The Lord of the Jewels

by digdigil

The adventures of Legolas, Gimli et al at the start of the Fourth Age on Middleearth, and the adventures of Frodo and Bilbo in Valinor.

19. Chapter 19

19

The Dream

The Silmarillion: P. 62: Of The Silmarils: " -- and Mandos said to him -- in that time take counsel with thysElf, and remember who and what thou art. But after that time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release thee."

When the Valar returned from the meeting on Mt. Taniquetil, it had been decided that Mandos would go to speak with Fëanor's spirit in the Halls of Mandos. It was of the utmost importance to find out if Fëanor had spent his time since his death in the First Age reflecting upon the darkness that had invaded his mind and caused him to commit so many wrongdoings. Mandos wished to discover if he had repented of his misdeeds.

Aulë accompanied Mandos to the Halls of Mandos in the southwest. They sought Fëanor's spirit in the Halls immediately. He had died in the First Age of Middle-earth when the Lord of the Balrogs, with fire and many sword-cuts, had mortally wounded him. Although his sons had borne him away from the battle, he had died from many terrible wounds. At the time of death, his body had fallen into ashes, and his fiery spirit left it and flew to the Halls of Mandos. In the Halls, he had no form, but his spirit still appeared as black smoke. Mandos went to speak to him alone.

"Fëanor!" he boomed. "I summon you to come forward!"

"Why do you call me?" Fëanor's spirit replied, with reluctance.

"You have been summoned, Fëanor, for a purpose," replied Mandos, "but before I tell you that purpose, I must know the state of your mind."

Black smoke curled around Mandos.

"I do not understand your meaning," said Fëanor.

"I wish to know your thoughts about yoursElf, your deeds and your fate," said Mandos. "If you have emotions, what are they?"

"I have had long to reflect on the past," replied Fëanor, "and there still burns in my heart a desire. As of old, the desire was to craft works of great beauty, and once my greatest works, the Silmarils, had been stolen from me by the Dark Lord, my desire was to track down that thief, destroy him, and retrieve my jewels. In the thrall of this desire, I had overstepped a moral boundary, and I committed some grievous sins. For the acts of callous murder that I committed, I am truly sorry. Every day that has passed since my own death, I have grieved for the things that I have done. From these Halls I have looked down, and I have seen the terrible destruction that has occurred over the ages that had been caused by my actions."

Mandos scoffed. "Your words sound fair, like those that would be told to me by one who thinks they are what I wish to hear, however different they may be within that person's mind. What now is your true desire?" he asked Fëanor.

"It is to amend, in some way the woes that exist because they were of my making," Fëanor replied.

"It is difficult for me to believe in your sincerity," said Mandos, "but if you do speak the truth, then I can tell you of a way that you can help us."

Irmo and Estë had returned to Lake Lorellin, where Irmo had been following the conversation between Fëanor and Mandos in his mind. He and Mandos were brothers, who possessed the ability to read each other's thoughts. He relayed to Estë every word that was spoken between Mandos and Fëanor in the Halls of Mandos, which lay many hundreds of miles to the south.

"It is interesting to note that we have Lindaril here with us, and that she is the last of the descendants of Fëanor," said Irmo.

"Is it possible that Fëanor knows of her existence?" asked Estë.

"No, he does not yet know anything about her," replied Irmo. "He has been permitted by Mandos only to know certain things, and never anything that could cause him any feeling of unrest."

"Lindaril is certainly a dark horse, is she not, Irmo?" Estë mused. "She is truly dispossessed. Her life has been a long, lonely struggle, with no home to call her own. But her grandmother, unknown to her, is here with us. She is so fragile yet that her identity must remain unknown. The strangest thing is that Lindaril somehow developed the worst of the inner body's diseases, a cancer of the organs, which should have been impossible for her to contract. I have managed to shrink it, but I was mystified by the fact that she, an Elf and part-Maia, would suffer from this disease at all. It was a strange-looking thing - all black and smoky - coal-like, in fact."

