Foiled Again: The Lore of the Ages



From Applecider Bolingbroke to Deputy-Shirriff Lancogard North-Took ~ Salutations an’ all me respects to the Honorable Bounders: May the coming of Spring nae render their feet too muddy, on the Bounds.

I did it, Lance. 

I did every last blessed thing that every Book, Elf, Dorf, an’ half-functional iota of Hobbit Sense tol’ me. 

I modified me greenhouse yet again. I had the windows frosted over. I hung me Dorf lamp, adjusted to a very low angle indeed. Fer fun, I put some Elfy candles about, ter simulate a nice, soft air of eventide.

I took soil from Duillond, where the kingsfoil be seen ter bloom, as our Missie Sergie pointed out. I severed the roots from one o’ me last precious kingsfoil stalks. 

An’ I planted it.  

I watched the soil like a hawk, makin’ sure it were damp, loose, an’ tangy – as Mister Merethir, an’ Perf Gelais, an’ Gammer Grantham’s Gardener’s Friend all say. 

I brought me lute, harp, an’ flute inter the atrium, playin’ all o’ Missie Arwen’s lovely music

So much vigilance were involved, an’ so harrowin’ were the stress, I confess I almost began to wonder whether the hassle were worth it. This be the finickiest plant ever ter grace the green earth, I swears to ye. Keepin’ the conditions just-so be like tryin’ to please the pickiest housecat ever when yer nae even sure thar be a reward in waiting.

But (I tol’ meself), thar be the wrong attitude. 

If’en yeh wants a particularly exemplary racehorse ter perform well, o’ COURSE ye’d sink all time an’ effort into seein’ it optimally fed an’ fastidiously tended, down to the smallest consideration. Same if yeh be a teacher, an’ fancy turnin’ out the very best musician, seamstress, healer, warrior, or such. They may gots to do the work, but one mus’ first provide a base, an’ guide ‘em. 

This plant be a champion racehorse – A paragon o’ healers – A stalwart Guardian against maladies where none other’ll do. Said I to meself: All this eyeball-crossin’ fastidiousness of effort to tend be both needed, an’ warranted.

So fastidiously tend it, I did. 

An’ when a single, shy sprout emerged ... it were time me little helper-leaf learned a few things.

I split the newgrown stalk in twain. An’ then I re-planted. An’ then I repeated.


Just as Mister Búkk ordered, I challenged the little green babies to adapt. I said to ‘em lookie – Yer still in a nice place: the earth ‘round yer feet, it jus’ be a bit different. 

I divided me planters into segments. – One full o’ Duillond soil. One sprinkled with Missie Arwen’s tiny sampling ‘o Rivendell soil. One with dirt outta me own yard mixed with Duillond earth, half-an’-half. One mixed only to a quarter. One with no Duillond soil at all: just the potted earth around their little roots as a buffer to their “new home.” – you gets the picture. 

I still sang to me plants. But? ... well? ...  If the idea be to coax ‘em into new environs ... I figger may as well get ‘em used to new ambience as well, aye? – An’ that include sound. 

After all. We ‘opes in future, Elf, Dorf, Hobbit an’ Big Folk alike may give this a try themselves. 

So, laugh at me if you care to – I started rotatin’ me music as well.  


I continued to sing Elf songs. Mostly ones I hear 'round Duillond an’ Celondim, an’ a few classics to boot. The Lay ‘o Beren an’ Lúthien, Eärendil Were a Mariner, an’ such. But I began addin’ the repertoire of others into the endless cantillation as well. 

I started with folk ballads ‘o the Dúney lads, since they include both Sindarian (Bright Star of Tollobel, Anarlossë on the Bonnie Blue Waters, Elanor My Secret, an’ such), an’ also Westron (Mari’s Wedding, Road to the Greenhills, The Battle o’ Barandalf, etc.). 



Then I sang ‘em Hobbit songs (County Down, The Belles o’ Budgeford, The Rocky Road to Hobbiton, Jug ‘o Punch, an’ so on – in that vein, I gots NO short supply). Then I sang ‘em some Big Folk's airs I’ve heard in me roves about Breeland (Uncle Rat, She Moved Through the Fair, etc.).  

I gave ‘em a right world-view. 


