Author: The Nimrodelian Tale-Spinner

Story by: Doviel

Doviel had heard somewhat of Aniwen, the warrior at her side. She knew tales of her father’s great deeds, as the melethril of Mericc’s former companion, she felt that she already knew the girl from her heritage. Aqualondo had shared many stories of the man but not so much of the child. Or woman, as the girl was grown now, as humans count years, and she had become a formidable Guardian.

Doviel first trekked with her through the wilds of Mirkwood as they recovered strange artifacts of the woodland elves. Did that old second age engraving on the Wild Ruins really say ‘Aqualondo was here’ etched in Silvan Elvish? Doviel shook her head and laughed at the memory.

Aniwen looked at her with a quirked brow as they scouted for the nearly invisible goblin scouts plaguing the woods. Despite their small size and concealed nature, Doviel had an uncanny knack for finding them. But whenever she was not focused on a task, the wood-elf was always laughing at something. She made jokes to herself and amused herself with her own thoughts, often seeming to laugh for no reason.

Aniwen found the elf’s constant joy and merriment to be unsettling and more than a little annoying. Still, she held up her end of the fighting, did not shy back from their foes, and had a good eye, as wood-elves do, for tracking. But, it was clear that she was nervous in the spider burrows. Truly though, who wouldn’t be? Especially when they dropped down from thick webs right on top of you! Aniwen, however, was ever vigilant, ever watchful, and would never let the slight minstrel fall to such creatures, but the wood-elf did not understand the dedication of the woman who walked beside her.

***

They slashed through thick webs as they wandered through twisting, turning canyons and hidden spider burrows. Doviel was more pale that usual, and if you have ever seen her complexion, that would be a description of note. Aniwen eyed the elf next to her with some concern. Had she been bit and did not tell her? Was she poisoned? Was she actually sweating? Did elves sweat?

Doviel grasped a vial in her hand behind her small shield and her dagger in the other, ‘S-she’s in there!’ She indicated a thick curtain of webs over a wide alcove. A large shadow loomed and skittered behind it. She whispered the name in a quiet hiss, ‘Delúris . . .’

Aniwen stood at the ready, about to take the lead, but the pale elf lifted her hand and stayed the maiden warrior, ‘No, I must lead on this, only I hold the antidote. If her venom were to strike you,’ she eyed the woman, ‘all of my songs may not be enough to revive you in time.’ Aniwen nodded in understanding, but did not like to have the minstrel stand before her. With her armor, shield, and axe, she was the stronger of them both, and they both knew it! But, Doviel did what Doviel had to do, even if that meant facing down giant, man (and elf) eating spiders that had flesh rotting venom.

Invoking the Valar and crying out in the ancient Valarin tongue, words of power were unleashed, and light smote the fell brood-spider. The minstrel stopped several attacks with her small shield and was clawed only slightly as her cries stunned and smote the beast. Aniwen attacked the spiders that dropped suddenly from the webs to defend the spider queen, and Doviel dropped her shield for a moment to get a clear view of where to direct her next call of power. It was in that moment that the spider stung her. The venom coursed through her quickly despite her elven vitality. The pain wracked her body, and she almost dropped the vial on the ground and lost her shield. Blinking her eyes to clear the blur, she lifted her hand, and drank the potion. She used her pain to channel a piercing cry and the burst of light combined with a fierce blow from the axe of the brave guardian defeated the creature.

Aniwen helped the elf stumble back to the camp to report their victory and lessened threat in the Scuttledales, and that is when they received the news about Hal.

***

‘Hal Tiller?’ Aniwen asked. And the elf in charge of the camp, Ivorel, related the tale of the brave hobbit who seemed to have gotten himself lost. Fell signs of a bloody backpack, and gnawed bones had been recovered, all was presumed lost. The only hope was revenge upon the beast that slew him. And, that beast was Trapjaw.

All Doviel could think was a brief prayer, ‘Oh Elbereth, please, please, I don’t want to go back in the spider dens.’ She was fully redeemed from the venom, but she really hated spiders. Something about the barrows, long ago, slaying hundreds upon hundreds of spiders in one day; a tale she rarely told, but since that time, spiders always made her feel sick and dizzy. Why do they have to be bigger than I am? It just does not seem natural. She wished fervently that Ungoliant and her brood had never been.

