Creation Song of Ilúvatar

“But there are things which you have said to me which I do not like.  They are not sweet like sugar, but bitter like gourds.  You said that you wanted to put us upon a reservation, to build us houses and make us medicine lodges.  I do not want them.  I was born upon the prairie, where the wind blew free and there was nothing to break the light of the sun.  I was born where there were no enclosures and where everything drew a free breath.  I want to die there and not within walls. I know every stream end every wood between the Rio Grande and the Arkansas.  I have hunted and lived over that country.  I lived like my fathers before me, and, like them, I lived happily.”

--Parra-Wa-Samen (Ten Bears) of the Yamparika Comanches

Chapter 31: Ghosts

Glorfindel could not tear away the image from his mind, of the mighty King of the Great Wood, kneeling by his son, uttering incantations of old, rendering anew the powers that the Quendi possessed at the time of Cuiviénen.  Thranduil would not remove himself from his son’s side as the sons of Elrond, worked in concert to maintain Legolas’ thread-hold on life.

“You did not vanquish me when I faced you, you will not defeat him,” Glorfindel uttered, throwing his voice to be carried with the Southern winds. “Let  it be heard upon that accursed hill.  You shall not take him!”

Glorfindel thought of Legolas, just before they left on their perilous trek South.  “Yes,”Glorfindel pondered, “I will think of you as you are always bright in life.” And the golden-haired Lord recalled a scene that took place during that merry feast…

*flashback*

“It is more about who tells the story than the stories actually being told.  If their voice is the only one telling the story, then surely it will be a product of their perception.  This is the case with all things,” Legolas informed the young group of elflings that had gathered around him.

“Even with the Elves,” curious voices asked.

“Yes, even with the Elves,” Legolas replied thoughtfully.  Seeing that his audience’s face was not content with his brief answer he elaborated, “If you think about the history and how it is told, if you are a discerning reader or listener you will understand that history can be a matter of perception.  Certainly an event may have occurred on such a date, but how it is illustrated or depicted depends on who is giving voice to this story.

What is of concern then is which stories are represented, and which are the voices that are telling the stories- does one voice over power another voice. 

But for us, we have our immortality to grant us time to learn, interpret, search, and query what knowledge is provided to us. “

Legolas was thinking of the lessons he had learned from Oropher that had been passed on to him by Thranduil. 

“So then how do we know what the *truth* of things are,” an Elf nearing his majority asked Legolas.

Legolas touched the tree he leaned against lightly.  “It is all around us, in the trees, in the flowers, and in us.  The melody of Ilúvatar is constant and it combines all the voices of Eä to create the story of all.  Not a single note is left out.  All you have to do is let your feä reach out and you will more than hear this wondrous melody, you will feel it.”

Lotórie gasped, as did other elflings who, although older in age than Lotórie were still quite impressionable as they had not had the experience of time to lead them on the path of Elven wisdom.

Legolas continued, “Some call us the Moriquendi, Elves who have never beheld the light of the two trees, and for this we fail in grace and wisdom as compared to our brethren who have beheld the lights that once graced the Blessed Lands.  But this name fell from use upon the exile of the Noldor from Valinor, and only those known as the Avari were from then on known as the Moriquendi, the Dark Elves.  Yet there are those who call us unwise and unlearned in the ways of the Elves of light, and so some still count us amongst the Dark Elves.

But there are those Sindarin nobles whom survived the fall of Doriath and found solace and comfort in the wise folk of the woodland realms…”

“The Silvan Elves,” a chorus of youthful voices cried out.

“Yes and one of these was my grandfather Oropher.  In the Silvan he found the virtue and nobility that he felt had been lost upon the return of the exiles to this middle earth.  Though some may call us rustic and simple, indeed ignorant, we all know this is quite a lie, or shall I say misunderstanding.”

“Yes, not the truth at all,” many young voices chimed in.

