Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Regarding Orodreth’s parentage: I follow the Silmarillion version. Yes, I know it is considered revised, but I don’t really care. I prefer Gil-galad as the son of Fingon, and I prefer Finduilas as Orodreth’s daughter and Orodreth himself as Finarfin’s son. To me, it makes much more sense, and since there are at least two different versions of everything in the First Age stuff, I am taking the creative freedom to choose that which appeals to me more.

Lindir’s origins have been established in my story “Innocence”, which can be read on FF.Net.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

34. Hero or Villain?

Celebrían and Aracáno spent the following two days making themselves more familiar with the House of the Hundred Chimneys. It did not take them long to realize that it was a mission of a lifetime. Well, that of a mortal lifetime, in any case – even for Celebrían, who had the advantage of having lived in the Last Homely House East of the Sea in Imladris, a building of vaguely similar layout, for millennia.

The House reminded them of a labyrinth; and an enchanted one, at that. There were more doors than anyone, even an Elf, could have hoped to keep count of. They all looked alike, but not all of them led into workrooms or sleeping chambers or porches used by the dwellers of the House. Some of them simply opened into walk-in closets filled with pottery or linens or other supplies needed for the care and feeding of the numerous inhabitants and even more numerous guests. Some even led to pantries or cool rooms or wine cellars.

One could never know in advance where they would get by passing such a door – unless one had already spent there a yén or two.

The permanent dwellers, too, were a colourful mix. Some of them had been members of the lord’s household since the Great Journey. Others had come to live with him and his lady wife after the War of Wrath. Again others were recently – or not-so-recently – re-housed and felt better in the peace and quiet of the House than outside, where they would have to face all the changes that had happened during their extended stay in Mandos.

Changes they were still not ready to deal with; something Aracáno could understand all too well.

“The House has grown a great deal since it had been built at the end of the First Age,” explained one of the long-term dwellers, a Noldo by the name of Gelmir. “Whenever it becomes too crowded, we simply add another wing. The Council of Tavrobel keeps this area unpopulated for this very purpose; for they know this refuge is needed by many.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Aracáno.

Gelmir laughed. “Oh, I helped to build it in the first place.”

“You helped to build it?” repeated Aracáno in surprise. “You have come here right after the War of Wrath, then?”

Gelmir nodded. “That I have. My friend Arminas and I were originally of Lord Angrod’s people; I mean Lord Angaráto’s,” he corrected himself, seeing Aracáno’s blank look, “and lived in Dorthonion. When our lord and many of his followers were slain in the Dagor Bragollach, we wandered to the southern regions of Beleriand and settled with the people of Lord Círdan. For many years of the Sun to come we were his messengers, travelling all over Beleriand on his behalf.”

“Oh!” said Celebrían in a sudden moment of revelation. “You are that Gelmir then, the one who led Tuor to the Gate of the Noldor?”

Gelmir nodded and smiled, clearly delighted that his name was still remembered in Middle-earth.

“Indeed I am. Arminas and I were on our way to Nargothrond; for Lord Círdan had received an urgent message from the Lord of the Waters, and we were sent to deliver it to King Orodreth of Nargothrond… your cousin Artanáro,” he explained for Aracáno, who frowned.

“But I thought Findaráto was King of Nargothrond…”

“He was, for some four hundred years of the Sun,” Gelmir agreed. “But then he left his realm, the largest of all Noldorin realms in exile, to fulfil a solemn oath given to Barahir of the Edain, and left his kingdom in the care of his brother.”

“Not the best choice, if you ask me,” someone muttered, and another Noldo, very obviously one recently re-housed, walked into the room, just in time to catch the tail end of their conversation.

“This is my friend Arminas,” Gelmir introduced him. “Forgive his manners; he has been released from Mandos less than a year ago, and his emotions are still a little volatile. More so if it comes to certain persons from the past.”

“Well, I am right, am I not?” demanded Arminas. “Finrod should never have chosen Orodreth to follow him on the throne of Nargothrond!”

“He did not have many choices left,” pointed out Gelmir logically, “with both Lords Angrod and Aegnor already slain. Unless he wanted the Lady Artanis to rule the kingdom, that is.”