Aniwen’s calm and steady voice broke through Doviel’s thoughts as the warrior grasped her axe, ‘Yes, of course we will.’ She tugged on the elf’s sleeve, ‘You are rested. Let us go.’

And that was that. Doviel was following Aniwen through the twists and turns of the Scuttledales, again. They followed what signs they could, looking for the pack leader of the black hounds, the barghests, populating the ‘ghetto of Mirkwood’ as Aqualondo once told Doviel his people called it. Doviel’s keen eyes tracked the patterns of movements and found the beast first, unfortunately, she found him by looking down on him from over a cliff. Everything in the Scuttledales was either right above you or right below you, with steep cliffs in either direction. Aniwen held up her arm to stop the elf who was peering down over the cliff at the hound.

‘I shall go first and find a safe path down,’ Aniwen began the steep descent which included a lot of sliding, skidding, and some mild cursing. Luckily, the disgusting hound was too busy gnawing on the remains of its latest kill to notice. She called back up to the elf quietly, ‘Yeah! we’re good!’

The surefooted elf followed the human woman down the steep incline, doing more than a bit of sliding and skidding herself, but it was, of course, very graceful. In fact, it looked like Doviel simply glided down the hill. It was as if every missed step and bit of footing that gave way was absolutely on purpose. When she got to the bottom, effortlessly, she patted the little braids woven into her pretty hairstyle and flashed a bright smile at the woman.

She always looked so perfect. Aniwen and Doviel could walk through a swamp in Drownholt, and after stomping across the swamp to collect dry firewood, Aniwen would look like she got half-drown in a pit of goo. Doviel would arrive back at camp, kick some dust off her boots and look like she had her own personal breeze refreshing her. Aniwen would choke on the fumes of the reeky camp fires and the thick smoke made her eyes tear and her nose run. Doviel might sniff primly once or twice, but among the other elves, she was just one of them. Pretty and perfect, in the middle of a dark, dreary quagmire. Tall, pretty people with dainty hands and fair skin, and something about it made Aniwen’s skin crawl. There was more than one reason why the Eldar and Edain should not mingle. These thoughts sped through Aniwen’s mind in the span of only the few seconds it took for Doviel to prepare herself for combat after her ‘glide’ down the cliffside.

Aniwen muttered, ‘Elves!’ under her breath. She was fairly certain she had turned an ankle on her way down, but she did not dare to favor it in front of the elf. She lifted her axe as they approached the gnawing hound. Trapjaw did not even look up from his kill, which appeared fresh, but it was so mangled that the ladies could not make out exactly what the kill had been, other than humanoid. From the unfortunate evidence they had been presented, both feared it was Hal.

‘Does that look like a hobbit to you?’ Doviel asked uncertainly from the distance they stood at.

Aniwen shook her head, ‘For the sake of our own sanity, let us say that it is not.’

Doviel nodded her head grimly, and then they set to. Doviel shouted a call of light and the hound turned about to attack the elf, but then Aniwen attacked with her axe and the beast spun about again focusing its attacks solely on the guardian. The fight was fierce, but it was over so quickly. The beast was totally overwhelmed by the calls and cries of the minstrel and the ruthless, precise blows of the skillful guardian’s axe. But just before the beast yielded to the victors, a hobbit jumped out from behind a nearby tree!

Hal Tiller said, ‘Hah, got you now! Die beast!’ Hal ambushed the beast from behind and delivered the killing blow right into the hound’s ribs. ‘Yes! I got him!’ he crowed. The hobbit looked over at the minstrel and guardian, “Hey, are you two ok? Good thing I was here, wasn’t it?” The little hobbit wiped his brow and continued, “Glad to see a friendly face out here. That overgrown dog and I have been hunting each other in circles for two days straight! Luckily, I was just ready to spring my trap when you showed up, or it might have gone badly for you.” He wiped off his dagger on the beast’s fur and started to amble off through the Scuttledales. He turned and called back, ‘’Well, I’m off to continue the hunt! Good luck to you!’

