The seeding of Middle-earth
Chapter 1 - The fate of the Blue
On the island of Himling, or Himring as it was known in the days of old, life stirred for the first time in many ages. It was a lesser island now, the smallest of the Western Isles, lying in the northern parts of the Belegaer sea, about twenty-five miles off the coast of northern Lindon, Forlindorn. Once however, during the First Age, it was a hill in the northeast of Beleriand, the land swallowed by the sea in the War of Wrath, and atop of which the fortress of Maedhros was built, whom was eldest of the Sons of Fëanor. Few now remembered its history, and little did there remain on the island to suggest any of it. Such is the fate of the places in the world; for memories linger no more than the folk who hold them, and even the wisest cannot safekeep them all. However, there are those who live beyond the veil of this world, yet eternally bound to it, whom shall remember it all in the end. Thus it was that two elves from beyond the sea came ashore on the island of Himling.
"It is good to feel solid ground beneath my feet again, pîn tol vea." said Amothor, as he stepped on the island, and dragged their small boat onto the beach, taking care not to get his acorn-colored robes wet. Their journey had taken many days, and the feeling of waves lingered in his step still. "Then look to the east, Amothor-dil" replied Thárion, patting him on the back, "until you are weary with thoughts of walking." The two elves smiled at one another, and then they stood looking for a while, as if on a hill, studying the north-west coast of Middle-earth. Gradually their smiles lessened, for their elven eyes saw much, even in the light of evening. It seemed to them that Ered Luin had lost much of its beauty, its many majestic peaks worn down with time, and the grass and trees at its roots had withered with the ages. "I almost wish to turn back already," said Amothor, "but I dare not. Dû tôl, and the sea grows restless." The other elf nodded in sympathy, and they continued on foot, but made no imprint in the grass.
From the folds of his robe, colored in the like of a spring bud, Thárion produced a small wooden locket. On its front was painted a circle in striking orange, an image of the sun. He took a deep breath, then opened the locket, and inside lay seven pearly, white seeds. He took one of them out and carefully planted it in the soil, in the middle of Himling. "Losta gwain eredh," Amothor then whispered, "mennai i anor calëa angail," and they joined hands in song, singing of things far away, in the ancient tongue of the Eldarin. When they finished, the island seemed more joyful than before, teeming with unseen life. "We must go now," said Thárion, "for still there is much to be done, and we shall not have the time to see the fruits of our labours." The two elves walked back to their boat, and they pushed it out, and the winds and currents carried them away, and at the break of dawn, they came ashore north of Forlindorn.
The longing cries of the seagulls greeted them on the shore, and the two elves sensed the many spirits of the land, old and diminished though they were. Heavy were the elves' heart then, for it had been a long time since they last walked on Middle-Earth. Old memories stirred in their minds, images of ages past, in stark contrast to the world as they saw it now. "So much is different," Thárion muttered, "I barely recognize any of it." Amothor turned to him, eyes shining with the light of the elves. "This stretch," he said solemnly, "is all that remains of Beleriand. I recall some of it now, though the memories are faint still, even the fortress on Himring, and the stone at Tol Morwen, and Taur-nu-Fuin, all of which we just passed!" They shook their heads in dismay, and they stayed on the beach, unmoving like trees, for fear another step would bring more memories back to them.
Before long their thoughts were interrupted however, for they saw shapes coming down from the forests near the mountainside: two eldery men clad in greying sea-blue robes, wearing pointed hats, and leaning on pale, wooden staffs, with long, white beards. "Mae Govannen," one of the old men hailed them, as did the other: "Elen síla lúmena vomentienguo!" Their voices were deep, carrying wisdom, and friendship. "Greetings," answered the elf clad in green, "I am Thárion, Son of Stiff Grass, and at my side," he pointed to his friend in brown, "is Amothor, Brother of Hill." The two elves bowed deeply then, for they sensed they were in the presence of honorable folk. "And we have many names," replied the younger-looking of the men, "for many ages have we walked in Middle-Earth, and many deeds have we undertaken." Then they gave stiff bows, for their backs were old and aching. After exchanging further greetings, the blue figures offered the elves to join them for a hearty meal, at their house hidden in the nearby forest, by the western walls of Ered Luin.
It was but a short walk to their destination, though the path was twisted and confusing, ending abruptly in a clearing. A large wooden house stood there, crooked and mis-shapen, with what could be three floors, ending in a small tower. It looked as if it had grown out of two trees, with roots stretching and spiralling to form a water wheel on the south side, where a lively river ran, pushing the wheel to turn slowly. In the field of grass surrounding the house were flat stones pressed in the ground, with strange writings on them, encircling the house.
The old men crossed the stones without worry, but the elves hesitated. "Do not fear this circle," said the older-looking man then, "no harm shall come to you inside." The elves studied the men for a while, and sensing no lie, they crossed the barrier. At once they felt isolated from Middle-earth, as if they had crossed a barrier to another realm entirely. "What is this sorcery," said Thárion, now wary of the men. "Who are you?"
The old men smiled and stroked their beards. "We are the Istari", they said, "and long have we waited your arrival."