Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Of limpë there is very little said in the Book of Lost Tales. I used the Ent-draught as a template when describing it, although it turned out quite differently.

I-kal'antúlien means “Light hath returned”. Again, I’m following the descriptions of the Lost Tales here where the making of the Sun and the Moon is concerned.

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

35. I-kal'antúlien

Celebrían stared at the graceful vessel offered to her – a vessel clearly not made by Elven hand – in deep reverence. This was also limpë, the legendary draught of the Blessed Realm? And it was being offered her freely, all of a sudden? During her stay in Meril’s house, she had tentatively enquired about it, but Meril had always evaded her, saying that she was not ready for it yet. That she had some healing to do on her own first.

She looked over to the Lady of Tol Eressëa who was accepting her own vessel from one of the Maiar.

“Is this your doing?” she asked. “Does it mean I am ready now?”

“Nay; ‘tis mine,” answered Ilmarë in Meril’s stead. “The tale Prince Aracáno has asked for is a dark yet glorious one. Tasting limpë ere you would hear it to its end will give you a heart to fathom its glory in its fullness. Drink child, and be not afraid. You are strong enough now to receive Joy.”

Celebrían found that statement a little strange, but then again, she found the Maiar peculiar creatures to begin with. Still, she saw no reason to deny herself the pleasure of the famous drink of Valinor, concocted by the Lord of Dreams and his people themselves. Thus she accepted the fragile vessel from Erunyauvë and took a careful sip.

Unlike miruvor that was clear, colourless and unfolded its warmth and flavour only in the aftermath, the fragrance and spicy sweetness of deep amber limpë filled her mouth and nose immediately. It caused a sparkling, almost ticklish feeling that made her laugh, and from the corner of her eye she could see the others sitting nearby smile and laugh, too.

Aracáno was positively giggling, like a very young elfling after his first cup of wine. Elenwë’s pale, beautiful face became rosy with the warmth of the wondrous draught, and even Meril smiled and appeared to forget her burdens for the moment.

“Go on and drink it all!” encouraged her Erunyauvë. “It will not make you drunk, I promise; nor will it make you embarrass yourself in any way.”

Celebrían did not question the Maia’s promise. In truth, she had no real fear that she may make a spectacle of herself, should the drink rush to her head. She just wanted to make the experience last as long as possible, for it was a glorious one. She could not remember having ever tasted anything quite like it: like the heat of summer, the sweetness of wild berries, the freshness of a mountain spring and the fragrance of a garden full of immortal flowers rolled into one savour.

She closed her eyes and simply enjoyed.

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

When all drinking vessels had been emptied, the Maiar collected them and simply faded away to allow Ilmarë to pick up her tale again.

“As I said, Lord Manwë held counsel with his spouse, the Star-Kindler, and with the Smith of Arda and the Earth-Queen,” she began, “and when they had come to an agreement about what was the needful thing to do, the Elder King sent out messengers to call together all the folk of Valinor once more. And we followed his summons, Valar and Maiar alike, gathering in Lady Vána's bower amidst her roses, where Kulullin's fountains were still playing, for the plain without lay now all cold and dark.”

“That must have been qute a throng,” commented Legolas with twinking eyes.

Ilmarë grinned at him. “Even more so as the leaders of the Elves had also been summoned, to sit at the feet of the Valar and take part of their counsel,” she replied. That was something that had never been done before; but as the return of the Light was the concern of us all, Lord Manwë felt that they should be present, too.”

She paused and smiled at the Lady Vainóni, who nodded thoughtfully, clearly having been present at that meaningful gathering. Perchance as part of Queen Anairë’s entourage, who had still been acting as Queen Regent, as Arafinwë had not been crowned yet at that time.

“We were all fairly shocked by the invitation,” remembered the Lady of the House, “the Noldoli before all, as we had not expected that the Valar would even want to see us ever again. Not after the majority of our people had rebelled against them. Lord Manwë, however, had other concerns, as his words soon revealed.”

