Bits of Elven Glass by Himring

Prologue

In Formenos

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It is pitch-dark in Feanor’s workshop in Formenos.  The windows have been shuttered and barred ever since its master departed south to Valmar. The heavy oaken door is locked, and even Curufinwe is not allowed to enter in Feanor’s absence. The light of the Trees, dimmed by distance this far north, does not filter in.

Shuttered, barred, locked—but even that is not enough. Built into an interior wall, surrounded by layers and layers of masonry, the workshop contains an inner chamber sealed tightly with a door of steel and an intricate locking mechanism only Feanor can undo. Through the hairline crack surrounding the door, bright white light leaks, not much of it, just the suspicion of a star, but it would still draw the eyes of all if anyone were here to see.

That is where the Silmarils are kept, of course. Much, much fainter, in an out-of-the-way corner of the workshop at the back of a dusty shelf, there is also a tiny glow of green, perhaps only visible because the workshop is otherwise so dark.

Suddenly, impossibly, it seems darker still. Soon after, a thunderous blow strikes the gate of Formenos, so loud that it overpowers the sense of hearing. The thick walls shudder as destruction makes its way into the heart of Formenos.

The tiny green glow is extinguished.

Chapter 1

Maedhros gives the first Elessar to Fingon and explains the circumstances and purpose of its making

[Obligatory name confusion: Curvo=Curufin, Feanaro=Feanor, Findekano=Fingon, Tyelpo=Celebrimbor]

[Now posted on AO3 with prologue and epilogue as "The Prototype"]

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‘Hold out your hand, Findekano.’                                                     

Fingon was puzzled.  He had just been describing his recent visit to Brithombar. But Maedhros’s response did not seem to have anything to do with the Falathrim—or with anything else that Fingon could make out.

‘Hold out your hand’, his cousin repeated, softly, without a hint of a smile.

In days gone by, in Tirion, these same words might have introduced the sharing of the proceeds from a minor raid on the palace kitchens or some kind of practical joke. However, Fingon did not think it was likely that he was about to receive a piece of saffron cake or almond pastry. He held out his hand.

The object on his palm felt small, hard and heavy for its size. Maedhros’s fingers, having placed it there, withdrew and Fingon could see it was a green jewel, multi-faceted. On this grey autumn day, it glowed in his hand as with the light of the sun seen through new beech leaves in spring.

‘It’s lovely’, he said, delighted. He looked at it more closely and added, seriously: ‘But it’s not just a pretty stone, is it?’

‘No’, said Maedhros. ‘Father designed it.’

He looked away and then back at Fingon. Still speaking softly and almost reluctantly, as if sharing a secret with Fingon and the stone held between them, he began to explain:

‘Contrary to what you might imagine, considering the outcome, Father didn’t spend all those years of exile in Formenos simply nursing his grudges. There were times, especially early on, when he envisioned a kind of compromise. When his time in Formenos was over, he decided, he would leave for Middle-earth with those of us who wished to follow him and, in return for unhindered departure, he would offer to concede his position and all his rights in Aman freely to your father.’

‘But nothing came of that’, observed Fingon quietly.

‘No’, said Maedhros, dryly, ‘for one thing, he never could bring himself to discuss it with Grandfather at all. However much he might have wished to leave Aman, I’m not sure he would ever have done so as long as it meant leaving Grandfather.  And also, of course, his old resentment ran deep…’

They sat for a moment in silence.

Then Maedhros continued: ‘But this stone—or rather its design—formed part of that plan. Father began to design a pair of gems. One of them was for himself. Despite his burning desire to leave Aman, he remained aware that it was a risky undertaking to lead a whole people into the wilderness of Endore. The green stone was intended to help ensure that we would be able to wrest a livelihood from an unknown environment far from the Light of the Trees, for it would resonate with the power of growing things. The red stone, on the other hand…’

‘The red stone?’ echoed Fingon, unconsciously closing his fingers over the green gem in his hand.

‘The red stone would resonate with the fire of the heart and help the bearer to inspire confidence in his followers. That one Father planned to give to your father to help to heal the breach.’

