For Redheredh’s 2008 un-birthday. The good thing about un-birthdays is that you can have one whenever it suits.

Under the Stars, part 2.

An interlude in Valinor. Olwë’s palace in Alqualondë.

“Do you need anything, my lord?”

“Solitude.” 

The maid bowed briefly and walked away in a soft whisper of grey linen, leaving the High King of the Noldor under the cloud of gloomy thoughts that had darkened his wise brow since his arrival, and had soured his usually gentle disposition.

A soft breeze carried a peal of laughter across the terrace. The troubled king frowned more deeply and looked around for a better hiding place. When he had left them, the females of the family were recalling in all detail the events that had forced them in all haste from Tirion to Olwë’s halls in Alqualondë, where his eldest son had been confined by Manwë’s request after his last adventure. Apparently, they found the whole episode deeply amusing.

How can they laugh about it? Finarfin thought bitterly. This is worrying, disturbing, even alarming!

Eärwen had watched him with a fond, almost patronizing smile as he tried to make them understand what Manwë might had to do this time –what he, in the place of the King of Arda, would be forced to do with such a recalcitrant subject. Amarië had patted his hand comfortingly and Galadriel and Celebrían had failed to hide their amusement behind falsely grave faces. Irked beyond measure by their lack of respect towards the burdens and responsibilities of kingship, and by the lightness with which they dismissed his son’s stubborn defiance of the Powers, he had stomped away from the airy hall in search of a place where he could work out his annoyance and fret in solitude.

But his troubled steps had taken him before the Sea, and he was not in the mood for an argument with Ossë; and an argument there would be if he ever laid his hands on the slimy Maia…

“I win again!”

“It is unfair, grandfather; you distracted me with your tales…”

“We never said this was going to be fair play, Finrod…”

The players were in a terrace right below him. Finarfin scowled and retreated from the mother-of-pearl railing, not wanting to make his presence known to them. He was vaguely jealous of the easy companionship that existed between Olwë and Finrod, and ashamed of that feeling. Never again since the kinslaying had he been able to open his heart completely to his wife’s father, restrained by shame and guilt, and he begrudged Finrod the abandon with which he confided in his grandfather. Despite the long ages, Finarfin could not yet stop the shadow of their bitter parting in Araman from tingeing his own exchanges with his eldest son. They loved each other profoundly, but Finarfin was still scarred by the deep sense of failure and bereavement that had devastated him after seeing all his children turning his back on him.

He sighed. At times like these he missed his father and elder brothers sorely. Just when he was about to succumb to a load of sad memories that carefully glided over his lost kin’s frequent quarrels and flaming tempers, a cheerful voice and a heavy hand on his shoulder fished him out of his wallowing.

“Oh, here you are, cousin! Do not blame the maids, I just bribed them…”

“Ingil, well-met,” Finarfin sighed, accepting the presence of his wise cousin as Mandos’ answer to his bout of self-pity. “What are you doing here? Are you...” he fretted, suddenly worried that Ingil was there to deliver the Valar’s judgment on his eldest son’s most recent transgression.

“No, no!” Ingil shook his hands in a soothing manner. “I only escorted the messenger here. I guessed that you would be upset…”

“I am fine. The messenger? Manwë’s messenger?” Finarfin struggled to maintain his studied composure. “Who did he send?”

“Just me, my lord Finarfin.” The High King started and then turned around quickly to meet the newcomer.

“Ah, Olórin! I mean, no, Mithrandir… Mithrandir?” Panic clutched again at the High King’s throat, turning his clear, gentle voice into a croak. The Maia, clad in the grey cloak and pointy hat that he had taken to wearing during his long sojourn in Middle-earth, bowed respectfully.

“I was instructed to deliver Manwë’s message first to you, my lord, and then to your son and the rest of the family. But I fear I will not be able to comply,” he warned the worried king with a conspiratorial smile. “I have been waylaid by your lady wife, her lady mother, your daughter…”

“…and all the females in the palace and other relatives, as well as old friends,” Ingil chuckled. “Cheer up, cousin; this is not the end of Arda!”

“You have always been so perceptive, my lord Ingil,” Mithrandir nodded, studying the Vanyarin prince with interest. “I must warn you that all of them are quite close behind me, my lord king, so perhaps we should retire to a more secluded place?”

“Oh, here you are, husband, I wondered where you were hiding…” the threatening harmonics in Eärwen’s apparently soft voice rang warningly in Finarfin’s trained ear. “They are here!” she called back to the flock of billowing skirts that hurried after her. The king nodded weakly and sketched a thin smile.

“We will wait for everyone, so you are saved the trouble of retelling your message several times,” Finarfin informed Mithrandir with all the grace that he could muster under such circumstances. “I am glad that you are here, my ladies,” he added, bowing courteously to his wife and her escort. “Lord Mithrandir brings a message from the King of Arda…Oh, and look, here they are! Finrod, Olwë, right in time,” he greeted with strained glee as the two players joined them, no doubt attracted by the merry din. “Since it seems that we are all here…” he sighed, as clouds of friends and relatives popped out from everywhere.

