Chapter Text
In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.
This is unfortunate. If the hobbit had bothered to leave his hobbit-hole once in a while and learn something about the world around him, quite a lot of problems could have been avoided.
But of course, this hobbit has never asked the wizard for advice. No one ever does, even though the wizard is arguably the third-wisest being in Middle-Earth. (Galadriel is first, of course. Radagast is second, because he's avoided all the drama of the first three Ages and made friends with several remarkable rabbits. And honestly, who doesn’t want to sit in the woods with rabbits?)
Anyway. The hobbit hadn't asked him for advice. Instead, he'd barely left his small corner of the Shire-- and, like most hobbits, had shown almost no interest in the outside world.
Therefore, when the hobbit discovered a white gem that appeared unbreakable and glowed with a mysterious never-ending light, he hadn’t been alarmed at all.
Of course.
"Oh god," says the wizard. He pulls the brim of his pointed hat over his eyes. "You found a-- and with the-- what the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Pardon?" The hobbit frowns, holding out the gem. It rests innocuously in the palm of his hand, still glimmering with
"It’s fine," the wizard sighs. "Everything is going to be fine."
The wizard has been called many names. Olorin , a long time ago. Mithrandir by the Elves and Gondorians, who saw an opportunity to make things more complicated and seized it with both hands. The people of the West call him Gandalf . And everyone in the Shire calls him the wizard or that strange old wizard or get out of my garden, you trespassing oaf.
Whoever said hobbits were friendly has clearly never interrupted one of their garden parties.
"Mithrandir.” Galadriel peers up at him from the surface of a bucket of water. (It isn't ideal for long distance communication, but not everyone has a reflecting pool in their backyard.) As always, her voice is calm and clear. This worries Gandalf a little-- she only expresses strong emotions in front of friends and family, and although he isn't family, he'd hoped he might qualify as a friend. "Good morning."
Gandalf grins and leans closer to her reflection. He loves doing this. "What do you mean?" he asks. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not, or that you feel good this morning, or that..."
"Cut the bullshit, Mithrandir," Galadriel interrupts. "You've been doing the same little routine for four thousand years. Don't you ever get tired of it?"
"No," says Gandalf. It’s true. He came up with that response sometime in the Second Age and has used it ever since. You can never have too much of a good thing.
Galadriel shrugs. "You're worried about something," she notes. "Is the quest going badly?"
Gandalf sighs. Apparently they’re done bantering. "Not exactly," he admits. "The dwarves have found their mountain. Thorin is showing signs of dragon-sickness, but the others seem all right. And Bilbo is doing spectacularly, of course. Hobbits are remarkable creatures."
"Then what's wrong?" Galadriel frowns. "If it’s the Necromancer, we already spoke about…"
Gandalf holds up the Silmaril.
For a moment, she looks completely terrified. Then she takes a deep breath and all the layers and masks settle back into place. "Nice try," she whispers. "I almost fell for it. But I thought you of all people would understand my feelings about those jewels."
"It’s real.” Gandalf sighs again, louder this time. “It was in the dragon’s hoard. Under the mountain. The dwarves must have mined it out, and then…”
"Oh Valar," says Galadriel. “We are so fucked.”
Gandalf does his best to explain.
How the Silmaril got under the mountain is simple enough: Maedhros jumped into lava. Lava moved under the earth. Eventually, it hardened into rock and became part of a mountain-- the same mountain where the Dwarves were building a palace.
It’s possible. Extremely, incredibly, ridiculously unlikely, but possible. And considering the fact that whenever the Silmarils show up, everything in the world seems to revolve around them…
Well. Perhaps it isn't so unlikely after all.
“You’re telling me that Thorin fucking Oakenshield has a Silmaril right now?” Galadriel leans closer. She’s somehow procured a bottle of Dorwinion, which is mostly empty by now. “Eru above, there’s no way we’ll get it from him now. Dwarves are incredibly stubborn, and Dwarven royalty are worse than most.”
“You’re one to talk,” Gandalf points out. “But Thorin doesn’t have the Silmaril. Remember… remember the hobbit I told you about? Bilbo Baggins?”
Galadriel frowns. “I think so. The one you kidnapped?”
“I did not kidnap him,” Gandalf says, trying to sound dignified. “The boy needed an adventure. I only gave him a little nudge out the door.”
Galadriel nods slowly, exaggeratedly. “Yes. By kidnapping him.”
“We are not fighting about this right now,” Gandalf snaps. “Anyway, Bilbo’s the one who found the stone. Practically tripped over it. Thorin had his heart set on finding the stone, but Bilbo could see that the dragon-sickness was getting to him. So the crazy little fucker claimed the Silmaril as his share of the treasure.”
Galadriel whistles in appreciation. She’s messing with her hair, twisting it into tiny braids. “And then Thorin threw him off the battlements?”
“And then Thorin tried to throw him off the battlements. Thankfully, I was there to stop him.” Gandalf shrugs. He will not brag in front of the Lady of Lórien, no matter how much he wants to. “I got Bilbo back to our camp, asked to borrow the rock for a moment, and here we are.”
“Damn.”
“Yes.” Gandalf looks around. It’s nearly midnight by now, and the camp is deserted. “Galadriel?”
“Yes?”
“What do we do?”
Galadriel pauses in the middle of a braid. “I don’t know, Mithrandir,” she admits. “I like to think I make good decisions, but I’ve lost my entire family thanks to those jewels. I don’t… I can’t think clearly when they’re around.”
