Story [The Silmarillion] "noble maiden fair", October Write by Theme - Galadriel, Gandalf, vignette

“noble maiden fair”

Genre: General
Rating: PG
Characters: Olórin (Gandalf), Artanis (Galadriel), Arafinwë (Finarfin)

Summary: She sees white when looking at him. Gandalf, Galadriel, and their first meeting in Valinor during the Time of the Trees.

Notes: Written for the http://boards.theforce.net/threads/write-by-theme-october-2013-poll.50015431/#post-51065004]October[/url] Write By Theme challenge. This month's prompt was 'a child main character', so here we are.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

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“noble maiden fair”​

by Mira_Jade​

There were small footsteps lost within the halls of Ilmarin.

Rare was it when the King of the Noldor came with his sons in their entirety to Taniquetil. The rifts between Finwë's brood ran deep, and his third son, ever the peace-keeper amongst his family brought with him his youngest child to help keep tempers calm as the royal family journeyed to the summit of the Valar. While personally Olórin was amused to see even Fëanáro turn his words to peace in the presence of the golden haired child, he was more worried to hear of her missing. Artanis had been seen at the morning meal, but then had slipped from her mother's side and none knew to where she had gone.

Olórin had been called from his duties by his lord to aid the search. To correlate with the Eldar, he took on a face of youth, crowned with hair the color of dark steel, left long down his back. He turned his spirit into a strong body of flesh and walked on two feet through the mountain halls, seeking the child behind corners and closed doors.

His lord Manwë saw all, as he ever did, and he knew that the child was safe. Olórin felt the brush of his master against his mind, guiding him, amusement accompanying the mental touch as he was directed through the terraces and long corridors to the council rooms. Not below was he led, but above, to the long balcony that stood to observe the happenings below. The seats there were empty, all but for one.

Olórin felt a small smile touch his mouth when he saw a golden head lost in the rows of grey and blue, sitting patiently and quietly as if waiting for the meetings to begin.

I found her, he sent the call out to Arafinwë's mind.

She was not in the gardens? Or catching frogs in the trees? The prince asked in reply, a touch of bemusement lining his mind's voice. Of course she awaits the council - only her.

His mind turned from his, no doubt to tell the child's mother, and Olórin let him go in order to walk out upon the balcony.

Sitting in the halflight, the little princess had her hands folded elegantly in her lap. Her chin was tilted up, and her back was kept as straight and tall as any noble lady of the court. For one so small, her large blue eyes were solemn. Her hair, the color of burnished gold and all but gleaming to match Aulë's wares, was done into careful braids about her pointed ears, not a strand of the artful coils out of place. Her dress was white and clean, with none of childhood's antics soiling the gown as she sat waiting for the council to begin.

“Your parents are worried, young Artanis,” he let his voice announce himself, not wanting to startle her. “They knew not where you were and thought you lost.”

“Lost?” she raised a thin brow, turning the word over in her mouth as if to test its weight. Her eyes were very bright when she turned to him. “I am not lost,” she said, each syllable carefully pronounced. “I am simply waiting.”

“Waiting?” he asked.

“For matters of grave importance,” she inclined her head down to the council chamber below, where Manwë himself would meet with the Noldor lords – where they would already be meeting, if not for the child's disappearance.

She did not blink as he came closer. Instead she raised a brow and looked him over carefully, taking in the form he chose much as he had first studied hers. A part of him felt small under the stare, as if it were Varda or Yavanna who studied him, rather than a little elfling girl.

“They are worried, even so,” Olorin said when her look still remained unblinking.

“Worried?” her nose scrunched as she repeated the word. “I have been here, where they are to be,” she said. “What cause for concern could there be in hallowed Aman?”

The words of Arafinwë indeed, Olórin thought, but did not say.

“There is shadow eternal in Arda marred,” he said gently. “Not even Aman is untouched by its stain, though it is lesser here.”

“Ah,” she said softly. She did not move to reply, instead she tilted her head, continuing to stare. He took a seat next to her rather than remain standing, wishing to look her eye to eye. She was tall for her years, he noticed. Even so, she would hardly stand taller than his elbow if she were to rise. She was so small before him, he marveled, amazed how such a tiny being could hold so much in underneath her flesh. His own skin prickled in awareness next to her, aware of the hidden might the child carried within.

