In My End Is My Beginning by Lilith

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Of craft and creation

Making things in Eregion.

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“The eye altering alters all.”

 

— Blake

 

Mairen stepped to the side as Tyelperinquar checked the crucible containing their latest project. She had been showing him some of the newer techniques with which she has been working, amalgamations of the lore and curwë of Valinor and the innovations she acquired with painstaking care from the Eastern realms she hoped to bring back under her sway. He had intended this day’s instruction as a test. He had intended each day’s instruction from the time she’d arrived to be a test. But, slowly or, rather given the short time she’d been there, gradually, his suspicion moved towards curiosity and his curiosity slipped towards acceptance, as she taught him more and as he learned that she did indeed have mastery of the techniques she’d claimed to know.

 

Recently, they have been working carefully with the idea of enhancing objects, of drawing from their innate qualities to making them stronger. The thought had occurred to her or to him or, perhaps most accurately, to them — she isn’t sure if it had occurred first to him or to her or if had not occurred to both of them together. Of course, that developing facet of this negotiation was something to be considered, something she would have to revisit later and ponder, though, for now, it served, thought it certainly discomfited her. But they had been discussing and debating the merits of different alloys. She had brought different technologies for the creation of steel from the East, a variety of different techniques that permitted the formation of a stronger and more durable alloy. They had begun to experiment with this process. She explained to him that the first step was to heat the iron in a crucible in the presence of living matter in order to remove the slag. Then they might begin to shape the metal. 

 

“How do we know it’s ready?” he asked.

 

“On one level, it’s quite simple. You know the heat of the furnace, you know the heat of the crucible itself, and you know the length of time it needs to melt iron and the length of time it takes to cool and solidify into the alloy.”

 

He turned to look at her, eyebrow raised, waiting. When she did not answer immediately, he prompted her and said, “Yes, and, normally, given your precision and your reliance upon a tested and proven regimen, I would assume that would be our course of action. But I wonder how long I will have to wait before I hear what the other level is.”

 

“Look,” she said in response.

 

“It’s sealed,” he replied, a little impatiently. “If I look, I’ll ruin the process.”

 

“Not with your eyes,” she answered.

 

“With what, then?” he inquired.

 

“Your consciousness,” she said and waited.

 

She watched him struggle, understanding what it was she asked of him but not comprehending how he was to do it. She noticed how very frustrated he was that something eluded his abilities, even temporarily.

 

“Your cousin, I believe,” she continued, “does this with living things. Melyanna would have taught her.”

 

“But they are alive,” he responded. “This ...”

 

“Is it not of Arda?”

 

“Yes, but ...”

 

“And thus part of creation?”

 

“Well, but ...”

 

“If it is part of creation, then it is part of the music and thus its song may be heard.”

 

He looked blankly at her.

 

“Gurthang was not the only sword to speak,” she continued, “though perhaps it was the only one to use an elven tongue.”

 

“I don’t ...”

 

“Smiths always speak of the metal they work singing,” she continued, enjoying his frustration and his desire to know what it was she meant. He’d pushed and challenged her and refused to relent for days. It was enjoyable to have the positions reversed for a moment. “But they never bothered to consider that it does in truth. Your grandfather understood this. It is how he created as he did.”

 

“He didn’t speak of song,” he replied. “I’d have remembered.”

 

“Did he speak of how the metal felt or of feeling for shifts ...”

 

“Of feeling for the vibrations within it as you worked,” he finished, looking at her, half-wondering and half-certain.

 

“Then feel for them,” she replied. “You needn’t only do it with your hands. You may do it with your mind. You were — he was — almost certainly doing so. Feeling and listening.”

 

“I haven’t ...” he began.

 

“Perhaps not consciously,” she answered. “But have any of your works, your greatest works, taken place in a way that seemed effortless ... natural.”

 

“I’m not ...” he started and then reconsidered. “Yes, but rarely.”

 

“Then we work to harness that feeling,” she replied and, watching him closely, carefully, checking to see if he understood.

 

“I don’t,” he responded.

