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.

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38. The Shaping of Ilsaluntë

They spent the next day pursuing personal interests. Celebrían went over to Galenbrethil and Findalor’s house to spend more time with her old friends, helping Galenbrethil in her workshop and watching her young son with a certain amount of envy and nostalgia. When had her children been so young?

She wondered whether they were missing her terribly; or perhaps they were relieved no longer have to watch her slow fading. She, for her part, missed them so much that it hurt; but being with Galenbrethil and her family brought back a certain sense of home. It was not the same, of course, as having her beloved ones around, but it helped.

Aracáno decided to pay a visit to Helyanwë and Morwinyon, who were staying with some Reborn subjects of Maglor’s – unfortunately not ones he would have known from his previous life, as they had been born in Middle-earth already. But at least he could talk with his cousin’s wife and son about old times… as much as he remembered them, for his memories were still fragmented at best.

Elenwë remained in the House of the Hundred Chimneys with Meril, where they could work on rekindling their old friendship undisturbed. Three Ages were a long time, in which Meril had changed a lot, becoming a different person from the one Elenwë still had in memory. But they had been very good, close friends once, and now hoped that in time they would be able to build a bridge over that huge chasm history had opened up between them.

The dwellers and other guests of the House went after their daily business as usual. Of the Maiar there was no sign, but that did not surprise anyone. They could – and did – come and go as they pleased.

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

Celebrían did not return to the House ‘til shortly before sunset. Galenbrethil had insisted on keeping her for the evening meal, and she did not truly mind. As wondrous as the House was, as kind and wise and caring its Master and Mistress were, she did not belong there. She belonged with Galenbrethil and Findalor and Lindefal, who had known her for an Age and a half, and who simply loved her for herself, instead of respecting her for her mother’s or grandsire’s sake. Therefore she gladly stayed in their house, reminiscing old times and feeling almost happy.

When she finally did get back, it was near dark, and the Great Hall was set up for another round of storytelling. Meril and Elenwë apparently kept her a seat empty and were waving her to join them. She did so, gratefully, followed by the rest of the almost-late-comers, and the audience fell silent.

Only then did she realize that the storyteller had arrived. To her surprise, it was not Ilmarë, though. Not even Fionwë, or anyone else of the lesser Powers. It was an Elf – but not a usual one. Not by far.

At first glance she had nearly mistaken him for Morwinyon, because of his russet hair and broad shoulders. There was even a slight resemblance of features. But a second, more thorough glance revealed that this Elf was older; much older. Not only had he the reflected radiance of the Light of the Two Trees in his dark eyes, but also that slight hardness of features only those who had known the darkness of the Outer Lands would show. Either he was one of those born in Aman who had gone to Middle-earth with the rebel Noldor – or someone who had participated in the Great Journey.

But even more than that, those dark, unfathomable eyes had a veiled light of their own; a light akin the one she had seen in Elulindo’s eyes, who had, after all, kept exalted company all his life – and Celebrían understood that this was a sign that an Elf possessing such light was one to live in great closeness with the Valar themselves.

Compared with the others filling the Great Hall, he was very modestly clad in a plain tunic of earth brown worsted wool, with gathered sleeves. It was completely unadorned, save for the stiffly embroidered emblem upon his breast: that of a hammer and anvil, encircled with fire – the emblem of the Aulendili. The plain linen shirt underneath was dyed dark brown, almost black; several shades darker than his tunic. His breeches were leather, also dyed brown, and he wore supple, black leather ankle boots.

His hair was braided in a fashion Celebrían had never seen before, the main purpose of it appearing to be to keep it out of his face, and bound upon his wide brow with a circlet resembling interlinked golden ranks with small leaves enamelled in green and tiny blossoms made of rubies. Bracelets wrought in the same fashion held together the sleeves of his tunic – most likely his own handiwork. Celebrían could not remember having seen such exquisite jewellery before, not even in her childhood, visiting Celebrimbor’s workshop in Ost-in-Edhil. The leaves and blossoms seemed alive in a manner one would have thought impossible for mere hand-wrought items.