‘But…!’, Fingon’s face clearly expressed what he thought his father’s likely reaction would have been to a gift that suggested he was unable to inspire enough confidence in his people without a little extra help from his half-brother.

Maedhros gave him a small twisted smile.

‘I said Father was envisioning a compromise. I didn’t say he had learned tact in his dealings with people who didn’t see eye to eye with him…’

‘I see’, said Fingon. ‘Or rather I don’t see. How come I’m holding this stone of Feanaro’s in my hand? If you are really planning to give it away, shouldn’t you be giving it to my father?’

And he opened his fingers and extended the stone towards his cousin. Maedhros shook his head, frowning slightly.

‘This isn’t the green jewel Father planned to make. He gave up those plans and never finished work on it. The prototypes that existed were consumed in the Darkness that accompanied Melkor to Formenos.

We could not have completed Father’s original design. We adapted it, what we remembered of it, Curvo and me, with not a little help from Tyelpo. This stone is different, less powerful, but perhaps not lesser in all things. For Father’s green stone was in essence to be a tool of conquest, although he did not see it that way, I think. It would have forced the land to comply with his wishes.

But this stone was made for you. What I have seen of your love for Hithlum and for Dor-lomin, I have locked into this stone, and it is your love for your new home that is the key to unlocking its power. It is meant to aid you in your plans and, although its working will be much slower, I expect, it should be much less forcible and also more precise.’

‘You made it for me?’ asked Fingon and studied the gem in his palm with renewed wonder. ‘Have you also made one for yourself?’

His cousin was silent. Fingon regarded him with concern.

‘The Marches…?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Maybe one day’, said Maedhros. ‘Not yet.’

‘I see’, said Fingon, sadly.

‘But the red stone—are you planning to make one like that also?’ he thought to ask.

‘No’, said Maedhros firmly. ‘Although Tyelpo has ideas… But no.’

And Fingon saw in his cousin’s face the memory of the market square in Tirion and a whole people swayed by Feanor’s voice.

---

Chapter End Notes

 

I have picked up ideas from fanon as well as from canon here: the idea of the red stone originally intended for Fingolfin which ultimately inspires Celebrimbor to create Narya, the Ring of Fire, is my own, I believe, but draws on inventions by Cirdan and others.

Interlude

In Dor-lomin

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In Dor-lomin, Fingon steps out of his back door into the experimental vegetable garden. In the dreams of glorious rule that he dreamt while still in Valinor, he never expected that it would take quite so much time, effort and imagination just to try and keep everyone well fed throughout the year. Now he spends days with his troop of gardeners considering cabbage. Strategy sessions revolve around lettuce, carrots and parsnips, whole campaigns are launched in order to conquer the leek and the onion, and intricate tactical plans are devised for the growth of strawberries and blackcurrants.

Never mind—they are making progress. Increasingly, they are managing to adapt the horticultural lore they brought from Valinor to local conditions. They have benefited from Sindarin advice, although the Sindar never used to maintain fields and gardens so far north, and they have adapted to the seasons.  His gardeners have also made a few inventions and discoveries that are entirely their own. Winter will keep returning each year, a periodic reminder of the Ice and of the power of Morgoth, but it is easier to face such reminders with a full belly.

Fingon surveys the neatly laid-out beds and the well-raked earth with pride. He has great hopes for the coming year. Almost involuntarily, his hand steals to the green jewel pendant on the chain around his neck. He looks east for a moment and suppresses a sigh.

Chapter 2

Enerdhil and Celebrimbor's conversation in Nevrast: the making of the second stone.

[Posted on MPTT and AO3 as "Shared Knowledge"]

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‘Us Feanorians aren’t the only ones harbouring secrets, these days’, remarks Celebrimbor casually as he leans out of the window into the sea breeze.

‘What do you mean?’ asks Enerdhil promptly—too promptly, he realizes, as if he’s been waiting uneasily for Celebrimbor’s comment, which of course he has, for quite a while now.

