Elvenhome

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see in the Foreword.

Author’s notes: Once again, I follow the version described in “The Book of Lost Tales” when it comes to the making of the Moon.

There are certain elements of canon where I took some poetic licence, but – as far as I know – they do not contradict anything that is expressly written in canon, so I hope nobody is upset about that.

This one is for Fiondil to cheer him up!

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

37. The Taming of Fire

The rest of the day was spent with private conversations. Celebrían rejoined Meril’s household for the day, while Lindefal took Aracáno with him to the Rowan Tree Inn to meet some visitors from the mainland who apparently wanted to see him. He did not tell who those visitors were but promised to bring back the young prince well in time, so that Aracáno would get the chance to hear the second part of the tale.

Helyanwë and her son were markedly absent all day. Celebrían suspected that Meril’s presence had something to do with that. The Lady of Tol Eressëa made no secret of her dislike of any son of Fëanor – or their families.

“’Tis not so that she would have any particular grudges against Macalaurë,” explained Elenwë when Meril happened to be beyond earshot. “’Tis more the old rivalry between her and Maitimo. She could never truly forgive Findecáno for choosing his otorno before his own family so often. Not that I would blame her,” she added, her gentle features hardening in anger. “Had Turucáno neglected me the same way for any friend on Arda, I would have taught him the true meaning of suffering before he would meet his first Orc.”

Somehow Celebrían had no doubt whatsoever that she would have done exactly that. Elenwë might have looked like a porcelain doll, but she was by no means a weakling. This was the elleth who chose to follow her husband across the Grinding Ice, after all – and she was a Vanya, with all the stubborn pride so characteristic for the First Clan.

“I assume Fingon will have to do a great deal of grovelling, once he gets released, if he wants to get back in Meril’s good graces,” she said.

Elenwë did not answer at once, her face clouded in sorrow.

“I am not certain that will ever happen,” she finally said. “I am not sure Findecáno would want to be reconciled with his wife; and I am fairly certain that even if he would, Merilindë would not take him back. She said so quite clearly.”

“Can she truly do that?” Celebrían asked doubtfully. “The Valar…”

“…cannot force her to take him back,” replied Elenwë with a shrug. “The most they could do would be to make them live under the same roof, but what good would that do to anyone?”

“True,” for a moment, Celebrían was deeply in thoughts. “But why would Fingon not wish to return to his family?”

“When you pass through the Halls of Mandos, you cannot do so unchanged,” explained Elenwë quietly. “When you go through judgement, all pretensions and lies are stripped away from your fëa – you are forced to look at yourself and your deeds with the eyes of unveiled truth. ‘Tis a painful experience, but it also shows you what was truly important in your life, regardless of the expectations you had been trying to fulfil.”

“What was it for you?” asked Celebrían, and Elenwë smiled.

“My love to Turucáno and our daughter, and their love for me. But I had known that already, or I would not have followed him on his mad quest to Endórë.”

“And what do you think was it for Fingon?” Actually, Celebrían was quite sure about the answer; she just wanted confirmation.

“His friendship with Maitimo,” replied Elenwë without hesitation. “But again, that is something everyone knew already. It had been so since their childhood; and according to what Merilindë tells me, it only got worse in Endórë.”

“That is still no reason for Meril to shun Maglor’s family,” said Celebrían with a frown. “They have no blame in all this; and they have been abandoned, too. The mortals have a saying: misery loves company. I thought theirs hared fates would bring them closer to each other.”

“Oh, but there is a difference,” replied Elenwë. “Helyanwë still loves her husband and cannot wait to have him back. She gas forgiven him everything already; and I fear that is what Merilindë cannot forgive her. She is full of bitterness towards Findecáno and begrudges Helyanwë her forgiveness.”

“He believes that Helyanwë has forgiven Maglor too easily?” clarified Celebrían.

