O72 Lake Nenuial, evening
Mar. 5th, 2012 09:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Challenge: Deep Thoughts ("We"), Snippets of Verse ("In what furnace was thy brain?" -Blake), Weather ("Thundersnow")
Format: ficlet 1020 words
Genre: Character study, general
Rating: G
Warnings: Vague mentions of horror and torment, not enough to merit PG imo.
Characters: Gandalf, Saruman (other wizard cameos)
Summary: Peculiar weather ensues over abandoned Annúminas. The Istari need to clean all the things. Gandalf and Saruman discuss time and memory
Author's note! This is a chapter of a larger piece, but stands on its own.
I decided to put just this one chapter here, because we're all insane(ly busy) and who has time to read all of them? Should readers be interested in other recent chapters, I've a link to the story on MPTT at the bottom of this post.
In the hills above Lake Evendim, a cluster of stone buildings perched. For the first time in perhaps two Dúnedain generations, light shone out from one of them. Snow lay new and thin across the hills and upon the crust of ice that girded the lake, and came down still over lake and buildings, and danced in the beam of light that came forth from one of the tall, deep windows.
Within the hall, where lords of Arnor had once dined before the three-fold partition of the kingdom and the abandonment of Annúminas, Curumo finished wiping the long, deep dust from the west-facing windowpanes. Aiwendil was stretched out on the hearthstones before the fire, watching shadows on the ceiling.
“You’ve got dust all over your sleeves now, Curunír 'Lân,” observed Alatar as he and Pallando paused in a practice bout of staff fighting.
Curumo stepped down from the embrasure, laid the dustcloth on one of the long tables, and glanced at his white sleeves. He looked mildly mortified, then shrugged with dignity. “I’ll get it out.”
“How? We used to just will our clothes clean, before we sailed.” Olórin spotted an overlooked smudge on the pane and, disregarding the designated dustcloth, wiped it away with the wide sleeve of his cloak. Curumo grimaced.
“What? You can’t even tell.” Olórin held up his still-grey sleeve as evidence. “One of the many reasons I prefer grey!”
“Try washing it,” Alatar called. “That’s what one does with stained clothes as well as with reeking clothes.”
“It seems we’re always washing to keep from reeking,” lamented Olórin. “Wash, wash, wash. I swear there’s not a day goes by when I’m not having to wash something or another.”
The sky outside uttered a shuddering grumble as though in solidarity. A moment later, a brighter, colder light than that of lanterns and hearth snapped through the long room.
The Istari glanced round at each other. “Was that really thunder and lightning?” wondered Aiwendil. “In a snowfall?”
“I’ve heard it’s possible, but I have never seen it. It may have to do with the meteorological conditions produced by this ‘lake,’ which I might properly call an inland sea.” Curumo sat down in the deep embrasure and peered out the window with interest as another thunderclap was attended by more lightning.
“In what furnace was thy brain?” Olórin muttered. Curumo looked at him sharply: “Beg pardon?”
“I have a memory of overhearing Yavanna and Aulë having a little quarrel, on the porch at one of her parties in the forest-mansions. Yavanna burst out in this quiet but very cutting way with, ‘In what furnace was thy, brain, Aulë, when first the song began?’ Such a choice of words! It stuck with me, and it reminds me often of you, Curumo.”
“Thank you, I think,” Curumo said blandly, lightning flickering over his sharp features.
Olórin leaned against the wall and watched the snow. “Well, I mean, you have a very carefully-constructed way of seeing things. This thundersnow is due to meteorological factors, having to do with this Lake Nenuial here, which is possibly technically a sea, yes? It’s all about the details behind the thing. It would never due to simply say that something beautiful and strange and compelling is happening!”
Curumo looked up at him again with an unexpected, almost wounded, sharpness in his eyes. “That goes without saying.”
“Does it?” Olórin squinted carefully at the other. “We do have very different outlooks, though I seem to recall that we’ve been friends since the First War, before even the Lamps. I certainly meant no offense.”
Turning back to the scene outside, Curumo pursued a new line of conversation. “How much do you remember?”
“A lot, maybe most of it, enough to know how I spent my time in the Undying Lands and with whom I spent it. I remember all of you in some degree of friendship. But it all has the detached feeling of a dream, which happened in thought only. And then, these weeks rambling around here in the cold seem another sort of dream. The only thing that feels real now is our time on the ship, and the brief days we passed in Lord Cirdan’s hospitality.”
“The time between the old and the new.”
