9. The Elfstone - by Ithildin
A trio of ficlets centered around the Elessar - the Elfstone - and connects all three of the settings in Meril's request.
___________________________________________________________________ 1. Wings of Memory
The green stone hummed almost imperceptibly in its silver setting as it was lifted into the narrow shaft of light. Its smooth surface reflected the distracted smile of its creator even as it gathered the sun’s energy and shot emerald beams into the darkest corners of the workshop. The eyes of the mirdan looked through the bright heart of the stone, to a place and time forever lost to him except in memory... His family watched as he carefully unwrapped the small set of fine tools. With a gasp of delight he gazed up at his father’s father who stood by smiling in approval. ‘Your talent has not gone unnoticed, Telperinquar,’ Feanáro said. ‘It is time you began to learn the craft of the Noldor.’ Telperinquar rose and bowed respectfully to his grandfather then found himself swept into the warm embrace of his grandmother Nerdanel’s arms. She smiled indulgently down at him; then catching her husband’s hand she drew him into the circle, and Telperinquar felt Feanáro’s arm curl about his thin shoulders. Joy and pride sang together in his young heart. ‘One day I will be a great smith also,’ he vowed silently,’ and I will craft wondrous things of precious metals and gems.’ Suddenly a cloud drifted over the sun and the stone dimmed. Celebrimbor frowned as the vision evaporated. Lowering the piece he laid it gently on the table, and noticed the silver eagle’s outstretched wings were smudged with ash from the forge. Sighing deeply, he picked up a piece of cloth and resumed his polishing.
*** A/N: mirdan- jewel smith This piece perhaps takes a bit of liberty with canon... Here I have placed Celebrimbor's childhood in Aman. And I utilize the notion that Celebrimbor created the Elessar, but here I have retained his position as Curufin’s son. Telperinquar is the Quenya equivalent of Celebrimbor (Silver-fist) as given in the index of The Silmarillion.
___________________________________________________________________ 2. Wings of Hope
The green stone glowed softly in the moonlight, held aloft in his lady’s slender hands. Celeborn hesitated for she seemed deep in thought, but at last she lowered her hands and sank slowly to the carven bench. Though the brooch now lay in shadow, emerald fire continued to swirl in its depths. Moving to stand behind her he placed his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscles. ‘Where do your thoughts wander, meleth nin?’ he asked quietly. ‘On trails of memory,’ she murmured, briefly closing her eyes. ‘But there are other roads I see; veiled in twilight; ways that lie before us where no feet yet have trod; and I cannot say which path holds the greater sorrow.’ She reached up and caught his hand where it rested on her shoulder and leaned her cheek against his fingers. 'On the morrow I shall give the Elessar to Aragorn as Arwen requested.’ ‘You know where his road leads from here.’ ‘I do,’ she answered. ‘Dark his way may appear; even so, it is the path of hope and perhaps this jewel may yet heal some hurts before…’ Her voice trailed away and Celeborn tightened his grip on her hand. A single strand of luminescence writhed across the face of the jewel; as thin and fragile as the strand of hope that their hearts now held to. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together. A/N: meleth nin - my love
___________________________________________________________________ 3. Wings of Healing
Bergil took the stairs two at a time, clutching the small bundle to his chest as he ran. The herbmaster’s urgent orders spurred him on: Faramir’s life hung in the balance and all haste was needed. He raced down the long hall, skidded around the corner, and burst through the doorway. It seemed that almost every head in the crowded little room turned his way. A grey-cloaked man knelt beside Faramir’s bed, his hand resting on the Steward’s brow. He called Faramir by name but his voice sounded faint as if he were calling from somewhere far away. The man sighed wearily and then he too looked up at Bergil. Quickly the boy held out the cloth-wrapped leaves. ‘It is kingsfoil, Sir,’ he said; ‘but not fresh, I fear. It must have been culled two weeks ago at the least. I hope it will serve, Sir?’ As he finished speaking the cloaked healer straightened and Bergil could better see Lord Faramir’s face. Grey it was, and deathly still. Was he too late? His young heart broke at the thought and suddenly Bergil could not hold back the tears. He turned towards the door, choking back a sob of grief, but someone caught his arm. The cloth bundle was lifted gently from his fingers and he found himself looking up into the healer’s smiling face. ‘It will serve,’ the man said reassuringly. ‘The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted!’ Bergil swiped at his wet cheeks with his sleeve, as hope flared in his heart once more. His father moved to his side and drew him close; they stood together and watched as the healer crushed some of the dried leaves in his hands sending an aromatic freshness sweeping through the room like a spring breeze. Bergil studied the stranger as he worked; and in the flickering lamplight he caught a glimpse of green and silver on the man’s breast. The mysterious healer dropped the bits of leaves into a bowl of water and the fragrant scent filled the room again. He stood, then, seeming to throw off his great weariness and Bergil could clearly see the brooch he wore – a green stone in a setting of silver with wings like an eagle in flight. For an instant the boy was almost sure a light radiated from the heart of the stone – as if it held a tiny captive star in its emerald depths. Bergil rubbed his still damp eyes, and when he looked again the light was gone, and the stone was dark in the dim room. Then the man turned and held the bowl near the Steward’s face and Faramir awakened and spoke and Bergil and his father were overcome with joy and relief. They stayed with Faramir through the night and so it was that Bergil thought no more on the green stone then, but in days after he did think on it, and he wondered.
A/N - Bergil and Aragorn’s dialogue is from ‘The Houses of Healing’, RotK
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.