Okay, what can I say? I am sorry for this incredibly late update... It was supposed to be a birthday fic for the wonderful ButterflyCurse996, but I got some major troubles writing it. I have just moved to study in Italy, and there is so much to do I have little time for writing.
BUT I am not on a hiatus. Half of the chapter has been written, I'll try to write some more!
Anyway, this is written for TheButterflyCurse996: Happy (belated) birthday! :P
GwyneddSilverfighter: Really? Yeah, I just needed someone beside Glorfindel who was really old, and had survived the sack... which is very difficult! What is your fic about?
Katherine: Thank you! I am working on it, do it may take some more weeks... I will NOT abandon it though!
MomoftheShire: Thank you! It's really hard to get a balance between fighting and surviving together... I am glad I got it right according to you! :)
vanarian: thank you! Mmm, we'll see wether he'll ever find out ;)
Ynnealay: Hihi, always the first one to review. Let me give you a hug for that! :) Some more Silm. references in this one, I love them too ;)
Excerpt from the Diary of Legolas of Lasgalen (2759? of the Third Age - 120 of the Fourth Age). This 11th-century copy was found in an archive on Sicily, presumable originating from Vågan, where the original was kept until it got lost during a great fire in the city. The source of the document is unknown, as is the dating. Even though the author himself gives some dates, they are embedded in an until present day unknown calendar system. Due to the lack of the original text, it is impossible to use the C14-method. Therefore, students use the by Legolas of Lasgalen's mentioned time lines.
About the writer, Legolas of Lasgalen, too much is obscure. The diary tells much about himself, but it does so in a framework that seems to have little clues with the known history. It appears the author was speaking about an imaginary world. Because of this strange feature, some students have posed the these that the writer was suffering from the illness of CADASIL. Others have contradicted this, saying the arguments and descriptions are too rational to be thought upon by a pathological patient. They support the thesis that the entire diary has to be read like an extended allegory. Due to this uncertainty, little attention has been paid to the text itself. I hope that this critical edition may spur more students to the study of one of the strangest and mostmysterious manuscripts from the early medieval times.
The excerpt begins abruptly after a description of how Saruman, a druid-like creature, gains the keys of what would become his home, Orthanc. Subsequently, the author seems to have begun a dodge about the death of Helm Hammerhand and the enthronement of Fréalàf, but the copy is incomplete at this point. Still, it is worth noticing how the writer seems to have taken a special interest in the history of Rohan, even though his most direct aims laid with the fate of the One Ring. Presumably, the author was connected with this people in one way or another, although he certainly did not hail from that country, as Ben van Xanten (1) has adequately demonstrated.
This text forms one whole and gives us a deeper insight in the character of the author. He assumes the role of an elf in this part. Because of the doubt regarding to the grade of seriousness one has to take this with, I will refrain myself to objective remarks about the text itself.
(...) I followed a butterfly today.
Twas not my intention, truly. I had come to the forest to breath in the fresh air, to climb the giant trees that reached out to the sky, to jump and fly and pursue the sun – but I was too eager and toouncouth, and as I sprinted over the grass, I almost hit her. I, the foolish elvish prince, who had been running with the deers, who was so proud of his archery skills and sharp eyes, had been too flighty and inattentive to pay attention to something as small as her. (2)
I hit her. Nay, I didn't, not truly – but the air had taken on a race with me, and when I skidded to a halt, the little butterfly got caught in the currents of the air, whirling away from the flower she had almost reached. Disorientated and fragile, she had to sit down on a leaf to catch her breath.
I tried to apologize. The Noldor (3) may find me foolish, they do not see the nature as the Nandor see, but I really did - but she paid no attention to me. With her tiny legs, she patted around on the resting place and spread her wings tentatively. She seemed so reluctant to touch the glassy surface beneath her. Becoming curious by her careful manners I pointed my attention to the green, nay, the emerald décor beneath her, and my eyes widened.
I had forgotten. Valar (4), how long had it been since I had admired the deep colour of my name-sake (5)? When was the last time I had looked at, truly looked at the slow nuances of the green, the pulsing life of the nerves, the pearly dew that was adorning the little miracle as a crown? I had chased far-away beauty, and I had been blind for the small wonders all around me.
Taken by this new realization, I did not pay attention the butterfly anymore until she left, gliding elegantly through the air, almost immediately absorbed by the bright colours of the forest. I did not have to think long. I followed her.
I followed a butterfly today. 'Twas a marvel to behold. Her wafer-thin wings seemed to be filled with the purest of water, crystal clear, glittering in the sun, only held in check by the deep blue of a starry night. Within these shining walls, the sun was captured in every aspect of herself – the orange of the morning light, the purple of the evening, the scorching white of the midday's heat. Twas almost impossible that such a little bodice could carry such a beauty, yet she did, and she did not seem to be lost beneath it for a second. Lightly, she searched her way. And in doing so, she opened a world to me.