“Indeed,” said Ilmarë in agreement. “For those same events had opened the eyes of the Great Valar rather ungently, making them realize that they had well-nigh forgot the outside world that now lay without hope for better days; and of the  younger Children of Ilúvatar that were soon to come.”

“You mean the Secondborn,” said Legolas. It was not a question, but Ilmarë nodded nevertheless.

“I do. In his wisdom, Lord Manwë recognized the hand of Ilúvatar in those events; for by allowing the Trees – that filled our land so much with loveliness and our hearts so much with mirth that no wider desires would come into them – to wither and die, the One forced us to turn our thoughts to new devices that would shed light upon both the Great Lands without and Valinor within."

“Are you saying that Ilúvatar wanted the Trees to die and darkness to come upon the Blessed Realm?” asked Morwinyon with a frown. Ilmare shook her head.

“Nay; I am saying that the One allowed it to happen; to shake us up and out of our self-content, fake safety, and remind us of our duties as Guardians of Arda.”

“It must have been quite the eye-opener,” commented Legolas dryly.

“It was indeed,” confessed Ilmarë, “and thus we listened spellbound as Lord Manwë explained the desing, which he, the ladies Varda and Yavanna and Lord Aulë had forged in their secret counsel. ‘This is now the third time we make our efforts to bring light into dark places’ he said, ‘and both the Lamps of the North and South, and the Trees of the plain, Melkor brought to ruin. Only in the air has Melkor no power for ill; thus ‘tis my counsel that we build a great vessel brimming with golden light and the hoarded dews of Laurelin, and set this afloat like a mighty ship high above the dark realms of Arda. There shall it thread far courses through the airs and pour its light on all the world twixt Valinórë and the Eastern shores."

“But I always thought that of the two great lights the Moon was the older,” said Celebrían in surprise. “That is what all our tales say: that the Moon first rose when High King Fingolfin entered Middle-earth; and it would cross the skies seven times ere he would rach Hithlum and the Sun rose for the first time.”

“And so it was,” answered Meril. “I was there. I saw it with my very eyes.”

“So it was in Endórë indeed,” agreed the Maia, “for the Valar did not release the new lights into the outer world ere they were certain that it would be safe. In Valinor itself… that was a different matter.”

“Different indeed,” murmured Lady Helyanwë. “That is something I can remember vividly.”

Meanwhile, Aracáno had been getting seriously upset by all the delay for a while, and now he lost his diminishing patience for good..

“If you keep interrupting, I will never hear the tale,” he said accusingly, and the others laughed.

Legolas even bowed to him in his seat. “Our apologies, my Prince.”

“We were getting ahead of oruselves a little,” admitted the Maia, too.

“Perhaps,” said Elenwë, speaking for the first time in that evening, “yet I do find all this endlessly fascinating. I must admit that I never gave much thought to what the Valar were doing in my former life; and we both have missed so much, Ara!”

“Exactly!” prompted Aracáno. “The first rising of the Sun and the Moon, to begin with – if we could manage to get to that point within this night still!”

The older Elves, particularly those who never left Aman, gave him disapproving loooks, finding his behaviour unbecoming of an Elf, and a prince at that. But Ilmarë just laughed.

“You are right, of course, and I shall endeavour to keep a straight storyline,” she promised. “Now, Lord Manwë designed the course of the ship of light to be between the East and West, for Melkor held the North and Ungweliant the South, whereas in the West was Valinor and the Blessed Realm, and in the East great regions of dark lands that craved for light.”

“I thought Ungoliant had followed Morgoth to Middle-earth and was beaten into retreat by his Balrogs at Lammoth,” said Legolas in surprise, ignoring Aracáno’s exasperated groan.

“She did and she was,” agreed the Maia. “Yet the South was still very much filled with her darkness and with foul creatures that dwelt in those black shadows.”

Legolas nodded. “I see. But why would Lord Manwë think that Morgoth would have no power in the air?”