Olwë’s entire household had apparently convened around that terrace, Finarfin noticed grudgingly, briefly meeting his eldest son’s calm gaze. Resigned to the public display of Finrod’s chastisement, he waved his hand and urged the Maia to proceed.

“My lord Finarfin, it has been brought to Manwë’s attention the fact that Lord Finrod has attempted not just once, but four times now, to find a way to get back…”

“I believe that all here are familiar with Lord Finrod’s deeds, Mithrandir,” Finarfin interrupted in a tense voice. “And since he is noted for his aversion to all kinds of praise, I’d suggest that you went straight to inform us of the King’s verdict…”

A chorus of ill-concealed chuckles ran across the assembled elves while Finrod smiled modestly and Mithrandir bowed his head briefly in acceptance.

“I now understand how your father felt when Irmo banished you from his gardens,” Finarfin muttered to Ingil. “Mithrandir?” he whimpered aloud, wincing as Glorfindel started retelling the tale of how Ossë had caught the rebellious High Prince when he was about to sail past Eressëa, in case there was still someone there who had not heard it at least twice.

Olórin took pity of the mortified High King and smiled softly. “No verdict as such, my lord. The King of Arda is worried by Lord Finrod’s… restlessness. He has entrusted me with a delicate mission, to accomplish which I am to request your son’s assistance, if you would grant it, in the hopes that this task will somehow help ease the prince’s worries…”

Relief deprived Finarfin of articulate speech momentarily. He opened and closed his mouth and then looked around in surprise while the rest of his family and friends laughed and commented, and Celebrían’s sons made their approval known quite loudly.

“A mission with Mithrandir!”

“Finrod, you are a fortunate Elf…”

“…Or not, if our experience is to be taken into account…”

“One thing is sure, uncle, you will not be bored, mark our words…”

“How can I be of help, Mithrandir?” Finrod asked evenly while Finarfin still struggled to overcome his surprise. Mithrandir shrugged and cast an apologetic glance at the king.

“I fear I cannot reveal any details, Finrod. Only that you are to meet me tomorrow at dawn by the King’s ship,” he explained, nodding his gratitude towards Olwë, who acknowledged him curtly.

“Atar?”

Finarfin sighed deeply and nodded quietly, finally regaining his composure. “Of course, you have my leave. Is that all, Mithrandir?”

“All that I am allowed to disclose my lord…Except that there is no punishment involved.”

“I am not completely sure that is good news,” the king retorted dryly. “Lord Finrod,” he added gravely, “it is our wish that you join Lord Mithrandir in his mission and assist him as he might need.”

“I am yours to command,” Finrod answered mildly, bowing respectfully before his father not before exchanging a quick, worried glance with his sister.

                                             ~~***~~

Rags of mist clung to the snow-white sails that rippled lazily on the proud masts. A grey-cloaked figure stood on the quay by the King’s tall Tauralph, his back to the sea, watching with interest as a golden-haired rider left Olwë’s palace and hurried north along the same path another golden-haired rider had taken less than an hour ago.

Sketching a satisfied, knowing smile, Mithrandir boarded a small craft that nodded eagerly in the deep waters of the bay of Alqualondë, dwarfed by the King’s ship. He had just finished checking the triangular canvas sail when he heard light footsteps on the dock.

“Right in time,” he greeted the cloaked figure that stood before him. The first rays of Arien gave a reddish tinge to a golden lock that escaped the hood. “If you would come on board, we are ready to depart.”

The elf obliged gracefully, releasing the rope from the bollard and tossing it inside the boat, then jumping in without a word. Mithrandir nodded briefly while raising the sail. “Your grandfather provided us with supplies enough for crossing the Belegaer twice, not that we are going to need them,” he chuckled. He raised his arms and lifted his head and muttered a few words. A gust of wind rose out of the sea and filled the sail. With a shiver of joy, the swan-like craft glided away from the quay and steered itself eastwards out of the haven and into the open sea, dancing merrily over the surf like an overgrown seabird.

“The wind knows where it is leading us, you will not need that,” Mithrandir told his companion, who had taken seat by the tiller. He cast a satisfied look around, rummaged in his tunic until he found his pipe and sat down with a sigh. A moment later he was puffing out blue mists that insisted on wafting towards the silent elf.

“Perhaps if you sat beside me you would not be disturbed by the smoke,” he suggested, barely concealing his mirth. The cloaked figure only shrugged.

On they sailed in companionable silence, greeted by seabirds and curious fishes. They skirted Eressëa on its northern flank and still they sailed east under the wings of Manwë’s winds, while Arien speared them with all her might.

“It is exceedingly warm,” Mithrandir observed. “You would be more comfortable if you got rid of that cloak…my lady?” The covered head shot up quickly and a pair of bright burning eyes pierced Mithrandir from the shadows beneath the cowl. Slowly, a couple of long hands rose to the heavy hood and pushed it backwards, revealing the golden-silver head of Finarfin’s daughter, and her beautiful face wrinkled in an annoyed frown.

