The Healing and The Blessing by Ecthelion

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The Healing and the Blessing

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“What are you doing?”

Without warning, a voice resonated from behind me. At that moment, I was crouched low, carefully examining the gem-bearing stone I had painstakingly retrieved from the foot of the cliff. The sudden sound startled me so thoroughly that I nearly let it slip from my grasp and tumble back into the depths below.

Before I could collect myself, laughter followed—rich and unmistakably from the same source. My cheeks flushed as I tightened my grip on the stone and unsteadily rose to my feet, though its unwieldy size and weight made it a struggle to hold with just one hand.

“Did I startle you?”

“Certainly not!” I snapped, though my clumsy attempt to steady the unwieldy stone with both hands did little to uphold my indignation. Only then did I dare to glance at the speaker. He stood a short distance away, clearly a Noldo—yet taller than any I had ever encountered. His attire marked him as a traveler, simple and slightly worn, with a cloak draped over his shoulders, though it lacked a hood. His long, raven-dark hair fell unadorned to his shoulders, tousled by the salt-laden breeze.

“Perhaps you should wait until you have gained greater strength before attempting to carry such a burden,” he said lightly, his tone edged with playful mockery. “At your age, child, I was never quite so awkward.”

“I am not a—” I began heatedly, but my protest faltered as the treacherous stone shifted once more in my grasp, threatening to slip from my hold.

“—child,” he finished for me, to my astonishment, mimicking my tone and inflection with uncanny precision. His manner of speech was unlike any I had encountered, though I could not immediately discern why. His voice, though not particularly smooth or melodic, carried an undeniable weight, an authority that seemed to demand attention without the slightest effort.

“Now, now, do not overexert yourself. My son is likely older than you are.” Before I could muster a retort, he reached out and, with disconcerting ease, plucked the stone from my grasp as though it weighed nothing at all.

As I turned to face him, I saw him toss the stone into the air with one hand, its motion tracing a smooth and effortless arc before he caught it again. His movements were casual, almost careless, and his expression mirrored that same ease—at first. But as the stone landed back in his palm, he glanced at it, and a single brow arched with subtle intrigue.

He must have been the most extraordinary of our kind I had ever encountered. It was difficult to put into words the impression he left, yet there was no denying his remarkable nature, regardless of how plain or unadorned his attire might have been.

“Do you know what it is you have found?” he asked.

“Of course I do!” I declared, puffing out my chest in defiance, though my height barely reached his ribs. “Why else would I go to so much trouble?”

My indignation seemed only to amuse him further. He crouched down then, no longer towering over me but meeting my gaze at eye level. The gesture took me completely off guard—I had assumed he, like so many grown-ups, would relish the advantage of height.

“Then, tell me. What is it?”

“It is…” My words faltered, uncertainty creeping in. What was it, truly? I had claimed it on instinct, convinced it was more than it appeared, that it concealed some hidden secret. Yet, what that secret might be, I could not say without breaking it open. Still, in the presence of this stranger, I refused to show even a hint of doubt. “...It is a gem. I am sure of it.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “A clever answer! For one of your years, not bad at all—though still leagues behind what I could manage as a child.”

Once again, he effortlessly elevated himself, and my pride stung under the slight. No one had ever regarded me as an ordinary child before. Though I was young, those who knew me often spoke of my great talent, saying that I was destined to become an Aulendil.

“Then do you know what it truly is?” I shot back, eager to prove his confidence misplaced.

“Of course I do,” he echoed my earlier words, spinning the stone deftly in his hand. It was then that I noticed how extraordinarily nimble and precise his fingers were. “Do you wish to know?”

I hesitated. Pride and curiosity waged a silent battle within me, and before I could hide my inner turmoil, it must have been evident on my face. He smirked, and to my astonishment, reached out, took my hand, and pressed it firmly against the gem-bearing stone.

“What now?” I asked, bewildered, my gaze shifting from the stone to his face. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I noticed their unusual hue—a deep sea blue shimmering within the bright grey typical of the Noldor.

“Feel it.”

