The Elendilmir by pandemonium_213

---

Chapter 12: The Threads of Vairë

Sámaril escorts Elerína to a woodland glade where they listen to Lindir's music. He remembers his visions of the very distant past and of the future when he participated in the first studies of Galadriel's Mirror. While immersing himself in Lindir's music, Sámaril then enters a meditative state in which he sees the Threads of Vairë. These trigger two visions: one wondrous and the other dark and frightening.

Thanks to the Lizard Council for the picking of juicy nits!

---

I stepped out onto the wide porch of the house and inhaled rain-washed air, its myriad green scents as heady as any wine. The storms had long passed, spending their fury against the walls of the Hithaeglir where faint lightning flickered in the distant thunderheads. The moon rose above the towers of cloud, bathing the valley with light and transforming water droplets clinging to leaves and flowers into quicksilver. The notes of Lindir’s harp rippled from up the valley in a hidden glade. That was my destination.

A procession of gold and white lights twinkled through the trees. Most of those who had dined in the hall that evening carried lanterns and made their way through the dripping woods toward the glade. A few lingered on the terrace, among them Elerína and Yavien, her daughter-by-marriage. Elerína called out when she saw me walking walked down the steps.

“Sámaril! Good evening!”

“Good evening, my ladies. I’m on my way to listen to the songs. Would you care to join me? If you two don’t mind getting a bit damp, that is.”

“We do not mind,” Elerína answered quickly. “It is a fine night.”

Even after living in the House of Elrond for ten years, the women of the Dúnedain – with the exception of Isilmë -- often hesitated before joining the Firstborn in social settings, always waiting for an invitation, it seemed. I was happy to oblige them, but their deference continued to remind me of the gulf between our kindred.

I spotted Naurusnir and asked him to escort Yavien while I offered my arm to Elerína.

“Where is Valandil?” I asked.

“Playing Capture the King inside with his cousins,” she said, linking her arm with mine, a familiar and comforting gesture. “You know, he made quite the production of those fish today. He regaled me not only with his method of catching them but also their anatomy and breeding habits. Then he rattled off how they should be divided so that we would all get an equal share for our luncheon.”

“Ah, ha! So those lessons in fractions are taking!”

Elerína laughed. “Yes! Between the two of us, I think we are drumming arithmetic into his head.”

Elerína had a keen mind for numbers which I had discovered from her extraordinary precision at the loom, which Lairiel had complimented: “As good as any in the Guild.” Elerína’s talents had come to Gildor’s attention so he often called upon her to aid with the inventories and bookkeeping of Imladris. She found ways to work arithmetic into day-to-day life with her young son, and I wondered if this was perhaps the superior approach for Valandil compared to my more abstract lessons.

“A good thing, too,” I said. “He’ll be prepared for Lord Glorfindel’s onslaughts.”

Subtle tension flexed in her hand when she heard my offhanded reference to my liege lord’s exceptional talent in mathematics.

“So you still hope for your lord’s return?”

“Yes. I have faith that he will come back to Imladris, just as your husband and sons will come back to you and Valandil.”

“Thank you, Sámaril, for your confidence. I hope you are right.”

The path narrowed and sodden leaves dripped all around us, their tune reflecting the liquid melody of Lindir’s harp, which became more distinct as we wended our way along the path.

“Elerína, you know that I have been summoned by the queen to Amon Sûl.”

“Yes. She also sent a letter to me and wrote that there are difficulties with the palantíri.”

“What do you know of these devices? I understand that these are heirlooms of the House of Elendil and that one was housed in Minas Ithil. Have you seen them? Or used them?”

“I have seen them, yes, but never applied my thought to them. They are spheres of a glass-like substance, some large like the master stone and others smaller. Isildur, of course, has used them. He says that gazing into the stone and bending one’s will to it accomplishes communication with another. Well, I expect you know that. Speech can be transmitted, too, though not by speaking aloud but by words formed in the mind.”

What she told me was consistent with what I had read in the lore I dug up in Elrond’s library. “Did your lord husband note anything about the sight reaching to another time?”

“Yes, he did although he never expanded on what he saw because the visions were vague and confusing. Sometimes the loremasters see more clearly what they understand to be past events, but this is not something they can control. It just happens. I am sorry that I cannot give you more details, but my exposure to these devices was limited.”

“No need for apologies, my lady. That is informative.”

She squeezed my arm. ““Sámaril, you are humoring me. I know that you would like to have far more information. When will you leave?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Ah, that is soon! But there is need for haste,” she said, brushing leaves along the path with her free hand. Droplets scattered like silver jewels. “I have a favor to ask of you: would you carry my gift for the queen to Amon Sûl? I understand that she intends to meet you there.”

“Yes, I’d be happy to deliver your gift to her.”

