Contrary to my expectations – as I thought it was time to show the map to the Lonely Mountain to Elrond – after dinner the Lord of Rivendell led us all to the Hall of Fire instead, a large room in Elrond's house – yes, he did have a house exclusively for himself and his family; after all, he was the Lord – furnished with numerous comfortable benches adorned with plush cushions, armchairs, tables, and, most notably, a grand hearth situated between intricately carved pillars at the center of the room. This hearth illuminated and warmed the entire space.
Upon our arrival, elves were already playing harps, and I caught a glimpse of Lindir among them, playing a flute. There weren't that many musical instruments, though. I'd say the dwarves had a broader array of instruments than the elves. In fact, Thorin and the others had brought along a harp, fiddles, flutes, a drum, clarinets, and viols. It was as though we had come prepared for a concert rather than a potentially deadly mission!
That made me remember the quena flute I had crafted during our journey here. I wasn't certain if I could muster the courage to perform in front of so many people, though. It had been years since I last played, so I would probably be a little rusty.
Bilbo was utterly captivated by the Hall's ambiance. He kept looking at our surroundings with a joyful glint in his eyes, turning his head all the while in order to observe everything and everyone passing by. It was endearingly charming. The elves seemed to share this sentiment, if the fond and curious looks they sent him were any indication. It was clear they were not used to seeing hobbits around these parts. Hobbits were a secretive folk, after all, and they rarely ventured beyond the Shire's borders, so most of the elves may have never met one before.
While certain dwarves, notably Dwalin and Thorin, stubbornly pretended they weren't affected by the room's splendor, I could see them exchange surprised glances whenever Elrond and Glorfindel weren't looking.
I couldn't help but roll my eyes. They really were too prideful. What harm was there in acknowledging the elves' remarkable creations that dwarves could never hope to replicate so perfectly? That was not to say that the dwarves were inferior by any means, but their architectural style and culture were completely different. Just as the elves could never replicate the dwarves' special craftsmanship, the reverse held true. Each race possessed its own unique style, both equally amazing. If only the dwarves and elves could admit that already!
Elrond smiled warmly at our reactions. "Welcome, my friends, to the Hall of Fire," he announced, "Here, we share music, tales, and merriment. You may all join us in this joyous evening, and all the others that may come!"
A hushed silence fell over the elves as they noticed our entrance, and Thorin straightened to his full height – which, unfortunately for him, wasn't particularly imposing. I managed to stifle a laugh as an image of a peacock trying to impress its mate flitted through my mind. I suspected Thorin wouldn't find the comparison amusing.
While Elrond, Gandalf and Glorfindel chose to settle on a couch, Thorin joined his fellow dwarves around one of the few tables in the Hall, replete with appetizers and various desserts – the gluttony of dwarves was insatiable indeed. Meanwhile, Bilbo gravitated towards a group of elves who were narrating stories and making jokes.
Jokers and storytellers. Bilbo probably felt at home here.
Observing my surroundings, I opted to simply perch atop the railing of a nearby balustrade encircling the Hall and lean my back against the column behind me. It was surprisingly comfortable, and it let me have a perfect view of the outside as well.
I noticed Glorfindel scanning the room, presumably searching for me, so when he looked in my direction I wiggled my fingers in a playful greeting and offered him a cheeky smile. He grinned, amused, and redirected his attention to the conversation between Elrond and Gandalf.
I turned my focus to Bilbo, who was now talking animatedly about the time Lobelia had tried to steal his silver spoons. Could you believe that woman had repeatedly attempted to steal them from Bilbo? What was so special about a bunch of spoons, anyway??
At the time of the incident, I hadn't yet arrived in Hobbiton, but Bilbo had shared the story with me on an earlier occasion.
His expressive gestures and lively narrative had captured the attention of even more people, who had wandered closer in order to listen to the tale.
"And there I was," Bilbo exclaimed, his voice resonating through the hall, "in the cozy comfort of my home when none other than Lobelia Sackville-Baggins decided to pay me an unexpected visit! Now, I must admit, Lobelia has quite the reputation in the Shire, known for her uncanny ability to acquire things that aren't hers."
The elves exchanged intrigued glances, and a few chuckled at Bilbo's polite and euphemistic portrayal of the female hobbit's kleptomaniac tendencies.
