Ahmo, Rhavanielle, Raumorien, Asmalinde, Iaurmenel, Anurania, Hravanis
Being a chronicle of the adventures and schemes of the Order of the Seven, the true Agents of Fortune and Seven Secret Sages. Guardians of the secret doctrines. Preparers of the way. Tenders of the Stone and Keepers of the Universal Flame: “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”
The sky was iron gray. The chill north winter wind shook the pine forest that formed a blanket round the old city of Himring. A blanket or a tomb shroud? Ask those who inhabited the sumptuous halls and chambers of the ancient fortress city. Who now tended gardens and kept acres of parchments and exquisite tapestries and paintings safe from the vagueries of time and temperature. Who would choose to live in a city forgotten for centuries? Who but the ghosts of an elder aeon?
Most of the really tangled and fraught quandaries begin with some simple mistake or mischance. And in those moments we find time for quiet reflection, the knot loosens and we may follow the thread for some short distance; Where did it begin, really? Does the felt presence of one's own immediate experience confer any meaning onto any others?
There was a time so long ago that retrieval of it was like remembering a fitful dream. A time on a pier. The ships were so magnificent. Wonders of craft. They had only needed passage to do what must be done. They hadn't come to steal the ships.
And she hadn't meant to bean that poor kid so hard with the oar and choke him out in a frenzy-but he aimed a fishing spear at her man. Arthandron might have been killed. And though she wasn't particularly strong at that time, down the boy went. Presumably never to get up. She had spent what seemed like aeons neurotically obsessing over the possibility she hadn't actually killed him. One of their own. Maybe he came to later on. No way to know. The stories we tell ourselves to keep shame at bay.
Most of those who took part in that first kin slaying were animated by a sense of deep betrayal. The whole miserable world had turned on them.
Ahmo and Arthandron were among those who followed along out of a sense of duty. Duty to their King in his hour of grief and need and a disbelief that they had come to the place that was supposed to be free of pain and grief to dwell in peace at the feet of Manwe's mountaintop seat, Oiolossë.
Laicamiril came to be a Lambengolmo at the feet of Rumil, recording tales of the great journey and reports of distant parts of Aman. She herself was born at the foot of that sacred and, it was said, primeval mountain as were her own mother and father before.
Manwë was nowhere to be found when his brother brought murder to Valinor. Did he tremble atop his mountain when Telperion and Laurelin went dark? Did the favored son of the most high shout for Tulkas to come to his rescue when the Children of Eru wailed as one and fled at the shadow and the reek of Ungoliant?
Yet he sent his jailor, Mandos to curse them one and all for daring to bring their brother to account or be extinguished in the trying.
Were the Valar shamed when they brought aid at last after long centuries? How often they pondered this question in secret conclaves in Imladris. Not questions to moot in the Great Hall.
And so it was that one whose craft is the recording of memory, the reading of the stars and the recording of events, nursed regret and anger and shared thought with those who felt the elves had been cheated of their promised patrimony. Her cynicism was relieved only by her mate's laconic insouciance and buoyant self assurance.
This led her into the circle around those who held that Morgoth and all the powers were but manifestations of Eru's thought. As Eru is supposed to have proclaimed before Middle- Earth was wholly made. Their lives were all an emanation of some long ago whimsy of that hoary spirit and that it would take all their collective lives to play out. The story of the great music was a fable and they and all other spirits in the world and beyond were part of a unity that was almost inconceivable. This view was not widely held, but the elves are known for philosophical musings that confound mortals.
So mused the lady in the garden of the palace of Maedhros, last remnant of the elder world as she gazed on the white roses she tended in the hope that one day they might have something to trust beyond their own strength and cunning.