Súlimëo Quentar: March Stories by Elleth

What Ivrin Saw

What Eithel Ivrin saw in Beleriand. Five drabbles according to Open Office.

The Powers march to war. Gigantic, in their passing they leave footsteps, imprints on the land. Hithlum is Estë's, the reason for its grey and misty climes, and Nienna follows. Her tears are what gathers on the mountains, into cracks and crannies, and springs elsewhere, rippling over stone to pond and pool and gather. The water is clear, and cool, and unlike the Weeper's tears, runs sweet. Eventually, full to overflowing, a river rises from them. The Weeper's tears are boundless, and Ulmo lays his blessing. This will ever be a place of healing, as long as it does last.

The Sindar come after the animals, singing under starlight. It is here by the clear waters they stay, drink, and rest, swim, find safety, sustenance and strengthening, build shelters in the woodlands all around - but the pond's edge remains their gathering place. They pluck reeds and nimble fingers make them into pipes, but give back song and music, telling the story of this land. Perhaps it's true. The waters shiver, as though they are laughing – or, as it's their origin, weeping for the joy of it. Not all tears are an evil, and Ivrin glitters in the night.

The Noldor come marching in their heavy boots, seeking reunion, but even they cannot be blind for the way the waters of Ivrin glint at them in the moonlight. A minstrel watches his wife dance in fireshine, there is healing of feuds, reconciliation until morning dawns into a summer day that burns all colour from the land. But Ivrin, cool and radiant beckons them to stay, and one of them sits by its shore, praising the sunlight shining through the leaves as though it were alive. The glitter of the sun on Ivrin, it will help him live through Angband.

The mortal comes to Ivrin dulled with grief, led by the hand like one so struck with tragedy that his mind has fled to reaches where it knows no pain. And the waters work their heritage, engulf him gently, soften the layers of grief until his tears can spring, and finally, he weeps. It is a necessary process, for this man-child, who has lived through great evils, and though many are of his own devising, a greater malice them founds all. Ivrin cannot quell that entirely, but voiceless bids, in rippling waters: Stay, be rested. Heal here for a while.

Glaurung comes with heavy thread and glint of gold. The evil Ivrin knew would come, for weeping is ever in her source, is on the march. Reed burns like tinder, trees burst into flame, the waters shiver, but for once it is not joy that moves them. Who could say that even waters would know fear? For Ulmo has withdrawn from here years ago, his power weakens even in swift-flowing Sirion. The time is near for the Valar to march once again, and in their wake, even Ivrin will be quenched, for after them, with battle done, will flow the sea.

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N38: Waters: Pond