“My thanks. I must put the finishing touches it, but if you could come to the looms around mid-day tomorrow, I will have it ready.”

“Then I will be there when the noontide bell chimes,” I said, my curiosity piqued. “Now mind your step, my lady. The path becomes steeper here.”

She gripped my arm tighter. “How peculiar,” she said. “The path is dry yet all is dripping around us. Elvish magic, I suppose.”

“Magic?” As always, this term perplexed me. “No, this is how it’s accomplished...”

“Please, Sámaril!” She interrupted me before I could launch into a detailed explanation of why the path remained dry. She laughed and patted my arm. “Let me believe it is magic.”

That was not the only time she used the word. We reached the glade to find Lindir and his musicians seated in its center. The other folk of the household gathered around them. I saw Thornangor and Lairiel standing together at the far side of the ring of trees. When harp cascaded, flute trilled and voices danced through the woods and up to the stars in harmony, Elerína whispered, “This is magic, too.”

Had she been able to reach into the depths of my thought that night, she might have named what she saw there to be magic. Certainly, it was very strange and beyond the experience of most mortals. Before I immersed myself in the meditation brought on by elvish music, I turned my thoughts once more to the Mirror and the visions I had seen in it.

~*~

“You must open your mind, Sámaril,” the Istyanis had said. “Just like the time when we went out into the hills and viewed the Threads of the Weaver in the heavens. Do you recall that?”

“I’d rather forget.”

That expedition had been an experiment in preparation for the Mirror. We had ridden out into the hills of Eregion on a moonless night, the dome of the sky filled with countless stars. Mélamírë had lain back on a blanket with Teretion and me on either side of her, our hands linked with hers, and we had opened our thoughts to the mysteries of Vairë the Weaver. The Threads had convulsed among the stars, vibrating with the harmonies that had given birth to the Songs of the Ainur. Their music swelled into something magnificent and terrible and then resolved into a maddening cacophony of faces and events – an infinity of possibilities and probabilities. Mélamírë, our guide in the exercise, could no longer hold on to the overwhelming vision, and she had released our hands abruptly. Flung out of the vision, we all suffered from the worst vertigo imaginable, and each of us had crawled off the blanket to vomit amidst the grass and brush. With that experience in mind, I eyed the Mirror with no little trepidation.

“I know,” she had said. “Viewing the Threads unaided is disconcerting to say the least, but the Mirror amplifies the inner sight that all humans possess. So your experience shouldn’t be quite as bad.”

Young Thornangor, who stood off to the side, rolled his eyes. He had already told us to come with empty stomachs, having observed his master’s emetic reaction to the artefact during her earliest experiments with it.

I had bent over the Mirror, its water still, and saw my reflection, nothing more. The workshop was utterly silent. Then the water turned midnight-blue and stars appeared in the basin’s incomprehensible depths. The Threads of the Weaver coalesced, humming with a resonance that expanded into a chorale of alien voices. Although dizziness set in immediately, my stomach remained calm. Then the visions began.

Night after night, I had looked into the Mirror and pieced these visions together to create a story – a story that related to me. Some of the visions I knew to be parts of my parents’ past: the crossing of the Helcaraxë, their lives in Nevrast and Gondolin. But the strangest visions were those of the very distant past and possibly the future.

The Mirror had followed the Threads that reached far back into the remote mists of time. Human figures struggled across sun-baked plains dotted with scrubby trees and scarred by dry watercourses and lakebeds. The people were too distant to see if they were Men or Elves.

The tiny nomads marched to cool, mist-shrouded lands, the sky overcast with sooty clouds. They came to the shores of an inland sea. There they split into two groups. The larger body turned to the north while a smaller party -- less than two hundred people -- followed the other shore. Inexplicably, this latter group lay down on a grassy hillside and went to sleep.

The Mirror became opaque, obscuring the vision, but cleared to reveal the sleepers on the hillside, but much closer so that I could see distinctly the men and women lying in repose. I recognized them as three tribes of elves. The sky appeared in the Mirror: a great wind blew the dark wrack of clouds away, and thousands of stars sparkled in the clear night of the West. That was when the sleepers awoke and turned their faces to the stars.

Clad in skins of animals and sheltering under crude tents of hide, the three tribes had made their home upon the shores of the sea. But the rain, snow and ice descended on the land, and hardship descended on the tribes. Terrible beasts of fantastical form preyed upon the elves and many were slain or disappeared in the wilderness.

Then the Hunter came out of the West, an inhumanly tall figure mounted on a huge white horse that glimmered like the Moon. At the Hunter’s summons, three men and three women emerged from the dark pine forest. Clad not in skins but thick fabrics, these six beings in the form of the Firstborn carried metal tools and weaponry. They taught the tribes how to craft better weapons to defend themselves, stronger shelters for protection, and superior ways to capture fire and light. In turn, they learned the language of the tribes. These men and women of the forest prepared the elves for their great journey to the West and came to love the Firstborn.