"You see," Bilbo continued, "Lobelia has a particular fondness for silver spoons, but she seems to have set her sights on mine, which I cherish dearly for their sentimental value."
Gandalf, who was sitting near Bilbo's group, chuckled fondly.
"Now, it may not seem like it, but Lobelia is a clever one," Bilbo went on. "She concocted a plan to sneak into my house under the cover of night, thinking she could swipe my precious spoons without me being the wiser. Little did she know, I had anticipated her mischievous intentions."
Bilbo's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, and everyone leaned in, caught up in the tale. "Late one evening, I placed a special glue – the same kind we use for repairing furniture – to the drawer where I store my spoons. That, you see, would cause the drawer to stick to Lobelia's fingers should she try to steal them," Bilbo revealed with a grin, and the elves surrounding him erupted in laughter.
"And so, on the night she decided to enter my home – and through the front door, no less! – which I had previously left unlocked for my own amusement, she reached out to open the drawer, only to find it stubbornly stuck to her fingers like it was meant to be. She tugged and pulled, but it would not budge!"
The question was of how Bilbo knew all those details about Lobelia trying to steal from him when he was supposedly asleep at the time. My eyes widened in delighted realization. Unless…
"Of course, knowing what she was up to, I had decided to hide behind the kitchen's entrance and watch as Lobelia made a complete fool of herself," Bilbo chortled. And of course he did. That little, cunning trickster. "There she was, the whole drawer attached to her fingers, trying desperately to free herself without making a sound. But those walls have ears, my friends, and Lobelia's thieving fiasco spread through the Shire like wildfire! She became the talk of the place for moons to come! Why, I can still remember her furious shouts!"
The Hall resounded with hearty laughter and applause, and Bilbo dramatically bowed, his own laughter blending in. Even Thorin couldn't help but chuckle.
Still, Bilbo really was a remarkable storyteller. He had a way to make you feel like you were living the narrative, experiencing it firsthand, which was by no means easy. I suspected this quality was what made him an exceptional writer as well.
As the night unfolded, tales and songs and merriment filled the air around me. Honestly, I felt a touch overwhelmed. It may be shocking, I know. Who wouldn't want to be where I was now, right? Being in a world that was supposed to be fictional…I had thought I was already past this phase of uncertainty after we arrived in Rivendell. Yet I couldn't help but think that there was a lot of pressure on me. Too much, in fact.
To become Mairon, being a Maia, someone who wasn't human…I wasn't ready for that yet. I doubted I would ever be. At heart, I was human, or at least I had been until I found myself in Middle-Earth again. And now everyone was expecting me to be someone I wasn't, to do things that were supposed to be impossible. To do the impossible.
Frankly, it was all a bit too much to handle. Which is why I hadn't joined Elrond and the others on the couches. I needed some space to myself. Some time to think of it all. Maybe it would have been better if I didn't think about it, though. It's not like it helped, not really. It only served to make me even more nervous.
But what was I supposed to do?? If everything proceeded according to the original path, after the White Council meeting, I would need to go with Bilbo and the dwarves through the Misty Mountains. Despite my presence, there was still a pretty good chance that we would fall down the Goblin Caves anyway. Granted, I had some proficiency with a sword now, enough to not die from direct battle, at least, and maybe I would even be able to execute some cool moves, but the only power I had harnessed from Mairon was the ability to make flowers bloom. Not exactly warrior material. And I wasn't brave enough to experiment with Mairon's reputed fire abilities. I had carried an irrational – or perhaps quite logical – fear of fire ever since I was very young. I wasn't sure why, or maybe I just didn't remember. Perhaps I had burned myself when I was a child and that fear had stayed with me until now. Regardless, I knew that I absolutely was not ready for whatever was at store for me and Thorin's Company. I only pretended I was because the others needed me to be.
Regardless of my real age, I was supposedly a divine being sent by Ilúvatar himself. And even if Glorfindel and Elrond had been treating me a bit differently since my little reveal, I could still notice a level of respect and at times, a little awe as well, as if Mairon being a Maia made him better than them. Superior.
And I was anything but. They possessed wisdom and age far beyond my own. Thousands of years of experience set us apart, for god's sake. Even Gandalf, despite his elderly appearance, marked by wrinkles and age lines, was way more prepared for the journey than I was.