Gandalf nods. He knows how much Galadriel values her reasoning skills, how hard she’s worked to gain them. She could watch a city burn and come back with a detailed recovery plan. If the mere sight of a Silmaril can unsettle her this much…
What the hell happened to her in the First Age?
If only they had a third opinion, Gandalf muses. Someone who has lived through the First Age. Someone who knows about Silmarils and how to get rid of them.
And there it is: the obvious solution. Gandalf freezes. “Not your entire family,” he says.
“What?”
“You said you lost your entire family,” Gandalf continues. “But you didn’t. There’s still someone out there who can help us, if we can find him.”
“You’re not talking about Makalaurë, are you?” Galadriel’s tone has gone icy. “Mithrandir, you know how I feel about him. He left me here. He destroyed my home and abandoned me in a country full of strangers. Twice .”
“Maybe you should give him another chance.”
“No.” The sky above Galadriel’s head darkens. Her reflection wavers as the water ripples. Gandalf dips a finger in it-- it’s nearly frozen. “No, Mithrandir. It’s been three Ages, and he’s never once contacted me. Never even apologised. I think I have given enough second chances.”
Then she’s gone. Gandalf steps cautiously towards the bucket and pokes it with his stick. The water is completely frozen now, and there’s a crack down one side. He hadn’t known Galadriel could do that. He hadn’t known it was possible.
“Well,” says Gandalf. “That went spectacularly.”
He tucks the Silmaril in his coat pocket, picks up the bucket and carries it inside. Then he goes to look for Bilbo.
“Of course I’ll keep it safe,” Bilbo reassures him. “It is someone else’s treasure, after all, and I fully intend to return it to Thorin as soon as he comes to his senses.”
Gandalf can’t help but smile. He had his doubts at first, but he’s never met anyone as thoroughly good as Bilbo the hobbit. “That’s a lovely idea. And you won’t tell anyone you have it?”
Bilbo frowns. “The Dwarves already know, and I’m fairly certain Thranduil knows as well. But I won’t tell anyone else. I’ll even put it in a box if that helps.”
Gandalf panics for a moment-- Thranduil knows? Then he remembers that Thranduil is comparatively young by Elven standards and never saw the Silmaril in Doriath. “That will help a lot,” he lies. “Thank you, Bilbo.”
Bilbo beams. “You’re very welcome. Although I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s only a rock, after all.”
And Gandalf uses every bit of his immense willpower to keep himself from sobbing.
As soon as Bilbo leaves, he shoves some clothes and lembas into a bag. (He purchased quite a bit of lembas from the Elves a while ago, and adds to his stash every time he visits. These biscuits could be fresh or five years old. Galadriel keeps trying to warn him about ‘expiration dates’, but Gandalf hasn’t gotten sick yet.)
He moves quickly, slipping past Thranduil’s guards and out into the night. There are goblins in these woods, but they know better than to mess with him. (Or so he hopes.)
Technically speaking, Maglor could be anywhere. Gandalf last saw him wandering the beach about three months ago. In that time, he could have traveled several hundred miles-- but Maglor’s wandering isn't as aimless as he’d have people believe. He usually stops by the Bay of Belfalas this time of year to visit Gondor. (Sentimental bastard.) So if he were to follow the Ithilien to Cair Andros and then travel up the Anduin, he could possibly meet Gandalf in Lothlorien in about a week.
It’s a lot of running, but Maglor is an exceptionally speedy elf who's been travelling non-stop for three Ages. If anyone can do it, he can.
Gandalf takes a deep breath and opens his mind.
“Maglor?”
Maglor responds almost immediately. (He really needs to get a hobby.) “Gandalf? The hell do you want?”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“We are not friends. You made a bet with Curunir that you could track me down in less than two months. That’s a manhunt, not friendship.”
“Details.” Honestly. The stalking incident was more than an Age ago, and it’s still all Maglor can talk about. “I need a favor.”
“That’s a surprise.” Maglor pauses just long enough for a belaboured sigh. “What is it? Unless Elrond’s in trouble or my father’s risen from the grave, I don’t care. I’ve been waiting to punch him for…” He pauses again. “Seven thousand three hundred and twelve years. Fëanor, not Elrond.”
“You’re not far off,” Gandalf says. “Remember that glowing jewel your brother threw into a fiery chasm? It’s, uh, not in the chasm anymore.”
Maglor is silent for a long time, long enough for Gandalf to wonder if he’s buried himself in the sand. “No. Fucking. Way,” he says eventually.
“It’s true.” Gandalf sighs. “You’re going to meet me in Lothlorien. I’ll give you directions. If you’re not there in a week, I’ll tell Elrond where you are.”
Maglor tenses. For some reason, he’s absolutely terrified of meeting Elrond. This threat has worked for several thousand years, and Gandalf is pleased to see it’s still effective. “You don’t know,” he says warily. “You don’t know where I am.”
“You’re at your hideout on the Bay of Belfalas, eating a ridiculous amount of pie and staring mournfully out at the ocean,” Gandalf says.
“Damn.” Maglor pouts. “How’d you know?”
“You go there every year,” Gandalf points out. “Also, you really like pie and this is the only time you get to eat it. I hope you obtained this one legally.”
Silence.
Guilty silence.
Gandalf rolls his eyes and cuts off their connection. Middle-Earth’s greatest warriors have tried and failed to retrieve Silmarils. So have Elven-kings, master tacticians and even gods . And Gandalf has recruited a reclusive seer with family issues and a depressed pie-stealing cryptid, both of whom hate each other.
Lovely.