For a moment, Celebrían got the mental image of his mother as the Queen of Nargothrond: sitting on the high throne, wearing a crown of mithril – beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night, fair as the Sea and the Sun and the snow upon the Misty Mountains, dreadful as the storm and the lightning and stronger than the foundations of the earth. Yes, she could very well imagine Queen Galadriel ruling an empire with a delicate hand in an iron glove.

“And why not?” asked Arminas, obviously having no difficulties to imagine the same. “Stubborn elleth as she is, she would not have let that little upstart of a mortal tell her how to be a Queen. Nargothrond would probably have prevailed for many yéni to come.”

“He means Túrin,” explained Gelmir. “The two of them had a little… falling out when we finally reached Gondolin.”

“That must have been quite the journey,” said Celebrían. “I saw maps of Beleriand often enough to know that the distance between he Mouths of Sirion and Nargothrond was enormous.”

“It was,” admitted Gelmir. “More so as we went by ship to Drengist first, to seek for the hidden city of Turgon – Turucáno,” he added with a sideways glance at Aracáno, “but we found it not. ‘Twas while journeying inland that we came upon Tuor and took him part of the way through the Gate of the Noldor.”

“Why did you want to find Gondolin?” asked Celebrían. “I understand that Aran Turgon did rarely welcome anyone from the outside.”

“Yea, but Lord Círdan had a message for him as well,” replied Gelmir. “He did not know that Lord Ulmo had already chosen a different messenger: Tuor himself. How could we possibly know what the somewhat wild young Man would become one day?”

“How indeed,” said Arminas in agreement. “Therefore we took our leave from him, and –after spying upon the gathering Orcs in the Pass of Sirion for a while – we travelled south to deliver Lord Ulmo’s message to Aran Orodreth, at least.”

“What was the message?” inquired Aracáno, while Celebrían, who knew the answer, of course, smiled sadly. It was family history for her – but that did not make the outcome any less tragic.

“That Nargothrond should shut its doors,” replied Gelmir, “and that the bridge before said doors should be demolished to prevent a creeping evil from finding the gate. “

“I imagine that Artanáro was not delighted to hear that,” said Aracáno, darkly amused. “He was always more than a little reluctant to make any hard decisions. He was born a follower, not a leader.”

“Alas, ‘tis true,” sighed Arminas. “And what made things worse, at that time he greatly relied upon the counsel of Túrin, who scorned our words; for it was upon his advice that the bridge had been built; and it was he who always pressed the King to go forth openly to war.”

“Of course, it did not help that Arminas then asked him if he was of the House of Hador,” added Gelmir, grinning. “I never saw a Man getting so red in the face with anger as him.”

Aracáno stared at him in confusion. “Why would such an innocent question anger him so much?”

“In Nargothrond he was known under the name of Agarwaen, for he did not want it known that the son of Húrin resided there,” explained Gelmir.

Which still did not answer Aracáno’s question. He said so.

“He had quite the reputation, and not necessarily a good one,” muttered Arminas darkly. “I wish Artanis had been there. She would have put that arrogant pup – and her fool of a brother – to their places.”

“Arminas became angry then and upbraided Túrin for his lack of courtesy and unwillingness to listen to the advice of others,” supplied Gelmir helpfully. “More so when those others were a Vala and the Lord of the Falathrim.”

“I assume that Artanáro still did not listen,” said Aracáno, and Arminas shook his head.

“Nay, he did not; and his folly led to the destruction of Nargothrond by Glaurung, he Father of the Dragons, who crept over that cursed bridge and sacked Aran Finrod’s beautiful city. Orodreth fell in battle and Glaurung made what was left of Nargothrond his lair for the next few years of the Sun.”

“Until Túrin slew him,” reminded him Gelmir.

“Until Túrin’s sword slew him, you mean,” corrected Arminas. “Without the sword forged from the heart of a falling star and strengthened by the skill and magic of Eöl the Dark Elf, Túrin could never have succeeded.”

“Says you,” commented Gelmir.

“Says everyone with a common sense,” retorted Arminas. “Think about it: how many had wounded Glaurung before, and to what end? Lord Azaghâl, the Dwarf-King of Belegost, Aran Fingon and his mounted archers in battle… but no common weapon could slay him. For he was the oldest of his kind, strong and full of malice and great, evil power – ‘twas the deed of the sword, not that of the hand wielding it.”