Celebrimbor turns around. He looks every inch a descendant of the House of Finwe, Celebrimbor does, larger than life as he stands there, framed by the poky alcove in Enerdhil’s smallish workshop. Enerdhil would not have dreamed of making friends with a prince, let alone the grandson of Feanor. It was Celebrimbor who walked into his workshop one day, praised his skill to the skies and brought him to the attention of the palace. He owes much of his career to Celebrimbor, too much, and it makes him uncomfortable—because he feels he doesn’t entirely deserve Celebrimbor’s generosity, because there seems to be no real way he could return such favours to anyone of Celebrimbor’s high status and because, most emphatically, Enerdhil is not a Feanorian.

And now he is lying to Celebrimbor—and lying badly and unconvincingly, too, but he hadn’t expected Celebrimbor’s comment to be so oblique when it finally came.  Three times Celebrimbor has visited since Enerdhil learned of Turgon’s plans and twice he left without asking Enerdhil so much as a single question Enerdhil could not answer in good conscience.

‘You know what I mean’, says Celebrimbor mildly. ‘I mean the great big secret that all of Vinyamar seems to be hushing up. With varying degrees of success, I might add.’

‘There is no such secret,’ Enerdhil says firmly.

‘Of course there isn’t,’ Celebrimbor agrees. ‘So I guess you are leaving with the rest?’

If Celebrimbor knows this much, then not only has Enerdhil shamefully attempted to conceal important facts from his friend but, even worse, he has somehow betrayed his king’s confidence to the Feanorian, breaking faith with both of them. He stares at Celebrimbor in horror, open-mouthed.

‘I have no idea what you are talking about!’ he shouts. ‘What are you accusing me of?!’

‘I’ll miss you’, says Celebrimbor, ignoring Enerdhil’s outburst.

Guilt kicks Enerdhil in the gut. He sees no real reason to believe that their plans would not be safe with Celebrimbor—except that Turgon has enjoined complete secrecy. True, his friendship with Enerdhil is not likely to stop Celebrimbor from reporting to his father or his uncles—but whatever else one might feel about the Sons of Feanor, they are hardly going to drop any hints about Turgon’s imminent departure in Morgoth’s ear.

It is this feeling of guilt that makes Enerdhil react angrily. ‘I can’t make head or tail of what you are saying—if you are accusing me of disloyalty—if you are regretting sharing your knowledge with me…’

He seizes an empty sack, lunges towards his work bench and sweeps materials, tools, sketches and prototypes haphazardly off its surface into the sack.

‘Here’, he says, holding it out to Celebrimbor, ‘I will forget all about it, I swear, I will never try to make an elessar again…’

Celebrimbor makes no move to take the sack.

‘You misunderstand me, Anardilya’, he says. ‘I regret nothing and I have certainly neither the wish nor the right to forbid you to make an elessar. Although initially it was I who shared my knowledge with you, our experiments have taught me things that I might never have learned on my own.’

He reaches out and takes the sack from Enerdhil’s fingers after all, but then he empties it carefully back out onto the workbench.

‘Like this.’ He holds up a prototype. Briefly, in his palm, it lights up the shadowed chamber like sunlight on a spring afternoon.

He puts it down again.

‘I think you never quite believed me when I told you how much I was learning, working with you, did you? I wasn’t exaggerating. I really will miss you. Ah, well.’ He shrugs. ‘May the stars shine on the hour of your departure, Enerdhil, and on the hour of your arrival, too, wherever it is you are going.’

He strides to the door.

Enerdhil’s knees feel weak of a sudden and he leans against the wall. As his anger ebbs away, he is almost sick with relief that Celebrimbor didn’t accept his offer—partly because for the past week or so he has become increasingly certain that he needs to make this elessar of his for Idril, although that is not something he has told Celebrimbor either.

Celebrimbor—Enerdhil suddenly wakes up to the fact that he’s gone, out through the door and on the way out of Vinyamar and out of Enerdhil’s life. Once Enerdhil leaves for Gondolin, they may never see each other again.  He rushes out of his workshop. Celebrimbor is walking away from him down the street. He is walking quite steadily and purposefully but, somehow, his back looks lonely. Enerdhil had not really believed that a grandson of Feanor could be lonely…

‘Celebrimbor’, he calls out, rather hesitantly.

Celebrimbor carries right on walking.

Enerdhil clears his throat. ‘Tyelpo!’ It is not a form of the name he would have considered at all appropriate to use, before.