Simple words, yet they seemed to carry an irresistible power. It was as if a gentle hand brushed over my eyes, and I closed them without thought. Darkness enveloped me, pierced only by the rhythmic crashing of waves against the cliffs and the steady thrum of my own heartbeat. Gradually, I became aware of his breathing and the cadence of his heartbeat across from me. But beyond that, there was nothing. It made no sense.

“Feel it—not with your hands, nor your eyes, but with your heart.”

Was I not already using my heart? I thought desperately, pushing my thoughts to their very limits in a futile attempt to grasp his meaning.

“If you were truly using your heart, you would realize that you are a part of Arda itself. You and all that you seek to know are one and the same, with no barriers dividing you.”

The sea breeze, laden with its salty tang, filled my chest, and slowly, I began to understand the meaning of his words. It was a feeling I recognized, one I had known before when I poured my entire being into the act of making. Yet this time, I was not shaping a necklace or a candlestick—those insignificant, fleeting objects. This time, my focus was on Arda itself, on the very essence of the world itself.

I could not recall how it began. At first, it was no more than a fleeting glimmer, vanishing as swiftly as it appeared. Yet, as my thoughts reached for it, like tendrils stretching outward, encircling it, brushing against it, the glimmer grew clearer. A crystalline green—pure and transparent—the very color of life itself. Encased within the many layers of the stone, it formed the shape of a beating heart, its shifting, ethereal glow pulsing faintly, as though it were alive.

I opened my eyes abruptly, barely able to contain the surge of astonishment and excitement welling up within me. Yet, when I looked down, the stone beneath my hand appeared as ordinary as ever.

“Do you see now?” he asked, his smile lingering. It was not a warm smile, but neither was it unkind. “Your eyes may deceive you, but your heart never will.”

I did not answer, for even as he spoke, a sense of foresight descended upon me. In that moment, I knew what I was meant to do with it—it existed for this purpose alone and could serve no other.

“I will shape it into a great gem,” I declared, completely unaware that I had spoken the words aloud.

“Like this one?” he asked, setting the rough stone aside and drawing forth a green gemstone strung upon a slender silver chain. My eyes widened, and despite my pride, I could not deny the perfection of the work. Its design was flawless, its polish unmatched—a masterpiece beyond anything I had ever seen.

Yet it was not the gem I had envisioned. Dazzling, resplendent, and regal though it was, it remained nothing more than an ornament.

“No,” I said, meeting his gaze once more. “I will create a gem that embodies life itself.”

I did not know why I had shared my vision with him so openly—a stranger, no less—but the words flowed as naturally as breathing. I described each step of my plan in vivid detail: how I would shape the stone, refining it into its true form, and then take it to the fields of Yavanna, where it would draw upon the essence and vitality of the earth. I would ascend to the heights of Taniquetil, allowing it to breathe the pure air of Manwë and bask in the starlight of Varda. I would submerge it in the waters near Alqualondë, letting it resonate with the deep and ancient songs of Ulmo. Then, I would temper it in the forge, subjecting it to the fires of both creation and destruction.

And finally, I would bring it to the Two Trees—a step I knew to be indispensable—for I wished the life it held to echo the eternal light of Telperion and Laurelin.

He listened intently as I described my plan, his expression marked by profound focus. His seriousness bolstered my confidence, for it was clear he did not dismiss my words as the overreaching fantasies of a mere child. Yet, when I spoke of the final step in my vision, a fleeting smile crossed his face, and he murmured something under his breath. I could not catch the words, and he made no move to repeat them.

“Then it seems your green gem will surpass mine,” he said with a smile once I had finished. I was somewhat perplexed; I had not expected a Noldo to show such contentment while acknowledging that another’s work might outshine their own.

“My gem does not possess such extraordinary qualities,” he continued. “It is merely a gift for my son’s begetting day, and I dare say he does not need any more vigor than he already has—my wife is quite exasperated with him as it is.”

If one sought unreserved, unabashed love, he would not disappoint. There was no trace of restraint or decorum in him; he seemed to revel in his emotions, wearing them openly and with pride, utterly indifferent to who might bear witness.

