it’s all over!  Only elves might be deterred, because elves mostly follow the shape of the world as it is made.”

Bilbo looked at him quizzically.  “Really? I’m not so sure about the Noldor!”

“A good point,” Elrond acknowledged. “Particularly our friend Fingon!  I’ve wondered what might have happened here if it had been Fingolfin who was king in Tirion when the might of Númenor came to shore. I have some difficulty seeing him pulling all his people back to Valimar without a fight!  But the Vanyar are the Children of Ilúvatar that the Valar know best.” 

He looked around at the rolling green hills that ran up towards the vast purple heights of the Pelori which loomed impossibly high above them. “These must be the hills that fell upon the hosts of Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, I think.  And they did not die, either.  They lie sealed in sleep, so the songs tell, until the last battle at the end of the world.”

“And yet it looks such a kindly land now, with the sun high, and the autumn crocuses and daisies flowering among the grass,” Bilbo said.  

He turned to give Elrond a bright-eyed smile over his shoulder, almost exactly the Bilbo he had been when Elrond had first seen him arrive in Rivendell in the company of thirteen dwarves. Except perhaps... perhaps,  there was something about Bilbo’s eyes.  A touch of strain, the shadow of a kind of darkness that was never supposed to hang about a Baggins of Bag End. But in answer to the shadow, there was a strength there too. 

“I hope you brought some lunch!”  Bilbo said. 

“I did not expect to have to play quartermaster to such an experienced traveller, Master Baggins!” Elrond said, with a smile.    “But yes, I have indeed brought lunch, sufficient, I hope, even for a hobbit!  Let us stop here for a while to eat, and remember the sleeping Men of Númenor.  I hope they will awake to a better purpose than the one that brought them here.” He jumped down from the horse’s back and lifted Bilbo to the ground as well.

 

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The walled city of Valimar shone in the evening sun, as Elrond and Bilbo made their way at last down the long straight road that led west to the wide-open golden gates from Tirion, where they had stayed for several days before travelling further west. 

Tall golden domes glittered above walls of white and blue, and bells rang out.  Woven among the bells were the sound of great choirs of voices singing.  They dismounted, passed in through the gates, and looked around.  

To Elrond’s eyes, the streets were thronging with life, but it was a strange kind of life: golden-headed Vanyar in loose white garb, but among them, figures seeming made of mist or shadow flickered. An ordinary painted hoop bowled along along the street, chased by a child made only of light. Some of the people had the forms of hounds or flames or great birds, and some had no form at all.  He was not sure how many of them Bilbo could see, but clearly from the way he looked around in fascination, he could see something. 

There was a sound of wind blowing in tree-tops and yet the air was still and there were no trees in sight, here by the Eastgate of Valimar.  Scents moved past them: cinnamon, rosemary, the smell of a pine-forest after rain, and other fragrances for which Elrond had no name. 

“It’s very different to anywhere else I’ve been in Aman,” Bilbo said, looking about him with interest.  Elrond looked down at him with some relief : small, solid and ordinary-looking in his purple waistcoat amid the light and shade of Valimar, the people of Valimar weaving ethereally around him as if he were a rock and they were made of mist.  Bilbo at least looked firmly attached to this world, not any other. 

“In Tirion,” Bilbo said thoughtfully. “Everything was made very solidly, of the best materials, with enormous thought and care.  Everything made as if a door or a window or a flowerpot was one of Maglor’s songs.  All triple meanings woven through it yet somehow managing to rhyme and scan perfectly. Rather like the Lonely Mountain, in a way, but with a different style, and more... nothing improvised, you know?  As if there was more than enough time to make anything perfectly, even a clothes-peg or a basket to hold fruit. But here, it’s... it’s almost as if they haven’t made things with their hands at all.  It’s like it’s partly made out of ... thoughts. Or poems.“ he stopped in confusion. “I am a foolish old hobbit.  I don’t think I’m making any sense at all!”

“It makes sense to me,” Elrond said.  “Or at least I think it does.  This is a very confusing place!” 

Bilbo grabbed his arm and pulled him urgently back against the wall, his eyes wide, staring down the street.  A long narrow serpentine head had poked around the corner of a tall white building, bright scales glinting, golden eyes narrowed.  A great clawed foot followed, making a clear ringing sound as it came down on the silver pathway.  

“That isn’t really a dragon, is it?” Bilbo said.  “It’s... it’s something that looks like one. It must be.” 

Elrond stared at it. “Nobody seems alarmed,” he said. “And I see no darkness lying on it. Evil things cannot come to Valimar.”  