“How…How did you know?”

“You were expected, my lady. I saw your father ride away at dawn, following the tracks of another rider who had ridden north earlier….Did he know who he was meeting?” Mithrandir asked with a conniving smile, totally unimpressed by her frown.

“He thought he would be meeting me,” she admitted grudgingly. “But how could you know?”

“It will do them good; there are still so many things unsaid between the two of them, even after all these yéni…It will do them good, that is, once and if Finarfin manages to overcome his panic at this new show of disobedience from his firstborn,” the Maia laughed quietly just picturing the scene. “One would expect that his sojourn in Mandos would have somehow sobered up your headstrong brother, though…”

“Mithrandir…”

“My lady?”

“Why did you say that I was expected? Did Finrod tell you?” she insisted, now genuinely interested. And then, with a half-frown, “are you laughing at me?”

“Manwë forbid it, my lady. But it is a joy to see you curious and intrigued as an elfling…”

“That is true,” she admitted, somewhat mollified. “The One knows how long it has been since I have last been surprised. Now, do not press your advantage, Mithrandir, I am no longer used to riddles and I have never been noted for my patience…How did you know?”

“It was easy, my lady,” the Maia explained, puffing shamelessly at his pipe. “Your brother worries for those who remained behind but, above all, he feels guilty for the happiness that he enjoys while…”

“He deserves it, as I deserve my lot,” she cut him sharply. “My lord chose to remain and I chose to sail without him, same as Finrod once chose himself...”

“But you still miss your lord husband dearly. So your brother feels that there must be something that he might do…” Her guarded smile told him that he had been right in his assumption. None among the Powers, save perhaps Ulmo, knew the hearts of the Eldar better than Olórin. “Knowing Finrod,” he continued softly, “it was easy to guess that were he to be presented with the chance to set his unrest at ease, he would surely defer to his little sister…”

“You are an old scheming wizard, why this comedy, then?” she complained, too outraged to take in the implications.

“I would not rob Lord Finrod of the choice,” Mithrandir answered, waiting for realization to shine on her face. It was as if a frozen wave had hit her in her chest. She got pale and opened her mouth, gasped, then closed it, her eyes open wide and fixed in the Maia.

“You… you mean that we are going…?” she whispered, her voice a thin thread of expectation and dread.

“No one can sail back there, child,” Mithrandir said softly. “But I hope that our expedition will grant you some comfort and renewed hope, both to you and to your lord. Everything in its appointed time, my lady,” he added, raising a hand to forestall the storm of questions that he read in her eyes. “It is all about time, after all,” he mused, remembering the silver and golden pulse that each day became more visible around the Gonlath. “Look, it is there where we are going,” he added, pointing at a dense wall of grey fog that rose before them.

“There? What’s that?” Her voice sounded awed. “The Isles of Twilight?”

Mithrandir nodded as their boat sailed determinedly towards that imposing dark fence. “Where even the Powers dread to sail,” he murmured thoughtfully as they crossed the unsubstantial barrier and the world changed abruptly around them.

“Are…are we still in Arda?” Her voice carried a mix of uncertainty and wonder that echoed somehow childish in that noiseless void, but Mithrandir could not fault her. He found it hard to find an answer. All of a sudden they were sailing an indistinct landscape in which seas and skies and winds and clouds weaved and mixed together in a deep void deprived of stars, and yet alight in a strange pale glimmer, as if dawn were always about to happen there.

“I could not say,” Mithrandir admitted. This looks familiar, he thought with a shiver; even that silence echoed familiar in his trained ear, as if a harmony too vast and deep for incarnate matter to hear was about to be played, or perhaps it was being played in another dimension, and he was unconsciously thrumming to that well-known chord… “Time,” he mused aloud, “this is time before time, the endless void as it used to be before…”

“Not exactly, but not far from the mark,” a deep voice boomed. A stretch of white sand floating amidst the void appeared suddenly before their eyes, and a tall dark figure clad in mists, standing on that ghostly beach. As if following a silent command, their craft turned diligently ashore toward the waiting silhouette.

“Who is that?” Galadriel sounded more surprised than awed.

Sudden as dawn, realization hit Mithrandir. “Lord Aluin,” he whispered, descending from the boat and bending to his knee on the seaside.

“Brother,” the tall figure rumbled as he stepped gracefully towards them, spreading his arms in welcome.

“Who?” At her almost annoyed tone, the tall lord turned his attention to her.

”I am Lord Aluin, my lady, the Lord of Time…”

“The Eldest of the Ainur, and the most powerful,” Mithrandir explained softly. “My lord, this is…”

“I know who she is. Rise,” Lord Aluin insisted, grabbing the still kneeling Maia and pulling him to his feet. At the Ainu’s touch, Mithrandir felt as if he had been suddenly despoiled of his incarnate form and for a brief moment the whole Music played within his freed substance, reminding him of what it meant to be again part of Eru’s mind, and one with his creation. “Brother, not lord,” Aluin whispered in his soul, and his powerful voice swept away the veil that shrouded Mithrandir’s true nature, and he smiled in relief as he remembered with sudden clarity the ultimate meaning of all their toils.

