They Speak My Language
They spoke my language, these elves, a language of knowledge, of experience, of understanding. They knew the words of darkness and light interwoven, the hues of pain and mercy unified, set in the music of sorrow and joy that is one. They spoke my language.
"Eggs."
"Eggs," he wrote it down carefully. "What kind?"
"Different eggs shall reward you with a variety of tastes and textures. The blue pheasant eggs, for instance, give a smoother, richer texture while the eggs of the dappled quails that live on the northern cliffs…"
"All right! How many of these eggs should I use?"
"That will depend on the kind of eggs you use, and on whether you want a softer or coarser finish to your cake. To get a more sponge-like yield, you need two if you use chicken eggs, three if you use pheasant eggs, and five to six if you use quail eggs. The freshness of the eggs also matters, as does their measurement. The dominant hen of a flock of quails lays bigger and more tasty eggs than…"
A very frustrated sigh. "Yes, yes. What is the next ingredient?"
"Honey. Use the honey you collected from the summer combs if you want sweeter result, and spring honey if you want fragrance and a hint of pleasant tartness. Also, if you use honey from a citrus grove it will…"
"And I suppose if I ask you how much honey I should use you will answer that it depends on how sweet I want the cake to be."
"Yes, Frodo, you are right," the elf, his grey eyes sparkling merrily, appeared serenely unfazed by the hobbit's thinly-masked annoyance. "Then of course you will need wine."
"Dare I ask what kind?" the hobbit wondered aloud.
"That depends on…"
"My dear Celebrimbor," the hobbit interrupted impatiently, "forget that I asked you the recipe for this delightful morsel. I trust that you can produce it at a moment's notice should I develop a sudden craving for it? Because I think I can find all the ingredients but elvish patience."
The elf's laughter rang out clear and musical, and the hobbit allowed a smile to twist his lips.
They have seen darkness, these elves, shadows that rose to blot the starlight, the same unlight that blinded me when I was with It, blackness so deep it took away the memories of green grass and blue lakes, replacing them with the red of blood and flame, the gray of ash and smoke. Yet they witnessed the day when light returned, cleansing, life-giving, obliterating the dark like the first rain after a long dry spell. That light I saw, and felt, when the ship's prow parted the veil of rain before me, and the sea opened blue and sparkling, a green isle glowing in the golden sun in the distance, waiting, welcoming. They saw what I beheld, these elves. They walked my path.
By the vast lake, surrounded by shimmering sapphire and the vivid emerald of water plants, two figures stood. One was tall and slender, all willowy grace and ethereal beauty. The other was much shorter, stockier, earthier, with a face that could only be described as pleasantly endearing compared to that of his companion.
The tall one said something in the melodious cadence of Quenya.
"If I don't know you all that well, my dear Turgon, I'd say you're insulting me, though I don't think there's any epithet more offensive than orc's spawn in that beautiful language of yours. Ah, ah…I'm not through yet." A dismissive wave of hand. "And mind, I still think you ought to know better than baiting a fish with lembas," continued the shorter one in the more rounded, flat-toned Westron .
The tall one spoke again, a note of obstinacy in his voice.
"And have you thought of just how vexed your wife will be if she finds out what you do with the lembas she graciously made for us?" countered his smaller friend with some vehemence. "And I'd be most appreciative if you just call me Frodo. I've stopped calling you Lord Turgon, remember?"
The tall figure opened his mouth to speak again, but his attention was immediately drawn to his fishing line, pulled taut and quivering at the end of the slightly curving pole. He looked at his friend, his bright eyes widening with surprise and laughter. His shorter friend scowled, but his eyes glinted with excitement.
They both held their breath as the tall one raised his pole with the barest hint of a grunt. The line pulled harder and would not budge further, keeping whatever was struggling at its end hidden under the water-lilies.
"Oh, you've a fighter there or I'm an orc," hissed the smaller figure.
At this the tall one turned and once again stared at his companion, a pained look on his face, before he let loose a howl of mirth. Then, with a muted snap, the line suddenly went slack, causing the tall figure to nearly tumble backward if not for his natural grace and agility. The two figures began to laugh together, the small one's chortle turning into a full-blown howl when they both saw the end of the fishing line hang above the surface, swaying slightly in the breeze, limp, dripping wet and pointedly empty.
The tall one gasped something then continued to laugh uncontrollably.
The short one burst into another peal of laughter.
By the vast lake, surrounded by shimmering sapphire and the vivid emerald of water plants, two figures stood, talking in the language they both knew well.
They had memories and tried to abandon them, for the recollections caused agony and despair. They held beauty and power in their hands and watched everything taken away and used against them, betrayed. They knew of what it felt to endure a pain that one suffered because of love.
They knew of trying to regain life and failing, trying to rebuild one's soul and failing, trying to pretend the past never was and failing.
They knew that they could not return, but they could choose to go on.
They knew that they could not wish away all that had passed, but they could wish for strength.
They knew they could not forget, but they could remember better things, better times.
They knew that happiness and sorrow walk side by side and hand in hand and when they wept it was because someday they would laugh.
They knew there would be a recurrence of pain and anguish, that once in a while they would cry again, grieve again, but it was all right because the tears were part of healing.
They sang my song.
"No, no, your left foot! Your left!"
Crash.
The elf looked aggrievedly at the hobbit in front of him, who was trying very hard not to laugh at his friend's predicament.
"You should not laugh, Frodo," said Gandalf, who sat quite apart from the scene of catastrophe, an upturned table surrounded by shards of broken goblets and vases with a very sorrowful-looking elf in its center. "You are looking at something completely unknown in the annals of the Eldar. An ungraceful elf. This is a sad, almost indecent thing to see."
This, of course, had the immediate effect of making the hobbit hoot with laughter.
The elf extricated himself from the pile of shattered crystal, brushing his clothing disdainfully. "These hobbit dance steps," he murmured, "they are anything but graceful. I don't know how you hobbits can call it a dance."
The hobbit wiped his eyes. "Oh, my dear Beleg!" he gasped. "My dear Cuthalion! Remember the first rule: You dance not to show your elegance, you dance to enjoy yourself!"
And he laughed, he laughed again.
-fin-
A/N. Celebrimbor is a member of a fellowship of jewel craftsman who not only wrought the famed gate of Moria, but also the three rings of power, which by the end of the Third Age were worn by Galadriel, Elrond and Gandalf. Turgon was once king of the Eldar who ruled from his hidden throne in Gondolin in the First Age. Beleg Cuthalion (Beleg Strongbow) was an elf archer in the service of King Thingol and Queen Melian of Doriath, also in the First Age of Middle-earth.