“We must also remember that many of these tales although based on the mightiest lore born of Elven tongue have passed through the mouth of men and been distorted by mortal legend that dies with its teller to be reborn through sons and daughters.  Mayhap in the past there were grievances between Elven kingdoms that flung these prejudices around, but even then these disagreements were born of great loss and pain that tempered reason and true passion.”

And now the silent member of Legolas’ mostly youthful audience spoke up, eliciting an awed silence from his audience, “Thranduilion, you speak many truths.  Let it be said here that those who were once exiled may have in the past shared such prejudices, but as we Elves are gifted with time, we have seen the folly of this blight.  I stand with the peoples of the woodland realms, Minyar, Tatyar, and Nelyar [First, Second, and Thirds]. (1)

The children looked upon the mighty Glorfindel in awe and turned to look upon one another with nods of agreement for after all who could dispute this ancient lord’s wisdom. 

Legolas could, at least he could push the Balrog slayer.

“Lord Glorfindel, you honor us with your words, and now that we have your attention, might I have you share some of your wisdom and opinion concerning our woodcraft, for it is held in the highest regard is it not?”

Glorfindel’s eyes twinkled as he looked seriously towards the young prince who insisted on pushing his luck.

Legolas felt his collar tighten around his neck and he pulled at it rather awkwardly, feeling the gaze of Glorfindel upon him, but to his relief, Glorfindel let out a grunt of approval.

“‘Tis true little ones no other Elven kingdom can boast the woodcraft of these troubled lands, for in Mirkwood, let it be known live the masters of all that concerns trees.  And,” Glorfindel added, throwing a warm smile towards Legolas, “your realm can also lay claim to birthing the greatest archers known in all of Arda!”

Voices joined in a unison of ooo’s and awes.

But Glorfindel’s words of tribute to Thranduil’s great realm did not end there, “And indeed little ones, maybe the greatest archer in the history of middle earth stands before you.  Now some may disagree, but many, many an ancient Elf would agree with my opinion.”

Legolas blushed, although he was confident in his skill with many a bow and arrow, to hear the mighty Lord of the Golden Flower reap such praise upon him was unheard of.

Lotórie’s small voice emerged from the murmurs, “Legolas is the greatest,” she exclaimed, but she added with much regret, “But this is only because we live so near evil that threatens to take our homes away.”

Other young Elves nodded in agreement.  Though young, the price of youth in Mirkwood came with a mature knowledge concerning the needs of their kingdom and the sacrifices they all had to make.

Legolas was silent, tears were welling up in his eyes.  He knew too well the  Shadow that was always present in these young ones’ lives.  He had traveled and scouted the black lands of Dol Guldur, and the weight of that evil always pressed on his consciousness, no matter where he was.

Glorfindel’s face was also saddened and his memories harkened back to the children that were lost in the fall of Gondolin and those that survived those bitter days, with honour but too much sacrifice.  He managed a grim smile, “It is a strange fate that our young have faced sorrows and evils that one would wish away, but we have persevered in the face of much, and no doubt you all here will triumph.”

The elder of the young elflings stood and bravely proclaimed, “The Hill of Secrecy [Dol Guldur] may stand barren of all good, of all that is living, filled with Black shadows, but the warriors of our King’s realm shall one day claim victory!”

The Elves gathered cheered in agreement.  Glorfindel noted sadly that it was unfortunate such new lives had to be so acquainted with dark places, but there was no alternative for although the Elves of Mirkwood were gay in spirit and light of heart, the pressing of Shadow was always present.  Glorfindel always marveled at the strength and bravery of the Silvan folk and their King, with no ring of power to protect them.  And here in Mirkwood where there were so few young, as was the case in all the Elven realms of middle earth, the hope of youth flourished.  He turned to look towards Legolas, proud that Thranduil’s young son so well represented this bright hope.

*End Flashback*

Glorfindel whispered, “Yes Greenleaf, your brightness will not flicker. It will only burn the brighter.”