Celebrimbor stops for a moment, looks around, smiles and waves. Then he turns a corner and disappears from sight.

Enerdhil goes back into his workshop and begins tidying up his workbench. Ever since Turgon told him of his plans, he has been dreaming of it: a city that is and is not Tirion, whole and peaceful in sunlight. And, more and more, that is the dream he has been trying to embed in his elessar, once he had learned from Celebrimbor the rudiments of making such things. Now he knows for certain his elessar is for Idril. The elessar may or may not be finished before they leave Vinyamar for Gondolin, but finished it will be.

Enerdhil goes on working.

 

Chapter 3

A childhood memory of Earendil's.

[This is also part of an incomplete Earendil series or WIP.]

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‘How was your day today, Earendil, my son?’

‘It was a good day today, mother. Salgant told me jokes and made me laugh. And Ecthelion made me a willow whistle!’

Idril smiles—it smoothes the worry from around her eyes. As she bends down to kiss her son goodnight, the glowing green jewel on its chain around her neck slips forward and dangles for a moment before Earendil’s eyes.

Chapter 4

Celebrimbor undermines Galadriel's rule in Eregion, but crafts the Elessar for her.

[Posted elsewhere as "Expectations"]

Originally written for B2MeM 2012 for the prompt: women of the Silmarillion defying expectations.

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‘It is not because you are a woman’, said Celebrimbor, annoyed, ‘or at least, not in the way you mean.’

He cleared his throat.

‘Listen, Artanis, I wasn’t there, of course, but I’ve heard enough stories about the Ice, stories told by those who remember, by those who crossed the Ice with you. They agree that you were marvellous during the Crossing, a natural leader, inspiring, compelling, that they owe their survival largely to you.

‘I don’t quite know what happened—as a scion of the House of Feanor, I was elsewhere, mostly, not privy to discussions—but my guess is that as soon as you arrived in Middle-earth, your brothers, your cousins, your uncle discovered that there was a War on, as if you hadn’t been perfectly aware of that to begin with, as if they ought not to have been aware of it just as much as you, as if the Helcaraxe hadn’t been as murderous as Morgoth, in its way, and they told you that War was Not For Women. The odds would have been against you in that argument—at any rate, you would have been heavily outnumbered…

‘Maybe you found that the Sindar weren’t all that much more open-minded than the Noldor on the subject, perhaps even less so, although they ought to have known better, having a Maia for their queen. Maybe you threw up your hands in disgust, left the hapless males to it, and decided to pursue other goals, other kinds of power.

‘You are very powerful now, in the ways that Melian taught you. But somehow, on some level, you must have believed what they told you about Women, although it must have been evident they did not have a clue of what they were talking about. What I am seeing, here, in Eregion, is not the Artanis who was one of the Great among the leaders of the Noldor across the Helcaraxe. What I am seeing is patchwork—a bit of Findarato one day, a bit of Nolofinwe the next, as if you cannot not do without models, but have confidence neither in yourself nor in your ability to copy any of them. On some days, you out-Feanaro Feanaro!

‘It does not suit you and it does not go down well with my people. Hailing from Nargothrond, as most of them do, they are attached to the House of Arafinwe. They are also more broad-minded than some, but they do not have a history of unquestioning obedience and will not sit still while you experiment with styles of leadership.

‘Also,’ he added, aggrieved, ‘you haven’t given Celeborn enough to do, so for want of another occupation he comes bothering me about my work. He has no sympathy or understanding for my work, and I confess his constant scepticism aggravates me.’

Celebrimbor paused for breath. Uncertainly, he eyed Galadriel’s unyielding back as she went on leaning out of the window. Almost, he lost courage, but finally went on.

‘Altariel, you do not love Eregion and its people. I do, and it saddens me to see how each day the mutual discontent grows, in your heart and in theirs. You say you that you weary of the barren stones of Eregion and long for unfading flowers and leaves, but I do not think you are ready to return to Valinor. I think maybe you will not be ready to return to Aman until you have lost your heart to Middle-earth itself, not only to a husband from Doriath, until you have found your own true home here in Ennore.’

