Prologue
High on the mountain Taniquetil where Manwe dwelt grew flowers of fiery red, and legend told that they sprang where the rays of Anar first struck the earth. The fire of the Sun was captured forever upon their flaming petals, and in their hearts were stamens of liquid gold. Even in their green leaves flowed a hidden light. Each morning they bloomed to greet the last fruit of Laurelin, and let its blinding glory add to their brilliance, ensnaring again the consuming light, day after day.
So beautiful they were, waving proudly in the sun, yet no elven maid would ever adorn their hair with it, or collect their nectar for wine like they do with so many other flowers, for within them lay another tale, a tale of a Vanyarin lady and a Noldorin prince, a tale of sorrow and song, and ultimately, hope.
High on the mountain Taniquetil where Manwe dwelt grew flowers of fiery red, and legend told that they sprang where the rays of Anar first struck the earth. The fire of the Sun was captured forever upon their flaming petals, and in their hearts were stamens of liquid gold. Even in their green leaves flowed a hidden light. Each morning they bloomed to greet the last fruit of Laurelin, and let its blinding glory add to their brilliance, ensnaring again the consuming light, day after day.
So beautiful they were, waving proudly in the sun, yet no elven maid would ever adorn their hair with it, or collect their nectar for wine like they do with so many other flowers, for within them lay another tale, a tale of a Vanyarin lady and a Noldorin prince, a tale of sorrow and song, and ultimately, hope.