"Ah, it sounds as if she had the fiery spirit of her forbears," said Irmo. "It seems to have burned inside her, in a different way than it had burned in Fëanor. His was projected outward, and caused him to commit grievous acts of deceit and murder. In Lindaril, it turned inward, and seems to have threatened her life."

Estë gave Irmo a stricken look. "I wonder if it had been placed in her mother by her grandmother in an attempt to kill her, and Lindaril has inherited it?" said Estë. "It would seem Lindaril was very fortunate to have come here when she did. She could not have known that had she stayed on Middle-earth, we may not have been able to help her, and then she may have succumbed to her disease."

"Since contact is forbidden now between the two worlds of Middle-earth and Valinor," mused Irmo, "and the straight path may be used only to travel in one direction - from Middle-earth to Valinor - we are unable to help anyone unless they come here, to us."

The black smoke of Fëanor's spirit swirled around Mandos's head, obscuring his countenance.

"Will you tell me how I can help you?" it asked.

Mandos sighed. "It has come to this," he said. "That which we have always feared has come to pass. Morgoth has returned from the Void, where we banished him before the change in Arda."

Fëanor was silent. The smoke dissipated, and then returned, but lowered itsElf to the ground about Mandos's feet and hung there, sullenly.

"How is it possible for him to do so?" asked Fëanor, finally.

"He is presently only a cloud of malicious thought, which hangs in the sky above our lands," replied Mandos. "It seems to possess some evil power, this thought. He wishes for us to make and give him seventy thousand Silmarils, and then he will go away and trouble us no more."

Fëanor let out a rush of breath, the smoke billowing. "Seventy thousand!" he exclaimed. "That devil stole all of my jewels - a huge quantity of gems the like of which will never again be seen. The Silmarils were only three of them, but the most precious. That he squandered all but three of them is of his own doing! Let him go to blazes!"

Mandos spoke patiently. "All but one of the Silmarils have been lost. Morgoth has threatened to destroy Valinor and everyone on it if we do not give him seventy thousand new Silmarils. Aulë the Smith has pledged his assistance to help you make them. I am asking you, here and now, if you will help us make more of them so that we can give them to Morgoth."

Fëanor laughed a great, powerful laugh, which seemed to energize his spirit and give it renewed strength. "That would be impossible," he said. "The Silmarils cannot be remade ever again. They could only be made in my furnaces at Formenos, which exists no longer."

"Formenos does exist," replied Mandos. "We have preserved it."

"But my formula for making the jewels, which was a secret known only to me and my sons, has been lost," said Fëanor, "and you have told me that all of my line has perished."

"You must recall the formula," said Mandos.

"I cannot. I do not remember it," replied Fëanor.

"It must be buried somewhere in your mind," Mandos persisted.

"So it may be," said Fëanor, "but I remember it not. And if I did I would be truthful and tell you that I would not part with it."

"If you do not," said Mandos with much patience, "then Morgoth will destroy this world, and we will all, including yoursElf, perish. Do you not care for your life, even if you have no regard for others'? I promise you this, Fëanor. If you do this thing to help us, I will restore you to your former sElf, and you shall have your life once more to use for good, perhaps."

"My life is no life," said Fëanor. "I care not if I have it back. What do I have to live for? My family is dead, my Silmarils will be lost once more, and I will still have what I have now - nothing."

"Please help us," Mandos continued to plead. "Your family has not perished. There is at least one who survives to carry on your line of descendants."

The smoke, which had spread out across the floor, now came together again, and swirled about Mandos.

"You lie to me!" Fëanor exclaimed angrily. "You told me my line was ended!"

"It is not in me to lie," replied Mandos. "Tell me you will help us, and I will tell you about your great-granddaughter who still lives, and has recently arrived on our shores from Middle-earth. Your son Maglor's whereabouts are as yet unknown."

There was silence as Fëanor dealt with this information.

