Written for Tolkien_Weekly's "Petrology" challenges series.
Colors
Chalk
The best present Eärendil received on his third begetting day was a large box of chalk, dyed bright colors by Maeglin, his mother's cousin – whose smile actually reached his dark eyes when he saw Eärendil's genuine pleasure in his gift. The white stone streets of Gondolin became a canvas for all the fantastic designs a three-year-old could imagine, from smeared butterflies and dusty flowers to great birds flying through rainbows and stars over the sea. The people delighted in Eärendil's creations, and were careful not to tread upon them until the rain washed them away, and he could start anew.
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Smoke
Slate
The forges in Gondolin had been roofed and floored with slate, and walled with other dark stones – because they would be stained by the smoke anyway, Idril said. Eärendil didn't like visiting them, even with his mother; they were dark, hot, and smoky, and the smell of hot metal burned his nose. He clung to her hand and cringed away from a heavy hammer pounding away at steel, hardly able to hear her words over the noise and bustle.
Neither could anyone else, as she swiftly outlined a secret plan with a soot-streaked elf with thoughtful eyes and tight lips.
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Carving
Marble
Eärendil watched his father watch one of Gondolin's best sculptors chip away with delicate chisels at a nearly-finished statue of a beautiful woman with long hair that flowed like water around her shoulders – she was Uinen, and the sculpture was a commissioned gift for the anniversary of Tuor and Idril's marriage.
Tuor laughed and said he wished he could create such beauty – but his efforts at shaping stone were clumsy, at best.
Eärendil had no interest in metal or stone. He much preferred to carve little wooden ships and set them sailing across the fountains, pretending they were the sea.
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Inheritance
Obsidian
It wasn't like any knife Eärendil had ever seen before – blacker than the night sky, and with a blade sharper than steel could ever be. "Do not touch the blade," Tuor warned, seeing Eärendil run his fingers over the carved wooden handle.
"What is it?"
"A stone, called obsidian." Tuor set aside his book and leaned his arms on the table. "Used by the Green Elves, when they can get it. They don't use steel like the Noldor."
"Oh." Eärendil regarded the knife again. "Where did you get it?"
Tuor sighed, suddenly sad. "Annael, my foster-father, gave it to me."
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Memory
Granite
As a child, Eärendil liked nothing more than to race through the vaulted halls of his grandfather's palace, his footsteps echoing on the polished granite floors. He dodged armored guards and elegant ladies, and leapt into laughing Turgon's arms to be spun around and tossed high into the air, and for that one moment it felt as though he were flying, weightless and breathless.
Later, on the deck of soaring Vingilot, he saw the ruins of Gondolin, the charred, broken remains of that once-great palace, now quiet and slowly being overgrown, and wished Turgon were alive to see his star.