I found myself at a loss for words, so I settled on the simplest question that came to mind: “What is your gem called?”

“I call it the Green Stone,” he replied, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

“But surely it has another name,” I pressed. “It is an important gift, is it not?”

“Indeed,” he said, waving a hand in a gesture of mild concession. “You are sharp for your age. It is called Elessar—the Elf-stone. I chose the name even before it was complete.”

Elessar. The name struck me as plain, almost disappointingly so. My reaction must have been evident, for he chuckled, a sly smile playing on his lips, tinged with mockery.

“A name is but a marker of essence, and it is the latter that truly matters. Were I to call it Manwë’s Eye or Varda’s Star, would that not seem a touch presumptuous?”

I felt a twinge of embarrassment. His sarcasm was not directed at me personally, yet the expression and tone he used revealed a hint of his sharpness. Seemingly unaware of my reaction, he slipped the silver chain back into his pocket and returned the gem-bearing stone to my hands, steadying it with care.

“Well, that is enough for today. Work hard on your gem; at your age, such a grand vision is not easily achieved. But I must tell you this: to create the kind of gem you described, I would not require the steps you mentioned.”

His words left me speechless, my mouth slightly agape. The certainty in his tone was so absolute that I found it hard to trust my own ears. After a moment's hesitation, I felt compelled to ask:

“Why?”

“Because I am a maker greater than you—or any of our kind,” he replied, his tone as casual as if he were stating the simplest and most self-evident truth.

He spoke these words with an air of complete ease, almost inviting one to dismiss the enormity of what he had said. Who was he? So proud—proud beyond measure—and yet, standing before him, one could find no grounds for objection. He did not aim to shock with bold declarations, nor did he need to. His skill and confidence were such that his words seemed effortlessly supported, each statement delivered as though it were no more than an unembellished truth.

I wanted to know his name. In this brief moment, I had already realized that he was someone I could never hope to surpass. Though I had not yet reached adulthood, I understood enough to recognize when respect was truly earned.

“My lord, my name is Enerdhil. May I ask yours?”

He laughed again. Strangely, this time it made him seem less like an adult and more like a mischievous child. “You call me ‘my lord’—partly correct, I suppose. But it is better that you do not know my name.”

“But—”

“No ‘but,’” he interrupted, rising to his full height and releasing my hand. “Since you will never surpass me, there is no need for you to dwell on my name in frustration, is there?”

I could only stand there, stunned, as he turned and walked away. The starlight shimmered upon him, yet an intangible haze seemed to surround him—an aura of mystery that left me no closer to understanding who—or what—he truly was.

 

Years later, I learned who he was.

He stood fully armed before the gates of the house of the King, in the high court of Tirion, while I stood among the crowd gathered beneath the white tower of Mindon Eldaliéva. His glittering sword was pressed against the chest of his half-brother, and I recognized his face—once etched into my memory, now hardened and sharpened with menace. The voice I had never forgotten rang out, cold and unyielding, stripped of all warmth. The smile I once knew was gone, as though it had never existed.

The mysteries unraveled all at once: Curufinwë Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire, Crown Prince of Tirion, eldest son of King Finwë. The greatest craftsman of the Noldor, our most brilliant artist. It was no wonder he had claimed to be greater than I, or any of our kind. What he could achieve, I might never hope to attain.

And yet, I knew I would not give up.

That resolve had already taken root within me, a choice to which I had devoted my heart. It was the same resolve that must have driven him to create the Silmarils. The Silmarils—as he had said, he gave them a name that was both fitting and free from exaggeration.

But my gem was not destined to be completed in the Blessed Realm. Harsh reality would render the final step of my vision impossible to achieve.

For Melkor Morgoth had destroyed the Two Trees, extinguished their light, and robbed us of the last hope of unblemished radiance.

 

More years later, in a world burdened by mortality and ceaseless change, I stood atop the highest peak of the Echoriath. Raising the gem high above my head, I watched as its deep green light shimmered against the boundless heavens.

