Such marks we leave by Morcondil

Such marks we leave

Read Such marks we leave

“When people are able to influence so many others through their life and their example, they do not die.”
— Aleida Guevara

---

It was always a task to settle the little one down to sleep, and tonight it was even more of a challenge, for Itarildë had spent the day watching her father and his siblings work at the great forges alongside Aulë. Elenwë bit her cheek as her daughter described—for at least the tenth time—how Aunt Írissë had lifted a molten bar of copper straight from the coals and then plunged it, hissing and screaming, into a reservoir of water waiting nearby.

“It made such a jolly sound, Mama,” giggled Idril, bouncing on her bed. The coverlet Elenwë had just smoothed over the child wrinkled again. “And then she used a hammer to beat the copper, over and over and over again. Aunt Írissë is so strong!”

“That she is, dearest,” said Elenwë. She glanced out the bedchamber window and sighed. It was well past the time of the Mingling, and well past the time when little girls should be fast asleep. “Now, can you try to sleep for me, just a little? And tomorrow you and I will bake a special cake together. Would you like that?”

Itarildë hesitated. She was young enough yet that she hadn’t learned even the barest performance of deception.

Elenwë nudged her daughter’s blanketed foot. “What is it?”

“Well…” She drew out the word so it filled several seconds.

“What?” Elenwë felt her patience thinning, but kept her tone gentle. Turgon and she had made plans to kiss like mad young lovers beneath the stars after Itarildë went to bed, but she doubted there would be time for that now. “What is it, child?”

The little girl’s face clouded. “It’s just that Aunt Írissë and Papa and all the rest showed me so many things. And Mama, I already know how to bake a cake! Couldn’t you teach me something new, like pottery or...or cousin Fëanáro’s new writing? Aunt Írissë said she could teach me those.”

Elenwë looked down into Itarildë’s earnest young face, and hated to disappoint her. Talented indeed were the children of the line of Finwë, not least of all its youngest daughters, Írissë and Artanis. But Elenwë was not one such as they. She had no great talents of a craftswoman—nor did she have any interest in such things, were she to be honest. Her chief delights were tending to her home and garden, and singing rounds with her many sisters when they gathered together near Taniquetil.

“My child…” began Elenwë. She stroked Itarildë’s golden hair, so like her own. But whatever resemblance her daughter bore to herself, she was also a child of Turukáno son of Ñolofinwë. She might have been able to overlook that for a while while Itarildë was young, but now it would soon become impossible. “My child,” Elenwë repeated, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to teach you those things.”

“Oh.” Itarildë’s clear eyes studied her for a moment, then she reached out and patted Elenwë’s cheek. “That’s all right, Mama. We can bake a cake tomorrow if you want. I’ll sleep now.”

With that, the little girl lay down and pulled the covers up to her chin, while Elenwë burned with the shame of her daughter comforting her—surely it should be the other way around. This wasn’t at all how motherhood should be, she was certain. But what could she offer her child that someone as fair and intelligent as her aunt could not? For the first time in her life, Elenwë felt despondent.

She blew out the bedside candle and left the room, leaving the door ajar in case Itarildë should need her. After then she wandered aimlessly through the house, stung at the unexpected hurt of not being sufficient for her daughter. She didn’t notice Turukáno until his strong arms wrapped around her from behind.

“Hello, my love,” he whispered against her neck. “There’s still time to make love ‘neath the stars like young fools.” He kissed a line down her shoulder and continued to speak, low words that would have made even the bawdiest son of Fëanáro blush.

But Elenwë was not roused. She twisted out of his embrace. “I’m tired,” she said. “Perhaps another night, dear?”

Turukáno moved to stare at her face. Whatever he read there seemed to persuade him to leave his wife be. “Of course,” he said. He kissed her forehead softly. “You go along to bed, and I’ll follow shortly. Maitimo and I are attempting to devise a ring for your brother’s begetting day, only getting the stones to balance is proving dreadfully tricky.”

Elenwë nodded. She didn’t want to hear about her husband’s metalwork, not tonight.

She slipped back upstairs to their bedchamber, but sleep did not come. Her thoughts swirled endlessly. One of the fair Vanyar was she; inferiority was not a feeling she knew. Yet it seemed she was not enough for her small daughter, who only a short time ago had been a fuzzy-headed babe in arms. She hadn’t thought of the future then. She had never considered that a child of the Noldor would be ashamed of a Vanyarin mother. Something would have to be done. Itarildë deserved everything Elenwë could give her, and Elenwë knew she could not bear the thought of her own child being ashamed of her.

She needed a plan.

