A Lament for a Jewel
Summary - Upon arriving in Rivendell with The Company, Bilbo decides to explore and stumbles upon old a mural, and accidentally meets someone very unexpected. Platonic Pairing - Bilbo & Reader (no use of Y/N) Pairing - Maglor x Reader ish?
Word Count - 3k
Warnings - Platonic, fluff and a smidge of angst!
Author's Note- i wrote this originally years ago with my OC, but after finishing the Silm it suddenly came back into my head and i’ve just fully reworked it over the last few days and AHH. i’m dead pleased.
Writing with no Y/N is difficult though i might have to come up with a name soon…
Bilbo was in complete awe at the sight of the Rivendell, never before had he seen such beauty, and the tales he had heard did not do its splendour justice.
It was an early afternoon, and it seemed to him The Company had planned to stay a while longer, even with Thorin’s deep brooding and discontentment regarding the elves, and so after breakfast he took it upon himself to explore as much as he could. The Dwarves would not mind, he thought, they would not find this place as magnificent as he did, for they had lived in their own halls of great grandeur, and had no liking for the elves nor their wonderous crafts. He thought it a shame, but he would much rather spend time on his own.
The buildings and many houses were carved with the upmost intricacy, nothing was plain, even down to feet upon the chairs, everything showed care and ions of skill. The halls were lined with pillars and archways of light stone, and delicate fabrics donned the walls, floors, and even the elves themselves.
Bilbo walked upon a thin stone bridge over a babbling stream that rolled beneath him, and within it small luminous fish fought the current to travel back up stream. The far distant sound of roaring waters filled the air, and the birds whistled by with songs he had not heard before, and owning striking feathers unlike any he had seen in the shire. It was a tranquil atmosphere, one could almost feel the magic within the very air around them.
He breathed in deep as he walked, it was the most relaxed he had ever felt, even on his own walking trips, and it dawned upon him just how grand Rivendell was, and the halls and rooms were vast and bright, rich with history of ages past. Throughout his meanderings, he heard a distant but distinct hum of a solemn, yet rich tune, and no matter which direction he went, and no matter which doorway he entered, it was an ever present song. One he had a mind to discover.
Even though the hobbit was welcome anywhere he pleased - within reason - he still padded about lightly, dipping behind walls and pillars as the Elves passed. Of course they knew he was there, chuckling at his cautious nature. He found it was like a maze, ever peaceful as he let his feet guide him, his gaze lingering upon artefacts of old, and paintings of impressive beauty, even the plants held his upmost attention. He never wanted to leave.
His wanderings and search for the song lead him up to a building with a long, tall corridor that snaked back into the rock face of the valley. The pillars of the archways leading within were carven as intricate branches, albeit they differed somehow from the rest of the pillars within Rivendell. The sound of the waterfalls were but whispers now, and looking back the way he came, it was the perfect view to see them and all of Imladris itself. Trailing nepeta tumbled down from the rooftop above, concealing the corridor within. They trailed so low that Bilbo himself had to part them to enter, their aromatic scent - herby yet faintly of mint - filled his nose.
The humming was still prevalent in the air, becoming louder as he walked on. A few fallen leaves from autumn past still tumbled about in whorls upon the floor, clattering with each other and scraping along the stone floor as they cavorted and chased one another.
Displayed along the wall was a long stretching mural, one he only noticed after his attention left the dancing leaves. He stopped with his hands clasped behind his back, and began studying the depictions. Light streamed through between the leaves, casting dappled sunspots about the painting as if they were revealing key features. He followed their lead.
It differed to the other murals he saw in Elrond’s home and main halls, the bright colours at the start became muted and mellow the painting went on.
Rich blue of the raiment upon an elf maiden caught his eye, golden flowers about her feet as she danced with a tall, mortal man observing from a distance. The story seemed followed the journey they undertook, standing before elven kings, darkened thrones, fighting fierce wolves, strange glittering gems, and the lady astride a giant hound before a large, gleaming tower. The corridor curled ever onwards, and the mural continued, showing great souring eagles, Bilbo’s feet lead him on as he accompanied the two in their tale, pondering the elaborate brushwork.
“How old must this be?” He murmured to himself, gazing upon gilded elven lettering, a gold such like he had never seen before.
As the corridor deepened, the colours became darker and the sunspots no longer reached them. It depicted the man laid upon the floor, his hand placed upon the great hounds head, and behind them was a massive gutted wolf, its eyes and maw ablaze with fire. It must have been a fearsome sight to behold, thought Bilbo. As he studied the pictures before him, he felt he could hear the scenes playing out, the roars of the two hounds as they fought and the clang of metal upon metal. Knelt before them was the elven king, and his captain and chief marchwarden, their heads lowered mourning.