Me weakest gamut prolly be Beardie Dorf music – It nae be some’ut fer which I’ve ‘ad ample sources o’ learnin’. I knows the Song ‘o Durin, an’ that song about the Misty Mountains Cold. An’ a few bawdy ditties picked up at pubs in Bree. 

But I were inspired to send Maddie flyin’ up to that Lodge halfway ter Gondamon, where Mister Langlas lives, invitin’ him to come visit, an’ teach me some more. Surely he knows a few. 

Mister Langlas, however, rode up to me door on ‘is speckled grey mare, quite of ‘is own accord, afore I could even send me invitation. 

A dispatch o’ routine orders an’ personal letters were couriered to him from Evendim last week. With it came a folio, about ten inches by twelve. T’weren’t for him, though. The signature under the seal were that of our own Mister Halros. The letter affixed to it were addressed to me. 

I were perplexed. Sure, Mister H gets occasional furlough to home. But I hadn’t been expectin’ aught from ‘im since solicitin’ that letter of introduction last month. I served Mister Langlas a steak-an’-tater pie an’ lager, an’ opened the folio. 

T’were an ink picture. 

Very archaic in style, though the paper weren’t old. I s’ppose he (or some Dúney scribe he asked) must’ve traced it from an old book.

I were perplexed anew. The symbolic imagery were about as subtle as a hot pancake: T’were plainly an image o’ that unusually tall bloke Elendil, what fled the Isle Númenor with ‘is two sons when everything went absolutely to pot. Me first thought were, “Aw, did ‘e send me a nice picture of epic bardic fantasy? Thar be sweet. I’ll ‘ave to hang it.” (truth be told, I did order a frame this mornin’). 

The letter identified its source: Nern in Dúnedain (or Sagas o’ the Westernesse Men), pg. 47.


Your speculations – the note read – caused me to recall an illuminated script I read as a youth at lessons. I didn’t wish to raise hopes until I could visit the archives and find it again, as it’s been more than several years since I undertook any scholastic pursuit (the life of a field Ranger, I fear, has its drawbacks). As a boy, I confess to being far more fixated on the image than its accompanying text, as I very much wanted my own hound. But that, perhaps, in hindsight, may be fortunate. I would hardly qualify this as “proof,” per se. Whether further details exist in literature beyond that of Tinnudir and Esteldín, I know not. A great deal has long since been lost. But I, if none other, would readily cite it as compelling evidence. Common Hobbit sense indeed ...

I cocked an eyebrow, wonderin’ if ‘e were teasin’ me. Cheeky boy. I scoured for details. 

Mister Elendil an’ ‘is boys looked ready to take to the seas with whatever treasure they could salvage. Each o’ them ‘ad magic spyglass marbles (I felt a pang, seein’ the two in Elendil’s keepin’; it made me think on Mister King-Ghost). One ‘ad some kinda sapling with a fruit in ‘is hand. Thar’d be Mister Isildur (Mister Halros’s captain’s progenitor). He were a bloke with issues, but ‘e did save a piece o’ magic white tree along the way. 

Down in the corner, though .... next to that hound 'e wanted so badly ...

....... Lance? ........ am I completely insane?

A’ight, wrong question; lemme rephrase. Am I more insane, than usual?

I speculated to Mister H, p’raps the Dúney folks was able ter propagate kingsfoil from place to place by treatin’ it like a potted sprout, with a little “buffer” soil ter acclimate. Not like a seed. 

... I mean ... the caption don’t expressly state thar be a kingsfoil plant ... Pardon me; I needs half a pint here .... the leaves do be quite elongate .... Mister Halros en’t wrong; it don’t clinch the theory. Some Second-Age illuminator’s ink doodles wouldn’t settle any Bounder’s case file an’ you knows it ... but ...

... a’ight, finished me a steadyin’ half-pint. 

I s’ppose, in truth, it be only partially relevant. Don’t misunderstand me, Lance: I means ter follow up on this. If what written lore left to the Dúney lads hereabouts be limited, there may yet be other places in the Wide World a cheeky Bard en’t yet unearthed from heaps o’ dusty parchment. P’raps in the archives of Rivendell, or one of the cities of Gondor. Mayhap one day I’ll secure further data fer Historical Scholastic Posterity. 

Till then, I gots the ventures o’ the Here & Now upon which to labor. 

As to whether the labor o’ said venture’s borne fruit?

Well? ... You tell me, boy ...


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