Doviel cleaned off and sheathed her beautiful elven dagger. She looked embarrassed and her voice was small. She could not meet Aniwen’s eyes, ‘Did that just happen?’ She could not believe they just had their kill stolen by a hobbit.

Aniwen walked up to Doviel, slung her axe on her back, looked directly into the elf’s eyes, and said very clearly with a determined tone, ‘This did not happen.’

Doviel met the woman’s steely gaze and nodded her head quietly. It would be a solemn promise between them. This did not happen. Then she brightened at once as she turned about and started running through the Scuttledales, on uncertain paths, finding cliff after cliff before finally finding the route that ran down and around and out. In her singsong voice she called back over her shoulder to Aniwen, ‘I did not see anything unusual, did you?’

Aniwen paced behind the elf, who was clearly going the wrong way, with barely concealed exasperation. The elleth moved so swiftly it was hard to deter her once she got started, so Aniwen just followed along and tried to keep the minstrel from getting herself killed. She answered Doviel’s question, ‘No.’ She was a woman of few words.

Back at the Malledhrim camp, Ivorel was relieved, although somewhat irritated after a week of worry, to hear that the pair had spotted the hobbit, Hal Tiller, safe and sound sneaking through the Scuttledales. They said nothing else about the incident, and after receiving much thanks, traveled on their way.

 Story by The Nimrodellian Tale-Spinner

As the Teller of Tales finished up his story, a bird flew in through the window, startling those inside. But the Tale-spinner only laughed.

“One must forgive our feathered friend, for like the elves, those who spend their time gazing at the stars, are wont to dream and lose focus.”

“Tell us another story of the stars,” a member of the Cottage asked, and those around her agreed.

The Teller of Tales smiled and thought for a moment and then began.

The bird in the air and the fish in the sea with the cobbler and baker and thief, all have their purpose in life. And so it is as well with the Powers of the World. Each of them governs some aspect of the world around us, and enriches it in their own particular way to the bounty of us all. To Yavanna, we look for the food on our plate and the trees overhead. To Aule we thank for the steel in our sword and the gold on our finger. And to Varda we praise for the stars overhead that light our way when the dark of night descends.

From the heights of the Blessed Realm they look upon the breadth of the world as a painter might look upon his easel and each of their strokes is a master-work. But just as the Cobbler and Baker have their apprentices and helpers, so too do the Gods up above. Most famous of these in the lore of elves and men are Eonwe and Melian.

Eonwe is the banner-bearer of Manwe, chief of the Gods. It is he who led the charge against the Dark Lord when the world was yet young and no one can boast greater skill in arms than he. Melian was a servant of Vana and Este. Though she lived long in the Blessed Realm, her greatest feats took place within the living world and many of the ancient tales involve her presence.

This tale is about one of the lesser known servants of the Gods who through her actions, we have to thank when we look into the sky.

In the Blessed Realm in the beginnings of time, there were many wonders and sights that are not to be found in the world anymore, for who can envision all the workings of the Powers’ hands? One of the greatest and most beautiful were the vast lakes of silver and gold light that lay outside the dwellings of Varda, maker of stars. They were created from the dew that fell from the Two Trees of song, and the Gods took much delight in walking along those hallowed shores in their leisure. Many of the greatest and brightest stars in the sky were created by Varda, from their light.

Varda had a handmaiden by the name of Ilmarë, who assisted her in all that she did and who was considered amongst the most beautiful of all the servants of the Gods. Often when her duties were light, she could be found walking the shores of the silver and golden lakes and her heart was filled with their brilliance.

But at times, while she looked out into a golden horizon that we can only dream of, her thoughts were clouded by hidden doubts and fears. She worried about the future of the Lakes and the darkening of the world if they were to pass. She brought these fears to Varda but the maker of stars only chastised her lightly and sent her on her way.

Ilmarë thought long and hard about how she might protect the splendor of the lakes for all time when an idea finally struck. She had been with her mistress since the beginning and was present at the creation of the stars and often assisted her in their placement. It was Ilmarë who held aloft the great vats of light from the very peak of Taniquetil as Varda fashioned from the light therein the brilliance of the stars.

