Súlimëo Quentar: March Stories by Elleth

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Gifting the Stones

How the Palantíri came to Númenor.


"Grandmother," Elros says to the woman disembarking behind a host of others. She carries herself like Maglor did, and her hair, if darker than Maitimo's, has the same glint of copper. It must be Nerdanel – far stronger and sturdier than he ever imagined her from tales and childhood stories – both Maedhros and Maglor have done their mother a disservice, mentioning a frail person sagging under the weight of her husband's shadow, but this lady has stonemason's arms and the dress sits a little oddly on her frame, too tight across her hips, breasts and shoulders – birthing children, whittling stone, and kindness in her face. She has healed, no doubt, if she ever was afflicted.

He smiles. How can he not? They have written for a hundred years or more, since first a ship from Avallóne has landed in Andúnie, and found themselves much alike in spirit, and if her letters clearly spoke of grief, then that, also, was old and at the least scabbed over.

"Grandson," she replies, and clasps his hands. Hers are a little rough with callouses, and smudges of colour stain her fingers. "I have been drawing on the journey," she explains, noting his gaze. "The sailors make good models." And slings her satchel off her shoulder to present her work.

Elros offers his arm, and leads her to a white bench by the water while from the ship, crates and gifts are unloaded in masses and placed on waiting horse-drawn wagons that will later take the gifts and company to Armenelos. The Noldor bear the Númenoreans goodwill, and lack shyness about giving gifts or sharing riches. He has been told that Aman is a land of plenty, once again after the Darkening, so why not give?

Nerdanel's sketches show as much. If the colours are anything at all like the land – and Nerdanel does not seem like one given to hyperbole, artistic or otherwise – there is little even on Númenor that matches it. An earthly paradise, perhaps. But earthly all the same. Nerdanel, who must easily be able to guess at his thought, leaves the sketchbook in his hands. She speaks far less than in her letters, but her eyes make more than up for it. Elros feels awed. When Maedhros and Maglor found him, the proverbial light of Aman in their eyes had been just that – proverbial, no brighter or less than that of eyes he'd known before. In Nerdanel it continues shining, if he is any judge of it, undimmed.

"Ah," she says suddenly. They have begun speaking of their children – Maedhros – Maitimo was something of a scholar in his youth in Aman, and so is Vardamir. The topic can't not be laden with a pang of regret that lies bitter on Elros' tongue, but Nerdanel, even while talking, has studied her surroundings, undoubtedly committing it all to memory, and watching out for the gifts that she herself announced to bring: Just as she disembarked last, they are unloaded after all else, seven sturdy metal caskets of differing sizes, and each bears, etched – can it be? - the Star of Feanor, a device that Elros has half hoped and half feared seeing again. For a moment his palms grow sweaty, remembering it tattered on Maglor's tunic before their last farewell. Nerdanel lays a hand on his arm, a key in his hand, and moves to retrieve one of the smaller boxes to set it on his knees.

"Open it," she coaxes. "They are Fëanáro's work, made so our family could see each other even across distances. And we all hated to have good work sit unused, which it has done too long. Now that Aman is no longer veiled by spells, they ought return to their original purpose."

Now curious, and endeared by the idea, he opens the casket to find a perfect black sphere.

"A Palantír," says Nerdanel, and in her quiet but eager voice explains their purpose and usage in more detail, a master-stone that governs all others newly set on Eressëa as a conduit, no longer on Aman where it stood. The stones will be turned elsewhere now, she concludes.

Elros finds himself speechless at such a mighty gift.

"Even if you will not use them," says Nerdanel with another of her enigmatic smiles, "My heart already told me that much good will come of them, though many times and tides may pass. Keep them here."

And so he does.


Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B9: The Second Age: The Palantíri


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