Returning the focus to the happenings in the Hall, I glanced at Nori, Oin and Bofur, who had relocated to a nearby couch, close to my improvised perch, and had engaged in a discussion about elven music. Well, it was actually more like they were dissing on it.
"Change the tune, why don't you?" Nori grumbled in the direction of the elves, though they were situated far from the dwarves and clearly oblivious to his complaints. Thank God for that. "I feel like I'm at a funeral."
Which, fair, but still. Rude.
Oin wrinkled his nose in confusion while he held his ear trumpet with one hand. "Did somebody die?"
Bofur got up and looked at the Company. "All right, lads. There's only one thing for it!"
This appeared to be the opening they were all waiting for, because all the dwarves got their instruments out from I don't know where and started playing and singing and dancing all around.
There's an inn, there's an inn.
There's a merry old inn
Beneath an old gray hill
And there they brew a beer so brown
The Man in the Moon
Himself came down
One night to drink his fill
-Oh-
Even Thorin joined in, strumming the harp, and I don't know how the heck he made it work with a song so lively, but the little fucker did it somehow. It was completely different from the tune the elven musicians had played before, and I noticed that some of the elves in the room had begun twirling and dancing wherever they could, their movements chaotic yet remaining graceful somehow. I was of the mind that even an elf tripping would look graceful. Bastards.
Bilbo, who was tapping his foot in sync with the song, was deeply engaged in it, following the lyrics along. It was quite likely that he had already heard it somewhere before, perhaps even in the Shire.
The cat on the fiddle
Played hey-diddle-diddle
A drink that'll wake the dead
He squeaked and he sawed
And he quickened
The tune
And the landlord
Shook the Man In the Moon
'it's after Three!' he said.
The dwarves ended the song with a triumphant roar, sparking cheers and prompting others to join in the applause. Now that I thought about it, I had also heard that song before, on YouTube. It was way better in person, though.
A comfortable silence settled over the room, conversations persisting in hushed tones, carrying on as they had been before. Bilbo joined Gandalf on his couch, facing Glorfindel and Elrond.
I was wondering whether I should also join them when the weirdest thing happened. My head abruptly spun, ears ringing, and I had to steady myself against the rail to avoid stumbling like a malfunctioning marionette. Voices within the Hall seemed distant, as though my head was underwater. Then, inexplicably, I found myself transported elsewhere.
Or, more accurately, elsewhen.
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There was a garden. A garden of such astounding beauty that I could never have been capable of imagining. It was as though I had stumbled into one of nature's most stunning wonders.
Vibrant bursts of color stretched as far as the eye could see, with flowers of every conceivable shape and hue swaying gently in the breeze. Cute little bees flitted from one blossom to another, their delicate wings brushing against petals as they gathered precious nectar and pollen. The very air carried a sweet fragrance, a blend of roses, lavenders, sunflowers…a veritable array of flora unlike anything I had ever seen in my life.
Winding pathways, paved with smooth, ancient-looking stones, meandered through the garden, and I followed one of them as if entranced by a faint, familiar siren's call. Towering trees flanked my path, creating a verdant canopy overhead. Their leaves filtered the sunlight into a beautiful kaleidoscope of dancing shadows and gentle whispered words.
'Follow, follow, little flame' they seemed to murmur. 'In the garden, She awaits.'
Kementári.
The Lady of the Green.
But I knew her by another name.
"Lady Yavanna," my voice spoke without my control, as if I were but a mere observer. My dream-self turned, and a vision of a being unmistakably divine appeared before me.
A tall woman draped in verdant robes, with hair as golden as Laurelin adorned with hints of red and green, and crowned with vibrant flowers and all kinds of fruits. A radiant light seemed to emanate from her entire body, while her eyes mirrored the Earth itself – wisdom and kindness for all things radiated from her gaze.
"Mairon," Yavanna said with a faint smile, and it seemed to warm my whole body, almost as much as the fire I could bring to life – wait, I could? "My husband sent thee," the Lady guessed, and I felt myself nod.
"He believeth it would be useful if I were to learn the ways of the Earth from thee, my Lady."