“I think you are being a little unreasonable in your dislike of Túrin,” said Gildor mildly.

Arminas shrugged. “So what? That Man never brought aught else upon us, Elves, but sorrow.”

“Well, he was cursed by Morgoth,” pointed out Gelmir reasonably.

“As was his father, but did we ever see Húrin killing people left and right, just because he was in a foul mood?” countered Arminas. “Nay, my friend; you and every other Elf may see that Man as a great hero; for me, he shall never be aught but a hot-headed, selfish and arrogant brat.”

Gelmir shook his head in tolerant amusement; this seemed to be a fairly old argument between the two of them and one that would not be laid to rest any time soon – if ever.

“How do you people think about Túrin back in Endórë?” he then asked from Celebrían. “Is he remembered as a hero or as a villain?”

“As a hero, mostly; at least among Men,” answered Celebrían truthfully. “Although my father has never forgiven him the death of Beleg Cúthalion, however accidental it might have been. And even though, ultimately, it was the Dragon’s deceit that caused the horrible death of Finduilas in the hand of Orcs,” she shuddered, realizing, for the first time, the chilling similarities between her own fate and that of her cousin, “my mother keeps blaming Túrin for it.”

Arminas gave his friend a triumphant look.

“See? Not all are blinded by false glory back in the Outer Lands. Had Lady Finduilas kept faith to Prince Gwindor, and had Aran Orodreth listened to him instead of following Túrin blindly, the blood of Finarfin would not have dried out in that line.”

Celebrían smiled, understanding that she knew something these two did not.

“The truth is, Orodreth’s line has not died out,” she said. “Gwindor and Finduilas consummated their marriage ere he would ride out to fight in the Nirnaeth, you know. The two had a daughter whom they named Faelivrin. She only turned away from him after he had returned from his long captivity; for while he had been away, she had fallen for Túrin. Gwindor accepted her choice, as he had become but a shadow of himself, even though he never stopped loving her.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Gelmir nodded. “A most tragic story, one that is often told. But no-one could ever tell what has become of the child.”

“Then you probably asked the wrong people,” answered Celebrían, “for I happen to know that she was rescued from the Fall of Nargothrond and married later a minstrel of the Falathrim. Their son, also a minstrel, was long the Warden of the White Tower of Elostirion and guardian of the chief palantír that is kept there to this very day. Alas, both he and his wife were slain by raiding Orcs during one of their journeys. Their only son, just a babe at that time, was found by Aiwendil the Wizard, and raised by him for many years, ere he would give him into our care. The boy still lives in Imladris.”

“Prince Gwindor has a great-grandson?” asked Arminas in surprise. “That will please him to no end, once he is done healing in Lórien. Is the boy a warrior, too?”

“Oh, no, he never wielded anything but a kitchen knife,” replied Celebrían with a fond smile. “He is a minstrel, like his father and grandsire have been; they say the greatest one since Daeron of Doriath.”

“What is his name?” asked Gelmir.

“According to Gildor Inglorion, his parents named him Ingwil,” said Celebrían. “But Aiwendil named him Lindir, and that is the only name he has ever listened to. He is a strange one: sly and sweet and a little wild – and more innocent than any Elf has been since the Awakening, or so they say.”

“Small wonder, considering he has been raised by a Maia,” commented Gelmir.

Celebrían gave him a sharp look. “You know…? But how can you? Only a handful of chosen ones have ever been told of the true nature of the Istari.”

Gelmir shrugged. “I know the name; and I heard that a few chosen Maiar have been sent to Endórë in disguise. “Twas easy to count two and two together. I used to help with the Reborn in Lórien while waiting for his return,” he nodded in Arminas’ direction. “You cannot work closely with Lord Irmo’s people and not learn things that are not otherwise common knowledge.”

“When have you been released?” asked Celebrían Arminas.

“Almost a yén ago,” Arminas smiled sheepishly. “I know, I know. I ought to have calmed down and adapted to a different life better by now. I assume I am just a little slower to mature than most others.”

