Between the two rivers, who are brothers to each other, lies a tomb. Between the two rivers is an island, where the tomb, made of pure silver, is built. On springtime the sun-smelten snow finds it's way down from Erebor, and floods the island for thirty moons and thirty-one suns. Mountain water, clearer than drops of elven-tears submerge the silver tomb utterly, leaving it to glimmer and glitter to the beholder's eye from under the liquid air, if viewed from the shore. It has no doors, nor windows, locks or nooks. Round and with a low cone-shaped roof it challenges every man, dwarf and elf alike to puzzle of it's meaning once they stumble upon it.
Was there to be any writing in runery or even the language of Mordor, it would be easier for them to classify the structure, or guess it's nature. But no-one knows, and so it stood there on the newly emerged island between the two brothers: Almo and Elme. Some driftwood and pebbles washed down from the plateau have got stuck between the roof's elegant, but simple ornaments. Somewhat muddy and bouncing off the occasional sunbeam that happens to find it's way on the cleaner parts of the silver tomb, is sitting there, and waiting for another wanderer from far away to be amazed and find puzzlement. Ah, is that whistling of a wee folk that we hear?
Short brown trousers, a sleevless shirt, no shoes to imprison those fast little feet and a worn-out bag over his shoulder: may I present to You - Bilbo Baggins... Of Shire. That's where he's coming right now, to find Rivendell and bring new and awful tidings to Elrond, one of Bilbo's dearest friends. Despite of the heavy burden of guilt he was feeling while leaving the Shire, he is now in a happy and a joyful mood, and has nearly forgotten about his birthday and its events, for hobbits are kind and playful by nature. Leaving the One Ring behind was a good choice, he is surely telling himself. He doesn't even seem to care for the knowledge that old age is having it's effects upon him, as it was delayed by the Ring's power before.
From his bag might one get a glimpse of a big book, that doesn't seem to fit in with other supplies needed for a long journey, like a cauldron and blankets, so it's shape is visible even through the leather bag. Pages after pages of stories, made of his adventures and events, with maps and pictures added between the dragon-leather covers. The Shire was a peaceful place to write memoirs. If one would consider intrusive neigbours, meddling children on the doorstep, farm animals arguing to each other, and an all around annoyingly slow-paced daily life a peaceful place. No, that was not the reason or the cause Bilbo started to write his adventures anyway. He wrote exactly against against all the above, that was boring and provincial. Bilbo needed to feel the excitement of treasure hunting, the thrill of exploring, the feeling of being alive.
It felt ironic to Bilbo himself, that his big book of recorded adventures would find their last chapters during the War of the Rings, while he is doing nothing more than sitting in the safety of Rivendell, and knowing, that he himself could have caused the One Ring to be found. Suddenly he shook his head and with a wave of his hand drove away the clouds of doubt and greater guilt. The times of shadows in his mind were gone now, that he had given the Ring up.
Forward, thru the glade where he had seen the elven children dance between air and further on a bright moonlit night, with it's light stuck in their snowwhite hair and starshine echoing onwards in their eyes. They did hurry away once they saw young Bilbo Baggins fall down from the branches above the old oak because he got blinded as an elven maiden smiled in his direction, thus blinding the eyesight. Still onwards did he's feet take him.
When Travelling with the Grey, he had passed the island on a few occasions, the times of the flood, and had only once gazed deep into the bottom of the sunken island, for once seeing a shimmering from the bottom he falsly thought it to belong to a elven girl. So did he stood there, staring at the cone-shaped roof. A light hand landed on his left shoulder.
"Come now, it will get dark soon. Some shelter must be found, in case we do not want to fall for easy prey to the wolves, that seem to attack in packs now. Strange, that."
"What is that, Gandalf? It shimmers, there, down at the bottom of the river. A chest full of silver coins, perhaps?" Said Bilbo, still staring at the riverbottom. A twinge ran down his spine, a quick adventure underwater, maybe?
"That is no chest full of fortune and glory, my anxious friend," Said Gandalf from afar, for he had found a small cavern next to the higher cliffsides, that spring waters could not flood over and under. Already was he searching for sticks and fallen branches to start a fire with. Bilbo suddenly felt that Gandalf knew something about that mysterious load of silver, and smiled to himself, when realising that as it was so common to Gandalf, he kept most to himself than others wanted to hear.
"So you know what that is down there, huh? I bet it's an egg of a frost dragon or something. Yea, I bet it has been lying down there for a thousand years, waiting for a bold hero strong and brave enough to lift it up from the mud of millenias with the help of a magic sword or pendant." Mumbled Bilbo, while going through his pockets searching for some wonderous object, that he hadn't noticed while packing.