Yet the next painting depicted the man leant up, and within his palm was the large, innately bright jewel that through the deep set colours of the painting. He saw it previously within an Iron crown. The sunlight had just managed to reach it, emphasising it in such a way that it lent it an iridescent likeness, if a painting could be so. Even a depiction of such an object captivated him. To raise the man, if only briefly, it must have been severely powerful. What was it? He could not read the elven script below. The rhythmic humming felt louder within his head as he stared, it felt like a song for the jewel itself, yet it was a sorrowful song that it did not seem to match the air that the jewel possessed.
Bilbo shook himself free, he found himself leaning inches from the mural, and he frowned lightly. He walked on, the man was then laid upon a bier of branches with the hound at his side, and thereafter the fair lady was laid upon the shore beside the sea. Then the colours changed once more. She was knelt in broad halls of gold, light streaming about her with large tapestries hung upon the far walls. A dark cloaked figure stood before her, then he was shown before a larger figure upon a throne, and soon, it seemed the man and the lady-elf had been reunited within deep green woodlands, back amongst the golden flowers.
He hummed to himself in intrigue, rolling back into the heels of his feet as he made mental notes to inquire with Elrond, or perhaps Gandalf. The tale intrigued him. Looking back at the rest of the mural, confusion dawned upon him in the form of furrowed brows, had they been granted a reincarnation of sorts? and what was the strange jewel? It hung in his mind ever still, the humming was ever present, yet fainter now.
At the end of the corridor was a sheer linen curtain, the fabric wavered lightly and the sound of flowing water accompanied the scent of geraniums and dog roses, calling him from within. Curiosity gnawed within his chest, looking out down the hall behind him once more and wiggling his nose, he decided to dip behind the curtain.
Down five steps he went, counting them as he descended cautiously, watching his feet with his hand upon the smooth wall. The stairs lead to a small natural cave, bore from the rock itself. It was lit with sunlight from far above, and far above water streamed down the rock and into a stone-tiled pool below. At the side, a juniper bush had grown over the corner of the water, and a stone bench laid underneath it. It was warm, and the water enticed him in. The humming felt like a far away memory as he watched the water undulate.
He noticed it sparkled with ripples, and bubbles floated atop it in gentle reams. It was then that Bilbo realised that the pool was already occupied.
Heat rose up his neck and flushed his face, the tips of his ears a violent crimson as the elf came into view. The water was up to her shoulders, her hair splayed in the water about her akin to molten metal, it too shimmered from the light above.
He looked anywhere but her, his hands at his hips as he tapped his foot upon the floor lightly, trying to figure out what to do.
“The mural depicts the tale of Beren and Lúthien,” she spoke, her voice fair and light. The halfling yelped in surprise, and burst into strings of apologies, stuttering over his words as he looked up to the rock above, refusing to look at her. She giggled at him, she always enjoyed teasing him during their travels with The Company, and even though this was his own doing, she felt it was a little too much for the poor hobbit's heart to take. Rising from the water, she watched as he span around to face the wall, before clearing his throat at the sound of dripping water upon the stone floor. His ears were as red as the setting sun upon the smooth clouds above. She slicked water off her skin and hair, before donning a pale silken robe, fastened with dainty buttons at the front and a knot at the back, pulling the garb taut.
“I was merely exploring, I had no idea what this place was, I am so sorry, please forgi-“
She cut him off with a wave of her hand, saying, “There is nothing to forgive, my dear Bilbo,” she fastened the last of the buttons as she spoke in ease, “Worry not, you have caused no offence,”
Bilbo finally turned and looked to her, laughing off his nerves as his hand came to rub the back of his neck, “Be careful you don’t slip,” he muttered, pointing to a puddle upon floor as she walked towards him, a smile graced her face. Bilbo looked to the water again, it had calmed now, and he racked his mind for anything to change the subject with.
Finally his mind cleared and he recalled what she had spoke, “Sorry, you mentioned the painting depicts a tale?” he asked, “Beren and who?”
“Lúthien,” she said, gesturing towards the stairs, and Bilbo lept upon them without a second thought, wishing to be rid of this place and it’s accompanying embarrassment, “It tells the story of love between the elf-maiden Lúthien, and the mortal man Beren, and their journey to be together.”
Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, holding the curtain open for her at the top of the stairs. She thanked him with a smile and a nod of her head, before he went and stood before the mural. Running his eyes along it, his little head a flurry of questions as his mouth opened and closed, starting and ending a question before it even left his throat. Sensing this, she sat upon a bench hewn of stone opposite and began braiding her hair as she started the story. The background of Beren and his father, Barahir, and their betrayal, Sauron, the Ring of Felagund, and how Beren found Lúthien dancing within a glade and they were both enchanted with each other. Bilbo listened quietly, enraptured by the tale.
When she paused, Bilbo frowned and asked, “Why could they not be together?” To him love was love, the thought of someone withholding that from anyone, or even putting a price on such a thing, sent his face even more into a furrow. Hobbits were very different from men and elves, it seemed.