All that was needed was to take the rest of the light up into the sky where it could remain inviolate till the end of days and shared by all. But she knew that Varda would not approve of her plans so she wrought them in secret until the appointed day.

Before the Sun and the Moon graced the heavens, the only light in the world was provided by the Two Tree’s. Each of them waxed and waned at separate intervals, though there was always a point during which both Trees were at half-light. It was during this period that the closest thing to night happened in the Blessed realm and it was at this time that Ilmarë put her plans into motion.

During the waning of the light, the Valar were most likely to be at council in the Mahanaxar, the Ring of Doom that sat close by the Two Trees. There they would go to discuss the deep matters of Middle Earth and it was then that they were most likely to be too distracted to notice Ilmarë’s work.

Heading to the mansions of Varda, Ilmarë went to where the lakes lay in their silver/gold glory. Summoning all of her strength, she lifted one of the vats that contained the silver light of Telperion and made her way to the foot of Taniquetil. Her plan was to use the rest of the light in the silver vats to create new stars and then she would go back and do the same with the golden light of Laurelin.

Ilmarë smiled when she thought of how happy the Valar would be to see bright stars of gold in the sky to go along with the stars of silver. Quickly she left the mansions of Varda and headed towards the foot of Taniquetil. Once there she began the laborious climb to the top, made all the more difficult by the heavy burden that she bore.

Her ascent to the peak of the mountain took time because, even with a Maia’s speed, it was a great climb. For who has ever measured the height of that mightiest of mountains? But finally with the light of the Trees in hand, she reached her objective. Ilmarë smiled as the whole span of Arda lay below her, and the endless stretch of the heavens sat above.

After a brief respite, Ilmarë began the labor that she had prepared for but almost immediately ran into a problem. For as prodigious as her strength was, she could not both hold the giant vat of light and craft and place the newly wrought stars into the sky. Finally with much toil, Ilmarë managed to prop the vat against the peak of the mountain and hold it precariously with one arm, freeing her second.

With gentle care she crafted a vessel of silver light and placed it near to her reach within the heavens. Quickly it blazed forth in newfound glory and Ilmarë was enraptured with her own handiwork.

But as she was mesmerized with the work of one hand, she was careless with the work of the other and the heavy burden of the silver vat shifted dangerously to the side. A startled Ilmarë quickly tried to regain her handhold but she slipped and the great weight of the vat and all of its contents poured out in a torrent of flowing light. The stunned Maia fell down the mountainside striking the bottom with a mighty clamor.

When she recovered she looked up and saw with horror how great her mistake had been. The contents of the silver vat, light and life that had been gathered over ages uncounted at the beginning of time, lay sprawled across the sky in a long milky band. The hand-maiden of Varda wept and did not even notice the Gods when they arrived to see what had happened.

Deep was the disappointment in Varda’s eyes at Ilmarë’s actions and long was the talk with Manwe as to the consequences. But Yavanna in her wisdom pointed at the newfound beauty of what had been created. Like a great bejeweled bracelet, the light from the silver vat spread from horizon to horizon and the sky was enriched like never before.

The elves in later days would refer to it as the Starry Veil, the men of Bree as the King’s Crown and in far off, strange lands it is known as the Milky Way. In Valinor though, it was teasingly referred to as Ilmarë’s mistake.

So after Varda used her considerable craft in star-making to enhance her hand-maiden’s handiwork, Ilmarë got her wish. And it was a good thing too because in later days, when both Trees and lakes of light were lost, the Starry Veil helped preserve some measure of their glory. The Gods forgave Ilmarë her rashness even though she was never again allowed to walk by the shores of her beloved lakes while they lasted.

So when the night air is clear and the Starry Veil shines overhead, remember Ilmarë and how even mistakes can bear fruit when intentions are pure.