As soon as the audience had fell silent, Ilmarë shimmered into existence in their midst. This time she was wearing blue: a tight-sleeved undertunic of luminous sapphire silk, and above that a sleeveless gown, azure blue and shot with gold. Her hair, unbraided, fell to her hips in heavy golden waves, knotted in places at the sides and in back in small, intricate plaits, adorned with sapphires.

“Greetings,” she said, her voice clear and ringing like a silver bell. “Now that we have come in our tale to the shaping of the Moon, I thought I would invite someone who had actually taken part in that great labour,” she smiled at the Elf in the Storyteller’s Chair. “Master Mahtan, if you would do the honours?”

Celebrían felt her breath catch in her throat. This was Mahtan, the father of Nerdanel, Fëanor’s wife? The legendary smith of the Noldor, of whom the Elven-smiths from Ost-in-Edhil – some of which had ended up living in Imladris eventually – had spoken with such hushed reverence? Mahtan Rúnyandur, Lord Aulë’s prize pupil and close companion? The same Elf who had gone to Sirunúmen, banged on the very gates of Formenos, publicly disowned Fëanor as his son-in-law, berated Aran Finwë himself for his blindness and then taken his daughter home, declaring that Fëanor no longer deserved to have her as his wife?

He must have felt her eyes upon him, for he looked up with mild curiosity. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and the strength of his personality hit her with the force of a summer storm. Yea, she could vividly imagine him doing all those things; and that not even Aran Finwë would have dared to stand in his way.

She briefly wondered how much of that strength Nerdanel might have inherited. A lot of it, most likely. How else would she have managed to put up with all those arrogant, headstrong Finwëans, including her husband and her own seven sons?

Or seven plagues, as some ancient Elves back in Middle-earth liked to say.

It lasted but a heartbeat; then the great smith turned his attention back to the Maia and smiled; a smile of solemn joy, despite all the pain he must have seen in his long life. A life which had probably begun at the Waters of Awakening – although, as Celebrían realized with a jolt, practically nothing about it was known in Middle-earth.

Nothing beyond the fact that he was Nerdanel’s father and had been the one who first taught Fëanor the art of smithcraft.

“I would be honoured to share my memories from those dark and glorious days,” he said in a pleasantly low-pitched voice, aiming his words at the Maia. “Now I understand why I felt the sudden urge to come to Tol Eressëa and visit my kin at this time – it was you who summoned me, was it not?”

“Actually, it was Lord Irmo, or so I believe,” corrected Ilmarë; then she smiled and waved a hand in the direction of Elenwë and Aracáno. “These two have been recently released from his care, and we are currently trying to help them bridge the gap between their previous lives and now. As they were both lost on the Ice, they never saw the Sun and the Moon rise; nor have they heard the tale of their making; which is why we are trying to tell it as accurately as we can.”

Mahtan nodded, turning his wise, ancient eyes to Aracáno. “You are Nolofinwë’s youngest, are you not? I remember you as an elfling, getting underfoot all the time while your atar was learning how to shape metal in my smithy,” he said. “Even then, you were full of questions and could never be satisfied with the answers you got. Very well then; I shall tell you about the making of the Moon, if that is your desire.”

“It is, Lord Mahtan,” said Aracáno, suitably impressed.

That earned him an ironically raised eyebrow.

“I am not a lord, elfling; just a simple craftsman who was never afraid to make his hands dirty in order to earn a living. Master Mahtan will do; that is a title I had earned with honest work. The only one I ever used or was ever proud to bear.”

There was quiet amusement among the audience, although some – mostly of the younger generation and presumably of noble origins who liked being addressed with honorific titles – looked vaguely insulted. Celebrían smiled nostalgically. Master Mahtan’s response reminded him of Elrond who, too, refused to be seen as aught else but the Master of Imladris. And while he had not actually protested against being addressed as “Lord Elrond” – Men in particular had always been hung on such titles – he had never really cared for them.