"Hey, Gandalf, what about if I'd use that staff of yours for a moment, eh? You wouldn't mind, would you?" Somewhere under the bushes that surrounded the large and old oak, Gandalf's voice echoed: "You never learn, my hasty friend. It is not to be used in such trivial matters. I think we'd best get this firewood inside that cavern before that nasty cloud reaches us."
"What cloud?"
A minute later we would have found Bilbo hanging he's shirt to dry near the fireplace, while Gandalf would have whispered some words of design into the dried wood, and they would have caught fire. Bilbo took a rock as a seat, and held his hands close to the fire. Sparks were rising merrily, and when the wizard followed them with his wary look, they started to form all sorts of shapes and words, in elven and other.
"Tell me, what is that thing, a statue or a building then?" Kept Bilbo asking. While doing that, he nudged Gandalf's elbow and pulled his sleeves. "Come on, tell me, I can't go to sleep now because of you," The wizard seemed to be in deep thoughts, but finally Bilbo's annoyingly persistant attempts woke him up.
"There's nothing down there that could cause you to get very rich very suddenly, nor is the tomb any use to any mortal, really." When finishing his sentence, Gandald realised that he had made another mistake and started coughing to draw attention from his words. Too late.
"A tomb, you say! Made of silver and all! Wow, I bet it's a mauseleum for a famous king, or a hero!"
"What you are speaking now is foolery. I have seen it once from up close, and there isn't any way for it to opened anyway. It is a tomb, that I know from the scrolls of Minas Tirith. You are right about the fact that it is indeed made of silver, but not of any ordinary silver - mithril. Wrong are you there about kings and heroes. There is a being buried in there, but he or she did not descend from any kingship or divine kinmanship. Leave it be, the mountain waters are too cold and chilling anyway for you to take any action."
So spoke Gandalf, many years ago, when Bilbo was young and free of the toxic poisoning of the Ring. They continued their journey towards the dwarf settlement, and Bilbo had forgotten his hasty thoughts when he woke up. It had been springtime and the waters high and free to float the riverbanks. Now it was mid-summer. On the horizon the Silver Tomb shone, and Bilbo realised, that he could not complete his book, unless he would unravel the questions that he wasn't able to crack so many years ago: what was in the Tomb, and who had built it? Why was it built and how?
Towards Almo and Elme he took his steps.
"I guess there's time for a last adventure," he said out aloud and hurried towards the Silver Tomb.
Was there to be any writing in runery or even the language of Mordor, it would be easier for them to classify the structure, or guess it's nature. But no-one knows, and so it stood there on the newly emerged island between the two brothers: Almo and Elme. Some driftwood and pebbles washed down from the plateau have got stuck between the roof's elegant, but simple ornaments. Somewhat muddy and bouncing off the occasional sunbeam that happens to find it's way on the cleaner parts of the silver tomb, is sitting there, and waiting for another wanderer from far away to be amazed and find puzzlement. Ah, is that whistling of a wee folk that we hear?
Short brown trousers, a sleevless shirt, no shoes to imprison those fast little feet and a worn-out bag over his shoulder: may I present to You - Bilbo Baggins... Of Shire. That's where he's coming right now, to find Rivendell and bring new and awful tidings to Elrond, one of Bilbo's dearest friends. Despite of the heavy burden of guilt he was feeling while leaving the Shire, he is now in a happy and a joyful mood, and has nearly forgotten about his birthday and its events, for hobbits are kind and playful by nature. Leaving the One Ring behind was a good choice, he is surely telling himself. He doesn't even seem to care for the knowledge that old age is having it's effects upon him, as it was delayed by the Ring's power before.
From his bag might one get a glimpse of a big book, that doesn't seem to fit in with other supplies needed for a long journey, like a cauldron and blankets, so it's shape is visible even through the leather bag. Pages after pages of stories, made of his adventures and events, with maps and pictures added between the dragon-leather covers. The Shire was a peaceful place to write memoirs. If one would consider intrusive neigbours, meddling children on the doorstep, farm animals arguing to each other, and an all around annoyingly slow-paced daily life a peaceful place. No, that was not the reason or the cause Bilbo started to write his adventures anyway. He wrote exactly against against all the above, that was boring and provincial. Bilbo needed to feel the excitement of treasure hunting, the thrill of exploring, the feeling of being alive.