Story reposted by: The Nimrodellian Tale-Spinner

High up in the rugged northern heights of Evendim, between the cascading falls of the Even-rills and the frozen wastes of Forochel, there is a glade. In this hidden place the grass was of the brightest green, the water pure and crystal clear, and no stain marred even the smallest pebble. For ages uncounted it had lain hidden, a place of quiet and singular beauty, untouched by the toils and troubles of the outside world. Wars had come and gone and many lands had been changed or fallen into the sea, but not here. Through remarkable fortune or some will of the Gods, the Glade had remained inviolate.

In the middle of the glade, surrounded by the pink blossoming flowers of cherry tree’s, was a fountain. Carved by some unknown hand into the living rock, it had existed for nearly as long as the glade itself. The cool blue water basin was overlooked by pink granite stones carved into the shape of a great eagle overlooking the leafy circular pool. It was here that the sun shined brightest and it was here that the source of the Glade’s imperishable endurance through time, lived. But though it had remained hidden from the eyes of men and elves since the first cherry blossom had fallen to earth, it was fated that eventually, it would be found.

He stood before the fountain now, a slight wind blowing through a long black beard that reached all the way past his belt. A green scarf was tied around his head and green was his rainment, with the exception of a chainmail shirt that shone like polished silver. In one hand he held the shaft of a mighty spear, a pendant tied near it’s sharpened tip, fluttered lightly in the breeze. If one looked close enough, one might discern an emblem stitched into the pendant that identified it’s owner as one of the Dunadain Rangers, tasked with defending the lands of the West. Amongst the poets it was said.

His brow was set with troubles great
No man could break him from his vows
Or best his spear, unwavering
Against the dark he conquered fate

Nobody knows how he had found the hidden glade and in the greater scheme of things it is not important. What is important is that once he discovered it, his life was dedicated to making sure that the glade’s secrets remained hidden. For this sanctified haven was surrounded in a sea of darkness, and the darkness has eyes and evil intentions on all places in this Middle-earth that are pure and unsullied. But the Ranger was undaunted and tireless, and no thing of evil came near the paths into the glade that did not meet the point of his great weapon.

He waited now at the foot of the fountain, the weight of his labours heavy on his shoulders, the care-lines deep on his brow. A ripple in the water catches his eye and he stands with baited breath for what he knows is about to happen. The water bubbles slightly and out of the pool, like a blossoming flower, rises a lady of unsurpassed loveliness and grace.

The spirit of the glade smiles at the Ranger and all sorrow and weariness is washed away as she places her hands in his. They stand there, hand in hand, and one gets the feeling of having entered the middle of a play half finished, with many acts passed and many more to follow. You do not understand fully what is going on, you only appreciate the beauty of this single scene, highlighted from the rest, a painting on the wall.

Minutes pass like hours as the lady and the ranger stare into each other, wordlessly exchanging feelings they both know so well that language would only cheapen and confine them. The breeze picks up and the pair enjoy the sight of cherry blossoms fluttering slowly down around them like a gentle rain before settling on the fountain basin. She laughs gently and the ranger is entranced by the musical tones of that laughter and he wishes again that he never had to leave her side. But the world outside had not gotten any less dark and a warden who neglects his oaths by enjoying to much what he protects, often loses that which he wishes to save.

It was these thoughts that occupied his mind when his trained ears picked up the sound of a twig breaking on the ground somewhere behind him. The ranger turns swiftly but can see nothing through the canopy that surrounds the fountain, but he knows he was not mistaken. He turns back towards the fountain, but the lady is gone and feelings of forboding begin to creep into every fiber of his being. His mighty spear is quickly in his hand, his fine-tuned senses fully on the alert as he prepares for whatever approaches his way.

No one but the ranger had ever set foot in the glade, but his acute hearing was picking up the unmistakable sounds of heavy footsteps in the distance, and they were coming his way. Soon, he could hear several voices speaking in a harsh gutteral language and it was then that he knew who approached the fountain.

The Gauradan had lived in the wilds of Evendim long before the sons of Numenor had ever set foot there and they had warred ceaselessly with them for control of the land. For a time, when the kingdom of Arnor was strong, the Gauradan had been pushed back into the frosts of Forochel, but with Arnor’s waning, the wild-men had slowly begun to reclaim the forests and waters of their ancestral home.