“He always had a quick temper,” Gelmir revealed, but he was smiling at his friend nonetheless. “Endórë suited his nature better, and he still misses his old life. We both do, which is why we dwell under Lord Gilfanon’s roof.”

“Even after two whole Ages?” Aracáno was honestly surprised to hear that.

Gelmir shrugged again. “We were both born in Beleriand while Lord Angrod and Lord Aegnor were holding Dorthonion for Aran Finrod. We knew nought but war or watchful peace for a very long time. It took me literally yéni to get used to life in the Blessed Realm. Arminas will get around eventually, too. But we shall always miss our old home. Everyone does who had known Endórë,” he gave Celebrían a sympathetic glance. “So shall you, my Lady, I fear.”

Celebrían nodded. She had not expected anything else. Middle-earth had been her home; the only home she had ever known, and she had not left it out of longing for Valinor. She had left it for she had no other choice, and knowing she would never see it again broke her heart.

At least she could hope to be reunited with Elrond and their children one day.

Elrond would have no other choice, either. He had displayed the first, so far vague signs of Sea-longing already, which would force him to Sail, sooner or later. He had made his Choice two Ages previously, and once the Longing hit, an Elf had to Sail – or to fade. The blood of mortal Men in his veins enabled him to fight the Longing, longer than any other Elf could hope to do, and he used that mortal strength, for he still had work to do in Middle-earth. But he would succumb to the call of the Sea, once his work was done; and then they would be together again.

About the possible choices of her children she rarely dared to think. Elrohir had seemed content enough with his life as an Elf and with his long-ongoing betrothal to Aquiel, Gildor’s niece. But In Elladan, the call of mortal blood was very strong; should he repeat Elros’ Choice, Elrohir would be hard-pressed to choose between his twin and his betrothed.

As for Arwen, she could not even begin to guess.

She was so wrapped up in her memories that she only belatedly realized that someone was talking to her. She blinked to clear her head of the unbidden thoughts, looking up into the worried face of Aracáno.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked in concern. Celebrían forced herself to smile.

“Everything is fine, Aracáno, worry not on my behalf. I was just remembering my home.”

“I am truly sorry, my Lady,” Gelmir offered lamely, but Celebrían waved off his concern.

“Do not be. My memories of my home are happy ones. Now, why do not show us the garden you were talking about? I believe we can all use some delightful distraction.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the next day, after the evening meal, household and guests gathered in the Great Hall of the House of the Hundred Chimneys again, and Aracáno was growing very excited, hoping that he would finally get to hear the tale of the making of the Sun and the Moon. ‘Twas a slightly different group tonight, with the Noldóran and his Queen gone; Ivárë, too, had followed Elemmírë back to the mainland, to spend some time under Lord Manwë’s roof with her.

In exchange, Meril and Elenwë had arrived in the late morning, accompanied by Tirannë and Nielthi and a small group of guards. There had been a happy reunion, with tears of joy, between Elenwë and Aracáno; they had missed each other very much, having grown close due to their shared fate. Elenwë, though, seemed to have outgrown some of her insecurities during the short time of their separation. She looked truly queenly now, sitting between Meril and Celebrían, while Aracáno chose to sit on Celebrían’s other side.

She also appeared to be finding back to her old self in the way that now she was showing marked Vanyarin sensitivities in her clothing, too. She was wearing a gown of shimmering turquoise silk, shot with gold, with tight sleeves, the collar and cuff embroidered with wires and leaves in dark green, interspersed with small topazes. Over this was a sleeveless robe of dark royal blue brocade, trimmed with gold knotwork embroidery, the sides open almost to the hips. Her golden hair was braided with turquoises and emeralds and wreathed around her head like a natural coronet.

Meril’s attire was very similar, only in midnight blue and dark burgundy red, embroidered with silver. Together, they were like day and night. Celebrían, still wearing her simple grey raiment in Lórien fashion, was like a morning full of silver mist compared with them, but no less beautiful, Aracáno found.

When the evening meal was over and the trestle tables had been dismantled and the seats rearranged, someone put the Storyteller’s Chair into the centre of the Hall again. To everyone’s surprise, though, Lindo did not take the Chair tonight.