Light could never truly perish—this was the belief I held with unwavering faith. Even when scattered, it endured; even when dimmed, it found a way to shine.

Let the flame of Anar infuse this gem with the essence of life. Let the power of existence gather and coalesce within it. I wished for it to preserve the fleeting beauty of the mortal world, to guard against its swift decay—like dewdrops that vanish all too quickly beneath the relentless blaze of the sun.

Grant it the power to heal the wounds of this marred world. Let it preserve a haven of purity within this imperfect realm and bear the blessing of hope within its heart.

The green gem of Fëanor was lost with King Fingon during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but another green gem shall rise to rekindle life and hope anew.

“Does it have a name, Enerdhil?”

“Lady Idril, call it Elessar.”

 

The history, carefully inscribed upon parchment, unfolded further.

“Year 510 of the First Age: Through the betrayal of Maeglin, the hidden location of Gondolin was laid bare to Morgoth. The last kingdom of the Eldar fell to the Enemy.”

The city I had loved so deeply had finally fallen, and I had chosen to perish alongside it.

When I was released from Mandos, I knew nothing of what had transpired after its fall. Lines of text flickered before my eyes—brief, yet laden with the weight of centuries, each word pressing upon me like stone.

Lady Idril and Lord Tuor, with a remnant of the survivors of Gondolin, had escaped the siege and eventually reached the Mouths of Sirion. There, their son, Eärendil, inherited lordship after their departure, along with Elessar—my gem. Yet the curse lingered. As Eärendil embarked upon his quest, bearing Elessar in his search for Valinor, news of Elwing's possession of the Silmaril reached the sons of Fëanor. It was then that Maedhros sent his demand for the Great Jewel.

My hands trembled slightly.

“Elwing and the people of Sirion would not yield the jewel which Beren had won and Lúthien had worn, and for which Dior the fair wa slain; and least of all while Eärendil their lord was on the sea, for it seemed to them that in the Silmaril lay the healing and the blessing that had come upon their houses and their ships.” (1)

Slowly, I rolled up the parchment.

“You believe they made a mistake, do you not?” Olórin had appeared without my noticing—the Maia we revered most for his care, guidance, and aid.

I did not answer.

“People will ever believe what their hearts wish to embrace,” he said, his gaze steady yet kind. “They revere the untainted light, cherishing its purity, and thus attribute the healing and the blessing they received to it rather than to your gem. Does this weigh upon your spirit?”

“No,” I replied. “My craft cannot compare to that of Fëanor. I only regret that it was returned to Aman, where its power was unneeded.”

“That is why Yavanna entrusted it to me.”

Olórin smiled and extended his hand. To my astonishment, there lay my long-lost gem, the culmination of my life’s work. It rested in his palm exactly as it had when I finished it in Gondolin, set in a silver brooch shaped like Thorondor, the King of Eagles.

“It can serve a greater purpose in another land,” he said.

I stared at it for a long moment before lifting my gaze.

“And, Enerdhil,” he continued, “because of it, you have become the greatest craftsman since Fëanor.”

I watched as Olórin departed, a smile forming as I envisioned the beauty my gem would bring to that mortal land.

A vision unfolded, hazy yet vivid. I saw a grey-robed, aged man with silver-streaked hair standing before the lady of the Golden House of Finarfin, Elessar gleaming in his palm. I saw a forest where time lay still, its golden leaves and white blossoms swaying gently in an eternal breeze. I saw a tall, weathered mortal man with dark hair and grey eyes take the gem from an Elven hand, then turn to tread an unknown path.

Fare thee free, my Elessar.

I could not use you to preserve the light of ancient days, but I have succeeded in shaping you into a vessel for hope and life.

 

(The End)

 

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Chapter End Notes

(1) Quoted from The Silmarillion.

The story draws upon the various narratives surrounding the Elessar in Unfinished Tales and The History of Middle-earth. In this interpretation, I have adopted the setting that there are two Elessars: one crafted by Fëanor and passed to Maedhros, then to Fingon; and another made by Enerdhil of Gondolin, later brought back to Middle-earth by Olórin and given to Galadriel.