There was a particularly evil shaman among them, and it was this soothsayer who was to be the ranger’s greatest foe. Rumour had come to him of the secret glade and he hungered for it endlessly, using his scouts and anamistic powers to try and descry it’s location. But always he had been thwarted by the ranger and they had fought and battled endlessly, though never face to face. Two foes equally skilled and deadly in their ways. Many years he had hunted and it was only now, in this brief moment of repose, that he had finally discovered what he sought.

The shaman decended on the glade with glee, three viscious, wolf crowned warriors, flanking him on both sides as he walked pathways formerly untainted by his poisonous arts. Flowers wilted as he walked and the cherry tree’s that guarded the fountain darkened and parted away from his touch and for the first time evil entered that sacred place, and found the ranger waiting.

The two adversaries faced each other across the clearing, heedless of all else, and not the slightest sound could be heard. Finally the shaman sneered in triumph and taking his totemistic staff in hand, pointed it at the ranger, and his gauradan minions attacked. As the wild-men came on, slavering and howling in their battle frenzy, the ranger stood firm, his spear before him like a sharpened tower, his back to the nature-carved fountain he had sworn to protect. Wrecklessly, with a fury born of the wolves they worshiped, the gauradan struck and the ranger met them full force. His hand-wrought spear flashed high in the sun and sang as it danced in and out in furious melee, and soon the tip was as red as the pendant that cut the air behind it. The frenzied battle state of the wild-men was no match for the well trained skill of the ranger and soon once long untainted grass was darkened and stained with their blood.

But the wicked shaman only laughed maliciously in his heart as he witnessed the carnage before him, and as the last warrior fell the two foes finally stood before each other face to face. The Guaradan shaman raised his great totem staff once, and the sky overhead darkened and the tree’s seemed to weep for the loss of the light. A second time the staff was raised and came down on the fearless ranger, a signal that the final battle between the two was about to begin. Furiously did the fight wax and wane before the fountain as the two long time adversaries clashed and strove with each other for the mastery. Both of them were consumed by their parts in this play, one to corrupt and one to preserve and you wonder if this struggle had happened in many other places, in many other lands.

The two combatants strove with each other back and forth, both of them knowing what was at stake, neither of them willing to be the one to fall. But the totem staff of the shaman raised itself high for a third time and came down on the ranger and the mighty spear was broken in two. The defeated ranger was brought low before his nemesis, his shattered weapon lay useless on the ground and he listened as the wild-man howled in exstasy at the shaman’s final victory. The stalwart warden watched as the Shaman lifted his staff for a fourth time, and he wept for the loss of all he had held dear. As the Shaman prepared this final blow, the ranger closed his eyes and imagined he heard the quiet rippling of water behind him.

A deep breath and a pause, but no blow fell and the ranger opened his eyes to see a strange sight before him. The evil shaman stood towering above him, his arms raised high ,his staff poised to strike the fatal blow that would end the ranger once and for all. But the soothsayer’s eyes were transfixed in wide-eyed wonder and he stood as if frozen in time, a relic of a bygone age. The ranger turned and saw a thing that sent his heart racing and his spirit burst forth with immeasurable joy.

There his lady stood, her spirit uncloaked by mortal form, a beacon of light, radiant and neverending. The dark clouds were rolled back and the sun shone down on the fountain as if it shone only for the two of them. The shaman was pierced straight through with the overwelming splendour of the Spirit of the Glade, his body turned to dust and was carried off by the wind, never to trouble those hallowed grounds again.

The ranger shielded his eyes, but soon the Spirit returned to the beautiful lady of the fountain that he had first discovered years ago, and he was glad. They stood once again, hand in hand, cherishing those things they held dear. Those things we hold dear gain potency, all the more when we come close to losing them, and thus it was for the ranger and the lady of the fountain.

The silent call of the eagle fountainhead is answered from high overhead by an eagle of the sky, and we find outselves carried on the wings of that great bird from out of the dream. The heights bewilder us, the sun blinds us, and no matter how hard we try, we cannot get a glimpse of the secret pathways that might lead us to that place. But we are content with our memory only, and we cherish all the more those places close to our hearts, and those who defend them.