A child, he marveled, looking at her closely. Though he had seen them from afar amongst the Eldar, this was the first youth he had seen up close, even though his years were long. Children were unheard of amongst the Ainur, Melian the only one of her brethren to have carried a child of her womb and give her daughter life though birth rather than creation. While the Maiar had their parents, so to speak, thay had been created by the Valar fully formed in the likeness of Eru. They had not risen to adulthood, they had not grown year by year in the shadows of their elders. They knew an eternal youth in the shapes of their face when they chose to take on flesh, but true childhood . . .

The girl before him was new, a growing thing as young as the buds promishing blooms to come in Yavanna's gardens. And yet he - who had been there to add his voice to the song that had born the heavens above and Arda below, he - servant to the most high of the Valar beneath Eru himself, could not keep from staring at the child before him.

As ethereal as one of Varda's stars, he thought. And just as bright.

“You are not of the Valar,” Artanis said, remarking frankly once her study came to an end.

“Nay child, I am not of the High Ones,” he said, watching in bemusement as she tried to puzzle through to his identity.

“You are of the Maiar then?” she asked. “You feel . . . large,” she finally said as if she could not find the word she wished to use. “As if you are holding this,” she waved her hands in the air around them to encompass the mountain itself, “in a very small shape.”

Really, it was the best way to explain it. In this body he was able to smile, and so he did. “You are perceptive,” he answered her. “Indeed, I am of the Maiar. And this form you see is not mine own. There is always more that does not first meet the eye.”

“You feel like fire,” she said after a moment. “Like warmth.”

Ah, he thought. He had heard tell of one of Arafinwë's children and their proficiency with the uncanny and the arcane. The Song ran strong through this child, and she was able to reach out and touch the notes rather than simply hear them as most of her kind could. He closed his eyes, stretching out with his senses, and he could feel the great soul caught within the girl before him – caught much as his own was in the body he now wore. She would see far, he realized. She would peer into things none other could see. Great was the gift born by this girl, he thought. Great, and terrible.

“I am not born of fire,” he said gently when she continued to stare.

“Not of the flame,” she tilted her head, amending her words, “but of warmth. I know well that the Father of Fire serves out his time in chains. Though I should not.” Her cheeks flushed, and he wondered which of her family had let slip the dread name of Melkor where the child could hear.

Or, perhaps she saw past where she should be able to see, Olórin admitted uncomfortably. Perhaps she felt the Dark One's presence as they all did, even in the light of bright Valinor.

“I serve Manwë,” he told her, freeing her from her guess, and she nodded her head.

“It is why you wear grey?” she questioned. “To honor the father of the winds?” She tilted her head curiously, belaying her words. “When I felt you coming, I saw you as white to my senses,” she admitted. She stared unblinking as she spoke. “I think that colour would fit you better.”

He let out a small laugh at her words. The sound was rich and pure, and so he laughed loudly, enjoying having a body with which to do so. “You do me a great honor, child,” he said, for white was a colour of power, and had to be earned rather than assumed. He had done nothing worthy of the colour, and so shades of grey and its humble cloak were his to wear. “Perhaps I someday shall,” he said instead of dismissing her. “In the time to come.”

She nodded her head sharply, as if ending a discussion in her own mind. “I shall be there to see it,” she said gravely, her voice was shaped like prophesy. “I look forward to that day, Olórin.”

He blinked at her, feeling the dull fingers of foreboding as they ran up and down his spine, a tangible sensation in a body that could feel such things. His spirit all but flickered beneath her regard, and in reply she smiled. A full, real smile that crinkling her eyes impishly as she looked beyond him.

“My atar comes,” she said, rising to her feet and smoothing over the fabric of her dress so that there were no wrinkles.

Olórin felt with his senses, and sure enough, Arafinwë turned the corner a moment later. The prince was dressed in the blue and silver garb of Finwë, the crown of twined gold about his brow askew and his long golden hair mused from the hurry of his search.

Of a more gentle spirit than the oftentimes stern ranks of the Noldor, Arafinwë dropped down to one knee, and held his arms open. “Artanis,” he breathed in relief, and everything noble and beyond her years about the child faded as she darted forward into her father's arms.

Arafinwë held her close, and breathed into her hair before drawing back, holding her at arm's length to look at her. “You have given your mother quite a fright,” Arafinwë admonished, passing his hands along her arms and sides as if to assure himself that she was safe. “She is very cross with you.”

Artanis looked down for a moment, abashed, before looking up again. “I am sorry for scaring Amil,” she said softly. “I just wished to join you. Tyelkormo said the council chambers were no place for simple little children, and I wished to make sure I was not left behind.”

