Many Journeys by Elleth

Stasis

Nerdanel's story, and her reaction to the Silmarils.

First it was only them, newlywed and in love, and she could believe that life in the Blessed Realm truly was blessed. There was light. There were their talk and laughter and a million other little things; and sooner than she had imagined, the squalling of a newborn who had her hold her breath in awe. Despite the pain at birth – more than she expected, but then, being cautious, she had never before known much hurt – she could believe in blessedness.

But the light dimmed. The pain grew greater over time, and with each child she grew more weary. There were matters they disagreed on, now. Still, there were instances that had her believe, in between the hazes and the loud words they locked away into the study. She could believe in blessedness when they sat together in the evenings, and when she found a flower on the bed after their arguments over petty matters as the meal, or great ones as her loyalty to Aulë. And if those moments grew more rare, they also grew more treasured, and she grasped at them with the desperation of someone who was drowning. This was when she first realized that even though they lived within the Blessed Realm, they also lived in Arda Marred.

And then – the children were grown or nearly grown (Curufinwë, alike to his father in name as in face and character, brought home a wife when he was only forty-six), he made the Silmarils, and brought them into the bedchamber in a casket of crystal when she slept. She woke when the radiance washed over her and even through the red tinge of her closed eyelids she knew the light for what it was.

But it was not for her. For all his words of preserving and protecting – the light, his family, and not least her, for he knew of her condition and secretly feared it - she saw the way he cradled the stones, much as he had held his children, and she saw a flicker in his eyes she had not known before. She saw his reluctance in handing them to her.

She spoke softly, wonderingly, newly woken out of some dream or vision, holding them in one hand and shielding her eyes with the other.

“I fear this may be your greatest work... and yet far too great for you. There is a purpose to everything, love, even that he Trees mingle only in their dim hours, never in full bloom like this. We are not meant for it. Your work is beautiful, but this light is not ours to imprison.”

“Imprison? Nerdanel! If there is a purpose to everything, as you say, there was a purpose to my making them! A permission even, or I could not have made them!”

“It may yet be that that purpose is revealed to you.” She returned the stones to him and already missed their warmth on her palms. It was how her hands had felt in her youth – now they were too often cold. “But it is not the protection of our family. That is our task alone, and no amount of light you cage will change it. Blessed though it is, because it is so blessed, it will only make our flaws the more apparent. It will change nothing and lead to nothing.”

“You do not see. You do not see, Nerdanel.”

With the snap of a lid and the sound of the door, the room was again bathed in darkness. Almost blinded as she had been, indeed, now she saw nothing.

Chapter End Notes

stasis STAY-sis; STAS-is, noun;
plural stases STAY-seez; STAS-eez:
1. A state of balance, equilibrium, or stagnation.
2. Stoppage of the normal flow of a bodily fluid or semifluid.

Stasis comes from Greek stasis, "a standing still," from histasthai, "to stand."

(from www.dictionary.com)