Elenwë nodded. “I think so, yes. But she forgets something important: Helyanwë could always be certain of her husband’s undivided love. Macalaurë might have followed his atar on the path that led to the downfall of their entire House, out of filial duty – and you must understand that very few could withstand Fëanáro’s unique power of persuasion, least those of his own blood – but in his heart was Helyanwë alone. That was why he agreed to go without her – to spare her the perils of such a journey – and why he gifted a child upon here ere he would leave: so that she would always have something of him.”

“That,” said Celebrían dryly, “is one interpretation of things. Many would see it as if Maglor had abandoned his pregnant wife to chase after the accursed jewels of his father.”

“And I am fairly certain that is how Merilindë sees it,” Elenwë agreed. “But she is mistaken. I remember much clearer what things used to be like. As I was dead in the last two Ages, my old memories have not got overshadowed by more recent ones. I can tell you that Macalaurë was devoted to his wife, ad it broke his heart to leave her behind.”

“Why did he go then?” asked Celebrían. “He was a grown Elf, not some frightened elfling that would need his adar all the time.”

“As I said: you cannot even begin to imagine Fëanáro’s spell over his sons and over those who followed him devoutly,” replied Elenwë with a sigh. “Besides, Macalaurë also went for Maitimo’s sake. They were the sanest ones from Fëanáro’s get; without him, Maitimo would not have been able to control his brothers.”

“Such control as it was!” returned Celebrían bitterly. “It was not the others who led the attack on the Havens of Sirion and slaughtered those few who had miraculously survived Gondolin and Doriath. Those were Maedhros and Maglor!”

“I thought you liked and respected Macalaurë for what he had done for your husband and his brother,” said Elenwë in surprise. Celebrían nodded.

“I do. But that does not mean he did not have the blood of my father’s kin on his hands. And he has yet to come forth and ask for forgiveness.”

“If he does… will you grant it?” asked Elenwë quietly, and Celebrían nodded again.

“For Elrond’s sake, yea, I will forgive him. But I cannot promise to forget.”

“Fair enough,” said Elenwë with a shrug. “Now, why do we not go out into the gardens and allow their beauty to make us forget our woes for a while?”

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

The gardens of the House of the Hundred Chimneys proved very beautiful indeed, and they spent quite some time there, resting and teaching each other songs the other one had no means to know before. In the afternoon Aracáno, too, returned from town, explaining them that he had met some subjects of his father’s, who had also been recently released and came to live with their families in one of the lesser settlements of Tol Eressëa.

“Someone I should know?” asked Elenwë dutifully, but Aracáno shook his head.

“Unlikely. They were but simple guards at Atar’s court in Hithlum, I understand, born in Endórë already. Still, they wanted to renew their oath of fealty to our House, and as I am the only prince of our family currently alive…” he shrugged. “’Twas nice, though. They told me a great many stories from the time when Atar was High King of the Noldor-in-exile. Those must have been grand times. I wish I had lived to see them.”

“So do I, despite all the danger and darkness they had to face,” admitted Elenwë wistfully. “But let us look forward; we cannot live in the past, and I for my part am eager to hear the other half of Ilmarë’s tale tonight.”

She was clearly not alone with that, for barely had darkness begun to fall, people started gathering in the Great Hall of the House. By general agreement, supper had been served in the kitchens, taken individually, so that there had not been any need for rearranging the Hall, and the telling of tales could begin at sunset.

As soon as the first candles were lit, Ilmarë, too, shimmered into existence in their midst, glowing gently in silver and white and pale gold like some great pearl. She looked around the gathering, which was even greater than in the previous night, and smiled.

“I see you are all desirous to hear the rest of the tale,” she said, “therefore I shall waste no time and get on with it at once. As you doubtlessly remember, we stopped last time at the point where the Sun-ship was finished and received its names – or, at least, some of them, as more would follow in time – and was straining impatiently to be away. Lord Manwë, though, looked at its glory, and his heart was concerned.