Deft fingers worked her hair as she watched his contorted face, “They believed a love between Edain and Eldar was never to be born, Thingol thought Beren was not worthy of his daughter, she was said to be the most beautiful of all the Children of Ilúvatar to ever live,”
Bilbo’s frown deepened, yet he nodded, he supposed he could understand in a way, a father's love. He pondered that mortal and immortal companionship could cause problems in the long run, indeed. Yet even though he wished for her continue, a question still gnawed upon his mind.
“And, what is this jewel?” he moved to point to the iridescent white jewel in the palm of Beren’s hand. The setting sun had moved, and whilst no sunlight was upon it, it still gleamed from within.
The she nodded to the jewel herself, and spoke lightly, rising to stand beside Bilbo, her braid complete, “That is a Silmaril, one of three forged by Fëanor from the light of The Two Trees of Valinor, Telperion and Laurelin,” they were known by every elf, but it seemed not by every mortal, “Beren was tasked with retrieving one by King Thingol, only then could he take Lúthien’s hand, it was meant to be an impossible task, yet he acquired it through great expense.”
He nodded again lightly, taking everything in as his fingertip traced the outline of the jewel, “What happened to them? The other two Silmarils?”
The elf’s mouth opened to speak, but in that moment Bilbo realised the faint humming he had heard had faltered, and had become a voice, a fair and light voice in which an enchanting tune was strung.
“I heard humming before, it is now a song, what is it?” he muttered, almost to himself as he turned away from her. He felt mesmerised as curiosity swelled inside of him. Back down the corridor he went, under the Nepeta and upon the balcony, searching for the source. He stood about the tip of his toes, looking upon the balcony’s and window ledges of the surrounding buildings. She followed close behind, her brow furrowed before she realised what he was after. Her raiment fluttered as she walked down the corridor.
Placing a hand to Bilbos shoulder blade, she pointed upwards towards the balcony of the last house. There stood a tall, willowy elf with hair as dark as the fur of a great bear. The air about him was regal as he looked out to the waterfalls below, it seemed he was charmed by them, his voice almost glistening in time with their trails as he sang.
“Who is that?” The hobbit whispered, knowing the keen senses of the elves. His eyes were wide and wonderful. She smiled sadly as she listened, enraptured herself. It was not the first time she had heard such a song. He was clad in deep red raiment, its trumpet sleeves long and billowing as they wavered slightly in the breeze, the gold lining almost opalescent in the suns light. Upon one hand was a thin silken glove, resting upon the rail with a delicate placement.
“That is Maglor,” she said finally, her heart feeling full within her chest as she straightened, “One of the Nõldorin elves that came from Valinor in the First Age.” Bilbo made no move to respond ever watching, ever listening to the somber tune the ancient elf sung. A small white bird landed on the rail beside Maglor, and he held his palm out to it as he sang.
“The greatest minstrel and poet alive,” she continued, to this Bilbo nodded, “He is one of, if not the eldest elf that resides in this homely house, the last of the Son’s of Fëanor,”
Bilbo’s ears perked at this, inclining his head back towards her, his gaze never leaving Maglor. It was a name he recognised from her story before, the elf who made the Silmarils, those beautiful, beautiful Jewels. The Son’s of Fëanor sounded familiar to him from tales in his younger days, yet the rest of the stories he could not find in his minds eye. His eyes widened as he looked back to her.
“The last?” He asked, “Where are his brothers?”
Maglor’s song had faded, and Bilbo looked back up towards him. The elf's eyes had shifted from the rushing falls below to the Halfling, his gaze stern but gentle, the bird still perched upon his hand.
Bilbo gasped, grey eyes bore into him and they felt hypnotic, the humming tune of the Silmaril rang within his head. He backed up into his companion instinctively, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. She lowered her head to the Nõldorian prince, a flush coming upon her face offering a warm but earnest smile. Malgor’s gaze softened and he bowed his head lowly in return, before turning and walking back into his home. The bird fluttered out moments later, singing a long trill as he went, and soon light strumming of a harp sounded which soothed away the tension in the air.
The hobbit exhaled hard, leaning back upon balcony for support as the She-Elf chuckled lightly at him, “Come, little one, we can speak of it another time,” She walked ahead and waited, her arm outstretched for him.
Bilbo still stood looking at the balcony above, transfixed almost, before turning and following the lady, her palm resting between his shoulder blades as they walked.
“What happened to Beren and Lúthien?” he questioned, and she giggled back at him, she enjoyed the inquisitive nature of hobbits, and began recounting the story from where they left off.
Maglor heard their voices fade, and he too let his shoulders drop as he sat back within his chair, looking out over the valley as the sun began to set. His abode was the furthest away within Imladris, and he rarely spoke to any, save a few if he could help it. This was the home of healing, and so many let the towering elf pass undisturbed through the halls. Few knew his identity, and the rest knew not to ask questions. When he did speak, his temperament stayed gentle, saying very little, his tongue sounded archaic to those who listened, and his songs more often than not filled the air, reaching far within Rivendell. He preferred the company of his harp, which he’d strum gently with his glove-glad hand, and the delicate white birds that oft came to listen.