“I know a great deal about the making of the Sun and the Moon,” he explained, “but only from hearsay, of course. We Elves were not around when the most important part of the work was done. Therefore, as I wanted to give Prince Aracáno the most accurate recount of those events, I have asked for the help of someone who was actually part of the great task,” he smiled and raised his voice just a little. “Ilmarë, if you would like to join us?”

There was a brief glimmer of light, and then Lady Varda’s handmaid stood in the middle of the hall, clad in a gown of white samite and a robe of white brocaded silk, the long, trailing sleeves of which swept the floor. Her golden hair was braided in Vanyarin fashion and held together by a gilded net, sewn with white pearls. She could have been an Elven princess by her looks, but for the hidden power emanating from her graceful form.

“Greetings,” she said in her melodious voice that sounded like a carillon of silver bells. “Master Lindo thought that you would want an eyewitness report on the making of the Sun and the Moon; and as my brother Fionwë is fairly useless at telling ancient tales – quite frankly, he is too impatient for the truly interesting details – I was asked to come in his stead. Now, this is a long tale; one that will take most of the night to tell, so we should begin immediately. Take your seats, my children, listen and learn.”

All Elves of the House, starting with the smallest elfling to its Master and Mistress, who could remember Cuiviénen, after all, obeyed eagerly. For how often did they get to have a Maia telling them a tale no-one but the Powers themselves had ever known?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ilmarë took the Storyteller’s Chair, arranged the folds of her robes around herself and was silent for a moment, as if arranging her memories.

“As Master Lindo has already told you the last time, Valinor was full of shadows and gloom after the death of the Trees, and the Elves wept and could not be comforted,” she then began, and no-one bothered to ask how she could know what had already been said. She was a Maia, after all, and one of the highest ranks. “It took us, even the Valar, a considerable length of time to accept that light was gone from Valinor, for ever, and never again would the Trees bloom at their appointed times. Only the light of the stars remained, save where a glow lay about the fountain of Kulullin that was playing still, albeit but a shadow of itself. And also a pale gleam still lingered near Telimpë, the Vat of Dreams. Yet even these were dimmed and tarnished, for the Trees no longer brought forth dew for their replenishment.”

“For us, who had known the darkness of Endórë, a darkness full of hidden perils, this was a time of great fear,” added Lady Vainóni quietly. “For it seemed to us as if Melkor had been triumphant, destroying the light a second time, like he had destroyed the Lamps of the Valar; and that Eä would drown in everlasting darkness and the Valar had no longer the means to save it.”

Ilmarë nodded. “A fear we could understand very well. Therefore, attempts to save what could be saved were being made already, in the hope that the Trees could somehow be rekindled. Lady Vána and Lord Irmo called many of us and of the Elves dwelling in Eldamas to them, and led by Urwendi – for Silmo, the guardian of Silpion, had been slain by Melkor’s dark servants – we gathered as much light of gold and silver in enchanted vessels as we could and carried them to the ruined Trees.”

“Wait just a moment!” Galenbrethil, who – together with Findalor and Lindefal – had been invited to this night of storytelling – interrupted in bewilderment. “You speak of light as if it were some kind of liquid, though everyone with eyes to see can see that it is not.”

“’Tis not now,” corrected Ilmarë. “Yet in the days of old, when the Trees were still alive, it was. That was how it could be collected in Lady Varda’s wells and how she had made the great stars to celebrate the Awakening of your people, using the dew of Silpion.”

“Save for the Seven Stars, or so the oldest legends say,” supplied Master Lindo, his eyes twinkling. “For they are said to be the sparks from Lord Aulë’s forge, whose brightness in the ancient heavens urged Lady Varda to make their rivals; yet this she supposedly never achieved.”

“I have heard about this legend myself,” replied Ilmarë, laughing; and there was so much joy in that sound that all who were listening to her smiled involuntarily. “Some minstrels are most eager to colour the tale with loving details: how Lord Aulë would fling down his great hammer in joy over the Awakening; how that hammer would strike some ingots of silver upon the stone floor of the smithy; how its magic would smite silver sparks to life – sparks that would flash from the window of the smithy out into the heavens…”

“So ‘tis told,” said Lindo, smiling. “’Tis also told that Lady Varda, seeing this, would take of that radiance in the basin and mingle it with molten silver to make it more stable; and then she would fare upon her wings of speed and set stars about the dark firmament in very great profusion, so that the skies would grow marvellously fair and their glory would double…”

“A lovely tale,” allowed Ilmarë, “but that is all it is: a tale. The kernel of truth in it is that Seven Stars were set at that time by the Lady Varda, to commemorate the coming of the Elves.”