I followed a butterfly. She showed me my forest as if it was new. Instead of racing through it, fast and excited and blind, she lingered near every flower, admiring the richness of the color and perfume, before going off to a new pearl. She basked in the sun and delighted in the cool shade. With her tiny legs, she soared over the diamond river to catch the little gems that were floating in the air, while enjoying the crispy air. (6)
I followed her and was bewildered. How could I have forgotten this? As a child, every moment had been a surprise, an exciting chance to see something new – but then I had grown up, joined the patrols, fought, forgot. In my heart, I praised Yavanna (7) and the butterfly she had sent me, promising myself never to forget this lesson again. But even while I was thinking this, she had gone to another place, and I followed her.
Throughout the day, I followed her. Twas a marvelous journey, filled with wonder and amazement. Every breath, I rediscovered a memory, a smell, a colour, a feeling. She showed me the smallest of gems, and in doing so, she led me to places I had lost. I hadn't known there was so much beauty still left in my forest.
But the day went by, and the sun was setting, and my butterfly's moments were become less graceful, slower, more sluggish. She almost hit the flower she had been so tenderly touching, or splashed in the pools. There, the rainy diamonds threatened to drown her, weighing her down in the water. Desperately, she tried to escape, but she was to weak. I set her on dry ground again, careful not to hurt her, for she was still moving frantically. Instead of just waiting in that safety, drying, resting, she ran and clapped her wings. She had no time anymore. She needed to get away. But it was so hard to leave the brown earth behind. The weight of the skies was pressing her down.
She did fly though. Even soaked and exhausted, she had the strength to leave the ground, to float again, to be free - but only for a few seconds. She was no longer the youth she had been only hours ago, and it became increasingly difficult to uphold the elegant, easy movements. I saw how she fought for every action, how her wings struggled with the wind instead of dancing with it. I saw how she lost the fight. She fell down again.
Yavanna was merciful for her. The green grass halted her fall and provided a soft bed for her – but it was but a meager solace. I knew my butterfly would never taste the freedom of the wind anymore. She was cursed to a fate near the ground, where the high obstacles impeded her to search the beauty she so longed for.
She too realized that – but instead of fighting that cruel destiny, to my amazement she seemed to accept it. Her frantic movements became calmer, and instead of struggling to fly again, she was content to search a nice, low flower and nestle near it.
I stayed with her. It was the least I could do, since she had taken on a foolish child (8) to teach him something about life – even as that child has unwittingly hurt her. I stayed with her while the shadows were lengthening, devouring the small patch of grass where we were sitting more and more. Already, it had reached the small throne of my butterfly. She barely moved anymore now. Her wings, once sparkling in the sun, were dark now, and silent. When the shadow touched her, she was gone, just like that. No heroic last words, no desperate fight. She just stopped breathing.
The light could not survive without the sun.
I do not know how long I sat with her. I only remember the sun was already coming back when I returned home, with my butterfly in my hands. I laid her on the balcony, faintly hoping the dawn would bring her back to me, but it didn't. For hours I sat there in the sun, before duties called me elsewhere, and when I came back, she was gone. The chambermaid (9) must have taken her elsewhere. I don't know. I didn't search for her anymore.
I thought much about her. Ah well, about her wisdom at first. I often found myself wandering around, searching for the small wonders. It was more difficult to see now that my guide was gone, but from time to time, I found them. I will not describe what I saw though. Many times, I tried to sketch the words on a scrap of paper, before trusting them to this precious parchment, but I realized my meager words could not capture the little wonder. Every pearl seemed to shrink to cold and black letters on a white background, losing the bright colours she once held. Perhaps, if you have time, you should go out and find them yourself. I pray to the Valar you will have a guide like the one I had, who may lead you through the surface – but I cannot help you now. I can only bear witness of what I experienced.
And I can tell you, I started to become better at it. I started to learn where the wonders were hiding, and every time I was on a patrol, I could find the beauty again, even amidst battle and war and death. I got better in it. And I began to wonder.
I began to wonder why a butterfly could have seen this so easily, while it had cost me many weeks and an unexpected meeting with the tiny creature. I began to wonder why Illuvatar (10) had given this gift to a race that lived only for a day, before fading fast. I began to wonder whether it was precisely this shortness of their lives that made them so clear of sight, as if they had no time to waste to illusions and superficial joy. And slowly, slowly, I began to understand.
The curse of the butterfly is her blessing.
How would we elves be able to understand this? From the day we were born, we faced eternity. For sure, we could be killed by weapons and grief, yet it will come unexpected, always accompanied by the hope that yes, we will survive, no, it is not our fate to die, yes, Eru (11) will have mercy on us. We take the years, nay, the ages for granted, not feeling the need to concentrate on little things, for that would come later, not yet, now is not the day (12). There are so many other things to do. Later, when there will be peace, we will revel in the perfection of the Undying Lands (13). Why waste time so search the imperfect beauty in this grey Middle-Earth (14)? (I love this insight into the elves, and how they would view the world differently because of their long life!)
Let me tell you something. I do not know who will read this - parchment has the peculiar quality of popping up in unexpected hands - I do not know whether you will be of elven or human kin, or perhaps even dwarf. Still, I will tell you, in the hope that the Eldar (15) will not be surrounded by such a mystical mist anymore, that a race will be revealed that can be comprehended and evenbefriended.