 

“Come with me,” she said and, for the first time in their collaboration, reached for his mind — no, more than his mind, his very self — with her own. Their minds, their consciousness — their spirits, the other Ainur would prefer her to say — had touched before. She knew the feel of his, bright like silver and keen.

It was very different to her own. Where hers burned like the fires at the heart of Arda, he felt of starlight, bright and yet cool and keen, not unlike the carefully-honed edge of a blade. It was distinctive, even in Ost-in-Edhil, a city that thrummed with life and that vibrated with the energies of its inhabitants’ beings in a way that reminded her of the music the Aulënossë had made at their work. It was so distinctive, in fact, that she had been able to find it immediately the first time she had looked for him, for who else might it have been. She knew as well that she would be able to find him anywhere in the city and had begun to wonder if that reach might extend farther out into the world so distinct he was and so carefully had she marked the qualities of his being. But, though their minds had touched and though she knew the feel of his presence, she had not opened her mind to him nor invited him to open his to her. Not yet. 

 

She had hesitated. She had hesitated though she had ventured into the minds of the Children before. She had told herself that she had been slow to venture into his mind because such an intimate step was premature and was thus likely to create suspicion in his still-unquiet mind. She believed that to be true. She knew it was. But, still, that other side of her — that careful, calculating side that measured and weighed each situation carefully murmured softly in her mind that there was more to her hesitation than the fear that it was too early, that her timing was off. That part of her mind would not allow her to pretend for very long, and it observed that she feared that, whatever she learned of him in such a connection, he might perceive as much, if not more, of her. 

 

But, despite her fears and her caution, she was not able to find a way around it and yet teach him these skills, and so she opened her mind, as much of it as she dared, shuttering the darker places and closeting them away, and reached for him.

 

“I am with you,” he said, and he was, far more vividly than she had expected. The minds of the Children, as she had experienced them before, were muted, the most simple notes of a melody, the colors she associated with the sound muted and dim, an impression of thought and feeling rather than one fully articulated. But this was not he. The silver brightness she had felt before was keen, sharp as steel and yet fair as mithril. It was clear, too; his words as precise as if he’d spoken them aloud, and the feelings behind, the emotion as strong. She had sense of curiosity and of excitement and of determination. There was a certain thrum of expectation, the feel of metal vibrating under the stroke of a hammer, the echo of a harp string pluck or the sound of a voice raised in song within his being. She felt the echo of it within herself, soft at first and surprised, for it had been more than an age since someone had communicated with her so vividly, but there.

 

“Then come.” 

 

“Lead on, then. I am waiting,” he replied. 

 

She focused carefully upon the heated and malleable metal within the crucible. She allowed him to notice first the heat, the white-hot feel of it, and then she descended deeper into the combination of iron ore and of what had once been living matter. She drew attention to the vibrations within the changing ore and directed his mind to the places where the impurities had begun to burn away, noticing and allowing him to notice with her how it shifted the song of the alloy being formed. Then she asked him to feel and to listen again as the pitch changed as the plant matter burned and then the elements of it left combined with the iron. 

 

“It’s like water,” he said, the excitement in his thought palpable, touching and then rippling through her consciousness. 

 

“What is?” Mairen asked

 

“The way the living matter falls within the iron — it reminds me of tossing a stone — or pebbles, rather — into water and watching the ripples travel through the surface. Even the way its song shifts and expands.”

 

“Yes,” she answered. “Exactly so.” 

 

He did not reply, at least not in words, but she felt him respond to her praise, the contentment in his being not unlike the touch of water, cool and refreshing. It surprised her, and she laughed for the joy of his understanding, not felt in so many years, and for his pleasure in the discovery. She was surprised to feel a moment of hesitation from him at her laugh, but then she felt him relax and another wave of contentment reach her, and she laughed again, sending a wave of her own warmth, of the fire she was at the center of her being, towards him. She felt him move away in surprise and with some wariness, at first and then, once again, soften and lean towards the feeling, not laughing but smiling perhaps and welcoming.

 

“I am sorry,” he said to her. “This is new to me.”