Her course of action was obvious, once she thought of it, and so early the next morning Elenwë squeezed out from beneath her sleeping husband’s body (why did he insist on lying over her like a rug each night?) and stole out of the house. The streets of Tirion were just beginning to teem with traffic, and Elenwë saw a few acquaintances as she made her way through the residential district toward the square of the jewelsmiths and metalworkers.

The door she sought was painted bright red, with curling gold script that Elenwë couldn’t decipher—Turukáno had tried to teach her to read, but she didn’t quite have the head for it. Elenwë knocked, and a gruff voice called “Enter!”

She entered, and then came face-to-face with her husband’s sister in an intimate embrace with...one of the sons of Fëanáro—Tyelkormo, was it? Elenwë had difficulty telling them apart at times.

Elenwë’s face flushed crimson. Love-making was all well and good, but at this hour of the morning? In a dirty workshop? Surely not! “Ahem.” She cleared her throat delicately.

Írissë and her lover—Carnistir, perhaps?—sprang apart. Yet rather than seem embarrassed, they laughed at her obvious discomfort. Elenwë felt sure she would never understand the Noldorin sense of humor.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “I just needed to speak with Írissë about something.”

Her husband’s sister shrugged gracefully and adjusted her rumpled skirts and hair. “Go right ahead, Elenwë. How can I help you?”

Elenwë glanced at the man—maybe it was Atyarussa? She really couldn’t be certain. But in any case, she certainly wasn’t going to discuss such a sensitive issue in front of a son of Fëanáro. If she did, the whole of Tirion would hear of it, and she’d become a laughingstock. No. This needed to be private, between her and Írissë only. “It’s important, and...I’d prefer it be just between the two of us.”

Írissë shared a long glance with her cousin—perhaps Makalaurë?—then shrugged again. “That’s quite all right,” she said. “I’m sure he has something better to be doing.”

“Quite right,” agreed the Fëanarion; Elenwë was done trying to decide which one of the seven he was. “I’m to ride out with Oromë later, so I’ll just see to my horse. Good day, cousins!” He left with a jaunty step, and Elenwë rolled her eyes, only to see that her sister-in-law was rolling hers as well. They shared a rare smile.

Done straightening herself up, Írissë sat down at her workbench and clasped her hands before her. “Now, what’s all this about, Elenwë? It’s rather strange of you to be here, and so early, too.” Her dark brows rose high on her pale forehead.

Elenwë felt even more ridiculous than she’d expected to, but she wouldn’t be daunted. This was for Itarildë, after all. “I need you to teach me silversmithing,” she said, words coming out all in a rush.

Írissë’s eyebrows went up even higher, nearly touching her hairline. “What?”

“I need you to teach me silversmithing,” she repeated. “Or pottery or tapestry-weaving or...or how to write with Fëanáro’s script!” She said the last on a bit of a gulp.

Elenwë’s sister-in-law stared at her, nonplussed. “I’m sorry, but why do you need to learn such things? As far as I knew, you had no interest in them. Why torture yourself so?”

She swallowed, and felt impossibly small. The words, when they came, were spoken directly to her toes. “I need to learn such things so that Itarildë isn’t ashamed to have an empty-headed Vanya for a mother.” It was a good thing she couldn’t see the other woman’s face, she thought, for surely the pity would have crippled her.

“Elenwë,” said Írissë. Her tone was now impossibly tender. “Elenwë, look at me.”

Elenwë looked.

Her sister-in-law’s face was kind and fair. It was not an expression Elenwë usually saw her wear, but there was no mistaking the sympathy in her eyes. She started to think that, maybe, she wasn’t going to leave Írisse’s workshop feeling like a fool.

“Elenwë, this isn’t necessary,” said Írissë. “Why should Itarildë be ashamed of you? I’m quite sure she adores you. In fact, yesterday while Turukáno I was showing her how to smelt copper, she barely stopped talking about you. It was most distracting.”

“She did what?”

“You goose, you daughter thinks the Light of the Trees itself comes from you. She thinks you’re beautiful and fair, that you make the best pastries and sing the prettiest songs. She said that she can’t wait until she’s old enough to wear gowns just like yours. And...well, she said rather a lot, but it was all variations on the same theme.” Írissë shrugged—it was obviously her favorite gesture. “It’s honestly ridiculous for you to come here spouting such nonsense about silversmithing and writing.”

Elenwë was feeling very foolish indeed, but not for the reasons she had anticipated. “It’s just that last night she wouldn’t stop talking about you .”