“‘Who shall steer us this boat,’ he asked. ‘Who shall guide its course above the realms of Arda? For even the fanar of the Ainur may not endure to bathe in this great light for long, I fear.’ For so subtle were those radiances that, if set in the air, they neither spilled nor san; nay, they would rather rise and float away far above Vilna, buoyant and incredibly light as they were.”

“And yet Urwendi was not afraid,” said Lindo softly.

“Nay; and why should she?” replied Ilmarë. “She survived when Melkor had broken the Lamp of Gold and spilled the liquid light over her fana; and later she was the one to water the roots of Laurelin with light; she and her maidens. Thus she begged leave to become the mistress of the Sun; and as Lord Manwë did give his consent, she made herself ready for that glorious task. She summoned her maidens, and together they cast their raiment aside and descended into the basin of Faskalan, so that its golden foams covered their forms completely; and even the Great Valar were like stone with fear, for no-one knew if we would see them ever again.”

“Would that even be possible?” asked Aracáno, fascinated by the dreadful image. “Can a Maia truly die, like on of us?”

“Not like one of you, we cannot,” replied Ilmarë, “for our fanar are mere raiments and our spirits cannot be destroyed, as we came from the Timeless Halls. But we can suffer grievous wounds when in bodily form; indeed, many of us have in the Battle of the Powers, and it took them a long time to recover. Urwendi herself was terribly wounded when Melkor destroyed the Lamps, which has made her fearless and all the stronger after her recovery. But no-one of us knows what would happen to us, should our fanar be utterly destroyed while we are still wearing them. And that was what we feared when Urwendi and her maidens went down into the pool of Faskalan, boldly, as bathers go into the Sea.”

“But they were not destroyed, were they?” inquired Elenwë.

“Nay,” a different voice, sounding deep and musical like a bronze bell, answered, and Fionwë shimmered into existence next to his sister. “After a while, they came again to the brazen shores; and they were not as before, for their fanar had become translucent and shone with liquid fire from within. Light flashed from their limbs as they moved; and no raiment could endure to cover their glorious bodies anymore. Like air they were, as they trod as weightlessly as sunlight does on the earth; and they climbed upon the Sun-ship with no word of farewell to anyone they had left behind. And the vessel heaved against its cords, so that our combined strength might scarce restrain it.”

All were spellbound by his words, which sounded like the lyrics from some ancient song: old, powerful and full of fire. All but Ilmarë, that is, who turned to him with a raised eyebrow.

“I thought you were not supposed to sneak around here, unclad, eavesdropping on us, brother,” she said. “I did my best to keep you away from tonight’s tale – what good is it to relive the memories of painful loss?”

“But those are my memories, too,” argued Fionwë, “and I shall not be free of this pain ‘til the end of Arda and beyond. I have accepted that fact; for am I not reminded of my loss every morning when i-Kalavente, the Ship of Light, enters the heavens through the Gates of Morning?”

The Elves listened to their argument slightly bewildered, and it was Aracáno, with the impatience of the young and the innocence of a Reborn who finally dared to ask.

“What loss are you talking about?”

“The loss of my heart and the loss of all hope that it would ever be found and accepted by the one I had lost it to,” answered Fionwë with a melancholy smile. “For I had conceived a great love for that bright maiden right after entering Eä for the first time; and her loveliness then, when bathed in fire she sate as the radiant mistress of the Sun, set me aflame with the eagerness of the Valar themselves. Alas that she no longer had eyes for me after her wondrous change.”

Ilmarë gave her brother a compassionate look.

“You could not bear her touch; she would bur your fana to ashes,” she reminded him gently. “She had become what our fallen brethren, the Valaraucar had originally been meant to be: a pure vessel of the Flame Imperishable. She is beyond your reach now, and shall remain so ‘til Arda is remade… and perchance beyond that, for she had been called to a higher destiny than any of us.”

“I know,” replied Fionwë dryly, “But do I have to like it?”