 

“And no longer familiar to me,” she replied. “It has been some years since I met someone who understood as quickly as you. I ought not to have been surprised, I suppose, but it has been some time and I am glad.”

 

Later, when they both sensed that it was time, they removed the molten alloy from the crucible. She stood aside and watched as he began to work with it, shaping it into the form they desired. To her eye, he seemed more deliberate in his movements than usual, testing the strength, placement and frequency of each hammer stroke before falling into an easy rhythm. His concentration remained steady and flavored with that familiar and essential determination and desire for knowledge and for mastery over the medium with which he worked. She smiled inwardly knowing she had perceived those elements of his being clearly and imagining that all they might do ... all she might achieve working in tandem with him. 

 

“Come on, then,” he murmured softly, sensing her distraction from the task at hand. His thoughts lightly touched hers and nudged her awareness back towards the metal with which he worked, and so she sharpened her focus upon him and slipped deeper into his consciousness. She noticed that his focus had changed. In comparison to the focus they’d both directed earlier to the innermost qualities of the alloy, the distinct and disparate elements that had been in the processes of joining, he directed his awareness primarily upon the feel of the metal under his hands and the manner in which it responded to his efforts to shape it. She watched as he noticed the effects of each stroke of the hammer and adjusted its placement and force in order to achieve the desired result. She waited and while his focus did not changed, she grew impatient with it, wanting him to look below the surface.

 

“Had you not thought of observing the inner qualities of the alloy?” she asked, her voice sharp in his mind.

 

“Perhaps later,” he replied mildly and continued working, and she grew still more impatient that he failed to respond to her direction.

 

“Why not now?” She softened her tone, made it neutral, almost conciliatory.

 

“I’ve not worked it before, and it feels very different to me. I would prefer to observe the process of shaping the material before I attempt to investigate further.”

 

“But do you not want to know why?”

 

“Yes, but I’d like to gather as much information as I can so that I do not make assumptions that might prove unfounded.”

 

She was frustrated by this, needing to learn as much as quickly as possible, but quelled her irritation and only asked, “Where do the differences lie? What feels unusual to you?”

 

“I should ask you to wait until we do this a second time,” he said, his voice both amused and mild. “Are you ready to take over?”

 

“For you?”

 

“Yes, you wanted to know what the difference in feel was; I think the best way is for you to experience it. Have you your tools? Or would it be easier simply to use mine?”

 

“I haven’t ...”

 

“Do get your gloves,” he said. “Then we’ll have to switch quickly. There’s a brittleness to this metal that I fear would tell if we do not keep the same rhythm and force.”

 

She collected her tools and then moved to stand beside him, placing her own tongs on the material and watching as he released his hold of it but continued to work until she felt the rhythm and saw the pattern of the hammer strokes, at which point she took over from him. He eased out of her way, his hip and shoulder brushing softly against hers as he moved to the side. His mind remained linked to her own.

 

“It is a fine technique and a strong alloy,” he said. “I believe it will hold an edge well and not break, but it requires a certain ...”

 

“Steadiness in the handling of it,” she finished.

 

“From whence did the ore come?” he asked. “When you originally saw it made.”

 

“Rhûn,” she replied. “But far to the south, near seas.”

 

“Is this ore the same?”

 

“No,” she said as she continued to work. “That is an unusual story and how I came to use plant material to craft the alloy. The discovery came because the mine from which they had sourced their ore had begun to fail and it became necessary, sooner rather than later, to discover what made the ore unique in order that they might continue to provide the ingots that had made their fortune. We experimented on some they had left and identified the element left and to discover how to replace it and in what quantity.”

 

“How did you experiment?”

 

“Trial and error?”

 

“No such internal investigation?”

 

“Of course,” she said, “but we needed to learn both ways and so we did. Their trade was saved for the time being because I doubt I’ll be the only person to recall this secret or to use it again.” 

 

He nodded.

 

“There are ways of using those techniques to create still stronger steel.”

 

“I’ve no doubt,” he replied. “But I required the understanding of this first.”