"That news is fair to hear, yet I cannot help you, as I have said," replied Fëanor after a short pause. "Even if I wished to do so, the formula for the making of the Silmarils truly is forgotten."

"It may not be lost," said Mandos. "If you promise to help us, then I will help you to recall it."

The thoughts in Mandos's mind flew to Irmo on the Isle of Estë, and Irmo immediately understood what he had to do. He told Estë of the conversation that transpired between Mandos and Fëanor, and that he had devised a plan which had a good chance of being successful. Estë and Irmo wasted no time going in search of Lindaril.

Frodo and Lindaril were enjoying a swim in the lake when Estë and Irmo came across them. They were surprised to see the Valar at this time of early evening. It would soon be nightfall and the Valar were usually busy with their own business, and did not usually come to seek out the hobbits or their other guests at this time of day. Frodo emerged first from the water, and picked up his robe, which he had dropped on the sandy shore. He put it on and then held out Lindaril's robe for her, which she wrapped around hersElf as she stepped out of the water.

"We are sorry to disturb you both at this hour," said Estë, "but we have great need to speak with Lindaril."

Lindaril wondered what could be concerning the two Valar, as they both looked uncharacteristically worried. "You need to speak with me?" she asked.

"Is it secret, or can you speak in front of me?" asked Frodo. "It does not involve Gandalf at all, does it?" His curious look turned to one of concern.

"No, Frodo, this does not involve Gandalf," said Estë. "We wish to speak with Lindaril about an important matter which requires her attention, and her assistance. You do not have to leave, Frodo, but you must remain silent so that Lindaril can give us her full attention."

"This sounds very intriguing," said Lindaril, somewhat apprehensively.

They all sat down together and Irmo explained that he needed to try to retrieve some information from Lindaril that may have been buried deep in her memory. He said that he would have to do this by weaving his net of sleep about her, and causing her to have a dream that would bring out the facts that he felt sure were hidden in her mind.

"What is this mysterious thing that you need to know?" she asked.

Irmo sighed deeply. "We Valar swore to keep what I am about to tell you a secret. Only you are to hear this, and you must not reveal it to anyone else. At our last meeting, we received more information from Morgoth that fully explains the jeopardy in which our world is held. We discovered that we had to turn to Fëanor, your great-grandfather, for help. At this moment Mandos is currently speaking to his spirit in the Halls."

Lindaril rose with a start. "Fëanor!" she exclaimed. "He is my great-grandfather!" She stared intently into Irmo's eyes. "Why do you have need of his help?" she asked.

"Morgoth has demanded that we make and give to him seventy thousand Silmarils," said Irmo. "The Silmarils are the powerful jewels that Fëanor had made by his own hand many ages ago, and which have been lost."

"I know what the Silmarils are," said Lindaril in astonishment. "What has Fëanor said in answer to your plea for his help?"

"He said that he would have agreed to help us, but that the recipe for making the Silmarils has been lost. He cannot recall it. I believe that this knowledge may be buried deep within your own memory," said Irmo. "You have regaled us with many ancient songs about your family and the lore of old. I would be very surprised indeed, if you had not, at one point, learned the secret instructions for making the Silmarils from a family member, even if you do not remember. Your family, being exceedingly small, may have passed all tales of their legends on down to their descendants. You may be the last of your line; therefore I believe that you could have the buried knowledge of the secret formula for making the jewels. All of Valinor needs you, Lindaril. Would you please allow me to try to retrieve it?"

"I would do all I could to help," said Lindaril, fascinated by Irmo's story. "But my mother told me nothing of Fëanor. I do not believe she would have known of a secret formula."

"Would you let me try?" asked Irmo.

Lindaril agreed to let Irmo put her to sleep, but she was afraid. They all walked back to the house, and Lindaril retired to her bedroom. Irmo asked Frodo if he would, at this time, leave them alone, and Frodo agreed. He was feeling rather stunned by the news he had heard, and, feeling overwhelmingly tired, he went straight to bed.