“Because that is the truth,” replied Ilmarë simply. “Some of the Valar, due to their nature, can travel speedily through Vilna and the lower airs, even if wearing their incarnate form. Yet none of them, save Lord Manwë and Lady Varda and their people, avail to pass beyond. For this was the device of Ilúvatar when they chose to come to Eä: that that they should dwell forever within the world if once they entered it, nor should they leave it, until the End came, being woven about it in the threads of its fate and becoming part thereof.”

“Does this mean that you are bound to Arda, just as we are?” clarified Legolas, clearly stunned as the Maia nodded.

“That we are indeed; ‘tis a fate our Masters accepted gladly as the consequence of their guardianship, and we who have pledged ourselves to them share it with joy. Yet more, to Lord Manwë alone, knowing the purity and glory of his heart, did Ilúvatar grant the power of visiting the uttermost heights beyond the stars, so far above the world that no finest dust of it, nor the thinnest odour of the cretures living upon its surface, nor the faintest echo of their songs or sorrow comes there. There walks Manwë Súlimo often, and watches it gleaming palely far below with love, and he is very near the heart of Ilúvatar – closer than any of could ever hope to come.”

“It did not fit well with Morgoth to see the privileged status of his brother, I deem,” commented Legolas, “seeing that he was once considered the greatest of his kind.”

“He was indeed,” said Ilmarë sadly, “and he lost his place due to his own early choices. You shall yet hear how greatly his envy was increased when the great vessels of radiance set sail; now, however, you need to know that most of the Valar found the words and the wisdom of Lord Manwë moving and his purpose good.”

“Most of them?” echoed Aracáno. “Not all were in agreement, then?”

Ilmarë shrugged. “Well, truth be told, Lord Irmo was less pleased than the others, for he feared that it would mean the loss of the quiet and secret places that he loved so much. And Lady Vána still had no other desire than to rekindle the Trees, vain though that desire seemed to all else.”

“But if memory serves me well, Lord Manwë’s design failed in the end,” said Morwinyon. “I was but an elfling at that time, yet I seem to remember hearing Anatar Mahtan and Uncle Tulkastor complain that Lord Aulë and his people – among whom they were both counted – failed to device any substance that was not too gross to swim the airs or too frail to bear the radiance of Kulullin; and not even Lady Varda’s efforts could help.”

“Memory does serve you well,” replied the Maia, “and such Lady Vána and Lord Irmo begged the Elder King to command the Earth-lady to attempt the healing of the Trees after all.”

“Which she did in the end, did she not?” asked Galenbrethil. “All our tales tell us about the powerful songs of Lady Palúrien that cajoled forth one last fruit from Laurelin and one last blossom from Silpion, which then were made into the vessels of Light by Lord Aulë himself.”

“Then your tales are wrong; or, at the very least, they only know half the truth,” answered Ilmarë. “For while that was the end result indeed, the path leading there was a stony one. At the Elder King’s request, Lady Yavanna did put forth her power indeed, loath though she was, for she feared – and rightly so – that her strength would not be great enough for such an enormous task.”

Galenbrethil stared at the Maia in bewilderment. “If not her, who then? No other had ever commanded over strength like hers when it came to living things, or so they say.”

“So they say, and ‘tis true, too,” agreed Ilmarë. “But some tasks are too difficult to approach alone even for one of the Great Valar, as you will see. In any case, Lady Yavanna agreed to do the Elder King’s bidding – all she asked for was some of the radiance of white and gold.”

“But had Lady Vána and Lord Irmo not poured out all of that upon the roots of the Trees?” Lindefal asked with a frown.

“Not all of it,” replied the Maia, “but unstintingly indeed. Therefore Lords Manwë and Aulë would spare only two small phials of what little was left, saying that if the draught of old had power to heal the Trees they would be blooming already.”

“And yet the Lady Palúrien tried it nonetheless,” said Galenbrethil; again, it was not a question.