Bilbo puffed out his breath all at once as the thing that was not a dragon turned and ran off, agile, lifting its shining feet high as it moved. It was unwinged, and had red and yellow ribbons tied around its neck.  “Well I never did!” he exclaimed. 

Elrond laughed in amazement.  “Nor did I!” 

Someone was plucking at Elrond’s hand, pulling at him, calling. Distracted, he turned to it and found himself coming into pieces, his hand fragmenting into translucent shades of colour.  The golden shade, the faintest, was pulling away from the rest of him, following the tall golden shape that was tugging at it.   

His mother had warned him about this, when he had spoken of visiting Valimar. It was a particular peril for those who were made up of strains of Men, of Elves, and of the spirits that sang before the world was made, that it might be that not everyone would recognise that he was all one person, and must stay in one piece. 

He shook his head firmly at the being,  disentangled his hands, all of them, and tried to pull them back together. Valinor was hallowed, the heart of Elvenhome in Arda, but that did not mean it was not perilous. He had no desire to come to pieces here and lose parts of himself he might never find again. 

“Come, Bilbo,” he said, wrapping one hand into his horse’s mane, and holding the other out to the hobbit.  Bilbo’s small hand in his felt like an anchor, holding him into the shape he was supposed to be.  “Let us find our way together through this very strange place!” 

The first person that Elrond stopped to ask for direction turned out, a little embarrassingly,  to be a memory-reflection, and faded as he spoke. Usually, he would have seen it at once, but he still felt a little shaken. 

The second person he stopped paused a moment, in a cloud of poppy-red silk skirts, then laughed joyfully and danced off singing in some language that Elrond, for all the languages and dialects of Middle-earth that he knew, had never once heard before.  

But the third, a tall stately Vanyar woman with a spear, wearing only a linen skirt and a wide necklace of golden beads, was helpful enough, and directed them along the street, to the house of Ingwion, son of Ingwë the King.  

Elrond had known Ingwion son of Ingwë the High King a little, a very long time ago, when Ingwion had been leader of the Host of the Vanyar that had come to Beleriand to fight the War of Wrath.  He did not know anyone else in Valimar, particularly, so he had written to Ingwion, and received in reply a courteous invitation to visit. 

“It’s very beautiful and strange, this city,” Bilbo ventured,”But it doesn’t seem altogether homely to me.” 

Elrond shook his head as they walked along the silver-paved street, etched with a fine tracery of leaves.  “No. Nor to me!”

“What are the things I can’t quite see, that keep flickering past the corners of my eye?”

“Is that what they look like to you? I think they are either elves who have mostly let go of shape and form, or perhaps some other kind of spirit who never had it in the first place.” 

“That all sounds very Elvish, and extremely peculiar!”

Elrond smiled at him. “Peculiar by the standards of hobbits, perhaps, but then, hobbits are quite peculiar too, until one gets used to them!  This is what happens to elves, in time. The body becomes thin and worn by light and thought and life.  Spirit and memory is most of what is left.  I’ve never seen it happening like this though. Some of these must be very old indeed.”

Bilbo looked up at him, rather startled. “So you’ll all end up becoming those things I can’t quite see too?”

“So we believe.  Long ages from now, I hope. I’d like to keep my spirit within my body as long as possible. It feels more comfortable that way! Though, it may be that most of the people you can’t quite see here are not elves, but other kinds of people. I don’t know the city; I am guessing.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said.  He thought about it as they walked.  “I thought fading only happened in Middle-earth.  Wasn’t that the reason why you came to Aman?”

“Fading is faster in Middle-earth, and different. Elves dwindle and forget, there.  And then sometimes they can fall into darkness and doubt and become spirits of terror and despair, as you know.” 

He caught his own words and stopped short.  “We can fall, I mean.  I must remember to be an Elf now, entirely, not half-elven!   But you are right, that was why I had to come here, once the Ring was destroyed, and the power of the Three began to fail.  The years came surging back, like a wave, just as they did for you.  Still, I’m grateful to Celebrimbor and his people for their art, that held memory in place so Rivendell and Lórien could last unstained for so long. ”

“So will they let him come back into life, do you think?  Your friend, Celebrimbor?”

“I can only hope so,” Elrond said. “I’d very much like to introduce you. He too had many friends among the Dwarves. I’m sure you would find much to talk about.  But here, this must be the house of Ingwion.” 

They walked the horse through the tall golden archway into the quiet courtyard behind, where there were purple-flowering vines running up the walls, and something that was either a golden sparkling fountain, or a person that glittered in the sunlight, or possibly it was both at once.  

