Prolog
»Knowledge does not preclude Wisdom.«
- Aûthiar Narosil of Imladris
Ered Luin, Thamas Lorn, Late Winter in the late Third Age
The cry of a seagull broke the temporary silence of this, not particularly cold, but cool morning. Lines of fog hovered right atop the surface of water, the grass and sand were wet from the nightly frost and clamminess.
Where a rooster would call up the beginning of a new day and the rise of Arnor on the farms more in the back of the land, so was it here the seabird who accompanied the dawn. And one cry would usually not be left unanswered.
Soon there was an echoing concert coming down from the skies, while the at first impregnable fog began to disappear. The more the grey cloth retreated, the more the docks became free, enabled the workers and sailors to continue their work from the last day.
It took not long until the seagulls were no longer the only cause of sound.
Orders were barked, feet ran over the planks of landing stages and ships, crates carried under singing or were rumbling buried into the holds.
But all that, the Elf did not notice.
With quick steps she walked up the hill, the bag pressed against her chest to protect its content against the wetness. Lhûthindë had to hurry.
All night, the Elf had been philosophizing and debating about her researches. And if she judged the conversations, she had then Lhûthindë was sure, it could have hardly gone any better.
Her dark blue, almost onyx eyes surveyed around the next corner and espied a shortcut, the white-golden hair hair followed wafting her motion as she turned to her left.
The thin lips formed a satisfied smile as she hung with her thoughts still after the events of yesterday; into her high cheek-bones flowed a soothing warmth.
Her steps took up on speed and despite Lhûthindë was usually a tad smaller than the other Elven women, she could move quite swiftly. Moreover was she missing the often seen athletic build: She was very thin and filigree. A scholar through and through. Although Lhûthindë somehow had come to avoid the word »scholar«. She preferred to be called Aûthial in terms of her profession.
A scholar could be anything, truly. It was not specific enough for her. Though Aûthial remained to be a rare term. We should be proud of our accomplishments and education, she thought. And neither should I be afraid anymore of the mockery of those who call my researches a silly waste of time.
Lhûthindë's master always had taught her to acknowledge the High Arts and its naturally granted powers not as tool, but rather as a friend, she could trust.
Hence she came up with the theory of the High Arts having its own consciousness. The quiet meditation and communications with her powers were supporting her assumptions as well as suspicions. Two of the scholars she had met, had uttered their approval of her theory. And that was the cause of Lhûthindë's good mood.
As the gold-haired Elf took the last turn on her journey through Thamas Lorn, she came upon her home.
It was a large house, with several rooms, of which some still stood empty. Lhûthindë would fill them in time, with her private library.
The round house appeared more like a gathering of several small towers, made of dyed glass and white stone, inside connected with hallways and stairs. The red round roof gave the building the effect of being even taller.
As soon as Lhûthindë laid her hand on the door-handle, she could hear a familiar scratching noise from the other side. She smiled.
The double-portal had hardly opened at all as something small and furred jumped out, climbed up the light dress, that Lhûthindë wore. Two big eyes looked at her, as the Hefad-Dal hung on her shoulder.
»Hello, Mischief«, she greeted the creature. It was not bigger than a cat, had enormous eyes with which it could see in the darkness. A long furred tail and four legs made it an excellent climber.
Mischief tilted his head to the side, a sign that he demanded attention. Lhûthindë complied by scratching the Hefad-Dal's forehead and the spot between his ears, that were similar leaf-shaped as those of Elves.
These animals were very loyal to their owner, but required a strong hand, as they tended to cheeky and elusive behavior. That was one reason why some people trained their Hefad-Dal to become excellent scouts - where scout was a polite way to say spy.
The furry creature purred until Lhûthindë stopped and entered her home. Instantly she recognized Mischief's demanding look.
»Later«, she said and the Hefad-Dal made its way down to the floor, disappeared in the kitchen.
Lhûthindë had Mischief not long yet. he was a gift from a friend. But the Hefad-Dal was not the only other inhabitant of the house. Also Lhûthindë's niece Gwathiell lived there.
She had adopted her, as the girl's parents perished away. It had been a terrible accident, which devastation had still not left Gwathiell completely. One day, her parents went to travel to Mithlond by ship, gave their daughter into Lhûthindë's care for the time of their journey. But they never returned.
Their ship had sunken in a storm; And Lhûthindë kept Gwathiell by her.
Since then, ten years had gone into the land.
Gwathiell was now close to her fortieth winter and had begun to grow into a woman. Elves grew up a lot slower than the other races.
»Good morning, aunt«, came the girl's voice from the stairs.
On the first look, Lhûthindë and Gwathiell could have been mother and daughter, but the girl's hair fell in waves and her eyes were bright-blue.
»Also to you«, came Lhûthindë's answer as she hung her mantle on one of the hooks on the wall.