Ilmarë nodded. “That she did. There she stood sorrowfully between the darkened Trees, trembling and very pale with the effort she put forth. The phial of gold she held in her right hand and the one of silver in her left, lifting them high, ‘til flames of red and of white arose from each one like flowers, and the very earth shook and opened up, bringing forth a rainbow of flowers and plants about her feet: in whites and blues on her left, in reds and gold on her right. A multitude of sweet scents filled the gloomy air and the Valar themselves were stunned to utter silence by that. Then she cast each phial upon its proper Tree and sang the most powerful of all Songs of Power: those of unfading growth and and those of rebirth after death and withering… ‘til she, too, fell silent all of a sudden, and swooned.”

“I remember,” murmured Lady Vainóni. “All Valinor was shaking with the outpur of Lady Palúrien’s power. For like water had she poured it out upon the earth, and like water had the earth sucked it from her; and she was laying there, trembling and frightened, and others had to help her back to her feet. The Trees, though, stood still gaunt and stark, and we all wept beholding them; them and the Earth-lady, who was utterly drained.”

“We all were shocked, seeing that not even the Lady Palúrien could repair the harm done to our beloved Trees,” said Ilmarë in sorrowful agreement. “Lord Manwë did attempt to encourage us, telling us that beauty had not yet perished from the earth, nor had all the counsels of the Valar been turned to nought. But we were bereft of hope and all left the place, grieving, save for Lady Vána, who clung to the bole of Laurelin and wept.”

“It seems that she was the most devastated by the loss of the Trees,” said Galenbrethil.

“She was,” replied Ilmarë. “So much that Lady Varda asked us – Urwendi and myself – to stay behind and keep an eye on her, lest she would harm herself in her despair.”

“Can something like that happen to the Valar at all?” asked Celebrían doubtfully.

“No such thing is known to have ever happened,” answered the Maia, ”but yea, we Ainur do suffer from loss, disappointment and hurt feelings as much as you Edar do – perhaps even more. Fortunately for us, we can perceive the love of Ilúvatar more directly, and thus we are able to heal from such hurts faster and more completely.”

“How comes then that Morgoth and his followers had fallen from grace so utterly?” wondered Galenbrethil. “Knowing such love should prevent one from turning evil, should it not?”

“It should,” Ilmarë agreed,” but you have to accept love for it to do you any good; ‘tis never forced upon you. And those who cannot accept love will find no other path than that of malice and hatred – which, inevitably, will lead them into the Everlasting Darkness.”

Hearing those words, Morwinyon suddenly became very pale and grim-faced, and Lady Helyanwë began to cry silently, for they were reminded of the terrible Oath of the Fëanorians that had bereft them of father and husband,. Celebrían’s heart went out to them; for whatever Macalaurë had done upon his return to Middle-earth, he must have been a good and noble person once, and most likely a loving husband and a doting father.

Before the Oath would overwhelm him completely.

She wished she could say something to comfort his wife and his son. But this was neither the time nor the place for that, and she knew it. She was determined, however, to speak to them as soon as the chance offered itself. But first she wanted to heart the end of the tale as much as Aracáno did, for in many places it seemed to differ from the legendarium in the librarly of Imladris considerably.

“What did the Lady Vána do then?” she asked.

“She kept weeping, and she wrapped her golden hair about the bole of Laurelin, while her tears were dropping softly at its roots,” replied Ilmarë, clearly moved by that memory. “And behold, as the dew of her gentle love touched those withered roots, a sudden pale gleam was born among the darkened branches.”

“But-but I always thought it was Lady Nienna whose tears rekindled the Trees for a short time,” exclaimed Celebrían in surprise. “Are then all ancient tales wrong?”

“Nay, they are not,” answered the Maia. “For ‘tis true that the tears of Lady Nienna have healing powers beyond imagination. However, the Trees were well beyond healing already; only love could make them bring forth fruit and blossom one last time. And  thus Lady Vána gazed in wonder as where her first tears fell a shoot sprang from Laurelin, and it budded, and the buds were all of gold, and golden light came from them, like a ray of sunlight beneath a cloud.”

“It must have been a breath-taking sight in all that gloom and shadow,” said Celebrían softly, remembering what it had been like when she had first spotted the light of the torch carried by her sons, in the dark den of the Orcs that had captured her. Back then, all she could feel was shame and horror that Elladan and Elrohir would see him in that shape; now she realized that it had been the first ray of hope.