“All right then,” said Mahtan, leaning back in the big chair, “listen to me, my children, for I shall tell you what was the manner of the shaping of the Moon. Lord Aulë would not dismember the loveliness of the Rose of Silver, which was still resting on the great silver charger in his smithy in Valmar; a charger like a table of giants, or so those say who actually had seen the stone giants in the great mountains of Endórë before the Great Journey. I am afraid I am not one of those myself.”

Again, there was soft laughter in the rows of the audience, and Celebrían found herself laughing with them. Yea, she supposed, the stone trolls must have existed at least as long as Elves had; and the thought of such an ancient Elf not having seen any of them was, well… amusing.

“In any case,” continued Mahtan, “Lord Aulë called to him some of us who had lived in his household since our arrival to Aman; those who had never rebelled against him or the other Valar, and consorted with the jewel-makers. For you must know that of all Eldar only the Noldoli of old, of whom that benighted husband of my daughter had the greatest fame, knew the secret of subtly taming the light of Laurelin and Silpion to their use; and even we dared use our knowledge but very sparsely.”

“Which was a wise decision if you ask me,” said Gilfanon. “Certainly, he Silmarils were the greatest of such jewels ever made by Elven hands – and see what chaos and destruction everyone’s greed to possess them had sown!”

Mahtan nodded thoughtfully. “Quite so. But Fëanáro and his sons, Curufinwë before all, had lain up in secret places in Sirunúmen a great store of crystals and delicate glasses, and some of us knew some of these stores; but my daughter knew them all. And thus we collected everything that had been stored there and brought it to Lord Aulë’s halls. Lady Varda even sacrificed some of her stars to give limpid clearness to the fashioning of the Moon. And together with Lord Aulë and his people, we brought into being a substance thin as a petal of a rose, clear as the most transparent Elven glass, and very, very smooth.”

“It must have been very fragile, then,” said someone from the audience.

Mahtan shook his head. “Nay, it was not. Like mithril, ‘twas light yet very hard; but Lord Aulë had the skill to bend it as he had wanted and to give it any shape he had in his mind; and naming it, he called it virin.”

“I never heard of a substance by that name,” the previous voice said, and looking for its source, Celebrían recognized in the audience Aranwë, one of Gondolin’s smiths in his time.

“You cannot,” replied Mahtan, “for it could never be recreated again. With the perishing of Fëanáro and our best craftsmen who had worked with him closely, the secrets of the making of such delicate jewels, crystals and glasses have faded from memory; and I always worked with metal and stone myself. Yet at that one time, the creating of virin was possible; and of virin Lord Aulë built, with our modest help, a marvellous vessel.”

“The Ship of the Moon,” supplied Aranwë, “or so I have often heard Men spoke of it. They even imagined some mystical craftsmen steering it: the Man of the Moon they called him.”

“And they may not be entirely wrong, though this was unlike any barge that even sailed on Sea or air,” answered Mahtan. “It was rather like an island of pure glass, albeit a rather small one. Many tiny lakes dotted its surface, encircled by with snowy flowers that shone like mother-of-pearl, for the water of those pools was the radiance of Telimpë. In the centre of that shimmering isle a great cup of virin was wrought, and therein the magic Rose of Silpion was set; and as it gleamed there, the glassy body of the vessel sparkled wonderfully.”

“But how can an island sail on its own?” Aracáno, enchanted by that description, could not help but ask. “One needs sails for that; and masts upon which to fasten those sails. How could aught like that be built on that crystalline stuff Lord Aulë had made?”

“Ordinary masts and sails could not be used, of course,” agreed Mahtan. “But this was a vessel wrought by the Smith of Arda himself, and he knew whom to ask for help.”

“Oh, oh, I think I know whom he asked!” Aracáno was practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. “It was Lady Vairë, was she not?”

Celebrían had to admit that it would have been logical to ask the Weaver of Arda herself and her handmaids to make the sails, but Mahtan just shook his head again and smiled.