“Lord of Time? Why I never heard of you, my lord?” Unawares of the unspoken communication that passed between the other two, Galadriel still pressed for explanations even as she splashed in the shallow waters of that strangest of shores.

“Perhaps because I came to Arda short after you departed the Blessed Realm, so you just felt my presence but never knew my name, child,” Aluin explained in a soft, amused manner, extending a hand to help her into dry sand. “Since the very beginning I sat behind Eru,” he elaborated in a more sober manner, inviting them to follow him along that apparently endless beach with a courteous gesture. “I watched as his mind unfolded the visions of what was to be. I saw my siblings coming to life out of his will, and his own creatures, you Children, whose ultimate purpose is still unfathomable to me, as it is for my brethren…And I saw many of the visions kept in the Music come to life even before I was sent to kindle Time within them.”

“I thought it was Yavanna who brought the Trees to life…”

“So she did, but she weaved not time with them, that is my privilege,” Aluin agreed as Mithrandir recalled in his mind the lights that had shone even before Telperion and Laurelin were born, and the great commotion in which they had perished, together with the many wonders that had awoken to a first spring back then. He remembered how they had mourned then, and feared that all their efforts had been for nothing…

“I watched as my siblings came here, and laboured tirelessly and for long. I worried with them that Melko would destroy their partial view of the music even before it came into being. Yet I trusted our lord in a way my kin never learnt to, or maybe in a way they forgot since they left his presence,” the Lord of Time continued softly. Mithrandir felt his own thoughts beating as one with those of his brother, as truths that had been hidden for long returned in their full strength and filled him with joy.

“Shall beauty not before conceived be brought into Eä, and evil yet be good to have been” he mused aloud, or thought he had mused, for in his ear the words echoed rather as a chord that he had once heard played in all its glory amidst the Music.

“And endless seemed the vigil to those who waited, but the moment for beauty has come at last,” Aluin agreed. “For long I sat behind Eru, second in power and understanding only to him, and watched as Ëa evolved before my eyes. And still I was restless, or perhaps jealous. When Melko killed the trees and your people defied the King and took the way East I was sent to join my siblings in Arda...And remained in this place of my creation, the beginning and the end,” he explained, pointing at the ever changing void around them. “With my arrival, Time entered Ëa…”

“I never imagined that the Valar would have been punished by our desertion,” Galadriel said thoughtfully. At that, Aluin stopped and turned to face them. A gust of wind blew back his hood, revealing a face of unbearable beauty and eyes that gleamed with a light that was even brighter than that of the Two Trees.

“Punished?” he whispered sternly. “Time is Eru’s gift, child, and a boon that even the Powers of Arda envy as the ages unfold endlessly. For, who among the incarnate would suffer loss and waning eternally? Time is the One’s promise and reward, the beauty beyond all evil, the last chord that encompasses all his Music and lasts forever in one single moment…has Manwë forgotten, that he had to send you to plead with me?” he challenged the Maia then.

Mithrandir had an answer ready by then. When Manwë had first told him of this mission he had worried that the King was being too enigmatic on purpose. He had resented being sent -once again– clueless and blind to fulfil another task of the utmost importance, with the only certainty that the invisible ropes that tied the vessels of the Sun and the Moon were becoming more visible each passing day, and the reasonably accurate suspicion that this could not be good news in any case. But as Aluin spoke, the signs and hints that the King had laid before his eyes while he explained the mission began to shine as clear as those ropes–or so he thought.

“The hawsers that you once gave Manwë to keep the Ships of Time in check have begun to dissolve, and we know not how long it will take before the Sun and the Moon are lost,” Mithrandir explained slowly. “The Powers forget not what was promised, but the King worries for some of the Children who are still stranded in the shores of Middle-earth…”

“I barred the way West ages ago for those who did not sail on their appointed time, on Manwë’s behest,” Aluin retorted dryly, and his rebuke echoed deeper than Aulë’s hammer in the roots of Valinor. “Would the King gainsay his own decree now?”

“No!” Galadriel’s anguished gasp pierced what was left of Mithrandir’s soul, the part that had once been mortal and had known hunger and cold and worry and pain across the endless leagues of Middle-earth… But also trust and hope and friendship, and love for the things that grew and for the brief lives of Men, which shone so brightly and gave away their fragile flames gladly for a good cause, or a hopeless one. And all of a sudden he saw a truth, or perhaps heard a chord, that had escaped Aluin’s attention.