Aracáno glanced from one Maia to another in surprise. “Never in my whole life spent in Aman had I heard that Maiar would fall in love, too,” he said. “We knew of Lady Uinen and Lord Ossë, of course, but we always thought them to be the exception.”

“And you are right, for they are,” answered Ilmarë. “As a rule, we Maiar do not forge hat kind of bond with another one of our own, for we find our fulfilment in serving our Masters and Mistresses. But as you said, there are exceptions, and the Lady and Lord of the Seas are not the only ones.”

“That is sad,” commented Aracáno. “To find love against all odds, only for it to be unrequited ‘til the Remaking or beyond. I assume the rest of you, who know no such bond, is better off without it.”

“Is that truly what you believe?” asked Fionwë with a somewhat pained half-smile. “Have you, too, not nurtured a secret love for someone who would not, could not return it, in your heart all your life? Or have you been cured of it when you passed through Mandos? I am told that such things happen sometimes; not often, but they do happen.”

Aracáno became stark white and did not answer, making it crystal clear for anyone with eyes to see that no, he had not been cured from his unlucky love during the endless yéni he had spent unhoused in the Halls of Mandos.

Celebrían briefly wondered who the elleth might have been and why had she not returned his love. After all, he was of royal birth, handsome, brave – and eminently likeable. Of course, she knew that the ways of the heart were unpredictable sometimes; and perhaps the elleth was already bound to someone else. That, too, happened sometimes; rarely, but it did happen.

Fionwë nodded like someone who had just made his point.

“Such are the ways of the heart, and even the Ainur are powerless in the face of love,” he said. “And thus I had no other choice than step back and allow Urwendi to go her way, the one laid down for her by Ilúvatar. Now, at last, by our Lord Manwë’s command, we climbed the long slopes of Taniquetil and drew the Sun-ship along with us – not that it would have been such a great task. And as we stood on the wide space before our lord’s great doors, the ship was mooring on the western slope of the mountain, tugging at its bonds impatiently. So great had its story already become that sunbeams were pouring out over the shoulders of Taniquetil; there was a new light on the sky, and even the waters of the Shadowy Seas beyond were touched with a fire they had never seen before.”

“It must have been an awesome sight,” commented Elenwë. “Awesome and frightening; more so for the creatures of the Seas that had known nought but shadows previously.”

“’Tis said that all creatures that wandered Eä stood still in awe and fear,” replied Ilmarë in agreement, “as Lord Manwë bade Urwendi to steer the ship of light above Arda that joy may search out its darkest corners and all things that were still sleeping within its bosom may awake.”

“Yet Urwendi did not answer; nor did she waste a glance backward, looking out eagerly to the East instead,” added Fionwë, sorrow clouding his unnaturally bright eyes. “Therefore Lord Manwë ordered us to release the ropes that held her, and the Ship of the Morning rose straightway above Taniquetil, floating in the upper airs like a giant bird of fire. And as it rose, it burned brighter and purer steadily, ‘til all Valinor was filled with radiance; and the vales of Erumáni and the dark waves of the Shadowy Seas were bathed in light; and golden sunshine spilled all over the dark plain of Arvalin, save only the deep places where Ungweliantë’s clinging webs and darkest fumes still lay too thick for any light to filter through.”

“’Tis strange to image such dark places within Valinor itself,” said Celebrían, shivering with the memory of another deep, dark place, filled with malice and pain. “How is it possible that Ungoliant slipped through your guard and found her way into the Blessed Realm? How could your vigilance have failed so utterly?’

If Fionwë took offence on the blunt question, he did not show it.

“She did nothing of the like; nor did our vigilance falter,” he answered. “She had always been there, ever since that part of Arda had taken shape – due to the corruption of Melkor and his sowing the seed of discord into the Great Music of creation. Yet in that hour we were not bothered with the darkness of the Gloomweaver; for a great dawn had come upon Eä, and as we looked up, we saw that heaven was azure blue, like Lord Manwë’s raiment, and the stars had fled. And Lord Manwë sent a gentle wind that blew from the cold lands in the North to meet the Sun-ship and fill its gleaming sails; and white vapours mounted from the misty seas below towards her, so that her prow seemed to cleave a white and airy foam.”