For her, Gwathiell shimmered in a slight blue! Green and white waves flickered through the aura like in a kaleidoscope.
Lhûthindë perceived the aura of each Elf not only mentally but those blessed with potency in the High Arts had an visible aura to her. Different colors meant different attributes of the power.
So did she know that blue was wild and hard to tame, green symbolized a power of calmness and silver indicated often a powerful and old potency. To find out what the colors truly meant, for what they served and how their shades effected them was the main-subject to Lhûthindë's researches.
Very interesting she found, that Gwathiell possessed colors, she thought to be the opposite of each other: Blue and Green - wild and calm, destructive and soothing.
As she looked down on her own hands, Lhûthindë saw the, all the time present, blue glimmering of her own aura. Small gatherings of white stars, like bright flickering clouds of miniature galaxies wafted about in it. Also a riddle she still had to lift.
The two women followed the path of the Hefad-Dal had taken into the kitchen. Mischief was lying in a corner and slept apparently.
Gwathiell prepared some tea, while Lhûthindë sat down at the table. »I have discovered a new tone of color, today«, the older of the two said.
»Really?« Gwathiell asked and hesitated to pour the tea into the prepared cups. »What color is it? And by whom?«
»Her name is Golweniel«, Lhûthindë began to explain, »she radiates in a great crimson and is terribly powerful. The time she gathered the powers subconsciously, I thought I would be blinded or perish to ashes if standing too close.«
»Crimson, huh?« Gwathiell sat down to her aunt's opposite and pushed one cup of tea over to her.
Lhûthindë smelled the strong brew as she thanked her niece, drank from the hot tea carefully. It was her favorite drink.
»It seems like as soon as we think we are one step closer to solve this riddle, we get another addition or something that is unclear, even contradictory.«
Lhûthindë had to admit that her niece was right about that. It was hard to form a real foundation in this research. Most of what they had gathered were assumptions and hints, very little were facts however.
But in one thing, Lhûthindë was sure: there were calm and friendly powers that gladly performed its users bidding such as she used them herself and taught others; and there were powers wild, angry and disturbed, forced by their master to bend to his will. Lhûthindë suspected that these disturbed energies were able to break control and pose a deadly threat against the user himself, possibly everyone in his direct near.
Although Golweniel's aura had intimidated her, she did not believe that the old Elf was a harbinger of destruction. At least she had not noticed any form of evidence for it.
»And how would you categorize this new tone of color?«, Gwathiell asked a little impatient.
»That is hard to determine«, gave her aunt back. »After seeing it only once, only Mandos knows what potential Golweniel harbors. But I invited her to visit us. She promised to aid us in our research, just as Cirionar has.«
Gwathiell looked into her cup of tea. With both hands she held the vessel.
Lhûthindë had to smile. That was the girl's typical thinking pose.
»Then they accepted your theory. With Cirionar's and this Golweniel's aura we might be able to find out how they respond to one another«, Gwathiell thought loudly. She appeared now almost like her aunt.
But Lhûthindë waved dismissive her hand. »I rather do not have them test the reaction of their aurae. I shook Golweniel's hand and sought for the nature of her potential. But her power did not respond. No defense, no letting me into its consciousness. Golweniel's powers may be based on emotions and hence be passive. But what works with me, needs not to work with someone else. Maybe Cirionar's silver and Golweniel's crimson are actually rival colors.«
Lhûthindë gulped as she remembered the fight of two rival aurae, that she had observed.
She had wandered with a friend of her master. The friend was mortal, old and had been radiating in a deep green.
High in the north, the old man gave her company as they ran into a horde of Orcs, led by a man who seemed to devour all light about him with his black aura.
Black was most dangerous, that Lhûthindë knew from that day on. It knew no shades, no level of depth in its color and was hence impossible to be estimated of its potential.
The Orcs they could trick, but the old man faced the by blackness surrounded opponent.
Lhûthindë had to observe how the black aura spread out, wrapped itself about the green and then tore it off its user.
The old man fell dead to the earth as if lightning would have been striking him. Only close she had been able to make her escape. To imagine, something like that could happen by accident!
Lhûthindë shook her head. She had to be very careful about considering risks in her researches. Still she knew not what the owner of the black aura had exactly done. And although her desire for knowledge wanted to inquire how it worked, her soul shuddered by the mere thought of such evil.
She stood up and left her empty cup. The tea had gotten her investigative instincts going. But she had to go step by step.
Mischief looked up, expected his food now.
»Feed Mischief, please, Gwathiell«, Lhûthindë asked friendly. »I will write a letter to our friend Perdór. But do not give him the cookies again.« She left the room and while she ascended the stairs, she heard Mischief's squeaks of joy and Gwathiell's giggle.
In her room, Lhûthindë took out the good parchment as it was due when writing to nobility. Quickly she described her observations and latest results as well as worries in the letter.
Half an hour later, the parchment was on its way in the pouch of a messenger.