“Yes. Do you think that might change–that we’ll grow more accustomed to this new thing, or that the old might come clearer to us?”
“I should hope both. Do you recall why the Valar insisted upon this dampened perception of our past, as though the hedging of our powers and the inconvenience of these forms were not enough?” Curumo’s pleasant voice was edged with disapproval.
“No, I don’t. Perhaps it would be more painful, to remember clearly?” Olórin tugged absently at his long beard as though still unused to it.
“I should rather fully comprehend what was lost, than be ‘spared’ its memory,” remarked Curumo over another rumble of thunder.
“Yet not all of it was pleasant. There were wars among the Powers, horrors unwordable, even before the Children came along.” Olórin’s grey-blue eyes were somber in the blue-white flashes of light.
“I know it. We all know it.” Curumo glanced toward the two Istari who had resumed sparring, and his brow furrowed when his gaze fell upon Pallando.
“Of course,” Olórin began somewhat apologetically, “and you and Pallando know better than most anyone the enemy–”
“I would rather not speak of that now.”
Olórin nodded and fell silent, and the clouds spoke amongst themselves in rumbling and light. Some time later, he commented, “I wonder what will become of us.”
“Perhaps something horrible,” Curumo said mildly.
“I don’t mean our doom, such as it may be, but our fellowship. We’ve resolved to travel about Eriador together, familiarizing ourselves with the terrain and people, keeping an eye out for the shadows that seem ever to arise in this land; but when we finally reach Imladris, what then?”
“For now, our strength is in our cohesion. None of us know how to survive alone in a mortal form. That shall change. We might go our own singular ways, in time.”
“All I know in this land is this group of Maiar,” Olórin said–observing, not protesting.
“And shall not that change as well? Do the Elves of the Havens not already look on you with friendship?”
Olórin nodded, and his hand went absently to his neck as though reacquainting himself with some chain or cord there just under his collar. Though Curumo watched the interplay of snow and light over the broad, still expanse of Evendim, enigmatic, he had not failed to observe this gesture.
The full story at MPTT. Look, the story id is 2020, that's got to be good, right?
http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2020
Format: ficlet 1020 words
Genre: Character study, general
Rating: G
Warnings: Vague mentions of horror and torment, not enough to merit PG imo.
Characters: Gandalf, Saruman (other wizard cameos)
Summary: Peculiar weather ensues over abandoned Annúminas. The Istari need to clean all the things. Gandalf and Saruman discuss time and memory
Author's note! This is a chapter of a larger piece, but stands on its own.
I decided to put just this one chapter here, because we're all insane(ly busy) and who has time to read all of them? Should readers be interested in other recent chapters, I've a link to the story on MPTT at the bottom of this post.
In the hills above Lake Evendim, a cluster of stone buildings perched. For the first time in perhaps two Dúnedain generations, light shone out from one of them. Snow lay new and thin across the hills and upon the crust of ice that girded the lake, and came down still over lake and buildings, and danced in the beam of light that came forth from one of the tall, deep windows.
Within the hall, where lords of Arnor had once dined before the three-fold partition of the kingdom and the abandonment of Annúminas, Curumo finished wiping the long, deep dust from the west-facing windowpanes. Aiwendil was stretched out on the hearthstones before the fire, watching shadows on the ceiling.
“You’ve got dust all over your sleeves now, Curunír 'Lân,” observed Alatar as he and Pallando paused in a practice bout of staff fighting.
Curumo stepped down from the embrasure, laid the dustcloth on one of the long tables, and glanced at his white sleeves. He looked mildly mortified, then shrugged with dignity. “I’ll get it out.”
“How? We used to just will our clothes clean, before we sailed.” Olórin spotted an overlooked smudge on the pane and, disregarding the designated dustcloth, wiped it away with the wide sleeve of his cloak. Curumo grimaced.
“What? You can’t even tell.” Olórin held up his still-grey sleeve as evidence. “One of the many reasons I prefer grey!”
“Try washing it,” Alatar called. “That’s what one does with stained clothes as well as with reeking clothes.”
“It seems we’re always washing to keep from reeking,” lamented Olórin. “Wash, wash, wash. I swear there’s not a day goes by when I’m not having to wash something or another.”
The sky outside uttered a shuddering grumble as though in solidarity. A moment later, a brighter, colder light than that of lanterns and hearth snapped through the long room.
The Istari glanced round at each other. “Was that really thunder and lightning?” wondered Aiwendil. “In a snowfall?”