Such was the power of his words – for not only was he a mighty warrior among his fellow Maiar, seconded by his brother Eönwë only, but also one of their greatest poets – that the Elves could actually see, with the eyes of their minds, the Sun-ship rise above the world majestically.

They could see indeed the Mánir, the spirits of the air, fluttering about the Sun-ship, drawing it by golden cords higher and higher, ‘til it was but a disc of fire wreathed in translucent veils of splendour that slowly wandered from the West. And as it drew further on its way the light in Valinor grew mellow, and the shadows of the mansions of the Valar became long, slanting away towards the waters of the Outer Seas; but the greatest and longest of all shadows was the one cast by Taniquetil itself.

“… and thus come to the first time that it was truly afternoon in Valinor,” Fionwë finished his tale, smiling.

Those words finally broke the spell that had them all bound, and Lindo laughed.

“That is all quite right,” he said, “yet you forgot to mention that to such vast heights did the Sun’s great galleon climb, while blazing hotter and brighter still, that soon its glory became greater than even the Valar would have expected. Its light pierced everywhere, and all the deep vales and darkling woods, the bleak slopes and rocky streams, lay dazzled by it, and even the Valar were amazed, understanding that they had unleashed a power beyond even their imagination.”

“Great was the magic and wonder of the Sun in those days of bright Urwendi,” Fionwë agreed, his eyes becoming somewhat… misty with old memories.

“Perhaps so,” allowed Ilmarë, taking back the storytelling from him, “yet not so tender, nor so delicately fair as the Golden Tree had once been. And thus whispers of new discontent awoke in Valinor, and angry words ran among the Valar themselves. Lord Námo and his sister were particularly wroth, saying that Lord Aulë and Lady Varda would forever be meddling with the due order of the world, making it a place where no quiet or peaceful shadow could remain.”

“They said that within your earshot?” asked Aracáno incredulously.

“Erm… not exactly within mine, they did not,” Ilmarë tried to look suitably contrite. “But Erunyauvë happened to be fairly close, and…”

“… and you Maiar love gossip as much as we do,” Elenwë realized, laughing.

“Not that we would have to rely on gossip entirely,” said Helyanwë quietly. “Everyone who walked by could see Lord Irmo sitting and weeping in a grove of trees beneath the shade of Taniquetil, from where he looked upon his gardens stretching beneath, still disordered by the great hunt of the Valar, for he had not had the heart for their mending.”

“True,” said Ilmarë, “the gardens of Lórien were in a sad state. The nightingales were silent, for they could not bear the heat dancing above the trees. The poppies were withered, and even the evening flowers drooped and gave no scent anymore. And Lord Irmo’s people gathered around Telimpë in sorrow, for it gleamed wanly as still waters rather than the shining dew of Silpion, so overwhelming was the great light of day.”

“Small wonder that the Lord of Dreams mourned the twilight of the night, which had always been his realm,” commented Lady Vainóni softly. “Those were trying times, even for one of the Powers.”

Ilmarë nodded. “Mourn he did, truly, and calling out to Lord Manwë, he begged him to call back his glittering ship. For indeed, the eyes of all Eldar and those of us wearing a fana ached from its flaming; and beauty and sleep as they had known earlier were driven away. So much did some mourn the old loveliness of Laurelin, and Silpion that they would have preferred the darkness and their memories to this new, harsh brightness.”

“Well, Lady Vána was certainly less than content,” Fionwë agreed. “She was complaining that Kulullin's fount was dulled and her garden wilted in the heat, and her roses lost their hues and fragrance; for the Sun then sailed nearer to the Earth than it now does.”