Glorfindel heard a voice in the wind,the sound of a strange voice laden with sorrow softly singing unknown melodies.  He turned to see the mortal maiden walking among the trees near the great doors. The melody she sung seemed to be ripped from the gut; though sung softly, immense strength was used in its conjuring.  In her he saw a spirit that was near defeat and riddled in hopeless. “It does not bode well for Legolas to have dark and grave thoughts for they will only attract evil towards this place, and Legolas cannot survive that, and her spirit so alone, ai she is a lost child!”

With his mind made up, Glorfindel approached the strange maiden, hoping that he could somehow quell the darkness that choked on her spirit. 

***

Earlier that day, Lenmana had watched as the death pale body of Legolas was brought into the healing rooms, so near her own.  “It cannot be,” Lenmana thought, “I have brought tragedy upon the moon!”

Lenmana clutched her stomach feeling the bile rise up.  She had dreamt of a story that was not to be told, that should not have been told this late in summer’s time for the fish have not yet left to make the young of their own.  But she had called on fish woman, making her come at the time she should have been playing with the moon on the swift currents of the great river.  Now those that relished in the silver light of night were covered in the blood of a cycle broken, and only she, Lenmana was to blame.

And tears ran swiftly down her face as she remembered her pale moon, a teller of stories and how he gave hope to those who had seen only the pass of a few winters.  She had to leave the caves that felt they were falling down upon her and find the freedom only the sun could grant her.  Lenmana ran through the doors towards the trees outside the King’s great halls.  It seemed to her not a soul took notice of her.  It was better that way, she thought.

And now as Lenmana walked among the trees she remembered how she had listened quietly and intently to Legolas’ voice as he shared tales with the younger Elves during the feast that now seemed an age away.  And in that moment she realized that despite such semblance of safety, the leaf people were in imminent danger from a severe darkness that threatened to destroy their very way of life.  This she understood too well.  She had ventured out despite her  embarrassment pulled by her growing fascination with Legolas, and so she found herself sitting quietly, a short distance from Legolas and the imposing Glorfindel who frankly frightened Lenmana.

“They stay to fight, despite the fact they may loose all they have”* Lenmana thought to herself, “and yet I run from my own battles.  I run from the memory of my peoples” Lenmana looked upon her leaf people with new love, with great admiration.  “Their enemy stands near to them, and they will die to defend their land.  I too died, and now I am here, lost in this nether world, but do I want to find my way?”

The memory bothered the mortal woman, and she felt the hole in her spirit.  She began to sing a song to fill the void, to harness her stories, and fill herself with life, a life she could not run from.  She sang to bring back the balance she had so foolishly toyed with.  She sang for her pale moon, praying that she had hope left somewhere in her.

Lenmana saw the imposing Elf approaching her and gasped at his beauty.  A peaceful light emanated from his very being, but his light was more imposing, more fiery than that of her pale moon.  Where Legolas was a spirit of silver, this lord was a spirit of gold, like fire.

As Glorfindel approached Lenmana, he felt for this mortal maiden, she seemed but a lost child, here in his lands.  Her face was open to him.  She did not hide the awe that overtook her as she looked upon him

Upon reaching the stone still mortal, Glorfindel beckoned her to sit in company of the mighty beeches that surrounded the hill.  Lenmana felt her body do as he asked, even though she could not put two thoughts together at the moment.  He knelt besides her, and took her hands in his, “Young one, why not share your woes.  A heart unburdened is better than a heart full of sorrow.”

Lenmana did not know why, but trust emanated from this imposing Elf, and she recognized him as an Elder- his eyes betrayed his status.  She could not dispute an Elder.

Glorfindel continued, “Tell me your story; tell me what troubles your heart.  I know so little of where you come from.  Maybe remembering this once will let you smile a bit.”

A surge of strength poured through the mortal woman, and with it she was able to conjure the fortitude to do as the golden lord asked.  Lenmana looked out towards the Western horizon, as if being called by lands that lay beyond it.

She began to speak in whispers, almost as if speaking to herself, and she shared with him then, a tale kept in her heart.  “I have my ghosts, and they stand with me at the precipice, as I look down towards the darkness below me, and now I have thrown Pamuya, my silver water moon into the unknown.”

