‘I picked it up in Beorn’s garden.’
‘You’ve carried it all this way?’
‘I’m gonna plant it in my garden. In Bag End.’
‘It’s a poor prize to take back to the Shire.’
‘One day, it’ll grow. And every time I look at it, I’ll remember.’
There behind lay Mirkwood, blue in the distance, and darkly green at the nearer edge even in spring. There far away was the Lonely Mountain on the edge of eyesight. On its highest peak snow yet unmelted was gleaming pale.
Some sang too that Thror and Thrain would come back one day and gold would flow in rivers, through the mountain-gates, and all that land would be filled with new song and new laughter.
‘This, Thorin, the runes name Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver in the ancient tongue of Gondolin; it was a famous blade. This, Gandalf, was Glamdring, Foehammer that the king of Gondolin once wore.’
‘Farewell!’ he cried to them. ‘May we meet as friends.’
‘Be off!’ called Thorin. ‘You have mail upon you, which was made by my folk, and it is too good for you.’