Her sister-in-law made a so what? mime with her hands. “Children don’t make sense, and I don’t know why you’d expect them to. I’m quite sure they don’t have any sense of reason until they’re full-grown. And maybe not even then—look at my brother, Turukáno; he married a snobbish Vanyarin lady whom he’s disturbingly besotted with.” Írissë shook her head in mock dismay. “Absolutely disgusting.”

Elenwë allowed a smile and a small giggle to bubble up through her embarrassment. The tension in the workshop began to dissipate.

“Honestly,” Írissë continued, “if you want my advice, you should show Itarildë that book of watercolors you have. I’ve never seen such attention to detail; it’s most thorough and interesting.”

She knew the book her sister-in-law spoke of. Shortly before Itarildë had been conceived, Elenwë had made it a project to collect and paint all of the flowers in Aman. She had pressed them on the pages, and then diagrammed them in painstaking detail. Accompanying each entry in the book was a full-size watercolor. The entire endeavor had taken years, but once she’d become a mother Elenwë hadn’t had time for such things, and had put the book away on the shelf. Now she satisfied her affection for flowers mainly by growing a humble house-garden.

But now that she thought on it, she did remember that her husband’s family had been highly impressed with the flower book. Finwë himself had issued rare praise at her accuracy and skill. Maybe Itarildë would like it, she thought.

“That seems like a good idea,” she admitted aloud. “It’s just a silly thing I put together for my own amusement, though.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, sister,” said Írissë. “I’m not in the habit of needless flattery, so when I tell you that book is a worthy contribution to science and lore, I mean it. And it is. Everyone has their gifts, Elenwë, and you have a gift for botany. Lucky for you, you can laze about in grassy fields all day looking like a queen while you attend to your interests; I have to stand before a stinking fire and get soot all over my nice white dresses.”

It was a family joke that Írissë went through more white cloth than the rest of them combined. For some reason, she refused to wear anything but white, even while at her smithy. Elenwë agreed that it was very impractical, but she held her sister-in-law in too much awe to mention it now. Not when she’d come her to grovel and instead had gotten smartly called out for her silly self-deprecation.

Elenwë started edging toward the door. “I think I’ll just go along home and make sure Itarildë doesn’t eat only sweets for breakfast again.”

“Do that,” said Írissë. She picked up some parchment with a series of complex designs and began to peruse them. “And promise me you won’t try to do something idiotic such as taking up water-scrying like Artanis. I don’t know what good she thinks that nonsense will do.”

“I won’t.”

Indeed, Elenwë went straight home and pulled her flower book off a dusty shelf in the library. After their morning chores were done, she sat on a warm bench in the courtyard with Itarildë in her lap. She opened the book, at told her daughter about all the flowers she’d seen: small mountain flowers and large tropical flowers, seaside flowers and forest flowers.

The little girl’s squeals of delight were most gratifying, as was Itarildë’s passionate declaration of “My mama is the best botanist in the world!” when her uncle Findekáno came to visit. Most gratifying, indeed.

Elenwë was far from a terrible mother. In fact, she felt sure that she was rather a good one. Learning to become a silversmith? What a joke.

#

Several thousand years later…

It was always a task to settle the little ones down to sleep, and tonight was no different. But Elrond Peredhel and his lady were masters at calming down their overstimulated twins. The trick, they had found, lay in an ancient book carried across the Helcaraxë and out of the ruin of Gondolin. As soon as they saw their father reach for the Flower Book (as they called it), both Elrohir and Elladan felt silent with expectation.

“You know what this is, my sons,” said Elrond gravely. There was a twinkle in his eye, but the boys were too busy staring at the tome in their father’s hands.

The twins nodded.

“Yes, Papa. It’s the book painted specially by Lady Elenwë herself,” said one twin.

“Lady Elenwë was our ancestress!” piped the other. “Our great-great-grandmother.”

“Yes, children,” said Elrond. “This book was painted by Elenwë, and it is very precious.”

“And beautiful,” said one of the boys. “It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.”

“Let’s read it, Papa. Please?”

And Elrond read it to them, just as he did almost every night. The pages had yellowed through the ages, but the watercolors were no less delicate or remarkable. A scientific marvel, Galadriel had once said to describe it. Her grandsons quite agreed.

---

Chapter End Notes

Quenya-Sindarin Translations—
Artanis - Galadriel;
Atyarussa - Amrod;
Carnistir - Caranthir
Fëanáro - Fëanor;
Findekáno - Fingon;
Írissë - Aredhel;
Itarildë - Idril;
Maitimo - Maedhros;
Makalaurë - Maglor;
Ñolofinwë - Fingolfin;
Turukáno - Tugon;
Tyelkormo - Celegorm;