“Tyelkormo,” Arafinwë said his nephew's name in a blank voice, a sound normally foreign to him. There would be words later, Olórin saw.

“I just wished to be with you,” Artanis said, looking up as a flicker of worry invaded her eyes. “I promise never to stray too far again . . . I shall always come back to you.”

“Aye,” Arafinwë touched her cheek fondly. “You will always come back to me.” His voice had taken on an underlying note, glimpsing at futures unseen, and once again, Olórin blinked at the heavy feeling of power he could feel pouring from the child.

Her path would take her far from Aman, Olórin knew in that moment. Far from Aman, and far from her father's gaze. The knowledge was a heavy feeling in his gut. A fear set low in the marrow of his bones. But someday . . . someday, she would return. She would return a queen and mother where she had left princess and daughter.

Arafinwë sighed, and touched his forehead to the girl's before standing. For a moment, Olórin wondered if he could see what he had seen. He wondered how strong Indis' blood was in his veins to allow such a sight.

“My lord Maia,” Arafinwë bowed, turning Olórin from his thoughts with the gratitude clear in his voice.

“We are all servants here,” Olórin countered. “You may call me Olórin if you will, but there is only one who is lord here.”

“Yes, of course. I thank you, Olórin,” Arafinwë still bowed his head. Prince of an immortal kind, he was still humble before the might of the Ainur, and there was no false respect in the shape of his bow. “I am grateful for the assistance you provided.”

“Truly, the child lightened a monotonous day,” Olórin said. “I enjoyed meeting her.”

Again, that small, secret smile touched the girl's face. Arafinwë raised a brow at his daughter, seeing the look as Olórin did.

“She causes me more grief than all of my sons combined,” Arafinwë said, even though there was fondness in his voice. “She holds too much of my father's headstrong spirit, I fear. I had hoped that my wife's blood would have tempered that, but alas, it was not to be.”

“There is always hope for her father's gentle wisdom, them,” Olórin bowed his head. “In time.”

“It the Maia would say so,” Arafinwë said, but his cheeks flushed pink as he spoke, pleased by the compliment. He looked down at his daughter to find her staring serenely back. He smiled softly before leaning down to pick her up.

“Atar!” Artanis protested. “I am much too old for such a thing,” she gave her disapproval, but there was laughter in her mouth when she spoke.

“You are much to old? And yet you aim to make me even older still with each passing hour,” Arafinwë retorted. “You shall turn my hair grey as stormclouds, mark my words, child.”

“White,” she corrected solemnly, and Arafinwë blinked at the change in tone. “Your hair shall turn white,” but when she spoke, she stared not at her father, but at Olórin.

“White,” Arafinwë bounced her in his arms, looking between his daughter and the Maia with a curious look. “White it shall be then. Come now, my noble maiden, let us go find your mother and assure her that you have come to no harm.”

The prince bowed his head before turning to leave, and Olórin returned the gesture. Artanis held his gaze over her father's shoulder until she could no more, her eyes glittering as if holding a secret.

In reply, Olórin stood standing where he was, scarcely able to do away with his smile for a long, long time.



Glossary of Tolkien Terms:

Olórin: Gandalf's original name.
Artanis: Galadriel's father-name, which means 'noble maiden'. She would later receive the name Galadriel as an endearment from her husband, Celeborn.
Arafinwë: Finarfin's name in Quenya, the thirdborn son of Finwë.
Tyelkormo: Celegorm's name in Quenya, which means 'hasty riser' for his temper. The third son of Fëanor.
Fëanáro: Fëanor's name in Quenya, the firstborn son of Finwë.
Finwë: The King of the Noldor elves in Aman.
Manwë: The King of the Valar.
Melkor: The original Dark Lord. The brother of Manwë, a Vala fallen from grace.
Aulë: The blacksmith Vala.
Varda: The Vala who created the stars. The wife of Manwë.
Yavanna: The Vala who created all plant life. The wife of Aulë.
Atar & Amil: 'Father' and 'Mother' in Quenya.
Eru: God; the supreme being who created all.
Vala | Valar: The spirit children of Eru, who created Arda underneath their father's direction.
Maia | Maiar: The spirit servants of the Valar.
Ainur: The combined term for the Maiar and the Valar.
Eldar: A term for the Elves who accepted the summoning to Aman.
Aman: Another name for Valinor.
Arda: The entire world.
Ilmarin: The name of Manwë's halls.
Taniquetil: The mountain where Manwë resides.