It felt ironic to Bilbo himself, that his big book of recorded adventures would find their last chapters during the War of the Rings, while he is doing nothing more than sitting in the safety of Rivendell, and knowing, that he himself could have caused the One Ring to be found. Suddenly he shook his head and with a wave of his hand drove away the clouds of doubt and greater guilt. The times of shadows in his mind were gone now, that he had given the Ring up.
Forward, thru the glade where he had seen the elven children dance between air and further on a bright moonlit night, with it's light stuck in their snowwhite hair and starshine echoing onwards in their eyes. They did hurry away once they saw young Bilbo Baggins fall down from the branches above the old oak because he got blinded as an elven maiden smiled in his direction, thus blinding the eyesight. Still onwards did he's feet take him.
When Travelling with the Grey, he had passed the island on a few occasions, the times of the flood, and had only once gazed deep into the bottom of the sunken island, for once seeing a shimmering from the bottom he falsly thought it to belong to a elven girl. So did he stood there, staring at the cone-shaped roof. A light hand landed on his left shoulder.
"Come now, it will get dark soon. Some shelter must be found, in case we do not want to fall for easy prey to the wolves, that seem to attack in packs now. Strange, that."
"What is that, Gandalf? It shimmers, there, down at the bottom of the river. A chest full of silver coins, perhaps?" Said Bilbo, still staring at the riverbottom. A twinge ran down his spine, a quick adventure underwater, maybe?
"That is no chest full of fortune and glory, my anxious friend," Said Gandalf from afar, for he had found a small cavern next to the higher cliffsides, that spring waters could not flood over and under. Already was he searching for sticks and fallen branches to start a fire with. Bilbo suddenly felt that Gandalf knew something about that mysterious load of silver, and smiled to himself, when realising that as it was so common to Gandalf, he kept most to himself than others wanted to hear.
"So you know what that is down there, huh? I bet it's an egg of a frost dragon or something. Yea, I bet it has been lying down there for a thousand years, waiting for a bold hero strong and brave enough to lift it up from the mud of millenias with the help of a magic sword or pendant." Mumbled Bilbo, while going through his pockets searching for some wonderous object, that he hadn't noticed while packing.
"Hey, Gandalf, what about if I'd use that staff of yours for a moment, eh? You wouldn't mind, would you?" Somewhere under the bushes that surrounded the large and old oak, Gandalf's voice echoed: "You never learn, my hasty friend. It is not to be used in such trivial matters. I think we'd best get this firewood inside that cavern before that nasty cloud reaches us."
"What cloud?"
A minute later we would have found Bilbo hanging he's shirt to dry near the fireplace, while Gandalf would have whispered some words of design into the dried wood, and they would have caught fire. Bilbo took a rock as a seat, and held his hands close to the fire. Sparks were rising merrily, and when the wizard followed them with his wary look, they started to form all sorts of shapes and words, in elven and other.
"Tell me, what is that thing, a statue or a building then?" Kept Bilbo asking. While doing that, he nudged Gandalf's elbow and pulled his sleeves. "Come on, tell me, I can't go to sleep now because of you," The wizard seemed to be in deep thoughts, but finally Bilbo's annoyingly persistant attempts woke him up.
"There's nothing down there that could cause you to get very rich very suddenly, nor is the tomb any use to any mortal, really." When finishing his sentence, Gandald realised that he had made another mistake and started coughing to draw attention from his words. Too late.
"A tomb, you say! Made of silver and all! Wow, I bet it's a mauseleum for a famous king, or a hero!"
"What you are speaking now is foolery. I have seen it once from up close, and there isn't any way for it to opened anyway. It is a tomb, that I know from the scrolls of Minas Tirith. You are right about the fact that it is indeed made of silver, but not of any ordinary silver - mithril. Wrong are you there about kings and heroes. There is a being buried in there, but he or she did not descend from any kingship or divine kinmanship. Leave it be, the mountain waters are too cold and chilling anyway for you to take any action."
So spoke Gandalf, many years ago, when Bilbo was young and free of the toxic poisoning of the Ring. They continued their journey towards the dwarf settlement, and Bilbo had forgotten his hasty thoughts when he woke up. It had been springtime and the waters high and free to float the riverbanks. Now it was mid-summer. On the horizon the Silver Tomb shone, and Bilbo realised, that he could not complete his book, unless he would unravel the questions that he wasn't able to crack so many years ago: what was in the Tomb, and who had built it? Why was it built and how?
Towards Almo and Elme he took his steps.
"I guess there's time for a last adventure," he said out aloud and hurried towards the Silver Tomb.