“It was indeed,” Ilmarë agreed,” and Lady Vána ran out upon the plain, and she lifted up her sweet voice with all her might, so that her hymn of gratitude could be heard ‘til the gates of Valmar, so that all the Valar could hear it. And while at first they thought it to be the voice of lament, they could soon perceive the great joy in it; and the words they could hear repeated over and over were I-kal'antúlien, Light hath returned.”

She paused for a moment to allow her audience to let the enormity of that fact sink in fully. Then she smiled and went on.

“You can probably imagine the murmur of amazement a-rising all over Valmar. We all gathered around the Ezellohar in excitement, and when we beheld Lady Vána beneath the Tree and the new shot of gold, a mighty song of praise and joy burst forth on every tongue. The Eldar came running up from Eldamas, and they were amazed beyond measure and praised Lady Yavanna, believing that her spels had proven mightier than her foretelling.”

“Oh indeed,” Lady Vainóni suddenly laughed out loud, “and when Lady Yavanna protested, saying that her spells played but a lesser part, and that it was mostly her sister’s gentle love and her tears that had worked the miracle, few of us were willing to believe it.”

“So this is how it came into the tales that Lady Palúrien had re-awakened the Trees,” Legolas, too, laughed. “Not even the testimony of a Vala can take it up with a stubborn legend, it seems.”

“Apparently,” Ilmarë agreed, looking very amused. “However, she also reminded us that her foretelling had been true, and that we all would see it all too soon.”

“What kind of foretelling?” asked Aracáno.

“That the Trees would no longer bloom, nor would they shine in their glory of old,” reminded him Lindefal, and Ilmarë nodded.

“You are right,” she said. “For as we were standing there, gazing on Laurelin, those golden buds opened and put forth leaves; leaves that were different from the ones of old, as they were entirely of finest gold. And even as we watched, the branch sprouted golden blossoms all along its length, so that it was thronged with flowers. Yet as soon as the blossoms opened fully, a sudden gust of wind came up and shook them from their slender stems, blowing them our heads like tiny jets of fire.”

“To us, it seemed like golden rain,” said Lindo, his eyes misty with memories, “And while some feared a great evil at work, others chased after the shining petals as small elflings chase after butterflies, far and wide, and gathered those they could catch in baskets.”

“Only to have those baskets go up in fire,” laughed Lady Vainóni, “unless they were made of wickerwork of golden threads or other metals. Nothing else might contain those ardent blooms, and if one tried it nonetheless, the petals were lost again. Many have suffered burns, too; I fear the screams could be head to the farthest corners of Mandos.”

“And you would be mistaken,” replied Ilmarë, but she was smiling. “No sound from outside can reach the Halls of Mandos or those who dwell within. But we were talking about the golden blossoms of Laurelin, I believe. You must know that one of these was greater than the others, shining more brightly, and more richly golden; and while it swayed to the winds, it alone fell not. Instead, it kept growing, and as it grew, it was fructified by its own radiant warmth. Then its petals fell and were collected and treasured by the Eldar, above all by those skilled in smithcraft, and a single fruit hung from the branch: a fruit of great beauty.”

“And of that fruit Lord Aulë later wrought the vessel of the Sun,” added Morwinyion. “Anatar Mahtan would often speak to us about that.”

“Yea; but that was later,” said Ilmarë. “Right then, the golden leaves of the bough grew pale, and they shrivelled and shone no more, and dropped to the eart, dying. The fruit, however, waxed wonderfully, filling with all the sap and radiance of the dying Tree: like quivering flames of amber and red it shone under the translucent rind, smooth as a glass transfused with gold. And the bough bent under its weight, as it hung before our eyes as a globe of throbbing fire.”

“It must have been beautiful… and frightening beyond measure,” murmured Findalor. He was used to the fiery beauty of liquid glass in his workshop, yet he knew that it would be but a pale shadow comapred with such glorious radiance.

