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‘I know only the little that Gandalf has told me,’ said Frodo slowly. ‘Gil-galad was the last of the great Elf-kings of Middle-earth. Gil-galad is Starlight in their tongue. With Elendil, the Elf-friend, he went to the land of—’

‘No!’ said Strider interrupting, ‘I do not think that tale should be told now with the servants of the Enemy at hand. If we win through to the house of Elrond, you may hear it there, told in full.’

‘Then tell us some other tale of the old days,’ begged Sam; ‘a tale about the Elves before the fading time. I would dearly like to hear more about Elves; the dark seems to press round so close.’

‘I will tell you the tale of Tinúviel,’ said Strider, ‘in brief — for it is a long tale of which the end is not known; and there are none now, except Elrond, that remember it aright as it was told of old. It is a fair tale, though it is sad, as are all the tales of Middle-earth, and yet it may lift up your hearts.’ He was silent for some time, and then he began not to speak but to chant softly:

The leaves were long, the grass was green,    The hemlock-umbels tall and fair, And in the glade a light was seen    Of stars in shadow shimmering. Tinúviel was dancing there    To music of a pipe unseen, And light of stars was in her hair,    And in her raiment glimmering.
There Beren came from mountains cold,    And lost he wandered under leaves, And where the Elven-river rolled    He walked alone and sorrowing. He peered between the hemlock-leaves    And saw in wonder flowers of gold Upon her mantle and her sleeves,    And her hair like shadow following.
Enchantment healed his weary feet    That over hills were doomed to roam; And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,    And grasped at moonbeams glistening. Through woven woods in Elvenhome    She lightly fled on dancing feet, And left him lonely still to roam    In the silent forest listening.
He heard there oft the flying sound    Of feet as light as linden-leaves, Or music welling underground,    In hidden hollows quavering. Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,    And one by one with sighing sound Whispering fell the beechen leaves    In the wintry woodland wavering.
He sought her ever, wandering far    Where leaves of years were thickly strewn, By light of moon and ray of star    In frosty heavens shivering. Her mantle glinted in the moon,    As on a hill-top high and far She danced, and at her feet was strewn    A mist of silver quivering.
When winter passed, she came again,    And her song released the sudden spring, Like rising lark, and falling rain,    And melting water bubbling. He saw the elven-flowers spring    About her feet, and healed again He longed by her to dance and sing    Upon the grass untroubling.
Again she fled, but swift he came.    Tinúviel! Tinúviel! He called her by her Elvish name;    And there she halted listening. One moment stood she, and a spell    His voice laid on her: Beren came, And doom fell on Tinúviel    That in his arms lay glistening.
As Beren looked into her eyes    Within the shadows of her hair, The trembling starlight of the skies    He saw there mirrored shimmering. Tinúviel the elven-fair,    Immortal maiden elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair    And arms like silver glimmering.
Long was the way that fate them bore,    O’er stony mountains cold and grey, Through halls of iron and darkling door,    And woods of nightshade morrowless. The Sundering Seas between them lay,    And yet at last they met once more, And long ago they passed away    In the forest singing sorrowless.

Strider sighed and paused before he spoke again. ‘That is a song,’ he said, ‘in the mode that is called ann-thennath among the Elves, but is hard to render in our Common Speech, and this is but a rough echo of it. It tells of the meeting of Beren son of Barahir and Lúthien Tinúviel. Beren was a mortal man, but Lúthien was the daughter of Thingol, a King of Elves upon Middle-earth when the world was young; and she was the fairest maiden that has ever been among all the children of this world. As the stars above the mists of the Northern lands was her loveliness, and in her face was a shining light. In those days the Great Enemy, of whom Sauron of Mordor was but a servant, dwelt in Angband in the North, and the Elves of the West coming back to Middle-earth made war upon him to regain the Silmarils which he had stolen; and the fathers of Men aided the Elves. But the Enemy was victorious and Barahir was slain, and Beren escaping through great peril came over the Mountains of Terror into the hidden Kingdom of Thingol in the forest of Neldoreth. There he beheld Lúthien singing and dancing in a glade beside the enchanted river Esgalduin; and he named her Tinúviel, that is Nightingale in the language of old. Many sorrows befell them afterwards, and they were parted long. Tinúviel rescued Beren from the dungeons of Sauron, and together they passed through great dangers, and cast down even the Great Enemy from his throne, and took from his iron crown one of the three Silmarils, brightest of all jewels, to be the bride-price of Lúthien to Thingol her father. Yet at the last Beren was slain by the Wolf that came from the gates of Angband, and he died in the arms of Tinúviel. But she chose mortality, and to die from the world, so that she might follow him; and it is sung that they met again beyond the Sundering Seas, and after a brief time walking alive once more in the green woods, together they passed, long ago, beyond the confines of this world. So it is that Lúthien Tinúviel alone of the Elf-kindred has died indeed and left the world, and they have lost her whom they most loved. But from her the lineage of the Elf-lords of old descended among Men. There live still those of whom Lúthien was the foremother, and it is said that her line shall never fail. Elrond of Rivendell is of that Kin. For of Beren and Lúthien was born Dior Thingol’s heir; and of him Elwing the White whom Eärendil wedded, he that sailed his ship out of the mists of the world into the seas of heaven with the Silmaril upon his brow. And of Eärendil came the Kings of Númenor, that is Westernesse.’

As Strider was speaking they watched his strange eager face, dimly lit in the red glow of the wood-fire. His eyes shone, and his voice was rich and deep. Above him was a black starry sky. Suddenly a pale light appeared over the crown of Weathertop behind him. The waxing moon was climbing slowly above the hill that overshadowed them, and the stars above the hill-top faded.