“And Morwinyon, who blazes above the world’s edge in the West, she happened to drop in her great haste as she fared back to Valinor,” added Morwinyon, the Elf named after said bright star, and laughed.

“That is indeed the true beginning of Morwinyon and his beauty,” agreed Ilmarë with a straight face. “But we were speaking about the Darkness of Valinor and how the Valar tried to rekindle the Two Trees. As I said, we carried all the light that we could gather to the Ezellohar that was lying in gloom. There Lord Irmo sang wistful songs of magic and enchantment about the wounded bole of Silpion, watering the roots with the radiance of Telimpë lovingly. Lady Vána did the same with Laurelin, singing old golden songs of the happier days and bidding her maidens to dance their bright dances, as they were used to dance upon the sward of the rose-gardens near Kulullin.””

“That was a risky thing to do,” commented Legolas. “I assume there could not be such a great store of the liquid light remaining in Valinor.”

“Nay,” admitted the Maia, “and their actions may seem wasteful in your eyes. Yet you must know that this draught never failed to refresh the heart of Laurelin, and she bare ever in return a fruit of light more plentiful than her guardians gave.”

“Not this time, though, I deem,” said Legolas.

“Not this time, no,” Ilmarë agreed. “This time, all our singing and enchantment was of little worth, and though the roots of the Trees seemed to drink all that we might pour, we could see no stir of life renewed, nor the faintest gleam of light; nor withered leaf glowed with sap, nor blossom lifted its drooping stem. And the other Valar sat darkly in their halls, grieving, and it seemed that there was no remedy for their ills – for the ills of Aman indeed. For Lord Irmo and Lady Vána put forth their spells to no avail – and Lady Vána wept.”

“It must have been frightening for the Eldar, to see that not even the Valar had been able to heal the wounds of Laurelin and Silpion,” said Celebrían softly. “They were used to living in the light of the Trees – methinks the gloom of Valinor was more terrifying for them than for those who had lived in Middle-earth, under the twilight of the stars.”

“It was frightening for us all,” confessed the Maia, “for we did not understand how this could have happened. Therefore we were looking for answers, and many thought that the reason for their failure was that no word of the Earth-lady, mother of magic, had been mingled in their spells.”

“Sounds reasonable,” commented Galenbrethil. “After all, was it not the Lady Yavanna who had created the Trees in the first place?”

“Not alone; not without the help of others,” corrected Ilmarë, “but your point does have its merits, and many of us were of the same opinion. Thus we went to seek out Lady Palúrien, in the hope that by the power of her magic the Trees may regain some portion of their ancient glory, and then, if light be renewed, Lord Aulë and his people may repair the hurts of our fair realm, and happiness will be once more between Erumani and the Sea.”

“’Twas the last hope for Aman, or so we thought,” added Lady Vainóni. “Alas that it did not work like that!”

“Nay, it did not,” agreed the Maia. “For when we called for the Lady Yavanna, she came and asked what we would need, and hearing our request she, too, wept and told us that these two Trees may never bloom again, and others like them may not be brought to life for many ages of the world. ‘Many things shall be done and come to pass, and the Valar grow old, and the Elves come nigh to fading, ere you shall see the rekindling of these Trees,’ she said, and we, who were listening to her, were frightened and wept with her. For never before had Kémi, the Earth-lady, been hard of counsel or lacked a song of power that would heal the hurts of Eä.”

“A nasty surprise it must have been for the rest of you,” said Lindefal lightly, trying to lift the mood a little.

Several Amanian Elves gave him looks of reproval, but he just shrugged and grinned, not willing to buy into the general mood of doom and gloom. He had seen his fair share of horrible things, but his irrepressible nature had always won the upper hand, and he saw no reason in brooding over past losses.

Surprisingly enough, Ilmarë did not seem the least offended. In fact, she grinned back at Lindefal, her grin full of mischief.