“Pamuya,” Glorfindel questioned, not being familiar with the strange name.

“Legolas, I have brought Legolas to death.”

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows in surprise.  He gently kissed Lenmana’s hands, reassuring her that she could tell this story. “What strange fate has led you to this decision?”

Lenmana shuttered, understanding that there was no hiding.  She would have to reveal herself to this man, now the Sun. “I must start from the beginning,” and with a  deep breath she began to tell her story.

“Let me tell you of the lands that gave birth to me.  From a place over there,” Lenmana pointed towards the West, “we came up from the underworlds, and our creation was thus onto this earth, from the earth, through the opening in the earth we tasted our first sight of sky.  That is the center of me, the center of my people, located in a place, not caged by time.  From this center the four winds were thrown out and strengthened, kept in balance by the four directions.  Our ceremonies and songs remember and renew this life, this origin for it is ever present, and we return always to the center in all our words, in all our thoughts, all our actions, always towards our center… where the people of peace were born unto this world.

I am of the corn clan, and we share our stories, and live always near our center of origin, near the mesas, the mountains, our sacred spaces.  Time can travel on, but always the origin and the center remains, and we dance and sing, keeping balance with the world, assuring the winds that flow in the four directions are sturdy and constant-- always Tuwa in steadiness. And the stories are shared only upon that time where sun and moon allow, and the elders make sure it is so, for we come to know the world through their stories and what the earth may reveal.”

Her voice grew more distressed, and her eyes seemed to sink into her past. “Yet our ways, our knowledge is illicit, dangerous, and they come with crosses and words, sprinkling water on our skins hoping to drown out our stories, but these stories cannot be washed away. How do you erase creation?  You cannot, and we flee, into our center, into the mountains that held us in their womb, and into the center of our heart we take the songs, the dances, and under cover of night and stone we bring them forth, honoring the way of our grandfathers.  Always we put them back in our heart, and we walk forth with blank faces, and serpentine words.

But walking was not enough, it caused us too many dead, and so we ran, and galloped from our mother with fierce cries, throwing our prayers to the four winds.  Their fire was too strong; it burnt us down, until we were taken from our sacred lands, taken from the lands that give us breath that whispers life into our souls, taken to far away lands, told never to return to our center.  But I would not be corralled like a goat, so I ran with many of the young, those who were too old stayed behind, standing on the tips of their fingernails, waiting, waiting. 

And I danced the ghost dance, danced to bring back the grandfathers, danced to return to the lands that gave birth to me, but it was not to be.  It was as if man forgot to live the path of peace, and the world consumed itself. I found myself in this strange land.  And I do not see my mountains, I do not see the center, and so I sing to keep my words and thoughts from crumbling inside.  I sing to remember, not to forget the ways of the Creator, but I fear that I have shattered the balance for I conjured a story when the moon should have been walking closer to the land- but now I walk alone, my grandfathers are lost to me; and the stories their power I have unleashed unwittingly”

Glorfindel paused for a second and looked over towards the woman.  For a second it appeared as if the wind was scattering her very being as if it was made of sand, and the aged and wise lord sighed sadly, “She is a lost spirit, and if she does not find her way back towards the halls of her fathers, this mortal spirit will be doomed to wander, always in search of her center.” But of all Elves, save maybe Galadriel, only Glorfindel could see this.  His time in Mandos’ care gifted him sight at times that would bear the path that bore the living towards death, and this soul was neither living nor dead.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

(1) Referring the 3 clans of Elves who began the Great Journey West.

To My Reviewers: I apologize for not answering personally but life has taken me away from home of late, so in between hotel rooms and my boyfriend’s apartment (he is still clueless as to my fanfic pastime) I have penned this chapter.  The story is close to the end.  I hope to use spring break to wind it up.  Thank you all for the wonderful reviews.  They really do feed my muse, even if she is traveling to distant places.