After a short time, Irmo entered Lindaril's bedroom, and sitting at her bedside, holding her small hand in his, he wove his dream-like magic around her as she fell asleep. When she awoke the next morning Lindaril felt very groggy, as if she were in a kind of stupor. She tried to raise her head from her pillow, but she was overcome by a wave of dizziness, and dropped it back down with a weak little whimper. She opened her eyes to see Estë and Irmo sitting by her bedside.

"How do you feel?" asked Estë. She held Lindaril's hand, and stroked her brow with tenderness.

"I do not feel well," Lindaril mumbled. "I feel as if there are cobwebs in my mind."

"That feeling will soon pass," said Irmo. "Do you remember anything of your dreams?"

"Yes. There is a strange song lingering in my thoughts," she replied.

"Please sing it for us," said Irmo. "We have been waiting for this with much hope."

"It seems to be very much in fragments," Lindaril said. "But I will sing what I can remember." She began to sing in a melancholy voice:

"The Silmarils were of beauty incomparable
Their light was of the sun and moon
Made in the fire of the furnaces of Formenos
Their secret followed their maker to his doom."

Irmo and Estë exchanged excited glances.

"And doom will follow those who keep them
Sun shall pass and moon shall fall
To the ends of the earth shall Morgoth follow
Revenge shall be his, and death come to all."

Irmo and Estë's expressions changed to those of great concern. Lindaril then continued.

"Who covet the jewels that to Fëanor belong
And his family to follow, and hearken strong
To these words, which of need must be bold
The secret of their making must never be told."

Irmo and Estë were now quite crestfallen, and almost despairing.

"The Silmarils, then: Here you must take
One part of ruby
And one part sapphire
One part emerald
And one part topaz
Four parts diamond, and for bluish sheen
Add to them an aquamarine."

Irmo and Estë, now elated, were almost dancing around Lindaril's bed. She continued:

"The forge must burn a fire great
To its highest possible heat
The gemstones must burn until they are
A shining, molten sheet.

For a day they must stay warm
And cool the molten liquid down
Until the heat is halfway gone
Then into this liquid you must pour

The nectar of Telperion's flower
And the juice of Laurelin's fruit
Blend them together until you see
The rainbows and the light of the Trees.

Unmistakable this will be.

Cool the liquid in a great dish
Then cut it in the shapes you wish."

As Lindaril finished her song, Irmo and Estë were looking rather crestfallen again, as they perceived that the nectar of Telperion and the fruit of Laurelin belonged to the ancient Trees of the Valar, which had been destroyed by Morgoth and Ungoliant, the spider, in ages past. What was left of them had been used by Varda to create the sun and moon, and were now no longer available for anyone's use, as their organic structure had changed. They thought that, although they had found the secret recipe, that it would be useless without these two essential ingredients.

Lindaril blinked her eyes and looked up at Irmo.

"Was that of help to you?" she asked.

"Yes, it was, my dear," he said. "We are indebted to you."

"Then please tell me why you need to make seventy thousand Silmarils to give to Morgoth. What will happen if you do not?"

Irmo saw that Lindaril would not be at ease unless he told her about the impending destruction of Valinor. When he had explained all that he knew, except for the betrayal of Fëanor, she was very quiet. She looked at him with great sadness in her eyes.

"I feel that I am responsible for these ill tidings," she said. "If I had not come here, then I should not have brought this fate with me."

"This is not your fault, Lindaril," said Irmo, trying to comfort her.

"My whole family was, and is, cursed," she whispered. "I am the last of them, and perhaps I am the most cursed of all."

Irmo tried his best to soothe her. "No, my dear. This is not of your doing. The evil that has befallen us was set in motion ages before you were born. You are a good person, Lindaril, and it is not your fault that the wicked legacy of the Silmarils has fallen upon you. We will do everything in our power to protect you, and to try to rid oursElves of this evil. Please place your trust in us."

In that moment, Lindaril felt the terrible, impending doom that was the prophecy that many had made for the Elven race. "What is now to become of us?" she enquired.

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