1. Senses of Love by Mar'isu
The water ripples when I breathe on it. Beneath the shelter of the Two Trees, there is a still pool, clearer than even Varda's mantle, and the light of the Trees seems to gather in the quiet water. The calm surface is smooth and polished, like a mirror. I stare into the depths . . . and find myself staring back. A white star in my other-self's hand holds back the darkness as the last light of the Trees goes to one who walks openly into Shadow. The water ripples as I fill the vial, knowing that Ages will pass before the Burdened One will have need of it. Vision done, I stand and go, but I will return.
For this mirror shows many things.
AN: I realize that, technically, the star-glass is the light of Eärendil. However, Eärendil gets his light from the Silmaril that Elwing brought to him. And the Silmarils were made to hold the light of the Two Trees. Therefore, I would argue that any light of the Two Trees could be said to be the light of Eärendil.
He loves what he does. That's why he's the Senior Master, while I'm still a Junior. But sometimes I wonder if he doesn't love his craft too much. This new journeyman, for example. He's good, but he doesn't love the work. I wonder if he loves anything. But the Master will teach him, for the power of ring-making should not be hoarded. For love of the craft, the craft is taught.
I do not have a love powerful enough for truly great Ring-making, and I wonder that the journeyman does. The newcomer makes Rings such as I have never seen, set with stones of great power. Seven he has made and nine of another kind. My three, weak attempts made for the love of the Master and Arda, pale in comparison.
Still, when the Black Tongue steals sleep, I flee.
Better Three made in love but weak, than One to Rule made in hate.
AN: I have a hard time believing that Celebrimbor thought nothing was wrong up to the point of the forging of the One Ring. So this is where my mind goes.----------------------------------
I sing over the bread.
Rest to the weary. Strength to the faltering. Clarity to the confused. All this and more I knead into the dough, as I have done every day for millennia.
Yesterday I made a double batch, singing healing, courage, and hope into the wafers before wrapping them in the mallorn leaves with whispers of protection and peace. They will keep as long as they must and will still be just as sweet as when I pulled them from the coals.
And the Dwarf thought it was cram.
The fire burns and I thank Aulë for the heat.
Water cools and I thank Ulmo for the waves.
The blade slices air and I thank Manwë for winds to cleave.
Vines twine about the blade to honor Yavanna.
Your Evenstar, Varda, will grace the bearer of this sword.
Oromë grant safety as we hunt the Shadow.
Mandos receive those who fall.
Nienna weeps for them already.
The Aratar bless the King returned.
In this way is Narsil reforged and Andúril born.
AN: The Aratar are the eight high Valar named in the previous. No I did not make the word up.----------------------------------------
I can smell the healing in this plant. The Valar blessed my brother indeed when they gifted Númenor with asëa aranion. Little more than a weed to some, in the hands of my line it is a gift beyond price to the wounded. It smells to me of Celebrían, in the days when we were happy. It is five hundred years since she sailed, but I remember her every time I teach another of my brother's descendants of this plant, and the love of a King which makes it heal. As I do now.
"Estel, this is athelas. Can you smell it?"
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.