“That it was, and many of us were not willing to accept it,” she said. “We kept beseeching Lady Yavanna to put forth her power – but she refused, saying: ‘Such is of fate and the Music of the Ainur. Even the Valar cannot create such marvels as those Trees a second time; not now, when the youth of Arda is past; nor may all my spells avail to do what you ask of me.’ Needless to say that we were even more shocked hearing this,” she added dryly, and the Elves filling the Hall laughed.

“However, Lady Vána was not willing to give up hope just yet,” Ilmarë picked up the tale again when they had quieted down. “She turned to Lord Aulë next, him who is called i-Talka Marda – the Smith of Arda – for the might of his works, asking him how were we to obtain light that is needful to our joy. ‘For what is Valinor without light,’ she argued, ‘or are you losing your skill, as your spouse seems to have done in this hour of oppressing darkness?’”

Morwinyon, a smith and pupil of the greatest Elven-smiths himself, frowned at that. “But light cannot be fashioned by smith-craft, can it?”

“Nay, it cannot,” said Ilmarë, “nor could have any even of the Valar devised it, were the sap of the Trees of be dried for ever.”

“Somehow, I cannot imagine Lady Vána to be content with that answer,” said Legolas.

“And you would be right, for she was not,” replied the Maia. “And even more ill-content she became when Lady Yavanna reminded her – and the rest of us – that in our grief we thought only and always of Valinor, forgetting the world without. ‘For,’ so the Earth-lady said, “my heart tells me that it is time for the Valar to take up once more the battle for Arda and force back the powers of Melkor.’”

Legolas nodded, a faint smile playing upon his face. “The Lady Palúrien has always been the one to concern herself with the fate of Middle-earth and those who dwelt upon the eastern shores. Even in the darkest hours, when our ancestors were still pursued by the Hunter, she and Lord Araw often crossed the Sea between Valinor and Ennorath, bringing us the corn for lembas and hunting the monsters of Melkor. Which is why we Nandor have always had the greatest respect for them, more so than for any other of the Powers. For they never forgot about us who remained faithful to the lands of our birth.”

“Nay, they did not,” said Ilmarë in agreement. “And at the time when darkness seemed to return to Eä, ‘twas Lady Yavanna indeed who raised her voice for those that were left behind. Yet in her grief, Lady Vána comprehended not her sister’s mind, thinking only of her Tree of gold, and was not to be consoled. Lord Manwë and Lady Varda, though, and with them Lord Aulë and Lady Yavanna, retreated from the rest of us, and in secret conclave they took deep and searching counsel one of another, and at the last they had come to an agreement, in hope that their plan may work out.”

“Was it that when they thought of creating the Sun and the Moon?” asked Aracáno eagerly. Ilmarë smiled at him in a motherly manner.

“That it was indeed. Yet the night of storytelling before us is still long, and ere I continue, you may need some refreshments, so that your attention would not wane.”

She snipped with her fingers, and all of a sudden there were columns of shimmering light, which coalesced into the shining shapes of a surprisingly great number of Maiar, all holding small drinking vessels in their hands. There was Erunyauvë and Nornorë and many others that Celebrían did not know, all clad in festive garb, the emblems of their Masters embroidered upon their breasts. The vessels in their hands were of gold or mithril, funnel-shaped and with flared rims, like flowers, yet otherwise completely unadorned.

“Drink, my children, and allow this glorious draught to lift the shadow of grief from your hearts,” said Ilmarë. “For listening to past sorrows is a dangerous thing, and I shall not continue my tale before it would cure your ills to joy and merriment, leting your hearts rejuvenate again and grow full of song.”

The Maiar began to distribute the vessels among the audience, and all Elves accepted the drink with grateful nods and words of thanks. In a moment, Celebrían found herself facing Erunyauvë, who was offering her a mithril vessel full of some fragrant drink that seemed to glow like liquid gold.

“What is this?” she asked, and the Maia gave her an amused look.

“Why, it is what you have been asking about, child,” she replied. “’Tis limpë, the drink brewed by Lord Irmo and his people, designed to cure the hearts those who have come from great perils to the West, to find healing and a new life.”

~TBC~