Celebrían nodded thoughtfully. “I remember Ada telling me tales about how all the Sindar in Middle-earth were shocked and nearly blinded by the first rising of the Sun, having known nought but soft starlight until then,” she said. “And the Avari sing laments about the end of starlight to this very day, ‘tis said. I imagine it must have been even worse in Valinor, which had to bear the first, untamed brunt of the Sun.”

“Even so, Lord Manwë was disappointed with his brethren and chided them for their fickleness and discontent,” replied Ilmarë. “But they were not appeased; not until Lord Ulmo came in from outer Vai, that is, and spoke to them, saying: ‘Neither the counsels of Lord Manwë, nor yours are to be despised- For in what did truly lie the great beauty of the Trees? In change and in slow alternation of fair things, the passing blending gently with that which was to come.’”

“That is very true,” said Lady Vainóni. “Life is change – for us as much as for the Powers themselves; and everything that withstands the inevitable change denies life itself.”

“Quite so,” Ilmarë agreed, “and those words of wisdom coming from the Lord of Vai touched the heart of Lord Irmo, filling him with great longing. Thereupon he went out to the plain, and there he sat beside the stock of Silpion for four daytimes – which was the length of four bloomings of Laurelin of old – and the shadows gathered shyly round him.”

“I thought there were no longer any shadows in Valinor,” Interrupted Aracáno, in understandable confusion.

“You have not paid proper attention,” answered Ilmarë. “At that time, the Sun-ship was sailing far to the East, for Lord Manwë had not as yet ruled its course and Urwendi was allowed to steer it as seemed good to her. And thus the darkness of the mountains fell across the plain, and a silver mist rose from the Seam and a vague and flitting twilight was gathering once more in Valinor. Yet Lord Irmo was still not appeased, sitting there, pondering why the spells of Lady Yavanna had been wrought upon Laurelin alone.”

“That is something I was wondering about myself,” said Helyanwë thoughtfully. “Why were all so concerned about he Golden Tree that they almost forget about the white one, even though Silpion had been the older of the two?”

“All save Lord Irmo and his people,” corrected Lindo; but Helyanwë shrugged.

“Which did not change the end results much, as they were clearly in the minority,” she pointed out.

“Quite so,” said Ilmarë, “yet about the whys and wherefores I cannot give you any satisfying answer, I fear. All I know is that Ilúvatar planted a great urgency in the hearts of Lord Aulë and Lady Varda; and even among the Great Valar, those two are known to pursue their goals most diligently.”

“You mean they simply punched through, and Lord Irmo, being a more… moderate stool, stood no chance against them?” asked Aracáno, grinning.

Ilmarë laughed. “Something like that, yea. But worry not about Lord Irmo, for he has his own, subtle ways to reach his goals nonetheless. And he can be as headstrong as any of his brethren, once he puts his mind to it. And that was exactly what he did in that hour of untamed fire: he sang to Silpion, complaining that Valar were lost 'in a wilderness of gold and heat, or else in shadows full of death and unkindly glooms,' and as he sang, he touched the cruel wound in the bole of the White Tree.”

“Had he hoped to heal it, after all that time?” asked Elenwë with a frown. “I know that Lord Irmo is the Master Healer of Arda, but methinks even he could have done little against the poison of Ungweliantë that had murdered the Trees.”

“Not very much, ‘tis true,” the Maia agreed. “Yet his love for Silpion and the power gifted upon him by Ilúvatar – the power to heal all living things as far as healing was still possible – did awaken a faint glow in the depth of that terrible wound, as if some radiant sap would still stir within. And lo, a low branch above his bowed head burgeoned suddenly, and leaves of a very dark green, long and oval, budded and unfolded upon it, and all who saw this miracle rejoiced.”

“For a moment anyway,” added Lindo. “Ere they would realise that the rest of the Tree remained bare and dead as it had been during the seven days since the fruit of noon had been born upon Laurelin.”