 

She finished fashioning the implement, a specialized knife for the use of the healers, one that needed to hold a hard, sharp edge as long as, if not longer than, a knife. Once finished, they began a second time, and this time he watched as she delved further into the material, listening to it and feeling the way it vibrated with its unique song. She began to harmonize with it softly and then a little more loudly, using the strength of her own voice and will to adjust the qualities of the allow still further to reinforce the even distribution of the plant matter and thus create a still stronger and finer blade. As she separated one strand of matter from another, she nudged him. 

 

“Try it.”

 

“I see what it is you do, but I do not know now how,” he replied.

 

“Pay closer attention,” she answered and felt the mild irritation rise.

 

“I am,” he said. “It seems as if you are willing it move.”

 

“Yes,” she answered, “but how?”

 

“With song,” he said. “But I ...”

 

“Think of your cousin singing to the crops and to the trees. Does her voice change based upon where she is and to what she sings.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Try that here. Match the pitch in your mind first.”

 

“I’m not ...”

 

“This is a deeper song to the noises your vocal cords make, though perhaps there too if you would cease to judge yourself against those with considerably more practice,” she paused. He winced. She continued, “This song is within you; you’ve already sung it when you’ve crafted other pieces. I am making you aware of it so you may learn.”

 

She felt him listen to and feel the vibrations within the metal and then echo that sound within his own being. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it. Now — how does the sound change as it strengthens.”

 

“Deepens,” he said. “It becomes richer and fuller.”

 

“Yes,” she replied. “Does the pitch change and the melody?”

 

“Yes,” he answered. “But why?"

"Think on it."

"It seems to vary as you work to make the patterns in it senses and more refined.”

 

“Precisely,” she said. “Depending on the material used and the shape I wish it to take, it varies, sometimes higher, sometimes lower. The melody also changes depending upon the materials and the purpose for which I am using them. Allow that to guide you. Feel the pitch made by the materials as they begin to form the allow and notice what happens as you harmonize with it. Notice what strengthens it. Notice what refines it. Adjust accordingly. Then, as you consider the purposes to which you’d put the material, imagine the form it would need to take and the qualities you want it to have. Then craft your harmony in order to help the alloy achieve that state.”

 

“It would seem to involve considerable trial and error,” he said.

 

“Or very careful observation,” she answered. 

 

She felt him begin to deepen and strengthen the tone of his own song and she wound hers with his in order to let it be richer. She sent the image of the alloy becoming stronger and more flexible and she saw him reach for and build upon the image. As he worked and as she felt the alloy respond to him, she began to withdraw her own influence and to let him finish. He sang and shaped the materials as she worked so that when she’d finished a most remarkable blade lay on the anvil before them.

 

“Well done,” she said.

 

“Perhaps,” he said. “I’d not have managed if you hadn’t shown me first.”

 

“How else do we learn?”

 

“True,” he replied. “I am curious to see how it goes without your help.”

 

“As am I,” she replied.

 

***

 

Later, though not much later, only a few weeks past Midwinter, at the time of year in which the rivers had begun to fill and flow more rapidly as the mountain rice and snow began to melt, she noticed him watching her very closely as she shaped the same alloy into fine tools for their healers. 

 

She was surprised then not to hear his voice within her own consciousness. He was not normally shy about asking questions or seeking information.

 

“What is it?” she asked, sending her thought to him.

 

He did not immediately answer and, though he tried to suppress it, she felt concern and turmoil within him. 

 

“There is something,” she said. “What is it?”

 

“Remind me to ask you later,” he replied. “This is not the time.”

 

She half-expected him to leave before she had finished, but he did not. Instead, he returned to his own task and then began to tidy the areas around his workspace and then hers as she finished. Once she had completed her tasks, he helped her arranged her tools as she preferred and then walked with her to the bathhouse reserved for the artisans guilds. 

 

“What was it?” she asked.

 

“It was nothing,” he said.

 

“Hardly,” she replied.

 

“It was nothing that need trouble you,” he answered. “Simply something with which I did not want to distract you and something I am not comfortable asking where any might hear us.” 