“Oh, no; mere fabric, even if woven by the hallowed hands of a Valië, would never have been delicate enough for such a vessel. For its aery masts, rising upon it, glittering white like icicles were slender beyond measure; and the sails caught to them by the finest threads were the handiwork of Lady Uinen, who had woven them of white mists and foam. Some of them were sprinkled with glinting scales of silver fish; others were threaded with tiniest stars like points of light – like sparks caught in snow when Nielluin is shining.”

“Stars?” repeated Aracáno, completely baffled. “How did you manage to weave stars into those sails?”

“’Twas not our doing, to tell the truth,” admitted Mahtan with a sideways glance at Ilmarë, who shrugged.

“Lady Vairë’s people are not the only ones who know how to use a loom,” she said primly. “So what if lady Varda let me have some of the baby stars that had no other use anyway? They looked good, worked into those sails!”

“So they did,” admitted Mahtan. “And thus was the Ship of the Moon completed, the crystal island of the Rose; and the Valar named it Rána, the Moon; but the Vanyar dwelling near Valmar called it Sil, the Rose, and many a sweet name beside. In fact, they were outdoing themselves in making up more and more names for the new Light, one sweeter than the other.”

Lady Vainóni suddenly laughed. “The more amazing is it, that the one that actually stuck was Ilsaluntë; the silver shallop it has been called among the First Clan ever since.”

“Whereas our people called it Minethlos, the argent isle,” commented Legolas of Gondolin, whom Celebrían had only now spotted in the audience, "and the Noldor of Middle-earth named it Crithosceleg, the disc of glass.”

“At least it used to be custom in the First Age, or so I am told,” said Findalor, grinning. “In my time we simply said Ithil; and the Sun we call Anor.”

“That may be easier for you, children,” said Mahtan, not unkindly. “I for my part prefer the old names, though, that had the ancient music of creation in their sound still. But I am an old Elf who likes to dwell on the days past; and perhaps you, young ones, are right.”

“This is not a question of right or wrong,” said Gilfanon. “Past and present both we need to observe in order to build a future that would prevail. Now, tell us about the Man in the Moon, or whoever it is who steers Ilsaluntë; for I have heard many a strange tale about that, back in Endórë, and even here, and would know the truth of it, if you are willing to share it.”

“I would, if I know more than you do,” replied Mahtan. “Yet I deem there is one who knows all about it,” he added, looking at Ilmarë, who smiled.

“Indeed I do; and I shall tell you all about it, for ’tis no great secret, you see. As Silmo, the original caretaker of Silpion, had been slain by Melkor’s servants, it was Tilion, another one of Lord Irmo’s people, who begged to sail upon the oceans of the firmament in the Barge of the Moon. He might not do so, however, for neither was he of the spirits of the air, nor might he find a way to cleanse his being of its earthwardness as Urwendi had done.”

“Speaking of which,” Aracáno interrupted, “how could Urwendi and her maidens done such thing? How comes that their fanar had not been destroyed?”

“They had already been wounded by the golden light when the Lamps had been destroyed,” explained Ilmarë. “Wounded and hallowed by it, and after they had recovered, it would no longer harm them. Yet even if Tilion had dared to enter Faskalan, it would have availed little; for then the Rose would have shrivelled before him.”

“But surely someone had to be found to steer the Ship of the Moon!” exclaimed Aracáno.

“Indeed, and the right one was found soon enough,” replied Ilmarë. “For Lord Manwë asked Ilinsor, a spirit of the Súruli who had always loved the snow and the starlight and who had aided Lady Varda in many of her great works, to steer the gleaming boat of Ilsaluntë, and he gladly agreed. With him went many other spirits of the air, arrayed in robes of silver and white, or of palest gold; and that is why so very few of them can still be found in Arda. For they have gone with Ilsaluntë, to tend to the Rose of Silpion, and now they only watch the heavens or the world beneath from their little white turret next to the Rose.”