“You are right: it was both,” Ilmarë agreed, “and we were fearful that the branch might snap under the weight, and the fruit of wonder would be dashed to the ground, and the last flame of Laurelin’s life would be lost. Therefore Lady Yavanna begged Lord Aulë to bear up the branch upon his mighty shoulders. Yet the Smith of Arda was just standing there as one lost in sudden thought; for he realized that now he had found the right substance for his great work. Then he called for Lord Tulkas to aid him, and together they severed the stem of that fruit.”

“That could not have gone well with those who saw it,” commented Legolas.

“Nay, it did not,” admitted Ilmarë. “All those who beheld their doing were astonished at his ruthlessness. Loudly they murmured against those who would anew ravish the Tree, and Lady Vána in particular was in great ire.”

“Did no-one attempt to hinder these two in their task?” asked Elenwë, with a hint of queenly  disapproval in her gentle voice. “I cannot imagine that the other Valar would see it and do nothing.”

“Some of them might have been in disagreement,” allowed the Maia, “yet no-one dared to approach them, for even they could scarcely bear upon their shoulders that great globe of flame and were staggering beneath its weight. Lord Aulë called us upon our lack of wisdom and patience; but while doing so, his foot went astray and he stumbled, and even Lord Tulkas might not bear that fruit alone, so that it fell, and hitting stony ground, it burst asunder.”

“Oh, no!” Aracáno murmured in great distress, so wrapped up in the tale that he quite forgot that the Sun had been sailing the upper airs for the last two Ages undisturbed. Such was the magic of tales told by the Powers themelves. “What happened to th elight in the fruit? Was it lost forever?”

“Worry not, for that is not what happened,” answered the Maia. “When the fruit broke, such a blinding radiance leapt forth from it as not even the full bloom of Laurelin had ever produced; and even the eyes of the Ainur were dazzled, so that we stumbled back. That light spilled right into the basin of Kulullin, and a pillar of fire rose from its depths, smiting the heavens that the stars paled above it and the face of Taniquetil, though far off, became fiery red for a moment, ere that column of light would collapse again.”

“It did not help the Tree, though,” said Legolas thoughtfully.

“Nay, it did not, for Laurelin was truly and irrevocably dead,” admitted Ilmarë. “But the heart of Lord Aulë was filled with joy nonetheless, for now he had the right material for the making of the ship of light that would surpass even the Elder King’s desire; and now Lady Varda and many others, even Lady Vána, understood his purpose and were glad.”

“It must have been heavy labour, even for the Valar themselves, to get the broken halves of that fruit to Lord Aulë’s smithy,” said Lindefal. “Though I still cannot fathom why would they need to do so bodily. Could they not simply sing the Sun-ship into existence? Was it not how they had built the rest of Arda to begin with?”

“Nay, they could not,” replied the Maia, “for by entering Eä, we Ainur, too, are bound to its natural laws. Not as completely as you are, of course,” she added with twinkling eyes, seeing the disbelief upon their faces, “for where would be the fun in that? Yet not even the Elder King can merely snap with his fingers and make things happen. In some cases we have to labour just as hard as you do.”

“I remember the great excitement when the mighty basket of twisted gold was wrought, in which to transport the fruit of noon,” said Morwinyon with a soft smile. “I was still very young and got constantly underfoot while Anatar Mahal and Uncle Tulkastor were hammering and twisting the gold filaments – for days to no end, it seemed, although in the endless gloom no-one could tell how much time had truly gone by. One of Lord Aulë’s people was there, too, who did the weaving of the golden strings with great power and even greater skill; his voice sounded most amazing, for it seemed that he exercised all his power through it, despite that he did the actual weaving with his hands.”

“Curumo,” supplied Lindo, seeing a great many blank faces around. “He was the greatest of the Aulendili… well, after the fallen one, that is. His Songs of Power were mightier than swords and hammers, even though he much delighted in ordinary smithcraft as well.”

“And I was deadly afraid of him,” added Morwinyon with a rueful smile. “He had a way of looking down at one as if we were but vermin; and me being the son of a rebel and a Kinslayer already, it was hard to deal with that.”