We are no natural warriors, nor do we labour on the mastering of the arts of war. Our skill with weapons is not summoned by intensive trainings, nor does it flow easily in our limbs. We acquire our ability by the mercy of time. Day after day, or perhaps even once in a week, or in a month, we lazily pick up a weapon that suits us most, and practice with it. Then, we are off again, searching other pleasures.
It takes ages to train a warrior. For sure, in my home, dark Mirkwood (16), we practice more intensively. We cannot afford to linger in faint pleasures while the enemy is on our border. But still, we take our time. How unlike the men, who fight every day to obtain even the beginnings of a skill, and yet despise it, for they compare their results it with ours. They forget we had years to master them.
And so, they worship us and distrust us, and they do not see how valuable their efforts are. They live. You, stranger, you who has read this, can you understand this? Men live. They enjoy life at its fullest, they mourn and grieve as if their hearts have been severed from them, they run and search pleasure like there will be no tomorrow. They do not scorn a gift, they do not delay a joy, for who knows when that opportunity will ever come again? How much like the butterfly are they!
Forgive me my handwriting (17). Perhaps, if you are not of elven-kin, you will not understand how this thought moves me, how 'tis a realization that does not come easily to us, eternal creatures. For we have taken the respect of men for granted, and slowly, slowly, even we began to see ourselves a little as gods – not explicitly of course, none would dare to utter such blasphemy beneath Manwe's(18) winds , or near the waters of Ossë and Uinen and Ulmo (19)! But we began to disdain the works and craftsmanship of men, readily giving our gifts, not realizing the effort and pain the Secondborn (20) went through to give life to even the most imperfect of their creations. Never will you see a statue made by men, or a trinket formed by their rough hands in our realms, for why value them when we can craft such beautiful pieces ourselves?
Slowly, we forgot, and we became what we also had claimed never to become: haughty, flighty, ethereal creatures, beautiful as the winter's star, but cold and slippery. And I thank the Valar. I thank the Valar with my heart and soul and mind that they have sent me the lithe butterfly to see what we've become, and to contemplate about this small mystery.
The Curse of the Butterfly.
(1) VAN XANTEN (B.), The Diary of Legolas of Lasgalen (2759?, Third Age - 120, Fourth Age). Remarks and Observations about the Author and the Diary. Antwerpen, Research Publishers (1989), 245 pp.
(2) 13th-Century addition by a monk, presumably active in Antwerp, in the circles around the mystic Hadewych of Antwerp as his language suggests. These words were taken directly from Hadewych's 6th vision.
(3) The author seems to have divided the category of elves into sub-categories. One of the is the Nandor (sing. Nando), to which he counts himself. Another is the Noldor (sing. Nolod), often used as a contrary.
(4) Much-used interjection. The Valar (sing. Vala or Valier) seem to have been gods. Van Xanten suggests that they are the same as the norwegian, pagan gods (op. cit. pp 179 - 188)
(5) The author suggests his name signifies Green-Leaf. This language is until today unknown though.
(6) In contrary to what he says, the author did not truly understand his own lesson - although he now paid attention to small things, he still compares them to grand, magnificent treasures and does not take them for what they truly are, nor does he seem to realize that plain green can be beautiful as well. SMITH (T), Legolas of Lasgalen: prince, elf and author. A study about the writer of the Diary. Canterbury, UPO (1978), 314 pp.
(7) One of the in (4) mentioned Valar. Goddess of the trees and nature. According to Van Xanten equivalent to Freyr (op. cit. p 181).
(8) It is worth noting the author often depicts himself as a child, whereas he also acts like an old Councillor, especially regarding to Aragorn, son of Arathorn and the four hobbits during his later accounts.
(9) The author describes a society not unlike the medieval times. According to his status as a prince, he should have had more than one chambermaid. His precise position in Lasgalen remains unclear though, since there are accounts of him being a warrior and a messenger too.
(10) Supreme god. He is not one of the Valar, but stands above them. Often identified with Odin (Van Xanten, op. cit. pp 187-188)
(11) Other name for Illuvatar (see (10)).
(12) In his work, the author makes a clear distinction between the mortal races (men, hobbits and dwarves), and the immortal races (elves, maiar and valar).
(13) A heaven-like place, where the race of the elves will find their homes after they sailed. This sailing may be a metaphor for dying.
(14) Stands in contrary to the Undying Lands and is depicted as a grey, mournful land. Several students have wanted to see a alternative version of Saint-Agustine's Heaven and Earth theme, as set forth in his De Civitate Dei.
(15) Other name for the elves.
(16) Other name for Eryn Lasgalen, although it has the connotation of darkness and threat.
(17) In the copy the copyist tried to imitate a trembling handwriting, indicating he may have been looking at the original document, or a copy that does the same.
(18) Vala of the Wind, compared with Njördr.
(19) Valar with water as their domain. It is unclear whether these three names refer to one god, or different gods with a different function.
(20) Other name for men, who have been created after the elves.
Please review? *Looks at you with expectant eyes*
xXx Archiril