Celebrían remembered the first night she had spent in the House, right after her arrival to Tol Eressëa, when she had been lost and bereft of all those she loved most, heavy-hearted and sad. She remembered the laughter in the trees and the glimmering shapes of the Súruli as they had danced in the moonlight and the stars that had shone through their translucent bodies. She remembered how they had visited her in her dreams, keeping the night mares at bay. How she had learned in their presence to laugh again.

She was sorrowed to learn that so many had left Arda, though she hoped that they were happy, travelling across the skies in gleaming Ilsaluntë.

She shook her head lightly, forcing her attention back to the tale itself and its tellers. Ilmarë had fallen silent, mayhap pondering over those long-gone events, but Mahtan’s dark eyes shimmered with amusement as he was explaining them how Lord Irmo’s plan to bring the mingling of gold and silver lights back to Valinor again had failed in the form it had originally been devised.

“You must understand,” he said, “that the white radiance of Silpion had never been so buoyant and ethereal as was the golden flame of Laurelin; nor was virin anywhere near so light as the rind of the bright Fruit of Noon. Therefore, when the Valar laded the white ship with light and would launch it upon the heavens, it would simply not rise above their heads.”

“Ouch!” muttered Aracáno. “Lord Irmo must have been very unhappy when that happened!”

Several Reborn present, also acquainted with the Lord of Lórien and his moods, nodded in grave agreement. They were all glad having been either dead or in Middle-earth – or not even born yet – when that had happened. Mild-mannered as Irmo was, for a Vala anyway, and compared with his more forbidding siblings, it was better not to cross him on a bad day.

“And that was not all,” continued Ilmarë, clearly in agreement with the Reborn about letting cranky Valar lie, while Mahtan seemed strangely unconcerned about their possible wrath. “You must also know that the living Rose continued to give forth light; light that was shimmering like mother-of-pearl and thick as honey. That light then condensed upon the isle of glass, producing a dew of glistening moonbeams that weighed the vessel down. While the increase of the Sun-ship’s flames would buoy it, Ilinsor has to return at times, so that the overflowing radiance of the Rose can be stored in Valinor against dark days.”

“Light can be stored?” asked Aracáno doubtfully. “Like wine or grain, you mean?”

Mahtan gave him a wry smile. “Not with our methods, it cannot,” he said. “But there is a pool, well-hidden somewhere near the dark southern wall of Valmar, built with walls of silver and white marble by the Valar themselves. Dark yews shut it in, planted by the hands of Lady Estë in a maze so intricate that the few unfortunate fools, who have ever entered it, never came out of it alive.”

“That is not correct,” interrupted the Maia. “They do not leave it unchanged would be the right thing to say.”

“Mayhap so; if the fact that those who do come out again, instead of fleeing straight to Mandos, go in seclusion in some hidden corner of Lórien and remain there ‘til the Remaking is what you Ainur call a change,” countered Mahtan.

Ilmarë had the decency to look uncomfortable and avoid everyone’s eyes.

“Anyway,” continued the smith, clearly too used to having Maiar around him to be intimidated by a single one, “that pool is named the Lake Irtinsa, and there Lord Irmo hoards the pale dewy light of the Rose. And when the white flower of the Isle wanes and barely shines, it must be refreshed and watered with its silver dew, much as Silpion was wont of old to be.”

“Hmmm,” said Legolas of Gondolin thoughtfully. “Is that the reason why we saw Ithil’s barge float upon the airs for fourteen days, back in Middle-earth, and then for fourteen nights we could not? And why even in those fair nights when it was visible it never showed the same aspect, while Anor always did? I am no sailor myself, but I imagine that an overburdened vessel would have difficulties keeping its course straight.”

“Quite so,” Ilmarë agreed. “The bright galleon of Urwendi voyages even above Ilwë and beyond the stars, cleaving a dazzling way across the heavens, highest of all things, and thus is little bothered by winds or motions of the airs. Yet Ilinsor’s barge is heavier and not so filled with magic and power; nor does it travel above the skies ever, but sails in the lower folds of Ilwë, threading among the stars.”