“I’ve heard it’s possible, but I have never seen it. It may have to do with the meteorological conditions produced by this ‘lake,’ which I might properly call an inland sea.” Curumo sat down in the deep embrasure and peered out the window with interest as another thunderclap was attended by more lightning.
“In what furnace was thy brain?” Olórin muttered. Curumo looked at him sharply: “Beg pardon?”
“I have a memory of overhearing Yavanna and Aulë having a little quarrel, on the porch at one of her parties in the forest-mansions. Yavanna burst out in this quiet but very cutting way with, ‘In what furnace was thy, brain, Aulë, when first the song began?’ Such a choice of words! It stuck with me, and it reminds me often of you, Curumo.”
“Thank you, I think,” Curumo said blandly, lightning flickering over his sharp features.
Olórin leaned against the wall and watched the snow. “Well, I mean, you have a very carefully-constructed way of seeing things. This thundersnow is due to meteorological factors, having to do with this Lake Nenuial here, which is possibly technically a sea, yes? It’s all about the details behind the thing. It would never due to simply say that something beautiful and strange and compelling is happening!”
Curumo looked up at him again with an unexpected, almost wounded, sharpness in his eyes. “That goes without saying.”
“Does it?” Olórin squinted carefully at the other. “We do have very different outlooks, though I seem to recall that we’ve been friends since the First War, before even the Lamps. I certainly meant no offense.”
Turning back to the scene outside, Curumo pursued a new line of conversation. “How much do you remember?”
“A lot, maybe most of it, enough to know how I spent my time in the Undying Lands and with whom I spent it. I remember all of you in some degree of friendship. But it all has the detached feeling of a dream, which happened in thought only. And then, these weeks rambling around here in the cold seem another sort of dream. The only thing that feels real now is our time on the ship, and the brief days we passed in Lord Cirdan’s hospitality.”
“The time between the old and the new.”
“Yes. Do you think that might change–that we’ll grow more accustomed to this new thing, or that the old might come clearer to us?”
“I should hope both. Do you recall why the Valar insisted upon this dampened perception of our past, as though the hedging of our powers and the inconvenience of these forms were not enough?” Curumo’s pleasant voice was edged with disapproval.
“No, I don’t. Perhaps it would be more painful, to remember clearly?” Olórin tugged absently at his long beard as though still unused to it.
“I should rather fully comprehend what was lost, than be ‘spared’ its memory,” remarked Curumo over another rumble of thunder.
“Yet not all of it was pleasant. There were wars among the Powers, horrors unwordable, even before the Children came along.” Olórin’s grey-blue eyes were somber in the blue-white flashes of light.
“I know it. We all know it.” Curumo glanced toward the two Istari who had resumed sparring, and his brow furrowed when his gaze fell upon Pallando.
“Of course,” Olórin began somewhat apologetically, “and you and Pallando know better than most anyone the enemy–”
“I would rather not speak of that now.”
Olórin nodded and fell silent, and the clouds spoke amongst themselves in rumbling and light. Some time later, he commented, “I wonder what will become of us.”
“Perhaps something horrible,” Curumo said mildly.
“I don’t mean our doom, such as it may be, but our fellowship. We’ve resolved to travel about Eriador together, familiarizing ourselves with the terrain and people, keeping an eye out for the shadows that seem ever to arise in this land; but when we finally reach Imladris, what then?”
“For now, our strength is in our cohesion. None of us know how to survive alone in a mortal form. That shall change. We might go our own singular ways, in time.”
“All I know in this land is this group of Maiar,” Olórin said–observing, not protesting.
“And shall not that change as well? Do the Elves of the Havens not already look on you with friendship?”
Olórin nodded, and his hand went absently to his neck as though reacquainting himself with some chain or cord there just under his collar. Though Curumo watched the interplay of snow and light over the broad, still expanse of Evendim, enigmatic, he had not failed to observe this gesture.
The full story at MPTT. Look, the story id is 2020, that's got to be good, right?
http://www.lotrgfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=2020
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no subject
Date: 2012-03-07 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-07 01:39 am (UTC)And yes, that's exactly what's going on...the image of Gandalf wearing the thing about on his finger everywhere has never sat right with me. I can't recall at the moment if the Three could actually be hidden or dimmed from the sight of onlookers...do you happen to know? In any case, something about him wearing it around his neck appealed to me; if he's actually explicitly stated canonically to have worn it on his hand in LotR, I guess he still has about 19 centuries to remove it from around his neck. =)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-08 08:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-08 11:48 pm (UTC)