 

She took his hand, feeling his fingers slide between her own, and guided him to one of the smaller courtyards within the district where she directed him to sit.

 

“What is it?”

 

“How did you first learn to craft objects?”

 

“Ah,” she said. “Not unlike you, I suppose.”

 

“With fire, hammer and anvil?” he asked, keeping his voice low. 

 

She looked at him carefully, not entirely sure of what he meant.

 

“Perhaps I spoke poorly,” he said. “When I was young I first learned to shape things with my hands, with the same tools my father and his father and my grandmother’s father had used before me. When you learned to shape matter into a different form, did you use tools, even if they were different to these, or did you use your mind and the power of your Song to do so?”

 

“Song,” she said. “We are creatures of spirit, not matter. It would be difficult for me to hold a hammer in such a form, but, though song, I could shape very elements themselves, particles of being so small that you cannot see them with your eyes but so essential they form the foundation of all creation. They themselves are part of the Music and through Song can be made and shaped. We did not craft tools but we raised mountains and shape the land to form the seas.”

 

“This must seem crude to you then,” he said, a certain sadness in his voice, “to use a hammer and tongs when you needed none and trivial to make a knife when you once shaped the very land.”

 

“Perhaps,” she said, “some might think so, but it had its limits in its own way. I would find it hard to work with you were I only spirit. You might find me a bit offputting.” She paused, at the man seater near her. “I can live and work with you and with others in this form. We can accomplish much together. There is much to teach. Much to learn. Besides, it seems little different to me whether I sing only in my spirit or through my being and through tools.”

 

“That is because you are still shaping in much the same way,” he said. “You are a fine craftsperson with your hands, but you rely very much on the power of your mind and Song. I cannot fault that; you can accomplish so much of which I cannot dream. But I wonder if you might connect the two so that you feel the Song in your very form as well as in your spirit.”

 

“And you think it might be beneficial somehow?”

 

“To be more connected to that which you would craft?” he replied. “It would seem a benefit — to feel it more deeply might help to understand the impact of the work and to shape it more thoroughly.” 

 

She bridled at that and tried to hide it, but he’d caught the flash of irritation in her eyes. “I only meant to suggest that it would add another layer to your own abilities.”

 

“Or weaken them,” she said, “as Melyanna grew weaker. The more we become tied to our forms the more our strength dissipates into the land and to that which surrounds us. It is the price we pay for choosing to be among you. Sometimes I wonder if we shall not disappear among you entirely, leaving little sign that we were ever different."

 

“Does that mean you become weaker or simply more connected?” he countered. “Was it a weakness if it aided more than Melyanna herself?”

 

“That might depend upon the situation,” she replied. “At any rate, it took trust.”

 

“I trust you,” he answered.

 

“But all do not,” she replied. “How would I accomplish such a thing anyway?”

 

“By continuing to work here, with us.”

 

“With you, you mean,” she said for he was always hungry for more knowledge and new skills.

 

“Of course,” he replied.

 

She said. "Though I might lose who and what I was with little to gain from it?"

 

"There is much to gain — a home, connections, a feel for what it is to be part of what you create rather than standing outside it. You might have more power alone but to what end and for what purpose?"

 

“Perhaps," she said. "I am not certain I understand."

 

"Perhaps it is I who do not," he replied. "I can show you what it is to be part of your creation rather than standing apart from it and how, by being part of your creation, you might shape it more thoroughly and effectively because it is not separate from you but rather connected to you. But I do not understand what it is to be you, so I do not know what you would relinquish. Will you show me — truly show me, not through a tool or through my own hands — how you created in the time before with Song and not tools?”

 

“I do not know,” she began.

 

“I would like to see and to know,” he said, “what it must have been like for you in the time before. Even if it may be beyond my own abilities.”

 

She turned her gaze away from him and looked to the stars and to the darkest spaces between them. She did not know if she still could; she had changed and altered living things but had not attempted to create anew in more years than she was able to remember. She was not sure she could; she was not sure she wished to know. “I will try,” she said.