The woman hummed, her touch gentle as she caressed one of the nearest flowers, which playfully curled around her hand, prompting a smile to appear on her lips.
"Indeed," she eventually said, her voice soothing. "Thy inner fire shall harmonize well with my creations. Very well, Mairon. I shall teach thee my Song of Power."
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My gaze drifted down to the quena flute that had somehow found its way into my hand without me realizing, and I contemplated what I had just witnessed.
That hadn't been a vision.
It was a memory. Mairon's memory. But how was that even possible? This was my body. It just looked like Mairon's because it had transformed into it when I had crossed into this world. But it wasn't his. So why the hell was I experiencing his memories?
More intriguingly, I hadn't known Mairon had encountered Yavanna, let alone that she had taught him, if that memory had to be believed. That definitely wasn't canon. Mairon only learned under Aulë, no one else. He wasn't supposed to know magic related to plants and the like, but then again, the plants did have some sort of connection with me, otherwise they wouldn't react like they did whenever I was near them.
They reacted exactly as they had with Yavanna in that memory, which was kind of disturbing. Yavanna was a Vala, practically a goddess in her own right. Mairon, on the other hand, was only a Maia. Why on earth would Aulë and Yavanna ever think that it was a good idea to teach Mairon about their powers? It made no logical sense.
None of this made any logical sense.
Bilbo's animated voice drew my attention, and I subtly shifted my gaze to see him conversing excitedly with Glorfindel. The elf smiled and nodded, clearly enchanted by the hobbit's company. My thoughts turned toward the Shire, Bilbo's dear home, and one I knew he missed and would miss terribly all his life, no matter where his path may take him. After all, even when Bilbo went to live with the elves in the story, a part of the Shire always remained with him. A safe haven, one that he also became for Frodo before his own journey, tucked away from the rush of the world, amidst rolling hills and lush meadows, full of tranquility and simple pleasures.
Without meaning to, my fingers began moving nimbly over the quena flute, which I raised to my lips, and a familiar song emerged, the strains of 'Concerning Hobbits' filling the air.
Underneath the sweet notes from my flute, the sounds, and smells of Hobbiton faintly resonated within the Hall of Fire. I remembered Hamfast Gamgee, laughing with all the little hobbits while they played tag, their chase full of innocent laughter and childish joy.
I remembered Lily Brown, the sweet young lady that had thanked a complete stranger because they had shown her kindness, and who would go on to pass that quality to her children.
I remembered Bilbo's birthday party and all the hobbits that were in attendance that day, all of them knowing Bilbo's pure heart – even if they considered him odd and peculiar.
The Shire loved Bilbo, just as Bilbo loved it in return.
And there, in Rivendell, the Shire came alive.
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Yavanna was a vision to contemplate, the trees and flowers and plants all springing to life through her will, reaching up and stretching toward the Sun's brilliance to bask in it and grow taller and stronger than ever.
Yavanna's voice was all-encompassing, something out of this world that could never be described by any mortal means. It was a beautiful symphony of growth and life, a harmony of creation that resonated through every leaf, petal, and root.
Her Song seemed to intertwine with the very earth below us, her voice echoing the rhythm of the natural world itself.
Every living thing around us seemed to heed her call. Trees, flowers, plants, fruits, even the smallest of insects heard Yavanna's call. They listened. And they answered.
Yavanna's Song eventually stopped, leaving the world around us more vibrant than ever. She looked at me, her eyes imbued with kindness, and she smiled.
"Now, it is thy turn."
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As the last notes ebbed away alongside the memory, my fingers releasing the flute from my lips, I noticed that the Hall was utterly silent, and all its occupants were gazing at me with the utmost reverence and awe.
Bilbo looked at me as if he had never seen me before, and he appeared as if he was going to start crying at any second.
In fact, some elves and the dwarves wiped away moisture from their eyes, while even Elrond and Glorfindel appeared deeply moved by the Song I had just played. Gandalf looked both spooked and awestruck, and a trace of heart-breaking longing shimmered in his eyes.
Meanwhile, I was trying to process the fact that a part of Yavanna's Song of Power was none other than the song of the hobbits from the movies.
I looked at the sky, the Moon gleaming brighter than before, and I smiled, the Valarin words flowing from my lips as if I had been speaking them all my life.
"Lesson learned, my Lady."