Ingwion of the Vanyar was at home, and seemed, to Elrond’s relief, more or less as Elrond remembered him: tall and fair, athletically built and entirely solid. He looked a little different, in the thin white linen worked with heavy gold embroidery that most people seemed to wear here, than he had in the scaled Noldor-made armour of Beleriand, but he stepped forward to welcome Elrond as if they had last seen each other a few days ago. 

Elrond introduced Bilbo as a Ringbearer and hero of Middle-earth, and Ingwion in return, introduced his family, which included several people who were of unexpected form; not quite Maiar, but spirits of the city who had for one reason or another chosen to live with its prince.

It took a little while to work out which language both Bilbo and the Vanyar could most easily speak and understand, but once that was sorted out, they talked for some time of Valimar.  

Bilbo had many questions to ask about the things they had seen and heard.  Elrond let him get on with chatting merrily away, and only put in the odd word, here and there.  

The light outside had faded,  and voices outside could be heard singing songs to Varda as the stars came out.  Great golden lamps lit up the columns and the bright tapestries that lined the home of Ingwion, and a creature rather like a small long-legged silver bear had brought refreshments. Bilbo came abruptly to a point. 

“Of course, we didn’t come to Valimar only to see the city, delightful though it is, of course,” he said, in that rather brisk way that Bilbo called ‘his best business manner’. “We came to ask for your support, Elrond and I,  when Elrond asks the Valar for the return to life of the Ringmaker, Celebrimbor, and his family.” 

“The House of Fëanor?” Ingwion said, clearly startled, in his rolling voice like polished bronze. “The wrath of the Valar lies on them.  They are dispossessed forever.   So the Valar have spoken.”  It was very clear he considered this to be all that could be said on the topic. 

“Well, yes, so I understand,” Bilbo said.  “But where I come from we feel such matters don’t always have to be taken quite so literally. There’s always room for discussion, don’t you think?”

“The decisions of the Valar cannot be challenged, Bilbo,” Ingwion said, leaning forward a little, the long deep-golden waves of his hair framing his solemn face. “They are greater far than we. ” 

“And you are so much greater than I am!” Bilbo said, squeaking a little but determined. “And older and wiser, too. I feel quite absurd suggesting it, in a way, but after all, if you kick a stone in anger, you’ll only hurt your own foot, as we say in the Shire.  Decisions made in wrath do tend to be regretted later. I and my nephew Frodo, and Master Elrond here, we have learned a few things about Rings that may not have come to the attention of Valinor.”

Ingwion looked at Elrond in surprise. “Say on then, Bilbo of the Shire,” he said courteously. 

“The decision of the Valar was that the Rings of Power were things of Middle-earth”, Bilbo said carefully and looked at Elrond.  

Elrond nodded. “Yes.  When Frodo came to Rivendell with the One Ring, I asked if it could be sent across the Sea, and I was told that it was judged a thing of Middle-earth and must stay there.” 

Bilbo nodded.  “And so, my nephew had to see it destroyed, at a cost of considerable distress and inconvenience to himself and to his friends, poor lad.That ring was made by Sauron himself, alone. I carried it for years, not knowing what it was, and used it: it gave me as much of his power as I was able to make use of, being only a hobbit.  And I don’t see, myself, how Sauron or his Ring could honestly be called a thing of Middle-earth.”

Elrond said, “Eönwë didn’t think so, when Sauron offered his surrender, long ago after Thangodrim was broken, Ingwion. He meant to take Sauron back to Valinor for trial.”

Ingwion dipped his great golden head, shining in the lamplight, in acknowledgement.  “True. Sauron offered his surrender at first, but then fled and could not be found.” 

“Yes,” Elrond said said. “Then later, when the Valar called upon the One to overwhelm Númenor, Sauron was considered a threat to Valinor and taken very seriously.  So seriously that instead of speaking with my poor kinswoman Tar-míriel and her people, many of whom had very little choice, the Valar laid down their guardianship, withdrew their protection, and very nearly all of my kinsmen died. It may seem an unimportant thing, whether they should go beyond the world at one time or another, but believe me, to my mortal kinsmen the timing and the circumstances are very important indeed. 

“Ingwion, when the thralls of Morgoth came crawling from the wreckage of Angband, broken and afraid, and we brought them aid and comfort, that was the right thing to do.  To whelm them into the sea to cleanse the world, because they had been forced to live in darkness, fear and terror would have been wrong.  You would never have done that, no matter who gave the order.”

Ingwion gave Elrond an uncomfortable look.  “I had not thought of it quite like that,” he said. 