“But if it travels so low, then the high winds would trouble it at times, would they not?” Aracáno, who had loved boats in his previous life and understand much of their working, asked. Ilmarë nodded.

“Lord Ulmo’s people could explain better, but yea, at times the winds are tugging at Ilsaluntë’s misty shrouds; often these are even torn and scattered, and Uinen and her maidens have to renew them. Sometimes even the petals of the Rose are ruffled, and its white flames are blown hither and thither like a silver candle guttering in the wind. In such times Ilsaluntë leaves and tosses about the air; and thus if you watch it from Endórë,  often you only see the slender curve of his bright keel, his prow now dipping, now his stern. In other times it sails serenely to the West, and even the Rose can be seen up through the pure lucency of its frame.”

Legolas nodded in agreement. “Those are the fairest and brightest nights indeed; when Ithil shows its full face. The entire earth is washed with silver on such nights, and white beams chase away the deep, quick-moving shadows; and radiant dreams soar on cold wings about the world – and even the Twilight People, born under starlight, look upon the Barge of the Moon with gladdened hearts.”

“You should tell that Lord Irmo,” replied Ilmarë, grinning. “After three Ages, he is still mourning the faint marks of bruising the Rose had suffered at its fall and will bear them likely forever; or, at least, ‘til the Remaking.”

“I shall tell him next time I run into him,” promised Legolas with suspicious serenity.

Somehow Celebrían had the impression that the Lord of Eglavain had never actually met the Lord of Lórien and did neither expect nor particularly wish to do so any time soon.

“Now, tell us how the Valar managed to get the ship into the air after all?” he requested.

“Oh, it was a difficult task, even for them,” said Mahtan with a smile full of fond memories. “We all helped to draw the silver ship once again up the steep sides of Taniquetil. Lord Irmo’s people marched in the first rows, of course, singing songs that had not been heard in Valinor since the murdering of the Trees. Still, ‘twas much harder than the lifting of the Ship of Morn had been, although everyone was pulling at the ropes with all their might. Until Lord Oromë came and harnessed a herd of wild white horses before the vessel; and thus it finally came to the topmost place.”

“Just in time to meet the galleon of the Sun, returning from the East,” added Lindo, smiling, “It gleamed golden from afar; and we all marvelled at the wondrous sight of the glowing peaks of many a mountain far away, and of isles glimmering green in seas once dark.”

“That we all did, including the Valar themselves,” Ilmarë agreed. “Most enticed of all was Ossë, though, seeing that the Sea was now blue; almost as blue as Ilwë, the realm of the Elder King, the beauty of which he had always envied. Lord Manwë, though, reminded him that the Sea was not blue alone but also grey and green and purple, and most beautifully flowered with foaming white. The most exquisite jewels made by Fëanáro’s own hands could not outrival the waters of the Great and Lesser Seas when sunlight drenched them.”

“That is very true,” said Legolas thoughtfully. “When we Sailed west on the Olórë Mallë, I found that not even the great forests of Beleriand that now lie under the Sea could come close to the shimmering, ever-changing colours of the waves; and their beauty eased the heartache I felt upon the loss of my home of old. But have you not said that the Sun-ship was sailing far West in the upper airs still; too far away for its light to work its miracles, most of the time?”

“I have, and it was,” replied Ilmarë. “And for that very reason sent Lord Manwë my brother Fionwë – who is the swiftest among us all to move about the airs – and bade him say to Urwendi that the galleon of the Sun should come back to Valinor, for the Valar had counsels for her ear. And Fionwë fled most readily, for he had loved her since they had entered Eä for the first time. And now, bathed in fire as the radiant mistress of the Sun, her loveliness set him aflame more than he had ever been; and most desirous he was to see her again.”

“But Urwendi had no interest in him – or did she?” asked Elenwë, clearly feeling sorry for the Maia. She was a gentle soul who wished happiness for everyone.