“Those left behind are fulfilling a purpose, and it is the will of the King of Arda that their sacrifice is not disregarded, whichever doom the One has set for the Firstborn after the End,” he pronounced sternly, knowing that pleading would not avail him his wish. Pity was a stranger to Time, and Time was but just another instrument through which the Music reached its fulfilment. And yet the Music was a harmony, he remembered briefly, so none of its parts alone could ensure its full completion. The knowledge emboldened him. “They should be given warning, so they can choose what to do with what time is left to them…”

“They chose to remain. It is not for us, not even for the King of Arda, to twist the Music to suit his whims...”

“And it is not for us, not even for the Lord of Time, to presume that one single player can lead the Music to its completion…No theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite. For he that attempteth this shall prove but mine instrument in the devising of things more wonderful, which he himself hath not imagined, or have you forgotten that, Aluin? Manwë is the Steward of Eru in Arda, do not stand between him and his will!”

That gave the powerful Ainu pause. “There is no way to sail back, Olórin, you well know that…” he said carefully, studying the Maia intently.

“Leave that in the hands of the King. Do you forget that he himself set up a new star in the sky long ago? Or did you think that it was for the sole purpose of dragon-slaying? Come, brother, show us what Time was and will be, so those lingering in mortal shores can ready themselves…and play whatever part the Music has in store for them.” The command sprout out of his mouth unexpected even to him, yet he somehow knew the words to be true, and felt strangely reassured.

For a brief while Time stood still, the full weight of its attention fixed on the bold Maia, while Galadriel watched in trepidation.

“So be it,” Aluin agreed finally, a strange expression on his fair face. “But you will not get a straight answer, nor a vision of the Last Battle,” he warned almost mockingly. Following a lazy wave of his arm, the void dissolved all around them into a swirling vision of darkness deeper than Melko’s heart. Yet deep in that darkest of nights a reddish heart pulsed steadily, and Mithrandir knew that he was recalling the moment when Eru had said “Ëa” and the music had taken form before the awed eyes of his creatures.

“My lord!”

The longing that echoed in the awed whisper drew Mithrandir from the contemplation of the familiar tale of the building and rebuilding of Arda, as storms, earthquakes, floods and eruptions followed extended periods of peace and blossoming, during the long ages even before Arda entered history. He followed Galadriel’s gaze and had to smile as he saw a well-known, tall, grey-haired elf bending over a small, leaf-clogged pool and locking eyes, across time and space, with his lady.

His smile widened as he watched Tilion and Eärendil eavesdropping behind the elf-lord’s shoulders, shining brightly over tall, naked, sleeping trees in a world whose beauty he had not forgotten. He nodded to himself as he finally grasped the wisdom of Manwë’s strategy, and the risks that he was taking.

~~ *** ~~

In Bialowieska Strictly Protected Area.

Dawn was creeping in, forcing shadows into their hiding places and tingeing pink that silent, colourless New Year’s morning and the elf kneeling on the leaf-moulded, twig-spattered, frozen ground of the most hidden ravine in The Glade. A soft scrape shook him from his contemplation, and he cast a sharp look around.

“Ah, it is you. Are you feeling better?” Celeborn relaxed as he met the lynx’s amber gaze. He sat back and wiped his hands on his trousers, still too awed to make any sense of what had just happened. Galadriel’s beautiful face still filled his mind eye, and he could almost feel her love and longing flowing across the mists of time and space and reaching him, but the comfort offered by the memory of her soothing presence could not dim the horror of the vision that they had been granted. “Did you see that?” he whispered pleadingly, as if somehow the lynx could confirm that he had been dreaming. “What am I going to do?”

The lynx would not answer. He licked its shoulder and yawned quite disinterestedly while a couple of grouses hurried from their hidden nest on their morning foraging. The soft crunch of elk’s hooves on frozen ground reached the clearing, almost muffling the careful tiptoeing of a fox in its winter coat stalking a white hare. A disrespectful croak made Celeborn lift his head, and he discovered a bold crow looking down on him with an amused expression. He heard the soft song of the wind and the merry voice of a nearby creek, free from choking ice. He listened to the morning calls of fowl down in the pond and the flap of wings as they took flight in search for food. He looked around and saw the flaming red of holly berries and the hazy purple of naked alder branches, laced with rags of mist turned pink by Arien’s first rays. Looking up again, he spotted a ball of mistletoe perched high on a top branch of an ancient oak.

That gave him pause.  

Mankind, much like mistletoe, could be considered a pest that wasted the earth, upon which it was a parasite. But, much like mistletoe, the Secondborn also helped create conditions for other species to grow and progress, and for biodiversity to thrive, and for the land to improve…. It all lay in the balance, and balance was the very nature of Arda’s existence within the Music, in which all things had their place…. Arda unmarred could not be born out of total destruction of what had once been, he thought in despair as he closed his eyes and tried to drown in the sounds and smells of that living glade, hoping that they would wash away visions of Arda crumpling down in fire and floods. 