“Even so, it was an awesome sight, one that filled our hearts with hope again,” said Lady Vainóni. “For as we all came, drawn nigh by the wondrous song of Lord Irmo, we saw that the new leaves were crusted with a silver moisture, and their undersides were white and set with pale gleaming filaments. And even buds of flowers grew upon the bough, and they opened in such great loveliness that all who saw had tears in their eyes as they looked upon them.”

“Alas that is lasted but a very short time,” sighed Lindo. “For all of a sudden, a dark mist rose from the Sea and gathered about the tree, and the air grew bitterly cold as it never before had been in Valinor, and those blossoms faded and fell, and our tears of joy turned into tears of sorrow in a heartbeat. And the Lord of Lórien was greatly distressed, more son than he had been before.”

“Small wonder, seeing the miracle he had worked on with all his might being destroyed in the wink of an eye,” said Gilfanon. “Have you ever learned what had caused it? With Morgoth off to wreak havoc in Endórë, who else had the power to do such a cruel thing?”

“One of his lieutenants, who had gone back on his oath of fealty sworn to Lord Manwë, answered Fionwë quietly. “Always had he great skill at manipulating the lower airs, and once he entered Melkor’s service, he used his skills to wreak destruction upon all things of beauty that the rest of us had built with great love.”

“You mean Sauron?” asked Celebrían with a frown. “Was he not one of Lord Aulë’s people?”

Fionwë shook his head. “Nay, not him; you probably never heard of this one, as he was among the first followers of Melkor and left us well before the Battle of the Powers. But as he remains unclad most of the time, he can travel at will all over Eä, and is very hard to get hold of.”

“Who is he?” asked Aracáno. “What is his name?”

“Even if we would speak his name, which we do not, it would say you nought,” replied Fionwë, “for he only ever had one in the ancient and holy tongue of Valinor, which had fallen out of use after the coming of your ancestors. Our true names are long and complicated, and we tell them no-one save our own kind, for they have the power to summon those who wear them, and that would be a dangerous thing, for you and for us, both.”

Aracáno digested that for a moment or two.

“And if somebody knew the true names of the Valar, could one summon them that way, too?” he then asked.

The laughter of the two Maiar mingled like a carillon of bronze and silver bells.

“Only if Ilúvatar himself does the summoning,” Fionwë answered when their mirth had calmed down a little. “You may see us all as the Powers, and you would be right, for we are. But there is a profound difference between us and the Valar; so profound that you cannot even begin to imagine. Much greater, indeed, than between our people and yours; for did not Melyanna wed Elwë Singollo, despite the difference of their nature? No such thing between a Vala and Maia would be possible. Ever.”

Aracáno nodded in understanding, although he was clearly a bit shocked by all the new things he had been told. Then he consciously pushed it away into the back of his mind for further consideration and returned to the actual tale.

“So, what happened after all the new blossoms of Silpion had fallen?” he asked.

“Not all of them fell,” corrected Ilmarë. “There was a single one at the branch's end that, when opening, shone with its own light, and no mist or cold could harm it. Indeed, it appeared to suck up those very vapours and transform them into the silver substance of its own body; and it grew to be a very pale and wondrous glistering flower, glistening whiter than the purest snow upon Taniquetil.”

“Its heart was of white flame that throbbed, waxing and waning marvellously,” added Lindo, “as if it had a life of its own.”

“Oh, I would see that it had, truly,” said Ilmarë. “Lord Irmo called it 1the Rose of Silpion’, and it grew and grew ’til it became but a little smaller than the fruit of Laurelin. There were ten thousand crystal petals in that flower, drenched in a fragrant dew like honey; but that dew was, in truth, silver light, akin to the radiance of Silpion of old.”

Again, even though Ilmarë was not quite the poet like her brother, the audience could see the marvellous blossom of the Silver Tree with their mind’s eye in all its awesome radiance.

“A joyous moment for Lord Irmo, I deem,” said Elenwë, smiling. As a Reborn with first-hand knowledge about the Lord of Lórien and his moods, she could imagine better than most what that miracle must have meant for the Vala.