He pulled the green stone from his pouch.

‘I have crafted a gift for you, a green stone. A long time ago, in Vinyamar, I taught Enerdhil the art of its making and he, in turn, taught me that there was more to it than I suspected. I have looked further into the matter, and I think this stone has the potential to help you in your need. When you find the place that you love, the place that is your heart’s home, it will tell you. You will see the flowers blossom and the leaves flourish around you because of your love, because it interacts with the power of the stone.’

Galadriel turned around. All this while she had made no movement, no sound. Celebrimbor, who had stubbornly refused to be cowed by her haughty silence, was shocked to see her face wet with tears.

‘Forgive me, Artanis’, he stammered, ‘I did not mean to hurt you. What do I know? I am a blithering fool. Forget what I said; it was nonsense. These are just temporary difficulties, and we’ll weather them, you’ll see.’

He hastily withdrew the proffered jewel and began to put it back in his pouch.

‘No’, said Galadriel. ‘Give it to me.’

---

Chapter End Notes

Note on Quenya names: Altariel=Galadriel (Noldorin Quenya; Telerin: Alatariel); Arafinwe=Finarfin; Feanaro=Feanor; Findarato=Finrod; Nolofinwe=Fingolfin.

Chapter 4a

Fingon has fallen in battle, and the Havens of the Falas, where he sent Gil-galad to be kept safe, have fallen, too.
But there is still a gift to be passed on, a gift that encompasses a hope.
And Gil-galad keeps it until the end.

Posted elsewhere under the title: Unfading Memories of Green

Originally written for lferion, in response to a comment, and posted to AO3.

[The story features my recurring OFC Erien, who helped to raise Gil-galad.

Gil-galad's canonical death, at the end of the story, is strongly implied, but not described.]

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‘This is yours, now,’ said Erien.

They were both being brave, thought Ereinion. Or maybe crying just wasn’t an option anymore when disaster had struck as hard as this. Erien was huddled under the gunwale, looking very pale under the grime and the soot.

He looked at Father’s green jewel in her hand, not reaching out to touch.

‘Fingon gave it into my care,’ said Erien, steadily, ‘for you to have if Doom should send you elsewhere, not to return to Hithlum.’

‘Why?’ asked Ereinion.

Erien gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

‘There is no more Hithlum,’ said Ereinion. Perhaps he was not so brave after all; he could hear a distinct wobble in his voice. ‘It is all Morgoth’s. No more Brithombar or Eglarest either—that’s why we are on this ship. Fleeing. That’s right, isn’t it? So, what purpose can it serve, that stone?’

‘You were not born in Hithlum,’ said Erien, ‘even if you don’t remember. And Fingon was not born there, nor I. You can still make a home elsewhere.’

She didn’t sound at all confident of that, Ereinion thought. But the desire to question her and her words had left him as quickly as it had come on.

He took the stone. It looked to him as if there was a flaw in it. Maybe it had cracked, when Father… Or maybe it was just his eyes. He held it tight in his hand, not wanting to know.

 

---

 

 

Perhaps he ought to have passed the stone to others, like the Rings. But it had come to him before the Crown of High Kingship or any Ring and seemed more fully his own. So he had kept it and it had seemed to strengthen him, even in this land where all was ruin and ash and nothing grew, with unfading memories of green. He had come to love Lindon, as much as he had loved Hithlum, just as Erien had said. That was why he was here, to fight the Enemy for Middle-earth and its people, although, oh, so weary of War. He gripped Aeglos tighter and strode forward.

In the heat of Sauron’s black fire, the jewel broke.

---

Chapter End Notes

Erien was not born in Hithlum, because she came with Fingolfin from Valinor. Her comment that Gil-galad was not born in Hithlum either is strictly Himring 'verse. According to this, he was born in Eastern Beleriand, but arrived in Hithlum as a baby.

Some months pass between the death of Fingon and the Fall of the Havens. I have not explained here why the jewel was not handed over earlier, but I can think of more than one possible reason.

Chapter 5

Celebrian makes up her mind to sail; her arrival in Valinor.

Posted elsewhere as "Taking the Bruise".