“Shall beauty not before conceived be brought into Eä, and evil yet be good to have been.” The words came back to him unbidden, as he had heard them pounding over those terrifying images. But those had not been Galadriel’s words. She grieved with him at what was foretold; he had felt her sadness across their bond, so miraculously restored if only for that night. But there had been someone else there, a powerful being who had callously unfolded those visions before them while the two of them rejoiced in the unexpected gift of each other’s presence and basked in the warmth of their love.

“What do you know of beauty, you proud lords beyond the waters?” he cried out in defiance, hitting the ground with a clenched fist, anger and pain coursing through him. “This is beauty enough for those who live in Arda and beat to the pulse of life and death, instead of hiding safely in a stale, ageless realm, afraid of change!” he spat bitterly, as hot tears rolled down his face. It could not end that way. They had not fought and lost so much only to be forced to depart at last in sad defeat, leaving all of Arda to perish under flame and water. He thought of his friends, and their own demons. He thought of all the Secondborn who had worked with them –who still worked with them- to make Arda a better place, true Stewards who loved the land with almost elven passion, though without their hopeless sorrow. He thought of all the battles they had fought along the long ages and the many trees that they had seen die, only to be replaced by new shootings in which the memories –and the voices- of the old ones still lived…

Overwhelmed by grief, he did not hear the approaching hooves nor noticed the powerful presence that had come into the ravine, until a soft huff made him lift his head. Not ten paces before him stood a huge, white bison, Bialowieska’s elusive, almost mythical lord. It was very old, judging by his horns, yet its fur shone spotless with blinding whiteness. It held Celeborn’s awed gaze for a long while and then let escape another, impatient snort, while crushing a pile of half-frozen dry leaves nervously with one hoof.

“I will not let it come to pass,” Celeborn vowed there, in that glade that had been the heart of elvendom, before the Spirit of the Forest, reasserting the promise that he had made to his wife after the vision dissolved before them in flames. “Something must remain, so the Secondborn will not forget,” he added, his decision strengthened by the memory of her serious, understanding nod while he apparently sealed their separation even beyond the circles of the world by committing himself to defying the Music. He had seen it happen before, floods and eruptions and great convulsions of the land, and new lights appearing on the skies, and darkness inescapable covering the forests and choking out life….but as the vision unfolded he had had for a moment wondered whether that was a beginning or an end… or both things at the same time, endlessly succeeding one another…and that had given him an idea. The bison puffed again, stopping the flow his rambling thoughts. It nodded twice and then turned around and vanished gracefully amidst the trees, leaving behind the soft blur of the uncanny rippling where it had stood. Taking that presence as a comforting sign, and with a clear goal in mind, Celeborn stood up, placed his fist over his heart, bowed to the lynx and walked away without looking back.

The sun shone brightly over the snow covered landscape by the time he reached Maria’s truck, and to his eye it seemed that all things glistened and glimmered as if kindled with a new light, allowing their innermost beauty, a beauty that not even him had perceived before to shine through. That world was too beautiful to perish, Celeborn thought, and he was not about to consent it.

After a quick search he finally found his cell phone in one of his pockets. He switched it on and wrote a text message, then selected three names on his list and pressed the send button. As the words coursed the world –Let’s meet for the New Year at Thranduil’s- he drove back to his friends’ house, his head boiling with new projects and lines of research. That Arda was dying was not a surprise for him, nor would be for his friends, but they were better prepared than the Valar, he suddenly understood, to manage what time was left and to arrange an escape route for Arda’s living things, if it came to that.

The dull thud of iron on wood greeted him as he descended from the truck. He rounded the house to the back yard, following the sound, and stopped there, unnoticed. Thomas was hacking wood for the fireplace and Maria sat on a huge log, a steaming mug on her hand, watching him. There was an air of contentment around them, as if all differences had dissolved and faded away with the old year, leaving behind only the melancholy certainty of a love that was stronger than their own wills.

“Is it us what I am seeing in them?” he thought, wondering that he was feeling the echo of his own bond with his wife, unexpectedly restored for one brief night. It had pulsed stronger than ever as it sang of a deep joy and unquenchable hope, and it had filled him with her strength and decision, and her loving support. Taking a closer look, he confirmed that it was his friends’ bond what he was seeing for the first time, a thin but bright thread that ran between them and surrounded them in its glitter and strengthened them, even if they could not see it.

It did not matter that they were short-lived, Celeborn suddenly understood with blinding clarity. His friends were heirs to a long line of people who had devoted their lives to caring for Arda and tending to its forests and its creatures of all kinds. When they passed away, there would be others still picking up their voices, as the acorn held the memories of the oaks that had been before them, so the line of the Stewards would never be broken, and he would see to it, no matter what it cost him.

Suddenly, he was reminded of Elrond’s patient, faithful watch over the line of Elendil and felt reassured that his was but another link in that long chain of duty that the Elves of Middle-earth had secretly forged in the service of Arda and its creatures. Perhaps Arda itself was beyond his power to save from the Doom, he told himself firmly, but at least he would do his best to help the Secondborn, and the rest of living creatures, have a new beginning somewhere. They did not deserve less.