“Nay,” admitted Ilmarë, “though she did bring her ship back above Valinor, albeit reluctantly, for she found great delight in the freedom of the upper airs. Lord Oromë then cast a noose of gold about the prow of the Sun-ship, and it was drawn slowly down upon the earth. And when it happened, the woods upon Taniquetil glowed once more in the mingled light of silver and of gold that reminded us all of the blending of the Two Trees in happier days. Ilsaluntë, though, paled before the galleon of the Sun till almost it seemed to burn no more.”

“Thus ended the first day upon Eä,” added Lindo, “and it was very long and full of many marvellous deeds. And as the Sun-ship was drawn down, the glow upon the mountains faded, and the sparkle of the seas went out as the evening deepened.”

“You said, though, that there were many stealthy lairs in the South, where the primeval darkness still lingered,” said Elenwë, and Ilmarë nodded.

“Indeed; and it did creep out again as the Sun was in the skies no more. But Lady Varda saw the steady shining of her stars and was glad. Far upon the plain was the Sun-ship drawn, and when it was gone, Ilsaluntë was haled upon the highest peak of Taniquetil, so that its white lucency fell out from there over the wide world and the first night was come.”

“And that was the very night in which we entered Middle-earth at last, with the host of Atar Nolofinwë,” added Meril softly. “We gazed at the heavens in amazement, for we understood that there would be no more darkness within the borders of the world, only night. And night is a wholly different thing, thanks to the gentle white radiance of the Rose of Silpion.”

“You could see the peak of Taniquetil from the shores of Beleriand?” asked Celebrían in surprise. “I know that the Sea was not yet bent at that time, but was the distance not too great for that? After all, had the host of Aran Fingolfin not needed about ten years of the Sun to cross the Ice?”

“”Nay, we could not see so far,” admitted Meril. “Fortunately for us, the Moon did come to Middle-earth.”

“Indeed, it did,” said Ilmarë in agreement. “For Lord Aulë filled the brimming vessel of the Rose with white light, and many of the Súruli glided on white wings beneath it and bore it slowly up to set it among the company of the stars. There did it swim slowly, pale and glorious; and Ilinsor and his peers were sitting upon its rim and with shimmering oars guided it through the sky. Then Lord Manwë breathed upon its bellying sails till it was wafted away towards the Outer Lands, the beat of its unseen oars against the winds of night fading and growing faint.”

“Which it circled seven times ere the Valar would release the Sun-ship,” added Meril, “and we travelled in its gentle silver light from the western shores to Hithlum and our hearts were filled with hope once again.”

“But why did the Valar hold the Sun back?” asked Elenwë. “Surely not just so that they could admire the mountain-peaks and the waves of the Sea glittering in its golden radiance?”

“Nay, that was not why,” said Ilmarë. “But the peoples of the Outer Lands, who had never known aught but starlight, would have been scared and blinded by the glorious brightness of the Sun. Thus the Valar let them get used to moonlight first, ere they would be subjected to the harsh radiance of the Sun,” she smiled at Celebrían. “I am told that when that gleaming galleon first appeared above the dark forests of Endórë, the Children of Twilight were quite frightened anyway.”

Celebrían nodded. “So my adar tells me; and he ought to know, as he was born under starlight in the deep forests of Doriath.”

“For us, though, who had been deeply shocked by the death of the Trees and the following darkening of Valinor, the rising of the Sun was a marvel and the return of hope,” said Meril quietly. “We had just reached Hithlum when it approached upon the western sky in all its glory – for its path had not yet been changed – and a rainbow of brilliant colours emerged from the twilight that had surrounded us until then,” she glanced at Elenwë, then at Aracáno. “And that was when Findecáno and I decided that we would have children in the Outer Lands – as a sign of hope, and that those lands would be our home ‘til the end of Arda,” she sighed, her beautiful face clouding with sorrow again. “Little did we know; and perchance it was better so.”