Originally written for B2MeM 2013 (for details see end notes)

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Celebrian is having a good day.  And so, reluctantly persuaded by her brave smiles, her carers permit her to remain alone by herself on the terrace, propped up in a comfortable chair, swathed in blankets. She blinks warily in the watery autumn sunshine and looks out over bare thorny rose beds.

Celebrian is having a good day. The orchestra of fear and pain that plays at all times in her mind and on her body today plays a little more softly; today she can actually hear herself think above the shrilling of the pipes and the pounding of the kettle drums.

Celebrian is having a good day and so it is time—without any well-meaning well-wishers talking at her, assuring her again and again that she will soon be all right again, hollow assurances that on bad days she is only too willing to cling to—it is time today to face a few hard truths:  she has reached the point at which she is liable to inflict more damage on her family by staying with them than by leaving them.

She considers them each in turn—her children, her husband, her parents—and the thought of them is bitter. What has happened to her is warping their lives. They have revolved around her, attempting to lend all kinds of aid and support within their power and seeing their best efforts evaporate until her state of health has become like the centre of a black whirlpool, gradually sucking them in after her.

Mummy is trying to get well, Arwen. Mummy is trying really, really hard to get well. And her family are trying really hard to believe it.

They cannot understand, not even Elrond—maybe Elrond even less than the others, because he is so locked in his continual struggle with the ways her body and her mind are failing her, with each individual symptom, that he seldom finds the space to breathe, let alone step back and consider the larger picture. Elrond is a healer and she is refusing to heal. His growing self-doubt is harder to bear, in the long term, than those few fleeting moments when he almost seems to blame her.

They cannot understand and she cannot explain, for she does not understand either. How can all that loving care fail to make up for… But here that train of thought comes to a jarring halt.

Celebrian, who is having a good day, looks out over thorny rose beds and considers Valinor. It is not to her, as to her mother, a home she once left, a home to return to. No sea birds have ever called to her, promising her enduring bliss beyond the horizon. She had few dreams beyond Middle-earth before disaster struck, and Valinor to her means exile, a bleak alternative. But it may offer release from her daily round of horrors.

Elrond thinks so. In moments of despair, he talks of Irmo and Este, of Lorien. Because his healing powers descend from Melian and because Melian hails from Lorien, he believes that they would succeed where he failed.

Celebrian is less sure of this. What she remembers most clearly about the Gardens of Lorien from her history lessons is that Miriel went there and never came back. And if even her family cannot comprehend how those brief days of capture could shatter her beyond repair, what can the denizens of the Blessed Realm know of that?

Except for one.  The thought comes unbidden and surprises her. What Valar and Maiar might understand of her plight seems uncertain at best but there dwells one in Tirion who knows what she went through because he went through it himself: Finrod Felagund, her mother’s brother, who died in captivity in Tol-in-Gaurhoth and returned to the living, they say, to walk beside his father in Aman.

He knows what she went through but what would he think of her, the great Felagund? For he suffered his captivity because he ventured on the greatest and most dangerous of quests, she was merely waylaid on what should have been a safe journey. He fought a great duel with Sauron; she had her glaive twisted out of her hands early in the fight. He withstood torture to defend his companion’s secrets; her torturers did not have the wit to ask any questions. He died to rescue Beren; she was rescued by others. And then I failed to be worth rescuing.

‘No’, she says firmly. ‘I’m going to Valinor to see my uncle Finrod Felagund.’

And she insists on that thought with all her might. It lends her a sense of purpose. It is better than merely running away.

She looks out over the rose beds, over the whole valley of Imladris, and touches the green stone on her breast.

‘I did help to make you bloom, for a while’, she says to the valley.

The stone is for Arwen. She will give it to her mother to keep it for her and also ask her to keep an eye on Arwen. Elrond does not know much about handling girls; Arwen can twist him around her little finger.

And so her plans are laid.

***

But the next day is a bad day, and her carefully made resolutions and plans are forgotten. The maelstrom has her again. There is still much anguish to come, many doubts, much toing-and-froing, before Celebrian finally boards the ship at the Grey Havens, deserting her post. By then, she barely remembers that lie she told herself about her uncle—there are so many lies she told herself and others at various times.

