Curumo, slices of vice. by Chiara Cadrich

The grey heavens

Around SA 1000 - The Istari land at the gray havens...

A bridge was thrown from the nave and a youth choir began singing an elven lay of Valinor. A cloud of butterflies rose from the grassy banks, scattering toward the azure of the silvery-edged mountains.

Then a man dressed in a rich immaculate dress, walked down on the marble quay. His tall stature and lordly demeanour required respect. A deep insight illuminated his penetrating gaze. But neither the determination of his noble brow, nor his long hands’ skills, nor even the wisdom of many ages that lit his aquiline face, struck the assistance as much as his voice.

When he spoke before the beautiful people who had gathered to welcome him, they felt as if the verb of Valinor’s Lords had come down among them on these shores of Middle-earth: mistakes of the past would be forgiven, the mysterious evil that had arisen would be seen through, vain old alliances would be forged anew, the wise vigilance of the Valar’s envoy would enlighten the destiny of the elves.

Captivating his audience, Curumo watched in their faces, the scars of doubtful and painful years, fainting under the spell of his learned modulations.

Suddenly he caught sight of a detail. A shaggy character, who had descended from the same elven nave, had jumped at the bottom of the dock. Wading in algae, a decrepit seagull on his shoulder, he seemed absorbed in the passionate contemplation of a mussels’ shoal.

A wave of irritation altered the powerful harmony of Curumo’s noble words. With a majestic gesture of authority, he dryly struck the slab with his white stick.

- "Aïwendil! Do not make me regret having granted the favor of your presence to Lady Kementari!"

Scolded, the disheveled and haggard man sniffed deeply, pretended to disperse crabs clung to his brown wool dress, and clumsily climbed the dock’s steps, while his gull defecated on his ear with a reproving cry towards the white mage.

His eyelids heavy with contempt, Curumo disdained his grotesque sidekick with a grimace of disgust and a sigh of resignation. Turning away to a large elf to with a short blond beard, he gravely spoke to him.

However, a third man was walking down the board, embarrassed with a big oak and silver trunk. Some gray elves came to his aid, avoiding the precious luggage to dump in the bay’s waters. Adjusting his own bundle, the old man, stooped and graying, thanked his rescuers and noisily drew the trunk on the pavement, earning a reproachful look from Curumo.

Ignoring this second interruption, the white mage led Cirdan away, sharing his high views while Olorin was taking care of his trunks. Most urgently, he said in his deep and captivating voice, was to find traces of the blue wizards, he had sent as scouts. Then he would get down to coordinating the entire order “Heren Istarion”...

.oOo.