Vain Ambition [Year 1410 of the Trees] {Galadriel}
Jul 24, 2018 16:03:34 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Jul 24, 2018 16:03:34 GMT -5
Vain Ambition
Alqualondë
Year 1410 of the Trees (13511 in Sun Years)
Alqualondë
Year 1410 of the Trees (13511 in Sun Years)
[Set during the early years when Melkor had been allowed to leave Valmar. 'Before long, he began to exert his corrupting influence on the Elves, especially the Noldor. For the Vanyar did not trust him, and the Teleri he thought too weak for his designs, but the Noldor were curious, and eager to learn what he could teach them.']
***
A stone skipped across the waters of brine, while stars twinkled overhead as diamonds, their light dispersed upon the waters, and the great lights which came from the west where the trees were blooming casting a glow upon the seashore and the white stone walls of the city not far off.
Teleri and Noldor. Torn between two stations; the love of sea, and the love of craft, Famaráto stood at the brink of the sea upon the sandy shore, deep in thought. He was planning to leave. He would return, he told himself. Famaráto would depart from Alqualondë, from the shores of this peaceful haven where the sea would sing him to sleep and the lap of the waves would guide his days. Departing, yet he would return. He had always planned to. Always dreamed to, and he could not be away from the sea for long.
His heart beat as Teleri, each thrum a wave pounding upon the shore, yet his hands ached to craft among the Noldor. How could one's heart belong to both places? The young smith found himself an alloy. Melded from both his thirst for skill and knowledge, and from the contented singing on the shores, as he had grown into adulthood he found of himself that he could not fit… completely… among either of the peoples, yet Famaráto was determined to forge a place for himself. If something existed not, it had only yet to be crafted. In the same way one took any material of the earth and shaped it into beauty.
One day, perhaps, the forges of Alqualondë would be as fair and as powerful as the forges of Tirion. Once he had mastered the craft, beyond what his Atto could teach him, he would depart for the jeweled city even without his family. The time was coming soon, perhaps in this year, or the next, for his Atto had given up on the craft. Ñaltanáro would not have admitted to such a thing, but Famaráto was sure he had seen it. He was certain it would come. Not completely forsaken his work of jewelsmithing, yet he worked only in the pearls which his Ammë would dive for off the coasts, though most of his work in these days seemed to be in carpentry, and not smithing. Ñaltanáro was giving up on the craft of his birthright.
His Atto, nephew of the famed Mahtan, departing from his trade of choice, to tarry on the docks. To hammer and chisel away upon ships of white and silver, with a figurehead of a great swan's arching neck over the stern and closely tucked wings, setting them with eyes of glistening glass and gem.
Another stone was thrown, skipping only thrice before it caught against a rolling wave. Ripples pooled where it sunk, moving ever outward as the light of stars above reflected. What would the Mahtan think, to find his nephew, so well skilled, idling away his fingers at carving wooden boats, rather than fixing metals and gems?
Famaráto's heart wished for more. He loved the shores of Alqualondë, yet his fingers ached for the artistry and ingenuity of the craftsman of Tirion. To be tutored by Aulë himself, Famaráto had always dreamed. He almost scoffed, to think his Atto had been tutored by both Aulë and Mahtan, and yet here lingered in Alqualondë, forsaking what beautiful works were coming of Tirion. And now! Even greater smith craft could be created, as news had spread that a new Mentor wished to share his skill. He could be considered among the greatest; Melkor. He who rises in power. The power of the anvil, and of the hammer, and of the delicate work of metals. Famaráto wished to be among those who were now being taught by the Ainu, he would seek the guidance of Melkor as well.
What beautiful work the son and grandsons of the High King were crafting, and here on the shores of the sea it was in remiss, where the Teleri were lost in their peaceful day to day lives of gulls and ships, Famaráto felt discontent. He felt the blood of the Noldor burning thick within his youthful frame, and he wished his Atto would move his family back to Tirion, a place Famaráto had never dwelled, only visited. In Tirion he would be known by Ruivo, his Noldor name, and he would learn what skill he was able and bring it back to the forges of Alqualondë. He would build a forge here alike to the forges of Tirion. He would teach the youth who were like himself, with ambition, and he would create the space he wished for his blended world of craft and sea, a place where he could be near his family and still pursue his skill and interest.
He heard the shift of sand on the shore, the presence of another, and a slight cock of his head, though not truly looking, Famaráto saw light hair and a white gown. It was his Ammë, or his sister, come to fetch him back home. A moment longer he wished, and he crouched, fingers sifting through the sand for another smooth stone, his thumb coursing over the surface of it. Drawing back, a flick of his wrist, and it skipped upon the water. Four, five, six skips between the waves before it was engulfed, and his eyes were bright with smile.