One of the forest-people, a woman with dark eyes and hair that shone like bronze – wedded a chieftain of the Tatyar who had remained behind when his lord, along with leaders of the other two tribes, departed with the Hunter. She gave birth to a son. Her husband perished when he was trampled by a huge beast covered with thick shaggy hair, its long ivory tusks on either side of its serpentine snout wicked and ready to deal out death to the elven hunters that surrounded it. The forest-woman mourned her loss, and when her son was full grown, she walked back into the pines whence she came. However, her son’s descendant -- her great-great-granddaughter -- stepped on to the island that would take the tribes to Aman. I knew her to be my mother’s mother who had perished on the grinding ice.

The other vision engraved in my memory was that of the ocean – grey-green with a sword of sunlight blazing across its waves. A beach of sand, punctuated with dark rocks, spread before me. In the distance, I saw the ruins of stone quays but closer was a group of children. Only one child was bold enough to approach me; the rest hung back. A little girl with brown hair that shone like bronze turned her face toward me, but before I could discern her features, the image evaporated, leaving nothing but my reflection in the still water of the Mirror. I saw this vision three times before Mélamírë declared the experiments complete and that the Mirror was as “ready as it is ever going to be” for the White Lady.

~*~

I slipped away from my memories of the Mirror’s visions, drawn back to the glade by the beauty of the music and the warmth of Elerína who stood by my side, her arm still linked in mine. Elerína had said that the past and possibly the future could be observed through the palantíri. If this was so, then the Threads of the Weaver must somehow be involved and whoever had crafted the seeing stones must have used curwë that facilitated their use. I needed to open my mind to the Threads to help me understand this, but could I do it safely on my own – without the assistance of the Mirror or Mélamírë as my human conduit? Viewing the terrible grandeur of the naked Threads coursing through Eä had been frightening, but I had to take the chance.

The music drenched my consciousness like the rains had soaked the meadows of the valley. My mind opened to the mysterious pathways that the elven mind treads in this state, what my mortal friends might call “magic.” I lifted my face to the dome of heaven with millions of stars glimmering in its far reaches, but I saw nothing for a long while. I was ready to give up and simply enjoy the music when the faint vibrations of the Threads appeared at the edge of my vision and hearing. They filled the dome of heaven, obscuring the sky and drowning out Lindir’s music with their weird but beautiful harmonies. Then I fell into their net and no longer saw the Threads, but instead a fair green land that opened before me.

In the distance, a city crowned on a high hill, its gleaming white towers and domes rising to an intensely blue sky. A brilliant silver light shone from the highest tower. Like a bird, I flew to that city, its walls bathed with daylight but the shadows strange. I realized the light of day did not come from the sun. Spiraling above the city, I saw a great square and a large tree, its leaves dark green and its bark pale, almost white. Many small figures bustled about on streets that sparkled with the glint of white gems.

Tirion. This must to be Tirion of old.

I flew away from the city and into the countryside where cultivated fields waved with grain, interspersed with woods and meadows filled with flowers, until I saw a rambling house with outbuildings around it. I recognized the largest of these buildings as a forge with its multiple chimneys. I swooped toward this forge, my mind racing. Could this forge and house belong to him, to…

A horrific force struck me, slamming hard against my mind's flight. I plummeted down, grasping to stop my fall, but finding nothing. I landed on hard ground. A shadow of despair covered me and sucked all light away. Paralyzed and blinded, I willed myself to move. I crawled forward, but abject sickness gripped every part of my mind and body. Black fear and death lay under that shadow. But out of the darkness, I heard a voice –- desperate, defiant -- a woman’s voice. No! I could not leave her to die alone! Shaking, I inched along on my hands and knees, wretchedly ill, but determined not to fail her. I heard her voice again…

“Sámaril? Sámaril! Come back! Please, someone help him!”

My vision cleared to see Elerína bending over me. I lay flat on the ground. I tried to rise, but my head was ready to split in two, and I fell back. Strong arms lifted me and brought me to my feet. Thornangor and Gildor were on either side of me, their arms looped around my waist and back.

“Come on, old man,” said Thorno. “Let’s get you back to the house.”

“Please, Thorno, I can walk on my own…” but my knees betrayed me, buckling under my weight as my head spun.

“You sought the Threads, didn’t you?” he whispered, breathy exasperation underpinning his worried tone. “You and the Istyanis. Such risks…”

My head pulsated with pain, and a fog of sickness obscured my vision. I heard the healer behind me reassuring Elerína. Soft fine hands stroked my forehead. Midhloth’s hands.

