The Elvish Bard
A brief story segment set in Middle Earth
by David J. Finnamore

After brushing a few bits of wood from one corner of the hearth, he sat gingerly down there and with a flourish, to our delight, produced a harp from his pack. It seemed an ordinary instrument, except that its finish had a luster that reminded one of the surface of a pond on a still day. He stared strangely at the harp, or perhaps through it, for several moments as if he were silently communing with it. Its strings quivered as if in anticipation. We could only look on in puzzlement, and some whispered coarsely, but the old gentleman seemed no longer aware of us.

As he looked up again, his deep, dark eyes were twinkling like stars from the remotest part of the heavens. And thus perched by the fireplace, he began to spin a tale: deftly - golden words he used for thread, and melody for a needle, his harp the very loom.

Soon the cloth filled the whole of the room like a giant blanket, beneath which we slept with eyes wide open, entranced as the firelight played upon the subtle patterns he had woven in the glistening fabric, until - lo! ourselves we saw therein! - flying on horseback across fields of a kingdom long forgot, shields across our backs ablaze in the sunlight, and a dark storm looming before; or creeping silent as haunts through a wood whose every tree glowered at us with distrust from beneath furrowed, green brows; or drawing steel in defense of our lives against a horde of some hideous and merciless race of orcs; then, drearily encamped, sleeping fitfully in dirty bedrolls on the cold, dank ground; and at long last rising to march victorious through the gates of the mighty castle of our ancestors!

Then, as the fire died to embers, the final chord was struck on the magical instrument, and with it faded away that glorious tapestry. We were ourselves again - simple hobbits clutching empty flagons with limp fingers, longing somehow to be brave and to do mighty deeds, yet glad of heart to be going to beds of down with blankets of plain wool, soft and warm beneath the Shire moon.

Notes:
1) This story segment came to me one night when I couldn't get to sleep. Maybe it will be expanded some day.
2) The Sindarin title, "Lindechil Eledhon," translates "Song-maker of the Elves." Tolkien specified no such word as "lindechil"; I formed it by combining the terms "lin" and "ech-" and adding the ending "(n (d))il." That translation from English to Sindarin is no doubt subject to debate. If you have an opinion on how to translate it, I'd love to hear it.