“Happy New Year, my friends,” he greeted as he stepped into the yard. “Can I give you a hand?”

They both looked up at the same time and smiled at him. Maria stood as he came closer and stretched to put a soft kiss on his cheek. “Happy New Year to you, too. I’ll go and fix breakfast,” she said. “We were waiting for you…”

“I am almost done, but you can keep me company,” Thomas said, pointing at the log where Maria had been sitting. “Where did you go?

“To The Glade.” Thomas nodded and continued chopping wood in silence. Celeborn sat on the log, extended his long legs and enjoyed the warmth of the pale rays of sun. The rhythmic beat of the axe hitting wood was the only sound that was heard in a morning that looked fresh as it had been brought straight from the dawn of Time.

“I saw a white bison,” he started aloud after some time. Thomas stopped for a brief while to wipe sweat from his brow but made no comment. “I have been thinking about your research and I want to fund it, even if the Park does not. I want to fight with you, Thomas,” he added in a voice that cracked with emotion. “I want to save this forest….” 

“There are many other forests in the world…”

“But I want to save this one, and I have the money for it. We can also allocate some extra funds, so you could conduct a parallel research in Scotland while Maria is there.” Thomas cast him a curious look, swinging the axe distractedly in his strong arm.

“That would be a good thing,” he admitted softly. “Maria and I both want the same things,” he started hurriedly, before his courage dissolved away. “Only in a different manner. I could no more force her to remain than she could convince me to leave, and that is why we grieve and hurt each other…But why would you do that?”

Because this is the last place that I have called home in several ages, the place my daughter left to become a wife, the place where my lady and I ruled happily for what then seemed and endless spring, and our grandchildren loved to visit. The place where my granddaughter came to die, he wanted to say. Because your plight so much reminds me of my own, only no one could bridge the gap for us…or so I thought until last night… “Because you are my friends,” he said simply, “and because this forest means so much to both of you.”

“And to you as well, I know that….But you are a strange being, Silvertree,” Thomas chuckled to hide his emotion, as he put the axe away and picked up an armful of logs. “If someone were to ask me, I would declare that you are Bialowieska’s leszi indeed!

“After a bottle of Bison Grass Vodka, no doubt…”

“From the mouth of drunkards…”

“Will you accept my proposal or not?”

“I will be honoured to be your steward in Bialowieska while my strength lasts me, my lord,” Thomas joked, but the strange glint in his eyes belied his light tone, and Celeborn just nodded quietly, sealing the agreement between them without words.

It never ceased to marvel him how generously the Secondborn devoted their lives and loyalties to what touched their souls. “Would they, if they knew how hopeless everything we do is, how close the end is?” he wondered. He suspected that it would not make a difference. For Thomas and Maria, and for many others like them, it was more a question of how they spent their short lives, and to what cause they devoted them, than worrying about the great cycles of birth and destruction that were at the root of everything…and beyond their power to alter.

Since he had promised not to give up on Arda, not until the bitter end, he could as well start defying the Music by not giving up on his forest…and his friends, whatever the outcome. He picked up another armful of logs and jerked his head towards the back door. “Then let us go and tell Maria. It pained me to see your grief yesterday…”

                                                ~~***~~

Back in Valinor.

“How did the Firstborn take it?”

“Quite calmly. One would say that they were expecting it…”

“And Aluin?”

“He was shocked…almost outraged.”

Manwë allowed himself a fleeting smug grin. “I am sure that he would be,” he chuckled. “Our brother of Time has spent too long alone, to the point that he has forgotten that we are all instruments, Olórin, and that only in harmony we can achieve our ultimate purpose…”

It was the first time that Olórin met the King alone since his return from his mission and his report to the Powers. No one had spoken for a long time after he had finished his account, and after that no one had challenged his actions, or even commented his decisions. The Firstborn, too, had taken Galadriel’s story with surprising serenity, more a welcome piece of news about their stranded kin and food for speculation than a disturbing sign of impending, terrifying doom. At times Mithrandir feared that he was the only one bubbling with unspoken questions and not a few concerns.

Not the only one, he reflected. “Námo did not look very pleased when we met on the path…” The Lord of Mandos had bowed distractedly to Mithrandir and had walked away briskly, muttering angrily to himself. And Eonwë…

“So what happens now, what will Celeborn do?” he finally dared ask.

“I have no idea….”

That shocked Mithrandir. “But...” he stumbled. “I thought… I mean, you sent me there to interfere, to induce Celeborn to resist doom, to change…” he stopped there, out of words, and sighed in impotence, his pride still tender. He had defied the mightiest of the Ainur and had forced his hand, allowing Celeborn –and Galadriel- a deeper insight of the Music than any of the Firstborn had ever been granted, and even now he was not sure whether he had done it after his own will or rather induced by the King’s.

Worst, he suspected, he had helped introduce an unexpected change in the Music, one of unpredictable consequences… or was it not so unexpected? His head began to spin when the steady, understanding voice of his king came to his rescue.