“Joyous indeed,” replied Ilmarë, “and he was so enamoured of the Rose’s loveliness that he would suffer no-one to draw near; nor would he allow the blossom to be plucked gently down, even after the branch upon which it hung had yielded all its sap and withered. For he desired to see the Rose grow mightier than the fruit of noon, more glorious than the Sun.”

“And he thought that a good idea?” asked Elenwë with a frown. “Had it not been his main complain that there was already too much light in Valinor?”

“Quite so,” agreed Ilmarë, “yet even the Valar can get a little greedy from time to time. But it did not come to that; for the withered bough snapped under the weight, Rose of Silpion fell. Some of its dewy light was roughly shaken from it, and here and there a petal was crushed and tarnished…”

“Oh, no!” Elenwë paled. “Was that the end of it then?”

“Nay, it was not,” replied Ilmarë, smiling, “although Lord Irmo was fairly devastated by the sight. He wept and did his best to lift up the Rose carefully, yet it was too great and too heavy, even for him- Therefore he sent Minethlos, one of his people, to Lord Aulë’s halls; for there was a great silver charger, and they set the last bloom of Silpion upon it for everyone to see; for despite its hurts its glory and fragrance and pale magic were very great indeed.”

“That still does not explain how it ended up on the skies, though,” said Aracáno.

“Nay indeed,” answered Ilmarë, “but that is another tale for another night. Tonight, I shall only reveal to you what Lord Irmo suggested, after having mastered his grief: that the Valar build another vessel to match the galleon of the Sun, and that it should be made from the Rose of Silpion. And thus, in memory of the waxing and waning of the Two Trees, for twelve hours should the Sun-ship sail the heavens and leave Valinor, and for twelve should Silpion's pale barge mount the skies; and so there would be rest for tired eyes and weary hearts."

“And the other Valar recognized the wisdom of his counsel that echoed Lord Ulmo’s former words and agreed that it should be done,” added Fionwë. “But that tale we shall tell you tomorrow; for the night is growing old already.”

Many in the audience protested, but the two Maiar simply smiled and faded away from their midst, and there was nought that could have been done about it. Aracáno in particular was very disappointed that he still would not get to hear the end of the tale for another day. He felt as if the Maiar would make him wait deliberately, and it annoyed him to no end.

Ere he could have thrown a temper tantrum, though, Meril laid a soothing hand upon his forearm.

“Come with me,” she said. “We shall take a walk in the moonlit gardens of the House, among the night-blooming flowers of Lady Vainóni, which are a true marvel; and I shall tell you what it was like when the Moon first rose above Middle-earth.”

Aracáno was instantly consoled and followed her eagerly out into the gardens, with her handmaidens in tow. Celebrían and Elenwë, who both had grown quite fond of him, exchanged smiles that were almost motherly.

“Has he always been like this?” asked Helyanwë. “I am afraid I never met him in his former life, although I knew of him, of course.”

“You mean like an elfling craving attention?” Elenwë clarified. “Yea, I fear he has. But it was not his fault, not truly. Both his brothers and his sister could be quite overwhelming, having taken after Atar Nolofinwë; they were strong-willed, adventurous and even a little ruthless in pursuing their goals. Mild-mannered as Aracáno had always been, he had little chance to get out of their shadow.”

“Very much like Ambarussa and Ambaráto, I deem,” said Helyanwë thoughtfully. “Now I understand why they liked him so much, even though he never visited them in Formenos… or for quite some time before, I am told.”

“Probably so,” Elenwë agreed. “Now, what would you think about a moonlight walk of our own? Those night-blooming flowers have a sweet fragrance that rivals the evening flowers in Lórien. And perhaps Celebrían can tell us more about Endórë, or even sing us a few songs in that Grey-Elven tongue. I find it fascinating, despite its sometimes harsh sounds.”

~TBC~