G51| Amon Sûl

[huinare.livejournal.com]

B2MeM Challenge: “Painted” (Textures), “Snow” (Weather).
Format: Ficlet
Genre: General
Rating: G
Warnings: f o r e s h a d o w i n g !
Characters: Pallando, Radagast, Saruman, OC
Summary:  Pallando and Radagast observe a clever artefact in Amon Sûl.  So, it would seem, does Saruman. 

I've been forgetting to issue my standard spiel that this takes place within a year of the wizards arriving in Middle Earth.  So, yeah, that.

The window looked southeast, over the road and over the woods and marshes north of it.  Weathertop was the highest ground for miles in any direction, even when one was on the first level of the watchtower. 

Olórin and Alatar were out tramping about the steep, rocky face of the hill.  Aiwendil and Pallando sat at the single long table in the ground floor room that served as a mess hall for the men of Amon Sûl and for any rare guests who happened by.  Amon Sûl had no inn, but there were several spare rooms in the event that officials of Arthedain or wary diplomats from Rhuadaur or Cardolan should require accommodation.  Curumo, who was somewhere higher in the tower speaking with the warden, had had little trouble gaining them entry, room and board the prior evening.

The door opened, and one of the few children of Amon Sûl came wandering in from outside.  The guards at the door did not stop the her, though they glanced in questioningly to see if the guests minded her presence. 

Pallando nodded wordlessly at them, and the girl came in and shut the door behind her.  She had a small satchel with her.  “Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” said Aiwendil, and, “Good morning,” said Pallando.

“I’ve got a wonderful thing,” the girl announced, coming to sit on the bench between them without further prelude.  “My uncle brought it from Annúminas last month.  Mama says I shouldn’t carry it about, but I’m very careful.  Have you ever been to Annúminas?”

“Yes, last winter,” Aiwendil nodded.

“Well, I bet you haven’t seen anything like this anyway.”  The child took from the satchel a small object bundled in an old rag.  Moving the cloth aside carefully, she held forth a clear globe somewhat larger than a man’s fist.  It had a smooth wooden base painted thickly in blue and silver.  Within the globe was a tiny sculpture of the main towers of Annúminas, and a small air bubble nestled at its apex indicated it was filled with water.

“Why, that looks very like Annúminas; but you’re right, I’ve never seen Annúminas in a globe before,” said Aiwendil indulgently, smiling.

“It gets better.  Don’t look, all right?”  The girl hunkered conspiratorially over the object, shook it lightly, then set it own on its blue-and-silver base on the table.  “It’s all right to look now.”

Both Istari looked round at the sphere, about which were now scattered white granular objects stirred up by the shaking.  The pale specks whirled slowly down through the water, some settling on the towers, some falling to the bottom of the globe.

“It’s snowing in there!” Aiwendil exclaimed, perhaps more delighted than the child, who nodded knowingly.

“It’s a special globe.  It’s very old.  My uncle says the arts to make it were lost six hundred years back!”

“Well, you’ve inherited a great treasure, to be sure.  Crafts like this are part of the legacy of Númenor of old…”

Pallando lost track of their conversation as he gazed into the snow-globe.  An image overtook his mind, of ash snowing down within the dark temple of Armenelos as stone crumbled and fires were quenched, and the dark one laughed in affront and astonishment–

Aiwendil’s concerned countenance came back into focus.  “Are you well, friend?”

“Quite,” Pallando nodded, inwardly reeling.

“What’s wrong?” wondered the girl.

“My friend sometimes sees things, from other times or places,” Aiwendil explained.

“Ohh.  Are you all wizards?  Mama says she thinks you’re wizards.”

“Well, I don’t know, what’s a wizard?”

“It’s like a sorcerer, but not bad.  Sorcerers are bad.  But you’re not bad.  You’re very nice.”  The girl swung her short legs off the bench.

“I suppose you could say that,” shrugged Pallando.

“Can you see things like our palantir can?  Amon Sûl has a palantír.  They’re very rare,” the child said proudly.

“Not exactly…”

The door which led into the tower’s spiraling staircase opened, and the warden of Amon Sûl emerged with Curumo, who had talked his way into getting a look at the object currently under discussion. 

“We were just talking about palantíri,” Aiwendil said cheerfully, “and we’ve got here another rather artful globe.  This one snows inside.”

Curumo, who was usually intrigued by unique crafts, spared the snow-globe a glance and nodded courteously.  “That is very clever.  If you’ll pardon me, I’m going to take some air.”

As he ducked outside, the child glanced after him and smirked conspiratorially, “Is he a sorcerer?”

“No, of course not, he’s a wizard,” Aiwendil said with mock indignation.  Pallando watched out the window as Curumo, pale against the overcast day but for a fall of dark hair, picked his way among the steep paths of Weathertop.

_______________

Yes, I perceive and acknowledge that this is a very liberal interpretation of "weather" and of "snow."  I couldn't find any other way to putting snow in the summer.