“Usually, it is,” agreed Ilmarë. “But the deeds of the Noldor in Beleriand are not our concern tonight – a night that has already grown old. We promised to tell you the tale of the making of the Sun and the Moon; and that, I believe, Master Mahtan, Master Lindo, Fionwë and myself have done between us. For this is all we know to tell of the building of those marvellous vessels and their launching on the air.”

The majority of the audience nodded, with the exception of Aracáno, who looked crestfallen.

“But-but that surely cannot be all!” he protested. “For I seem to remember that at the beginning of the tale Master Lindo promised us words concerning the present courses of the Sun and the Moon and their rising in the East. And I for one – by the leave of all others present – am not minded to release him of his word yet.”

Some sitting near him – Elenwë before all, but, surprisingly enough, also Legolas and even Master Aranwë – nodded in agreement, clearly eager to hear more. Lindo, however, just laughed.

“Nay, I remember no such promise,” he said, “and should I have made it, then it was rash indeed. For the things you ask are in no way easy to relate; and many matters concerning the events in those days in Valinor are hidden from all, save the Valar themselves. Unless we find someone close enough to them; someone willing to tell us about the hiding of Valinor,” he added, with a meaningful look in Ilmarë’s direction.

“I cannot make any promises; not without asking Lord Manwë and Lady Varda first,” answered the Maia. “Let us therefore end the telling of tales for tonight, and meet again in three days’ time. You shall have enough to think about while I find out how much more my Masters are willing to share.”

With that, she simply faded away, but his time no-one seemed to mind. Their minds were full of bright images from the wondrous tale they had been told; and thus many of them went out to the bread clearing a little further behind the house just between the gardens and the forests of Eglavain, to sing and dance in the moonlight.

Celebrían was one of those, and she was pleasantly surprised when she found out that while Morwinyon might not be able to carry a tune to save his own life – something she still found hard to believe; he was the son of Maglor, after all! – he was a skilled and graceful dancer. So she danced with him – and with Legolas, and Aranwë, and a great many other ellyn, for the moonlight dances of Tol Eressëa were in a fashion that did not require any actual touch between the dance partners – and it felt good and liberating to move around to the music again, without fear from the darkness. She felt light and free like a dancing butterfly in the wind, and, at least for this one night, she was happy.

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

“She has begun to heal, although she still has a long way before him, and there will be relapses,” Erunyauvë, who was watching the frolicking of the Elves from the roof of the House – unclad, of course – said. “The tasting of limpë has helped, I deem. Still, it was a risky move, offering it to her so soon.”

Ilmarë, also unclad, nodded… in spirit anyway.

“I know, and I did have my doubts about it,” she confessed. “But Lord Irmo found that she would not have enough strength to begin the healing process on her own. She had been wounded too deeply; before all in her spirit. She was already fading when she boarded that ship, and used up most of her strength, just to keep going.”

“’Tis a marvel that she had held on to her life for as long as she had,” added Nornorë, who was also standing on the roof with them. “Not many others would have. Lord Námo was impressed.”

The other two Maiar were mute with shock for a moment. ‘Twas not a common thing that anyone would impress the dread Lord of Mandos, least of all one of the Children. How had a mere Elf from the Outer Lands managed it?

“Love,” Erunyauvë finally said. “It was her love to Elrond and to their children that kept her going; and that gave her the strength to leave them, to spare them the pain of seeing her fade away. And was it not Love that had brought Eä to being to begin with? Why should it not give an elleth the strength to hold on to her life? Love is stronger than fate and burns brighter than the heart of the Sun – would it not burn even under the waves of the Sea?”

“True,” allowed Ilmarë; then, with a wicked smile that transferred to her brethren despite their non-corporeal form, she added. “Of course, being the daughter of Artanis Arafinwiel, the most stubborn and headstrong one of all Finwë’s strong-willed grandchildren, must have helped, too.”

The three Maiar laughed in agreement, their laughter filling the air with soundless joy. Then they faded away completely, leaving the Elves to their amusement.

~TBC~