And yet when the ship approaches the harbour, he is there, waiting for her. Clinging to the gunwale, she sees Finrod and recognizes him instantly—oddly enough because he is the only one among the crowd on the quay who seems furious, hopping mad, incandescent with rage. In all the portraits of him she has seen he looked noble and serene but maybe she has picked up on subtle hints of temper in her mother’s tales.

She totters pathetically down the gangway on the arm of a sailor and asks him shyly—she did not use to be shy but that was before she lost all sense of worth and purpose: ‘Are you expecting me?’

‘Of course’, he growls. ‘You called me, didn’t you? Come along!’

‘You’ll have to slow down’, she says, immediately. ‘I can’t walk that fast.’

‘Not yet’, he says and wraps his right arm around her waist so that he is supporting most of her weight. ‘But we’ve only just begun.’

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the two B2MeM 2013 Challenges: Wildcard: "Go where the stars are strange" and Wildcard: Final Challenge: Dwimordene's additional element: "She just smiled and laughed at me and took her bruise back again"

I would also like to acknowledge inspiration from Celebrian stories by CuriousWombat and Erulisse.

The story won a Honourable Mention in the category Story Featuring Elves in the 2013 Tree & Flower Awards on the Many Paths to Tread archive.

[ETA: Arwen appears to be younger in this piece than she canonically should be. But at the time it was more important to me to emphasize that for Celebrian to leave her children might be an unavoidable necessity than to stick with strict chronology.]

Chapter 8

In Minas Tirith, while Aragorn is waiting for Midsummer and Arwen's arrival, Gandalf tells Aragorn more details about the history of the Elessar than he had previously been aware of.

Posted elsewhere as a separate ficlet under the title "Elessar"

Written for a B2MeM 2015 prompt by Baranduin (see end notes)

Characters: Aragorn, Gandalf, Pippin

Rating: General, no warnings

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‘There were so many of them?’ asked Aragorn.

His hand went, a little protectively, to the eagle brooch at his shoulder and the green stone that had given him his royal name.

‘The accounts I found in the books of lore were vague and conflicting, but did not seem to speak of more than one or two… So this is neither the green stone that Feanor made nor the one given to Fingon by Maedhros—and not the one made by Enerdhil for Idril Celebrindal either, but all those did exist before mine was made?’

He gave a somewhat embarrassed laugh, as one who flatters himself singled out uniquely by prophecy who finds what he thought his dearest possession bandied back and forth as common goods in the marketplace.

‘Is my stone merely a copy of a copy of a copy, then? Then almost you could say the Mouth of Sauron was right to call it just a piece of elvish glass…’

‘Oh, no, that was not what I was telling you at all!’ said Gandalf, a shade impatiently. ‘This is not the stone made by Enerdhil for Idril in Gondolin, no. Now my memories of the Far West have come seeping back, I remember seeing it on Earendil’s breast before I left. And when you look up at night towards the evening star, you may think that your ancestor carries the twin—or rather elder sibling—of your own stone, as he sails up above—it wards his heart against the cold splendour of the skies with memories of Middle-earth and reminds him of the reason he undertook his lonely task—and so perhaps may yours do for you, at times when the ruling of a realm may seem harder and lonelier than any of the wanderings of Thorongil...’

Aragorn nodded. He had had an inkling of such already.

‘But,’ continued Gandalf, ‘the stone you bear was made by Celebrimbor for Galadriel and it was never a copy of a copy—none of those stones were—all different from each other, but not lesser, each adapted by the maker to their wishes as a giver and the needs of those it was given to. Do not be any less proud to bear it—and your name—merely because it is not the oldest or the only one that was ever made…’

Pippin hesitantly cleared his throat behind them. Nominally at least, he was in attendance as a member of the Guard and he was acutely aware of the weight of the livery of the Tower on his shoulders—although Aragorn had shown little desire to hold him very closely to the part of his vow that referred to speaking only at his lord’s command. But both Gandalf and Aragorn looked up readily as if they wished to hear what he might have to say on the matter.

