A star is shining in the darkness.
Ráolor lowered his hammer.
He and the other stonemasons had gone deep into the mountain, carving out a tunnel.
Not very large, but sufficient for a possible evacuation.
Such had been the plan of Lord Elrond:
two tunnels had been made over many hundred years, leading out of Rivendell.
It was not only because of the history of Gondolin these tunnels had been made.
War was approaching.
If the enemy discovered Imladris, the hidden valley would be sacked.
Its only real defense was secrecy, and if this failed, the citizens would take the tunnels leading out into the wilderness.
The work on that third tunnel had been rough.
After the assault on Dol Guldur and the retreat of the Necromancer, the elves had started to carve out the tunnel.
Some of them had been working many hours every day.
Inch after inch they proceeded, wrestling with the mountain's hard material.
Ráolor had joined the stonemasons, for he knew many of them, and he felt disgusted by the idea of solely sculpting elaborate works out of fine stone.
He raised the hammer and hit the chisel, with great strength. Sparks were flying around.
A radiant star is shining, piercing darkness; its light is being reflected by the surface of a pond, calm and clear like a mirror.
Ráolor put the splintered stones into a large basket, carrying them out of the tunnel.
Two stonemasons were taking a short break, sitting at the entrance.
“How long will this take?”
“I do not know.”
“This rocks are too hard. We should have tried another spot.”
Ráolor shrugged.
“Nobody knows about the interior. The stone was smooth in the beginning.”
One of the stonemasons coughed.
“It will take years to reach the other side.”
The sculptor frowned.
“If you spend years sitting and talking, it will, for sure.”
He dropped the basket.
Calm and clear is the pond, like a mirror; a dark figure passes by, moving without noise, gracefully, with a sublime bearing.
“I have got other obligations as well, my friend. I need to train on a daily basis, and my order may need me at any moment.”
The stonemasons looked at each other.
“Oh...you are talking about Imladris' Order of the Hammer?”
Ráolor did not answer. He was checking his chisel.
“Oh Elbereth. How could you ever enter such a crazy unit. It is said its warriors fight like demons. And they drink, and gamble, and frighten citizens.”
The sculptor lowered the chisel, casting a dark gaze at the stonemasons.
“They may even have a love of taking hostages. You look frightened like two little girls dreaming about crowns of Elanor while suddenly meeting a wild boar.”
The stonemasons looked somewhat insecure.
“Should I take YOU hostage?”
Ráolor's face had grown very disturbing, and the eyes of the Noldo seemed to pierce mind and flesh, bringing great discomfort to the sitting labourers.
Suddenly a third elf came out of the tunnel, carrying another basket full of stones.
“Gwaedhel, Ráolor, here you go.”
He stopped, dropping the basket, glancing between them.
“What is going on?”
He laughed and pulled Ráolor's arm.
“Do not pay attention to him, my friends. This fellow may appear somewhat frightening at times, he still is a most enjoyable comrade.”
Following the elf back into the tunnel, the Noldo muttered:
“They intended to mock my order. Nobody mocks the Order of Hammer. Not while I am there. Not while I am listening.”
“Calm down, Ráolor. They are simple stonemasons, not soldiers. They have not heard but rumours about Imladris' striking force.”
The dark figure stops. Slowly, the Elleth turns around.
Moonlight illuminates her face. Her hair is raven black, and unusually short.
Her eyes are peridot green, deep and radiant as the profoundness of Dorthonion's forests in midsummer.
The sound of continuous striking was echoed by the narrow walls.
Five stonemasons and two sculptors were wrestling with the mountain.
Inch after inch, the third evacuation tunnel was carved out.
From time to time, a master builder of Imladris checked their work, giving instructions.
The mountain was losing inch after inch to the strong hands of the Eldalië.
The Elleth glances upwards; countless stars are mirrored by her eyes.
Then suddenly, she gazes at him, and her light illuminates Arda.
“You are both statue and sculptor, Ráolor. The world is shaping you, but you shape the world as well.”
Five stonemasons and two sculptors were wrestling with the mountain.
But one of the two sculptors had witnessed something.
In middle of splintering stone, flying sparks, coughing men and muggy air he beheld the image of what he had witnessed:
Sublime beauty.