“We are simply well-tuned instruments, Olórin, and we play best when we allow the Music to use us…”

“But you sent me to confront the Lord of Time!” he accused, then groaned at how childish he had sounded. Manwë shook his head thoughtfully.

“It was love what drove Finrod to disobedience. Love for his sister, and for those left behind, but also for Middle-earth and its creatures…and it was the same love that tied Celeborn there, and what keeps the Secondborn going on despite their many mistakes,” Manwë mused aloud, unimpressed by Mithrandir’s outrage. “I know not what the One has in store for us, but I do know that while we are here, and Arda lasts as we made it, we are its stewards and protectors, and it is our duty to help his children as best as we can, even when we are bound to Arda’s fate and they are not…. You lived and died there, Olórin. I thought you were the best choice, the one who could better understand what all this would mean for them…and act accordingly,” he added softly, pointing at the glistening ropes around the Gonlath. That gave Mithrandir pause, and for a long time none of them spoke.

“So now it is all in Celeborn and his friend’s hands?” he ventured, and felt like blushing at Manwë’s fond smile and mild rebuke.

“No. It is all in the Music, my friend, it has always been. Is that so difficult to understand?”

“You took a great risk, my lord, sending this dumb Maia in that mission,” Mithrandir sighed, obliquely acknowledging defeat. “I could have blundered so easily…”

“I knew that you would listen to the Music when the moment came…”

“And here I thought I had been following your instructions….”

“That is a common mistake, even among the Powers. At times we forget that we do our best when we simply allow the Music to flow through us…”

“You seem to be very good at that, now I know why you are the King,” Mithrandir chuckled, and smiled at the knowing nod in Manwë’s kind, wise face.

“Well… that part about Eärendil…”

“Yes?”

“It had never occurred to me that he might be the one who could bring them back in the end. You are getting very good at it as well.”

Mithrandir nodded quietly, grateful for the compliment. They both stood by the Gonlath in companionable silence, their gazes fixed up into the sky along the gleaming ropes, as if they feared they would dissolve at any moment now.

“It is getting brighter by the moment, isn’t it?” Mithrandir wondered after some time of thoughtful contemplation.

Manwë shrugged with studied carelessness, but he tilted his head to better study the ropes, Mithrandir noticed with a wicked smile. “Did Aluin let anything slip about how long? Even approximately?”

“I fear he was quite adamant about that, my lord, not a word.” For a Valar who claimed that he just allowed himself to be led by the Music and flowed with it, Manwë’s sigh sounded a bit too much disappointed to Mithrandir’s ear.

“I suppose that we just have to wait, then, as we have always done.”

“As always?” Mithrandir almost snorted. “I saw Eonwë inspecting his mail and wielding his broadsword as I came here, my lord…” That made Manwë chuckle.

“I did not have the heart to tell him that prophecies should never be taken literally,” the king acknowledged. “He never actually wound down since the War of Wrath, so I would not rob him of the hope of a Final Battle… for now. You are right,” he added, sitting on his stone chair and resting his chin on his palm. “Never before did we have this feeling of upending doom so close at hand… and it is quite unsettling.”

“Well, this is how the Secondborn feel all throughout their short lives, so it should not be difficult for us to get used to it,” he could not stop himself from pointing out; then cringed at the long, considering stare that Manwë cast on him. But the king just let go a soft, approving chortle.

“Only we do not have much time left, do we, Olórin?” he observed, pointing again at the glistening chords. “But you do have a point there, it may be that only in the end we are allowed to get a glimpse of what the Children experience, and how they relate to Arda, so that we can understand our folly when we presumed to order them around,” he mused thoughtfully. “I told you that you were getting better at following the Music…”

The King was right; Mithrandir had to admit as he took the steep path down Taniquetil on another of Manwë’s errands. There was not much time left before the Doom of Arda was fulfilled… or changed by a handful of Eru’s creatures, and no-one knew what that might bring. “Well,” he told himself resignedly. “If I can help change the tides of Time I can as well make Námo change his mind about tearing his walls down and releasing all those faer under his care. It is not as if he had asked me to stop Eonwë from marching to war…”

With the nagging feeling that that might be his next task, he took the long way towards the imposing Halls of Mandos while Time beat ominously over the Blessed Realm and all creatures shone under a new light, as if newly aware of the beauty and fragility of the present moment, which would never, ever again last forever as it had once seemed to them.

A/N:

I’ve stolen a couple of quotes from the Silmarillion.

Aluin as the eldest and most powerful of the Ainu, and Lord of Time, comes from the Book of Lost Tales, Chapter IX the Darkening of Valinor, as does the Gonlath, the rock upon Taniquetil to which Aluin’s children tied the vessels of the Sun and the Moon and thus gave Manwë control over them…but also introduced Time into the Blessed Real, causing all things there to be subjected to decay and fading, though slow.

A leszi is a mythological character, a lord of a northern forest.