‘I was there when the Lady gave you the brooch,’ he reminded Aragorn. ‘I remember it well and how very tall and kingly and—imposing you appeared all of a sudden when you first put it on! It seemed a very great gift to me indeed. It still does. Although, you know, at home in the Shire or in Bree even just a bit of elvish glass would seem strange and rare and mysterious!’

‘So it would!’ said Aragorn and smiled at him.

Besides, prophecy or no, it was Arwen’s gift, intended by her for me, he thought—and that would make it unique beyond anything, even if it were only a shard of a broken bottle…

Thorongil, she had said to him. I learned the name by which you went on your travels and so I had the stone I inherited from my mother set in a new setting for you, Master Eagle Star. It will be ready for you when the time comes!

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Chapter End Notes

I have Baranduin's prompt to thank for the introduction of Pippin here, which I think solved a problem with my earlier outline (although he doesn't exactly do any investigating here!):

"I would dearly love to see a story that revolves around the history of the Elessar jewel, with Aragorn as a focal point. Doesn't mean he even has to be in it but he should have a central importance in the story. I don't care if there is one version of the jewel or two, as you wish. Shoot, you could write a Fourth Age investigation into the provenance of the one Aragorn possesses. Things that have been running through my head that I would love to see if it fits for you: Earendil, Vingilot, the Great Eagles, Celebrimbor, Gondolin, and a hobbit (an adventurous Took?). You could have Merry and Pippin do the investigating after they return to Minas Tirith when they're elderly."

Chapter 9

The Bequest:

After Aragorn's death, Arwen takes leave of one of her daughters.

Rating: Teens (references to canonical bereavement and aftermath of torture)

Read Chapter 9

 

'Estel, Estel!'

But he was gone from her, beyond the circles of the world.

Arwen bent over and loosened the clasp of the eagle brooch she had had made for him--decades ago, although it seemed only yesterday. He would not need it now, lying silent among the other kings of Gondor in Rath Dinen. No one would need it now: the brooch, the stone, all those dreams that had hung on far too frail a thread, as it had proved...

How could she keep any vow she had made, now it had snapped?

The light had gone out. Who had extinguished all the lamps and why? She blundered up and away. The room seemed full of people but she could not see properly. She bumped into shoulders and grasping hands--there was the babble of voices in her ears, but she could not distinguish a word.

The wings of the eagle cut into her hand. She must leave. She must flee. She had failed...

She fetched up in a small pool of silence and halted, trying to catch her breath. Her vision cleared a little and she recognized, in front of her, her daughter Celebriel, tallest of her children, almost as tall as her grandmother, with her mother's silver hair. She had doubted, once, whether the name might not prove too much of a burden for a daughter so unambiguously mortal, but Celebriel she had become and Celebriel she had remained.

Now, as she gazed into her daughter's eyes, she saw herself and recognized, suddenly--beyond the blindness of crippling pain--that this was not, after all, the first time anything like this had ever happened. Just so, like her daughter now, she had stood silent at the Grey Havens as Celebrian boarded the ship, her hands twisted into the folds of her cloak, trying not to clutch, trying to understand why her mother had to leave. But even seeing this, understanding what pain she would be inflicting, she knew she would not be able to stay--just as her mother had known and had had to leave anyway.

It was her mother who had bequeathed the stone to her. It was her grandmother who had given it to her and explained what the stone would do and what it would not. She had forgotten that last part, perhaps, during the days of glory when it seemed love, like Gondor's peace, would go on for ever and ever...

She opened her hand. The eagle rested in her palm, its wings bloodied where it had cut her.

It was needed still, the leaf-green stone that had passed down from Galadriel to Celebrian to herself, an inheritance that Lothlorien and Imladris, even as they failed and faded, had bequeathed to Gondor. Had she not known what she stood for, Evenstar that she was? She had chosen her own fate. And even if she herself had no strength to bear it now, not without Aragorn, she must not withdraw her gift entirely--nor did she wish to.

'This is for you now', she said. Her voice sounded strange in her ears, thin as a reed.

And she put the elf-stone into her daughter's hand.

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Chapter End Notes

First promised to Elleth for a prompt for B2MeM 2015 and finally written for her for Fandom Stocking 2015. The promise gave me the courage to tackle the scene...