“You were a child, and Curumo had no right to treat an innocent child with disdain for the sins of his father,” said Meril sharply. “Whatever we might think of your atar and uncles, none of what they had done was your fault. Sometimes I wonder if it was truly wise to let Curumo loose on the clueless people of Endórë.”

She looked directly at Celebrían, who shrugged.

“So far, he has proved to be a great help for the free peoples of Middle-earth in their long twilight struggle against Sauron,” she replied and saw some in the audience flinch; those were people who had fought the Dark Lord and his minions for many yéni, back in the Great Lands. “Although I must admit that I prefer the company of Mithrandir and Aiwendil, personally.”

That statement earned her blank looks from the Amanian Elves.

“Who is Mithrandir?” asked Master Lindo with a frown. His knowledge was centered around the distant past, and he rarely bothered to follow more recent events.

“You would know him as Olórin,” explained Meril, who was apparently well-versed in the happenings and the balance of power back in Middle-earth; small wonder, considering how many of those returning from the Outer Lands were going in and out of her house. “But we should allow Ilmarë to finish her tale ere we would launch into a different one, should we not?”

Her tone made it adamantly clear that this was not a mere suggestion, and such was her authority among the Tol Eressëans that people hurriedly murmured their apologies and fell silent at once. Ilmarë, though, just smiled and seemed amused by the scene.

“As Morwinyon said, a huge basket of twisted gold was made,” she then went on with her tale, “and strewed with the collected petals of the last bloom. Then we laid into it the halves of the fruit of noon; and uplifting it with many hands, we bore it away with much singing as hope reawakened in our hearts.”

“Where did you take it?” an elfling from the audience asked, wide-eyed with excitement. Celebrían recognized Galenbrethil son Ilvar.

“Why, to the courts of Lord Aulë, of course,” answered Ilmarë,” and that was where the great smithying of the Sun began. A cunning and marvellous task it was, the greatest of all great works of Aulë Talka-Marda, the number of whose works is legion. He and his people wrought a vessel of the perfect rind of the fruit: a vessel translucent and shining, yet of tempered strength. For he overcame the brittleness of the rind with mighty spells of his own, so that in no way would be its subtle delicacy diminished.”

“And it was light enough to swim the upper airs nonetheless?” asked someone, clearly a smith himself, yet one born in Middle-earth, as his eyes did not hold the remembrance of the light of the Trees, doubtfully. “Even though the mightiest of the Valar had stumbled under its weight?”

“O yea, it did,” said Master Lindo. “And when the liquid light from Kulullin was poured therein, it neither spilled nor dimmed; nor did the shining vessel take any injury from that ardent radiance but it would swim the air more lightly than any bird. For Lord Aulë had fashioned it like a great ship, broad of beam, laying one half of the rind within the other so that its strength would not break.”

“But a ship needs sails and ropes,” said another one from the audience; a Teler by his silver locks. “How could they find any cloth that would bear the heat of the very Sun, without burning to ashes at the first touch?”

“We had no such fabric at our disposal, of course,” Ilmarë admitted, “at least not yet. Not unless Lady Vána, repenting of her past murmurings, cut short her golden hair and gave it to Vairë the Weaver, who then wove sails and ropes of it with her people. And those sails and ropes were stronger than any mariner had ever seen, and yet fine like gossamer.”

“Oh, they were indeed,” said Lady Helyanwë, smiling. “I was one of the weavers who worked on the sails; never before and never again did I work with such exquisite thread.”

“You worked on the sails of the Sun-ship?” Aracáno looked at his cousin’s wife with a mix of surprise and respect.

She shrugged. “Lady Vairë found that I needed to do my part in the struggle for the return of the Light; and besides, as Formenos had not been cleansed yet at that time, I dwelt under her roof for a while.”

“In Mandos?” asked Galenbrethil in shock, but Lady Helyanwë laughed.

“Of course not; in their mansion in Valmar. I never actually caught sight of Lord Námo; not that I would want to.”