Vaguely aware of my surroundings, I was taken back to the house. Thornangor and Gildor guided me up the steps to the porch.

“Will he be all right? Please let me know what I can do to help.” Elerína’s voice swirled in my muddled thoughts like a clear stream through murky water.

“The Istyar will be fine, my lady.” Midhloth’s voice. “We will take care of him and send word later.”

My vision cleared enough to see Elerína’s blue eyes filled with worry. Her face fell when she heard the words that excluded her. She nodded to Midhloth and stepped away into the shadows.

When we reached my quarters, the healer gave me a bitter draught to drink. I attempted to remove my clothing, but others took over my awkward efforts. I lay back in my bed, aware of a warm presence beside me. The pain in my head receded, and I fell into the dreamless sleep induced by the poppies of Irmo.

~*~

When I awoke, it was mid-morning, judging by the sun’s light that streaked through the open windows. The fragrance of the gardens wafted into my bedchamber, the scent of roses and woodbine soothing and invigorating at once. No pain or even grogginess lingered.

I began to take inventory of last night’s events until stirring next to me and a warm hand on my bare shoulder shunted aside those thoughts. I turned and took Midhloth into my arms, kissing her with sensual delicacy at first and then with insistence when I felt my strength return. Hard desire kindled. My fingers, lips and tongue demonstrated their craftsmanship on her body until she trembled and grasped my hair, pulling me away from my attention to her most sensitive touchstone.

When I tried to position myself over her, she held me close, her delicate arms stronger than they appeared, and rolled over, pressing my back against the bed.

“Let me do the work, Istyar.”

She straddled my hips and sighed when I entered her. She rocked slowly, and I met her rhythm. We held to a plateau of nearly unbearable tension until she gasped. Her soft moans of pleasure brought me to release, and I succumbed to exquisite sensation.

I savored the afterglow of affectionate sex, but a draught of sadness and a little guilt left me not quite satisfied. Although pleasurable, my couplings with Midhloth were never as intense or as deeply connected in mind and body as they had been with Nierelle, my wife. A delicate whisper in my thoughts often questioned me: if I had found myself in the netherworld of Mandos before my wife, what would my expectations have been of her, a living passionate woman? Would I have held her to celibacy? I found no easy answer, so I stroked Midhloth’s hair and asked her what had happened last night.

“You were standing next to Lady Elerína, enraptured by the music, it seemed. Then you dropped like a stone. Your eyes were so far away. We feared that you were lost to us, but the Dúnadaneth called you back. We were all so worried, Istyar! You are so strong...” she said, caressing my upper arm, “...and it was frightening to see you like that. What was it that you saw? Master Thornangor said he thought it was a perilous vision, but he offered no more than that.”

“Ai! I’d rather not darken this beautiful morning by telling you, my little leaf,” I said, squeezing her. “Suffice it to say that what I saw was both wondrous and terrible.”

“Very well. Keep your golodhren mysteries to yourself then.” She tapped my nose with the utmost gentleness and kissed me playfully before extracting herself from my arms. “I really must go to the kitchen soon. Even though Mistress Maidhel knows that I will be late this morning, I still must see to my duties.”

At her intimation that Maidhel knew I had shared my bed with Midhloth, warmth crept into my face. My little Silvan companion noticed, and her birdsong laughter matched the trills of the wood warbler outside my window.

“You silly lachenn! Why must you fret over what is natural, a gift to us from the One? After all, what is so different with taking your pleasure with me instead of Master Thornangor?”

“Ah, well, that, that is not the same...this is different!” I stammered, but she continued to laugh and pushed me back against the pillows and soft linen. She wriggled into her undergarments and slid her gown over her head, pulling her hair out from under the fabric to fall down her back like a silvery waterfall. She leaned over to kiss me.

“I will assure the healer that you are fully recovered.” She grinned wickedly. “Now rest, Istyar. You have a long journey ahead and who knows what you will find in Amon Sûl?”

---

Chapter End Notes

Vairë the Weaver: Námo's spouse. Weaves the tapestry of fate. The identity of what Sámaril is able to envision may have "scientifictitious" origins and related to some of the more arcane contemporary concepts of theoretical physics, e.g., string theory, branes, etc.

The awakening by Cuiviénen and the migration of the elves to the West: the usual referral to JRRT's essay on the origins of the sun and moon in The History of Middle-earth, vol. X, "Myths Transformed" applies. Mine is a different take on the underpinning of the mythology.

Re: The front porch of the House o' Elrond. Even though I enjoyed P. Jackson's Art Nouveau version of Rivendell, I'm much more partial to something like the Oxford don's version with the arches over a large front porch -- almost a veranda. The fanciful bridge, as described by JRRT in the books (esp. The Hobbit), is not so appealing for a number of reasons. In the pandemoniverse, it's more robust.