Bilbo said, “I am told that I, and later, Frodo, were intended to have Sauron’s Ring. If I may say so, giving me and my nephew the job of dealing with a thing made with all the power of Sauron was something of an imposition. We did our best, of course, and Frodo in particular handled the situation in the finest tradition of both Tooks and Bagginses!  I am very proud of him, of course.  But Sauron was no kin of mine.  His family were the Ainur. And it really should have been down to his family to deal with him and put him in his place!  It really isn’t on, to just drive people away, when they become inconvenient and let them be a nuisance to someone else. It’s most unfair.” 

Ingwion’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment. 

“And this is the argument that you would put to the Valar?  That they were remiss in leaving Sauron free in Middle-earth?  But what has that to do with the doom of the House of Fëanor?”

“And that very question shows why we had to come here to talk to you!” Bilbo said.

“When Sauron’s family let him wander in Middle-earth,” Elrond said gravely, ”he came to the People of the Jewelsmiths, to the last of the House of Fëanor.  To Celebrimbor, who never swore an oath, who had, in sorrow, renounced his father, who served Gil-galad loyally through the War of Wrath, and yet was grieved that his family must suffer the wrath of the Valar forever, and that their doom was to find little pity.  

“And so Celebrimbor offered to those who came to him, pity and mercy and a new chance. It was a terrible risk.  I advised him against it.  But I cannot blame him for not taking my advice. It was a great and noble thing he tried to do, a thing deserving of song.  He suffered terribly for it, but he gave us a great gift.  A mighty work of understanding, making and healing.  After Sauron lost the One, we used the Three Rings that Celebrimbor made, Galadriel, Círdan and I, to try to heal the wounds and bring peace.  And then, when the Valar at last sent the Istari to our aid, Círdan gave his Ring to Mithrandir to aid him in his work.  The Enemy of Sauron was helped through all his deeds by the work of the House of Fëanor.

“The making of the Three... it was a great deed, as worthy of honour as the making of the Silmarils.  More so, I would say!  For the Silmarils, I understand, were made in peace and light, for the joy of making something new. But the Three were made in sorrow and in pity, to heal and preserve Middle-earth, torn with cruelty and blighted with despair.  Their creator died in torment to keep them from the hands of Sauron.  For the making of the Three, for his death to protect them, for that alone the House of Fëanor deserves honour.  Their tale is not only of a fall into darkness.” 

Bilbo said, “Gandalf — Mithrandir—  tells me that the reason that I could carry Sauron’s Ring for so long and yet be able to give it up, is because I began my ownership of it with pity.  With Pity, and with Mercy, not to strike without need.  It was pity, as it happens, for someone who, I now know, taking the long view as Elrond does, was one of my family, one of Frodo’s mother’s people.  Gollum, he was called, though his name was Sméagol.  Long ago, our people drove him away in fear and loathing, because he fell under the domination of Sauron’s Ring, and became a kinslayer.  They could not forgive him.  It was easier to drive him out and pretend he had never existed.  There were a good many who suffered, because of that.  He became a horror: a ghost that drank blood.  He crept in through windows, to find cradles. And yet, I couldn’t not pity him.  Frodo too. You could hardly do otherwise, if you could see him.  He was utterly wretched.  And in the end, it was not entirely his fault, that he gave in to the temptation of one of the Ainur.” 

“Your words move me, Bilbo!” Ingwion said. “It seems this song does not end where I had thought. What would you have me do?”

“Join the voices of the Vanyar with ours to counsel Manwë to change the ending of this song, and offer pity and mercy to the House of Fëanor!” Elrond said. “We have spoken with my kinsmen, Olwë of Alqualondë and his children. They are with us.”

“Are they indeed!” Ingwion said, obviously surprised. “Despite the blood upon the quays of Alqualondë?  Despite Doom and Oath?”

“The Teleri live outside the mountains,” Elrond said.  “They do not live safe lives behind the fences of the Valar.  They go out across the ocean, where Ossë rages.  They sing to him and call out to Uinen for protection with the same voice. In Middle-earth their kin have endured the Shadow for ages of the world, and many lived under the protection of the Three Rings.  Olwë would have the Noldor reunite, and have the Sons of Fëanor become his friends and allies once again. So would I. Will you aid us?”

“That seems to be where the song is taking me.  Who am I, a mere elf, to stand against a song?” Ingwion said, and laughed deep and joyously. “I will speak with my father. I remember Fëanor and his sons well.  Proud as eagles, all of them.  The deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda, he said. It seems that he was right about that.”