“And I blame you not, although if you asked those who have passed through Mandos, they might tell you unexpected things about its lord,” said Ilmarë. “In any case, now that the Ship of the Heavens had been fitted with matching sails and ropes, fastened to her masts and spars of pure gold, she was made ready to climb the skies. The last, unfading petals of Laurelin were gathered like a star at her prow, and tassels and streamers of glittering light were hung about her bulwarks, and a flash of lightning was caught in her mast to be a pennant…”

Such power had her words that her audience could clearly see with their inner eyes the great, diaphanous vessel, filled to the brim with the blazing radiance of the fruit of the noon, transferred from gold Kulullin. They could almost feel the scorching heat of the liquid light in her belly as she was tugging her cords like a captive bird, trying to escape to the upper airs. It was a glorious sight, glorious and frightening, even for those who had not yet been alive – or had lived in the Outer Lands – when all this had happened for real.

“And then the Valar gave the ship a name,” continued Ilmarë. “They called her Sári which means Sun, but the Elves of Eldamas called her Ur which means fire; and many other names does she bear in song and in verse.”

“Oh indeed,” said Master Lindo with a dreamy look upon his face. “The Lamp of Vána is she named among the Valar, in memory of Lady Vána's tears and her golden tresses, which she sacrificed; and the Noldoli called her Galmir, the goldgleamer, and Glorvent, the ship of gold…”

“While the Moriquendi of Endórë call her Bráglorin, the blazing vessel, in their laments over the loss of starlight, and many a name beside, which are even less flattering,” supplied Legolas with a grin.

“And her names among Men are so numerous that no Man had ever fully counted them,” finished Lindefal laughing, him being the one with the most experience in Mannish customs.

“True, all true,” said Ilmarë, and she was laughing, too. “And while that wondrous galleon was a-building, other folk were labouring near Ezellohar, where the Two Trees once grew. A great basin they fashioned there, the floor of which they wrought of gold and the walls of which were of polished bronze, and an arcade of golden pillars wreathed with fires encircled it from all directions, save the East. When it was finished, Lady Yavanna set a great and nameless spell around it, and when most of the liquid light from Laurelin’s last fruit was poured therein, it became a bath of fire.”

“For which it is called Faskalanúmen, the Bath of the Setting Sun,” added Lindo. “For when the first sunset came on Valinor, and Urwendi returned from the East, here was the ship drawn down, so that its radiance be refreshed for the new voyage in the next morning, while the Moon held the high heavens.”

“Hold on!” interrupted Aracáno. “We heard naught about the making of the Moon yet. And how did Urwendi become the Mistress of the Sun anyway? Last time I heard she was one of Lady Vána’s handmaids, who helped watering the roots of Laurelin.”

“That she was for a while, though she had had a different allegiance before,” replied Ilmarë. “But that is another tale for another night – one in which my brother Fionwë is not lurking around, listening to our entertainment. For he had never truly overcome the loss of the fiery maiden of the Sun, and ‘tis better not to cause him unnecessary heartache.”

Many of the audience protested at first, but Ilmarë was not moved by their pleas. Instead, she pointed out that the night was almost over, and even Elves needed some rest before they could listen to more ancient legends. Having said that, she simply faded out of bodily existence, and there was nought the Elves could have done about it.

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

Therefore, the gathering slowly dispersed, although many chose to walk out to the ancient Bridge of Tavrobel and wait for the sunrise, which they would doubtlessly watch from very different eyes. Celebrían and Aracáno were among those, and, after some hesitation, Elenwë joined them, too.

“You said that my atar entered Hithlum at the very moment when the Sun first rose,” whispered Aracáno to Celebrían, “and that flowers leapt from the earth right before his feet. I wish I could have been there to see that.”

“So do I,” admitted Elenwë. “There is much in the history of our people in Endórë that I do not mind having missed. I wonder sometimes, though, if such wonders were not worth the price, after all.”

Celebrían nodded thoughtfully. “They say that great beauty always comes at a great price,” she said soberly.

For some reason, she had to think of Lothlórien and its golden glory and asked herself what kind of price her mother might have paid for preserving it.

~TBC~