"I'm Going on an Adventure!"

The world is not in your maps and books - it is out there... Gandalf, The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

I met Gandalf the other day, and he asked me to go on an adventure. And I said yes. Here’s how it came about.

I watched The Hobbit movie recently. Actually I saw it twice. It’s a beautiful movie, full of the magic and depth, great acting and integrity we’ve come to expect and love from Peter Jackson. As expected, it took me on an immersive journey through Tolkien’s marvellous world and filled me with many conflicting emotions. I felt joy, and a great wonder at the beautiful places I saw, and I was moved both to laughter and tears; heroic admiration and absolute loathing; pity and envy. But it was the envy that inspired a chain of thought that led to Gandalf knocking at my door.

It began with “Good morning!” As soon as Bilbo set his eyes on the wandering wizard I felt instant envy and exasperation. How on Middle Earth did Bilbo fail to recognise Gandalf as being somehow special? I think – my feelings not entirely rational, and surely clouded by my being privy, as someone familiar with the lore of Middle Earth, to the innumerable instances of Gandalf’s extraordinary nature… But anyway – such was my instinctive thought that it led to a fellow thought, as surely as Balin follows Dwalin. As soon as Gandalf spoke the words “I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure,” this thought makes its presence known. Pick me! Pick me! I want an adventure! Why does Bilbo hesitate? Wait -what is he saying? “Nasty unpleasant things”? What a fool! Gandalf – leave that idiot and pick me! I would jump at the chance! And this feeling persists all through the Unexpected Party. I thrill at the unfurling of the map of Erebor, and share the dwarves’ enthusiasm for the quest. Although my rational mind understands Bilbo’s demurral, I can’t help but feel that were I given the same opportunity, Gandalf would not have to ask twice.

"...laceration, evisceration - incineration?!" 

Surely the longing for adventure is an integral part of humanity? Do we not all have a part of us that longs to escape the ordinary? In history I can find many examples – too many to list – of humanity’s audacity and the glorious results of their adventures. It was in the spirit of adventure that, thousands of years ago, people paddled in tiny coracles across vast and unmapped oceans to settle in the islands of Polynesia. It was in the spirit of adventure and discovery that the wonders of the natural world and science were revealed, that we discovered how to harness electricity – that we set foot on the Moon and plumbed the crushing depths of the sea. And in story, song and legend – the inspirational tales are always of adventures… of people who go beyond the average and who dare greatly and win glory.

I have grown up on tales of adventure. I hunger for it. I dream of heroism and of discovery. Surely therefore I would not hesitate, like Bilbo, to take the opportunity – I would never be left alone in a spotless house wondering what would have happened if I had gone with the Company to the Lonely Mountain! Or would I?

The Map of the Lonely Mountain

Suddenly I considered my life and reviewed it – were there any times that I could have gone on an adventure and chose the safe option? Were there opportunities that I let slip away because of laziness… or fear? In that moment I realised – that Gandalf appears in many guises and adventures take many forms. And he comes to all of us, and many times. And I realised that all the greatest experiences and achievements in my life so far have come when I have said “yes” to the offer of an adventure. The adventure could be starting a new creative project, learning a language, travelling, starting a new job, developing a personal relationship – anything that has the potential to lift life out of the ordinary. Each adventure comes with dangers and hardships to face – risks of failure and no promise of return.

Gandalf: You'll have a tale or two to tell when you come back.
Bilbo Baggins: Can you promise that I will come back?
Gandalf: No. And if you do, you will not be the same. 

What then is the reward of adventure? I think it is a new horizon, the satisfaction of striving and of testing yourself, of discovery and – perhaps – glory and renown. At the end. If you are lucky there might also be treasure. But most important is the moving and the personal growth. Bilbo discovers bravery and cleverness, resourcefulness and hardiness within himself, and a wanderlust – qualities that he would never have known if he had not stirred from his comfortable armchair. Adventures teach us to ignore and defeat doubt, and to step outside the comfort of our hobbit-hole and to move beyond the expectations of our peers - to discover the forests and mountains, the beauty of Rivendell and the splendour of the Eyrie; to face that which we fear and face ourselves.

This was the wisdom I learned from The Hobbit, and straightaway began an adventure – starting my own creative business. Who knows what I will discover, and how it will change me, and what new horizons I will see... 

I'm going on an adventure!

The Music of Middle Earth (Part 1): Elves

The elvish folk were passing bowls from hand to hand and across the fires, and some were harping and many were singing.. Loud and clear and fair were those songs... - J R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

Ever since rewatching The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit  I have been haunted by the images of elves and the beautiful world of Middle Earth, and I have been deliciously tormented by an incredible longing for this most beautiful of fantasy worlds. The feeling is akin to unrequited love - painful and sweet, and sorrowful - and yet life without it lacks a vibrancy and colour, and because of it, themes of music surround me and I thrill, rejoice and am sad...

For my re-awakened love of Middle Earth has inspired me to seek out the music of the Elves - and my virtual quest led me not just the music of the "Official Soundtrack" (which I already had), but the "Complete Recordings" - themes of music that pervade every second of the movies without always the viewer's conscious awareness, and which have such a great impact upon the "magic" of the world. 

And in Youtube I found themes that both satisfied my longing, and inflamed it. They now form a constant, repeating background melody in my mind; and are behind my every thought and movement. And though I speak and walk on Earth, my thoughts are filled with the music of the Quendi...

Furthermore, I discovered a wonderful website, A Magpie's Nest which contains a record and analysis of every single melody of the Lord of the Rings movies, whether it appears in the CDs or not, and lyrics to the songs also. And reading the lyrics I came to an even greater understanding of just how marvelous the  Lord of the Rings movies were - the incredible integrity connecting the music with the story, the world and the very words of Tolkien. For oft-times in the background to some scene there would be choral singing, and to the listener the words are incomprehensible, for they are in Sindarin or Quenya, the language of the elves. But the lyrics are taken from Tolkien's writing, and they are all significant, even if they are not understood. But they add integrity to the movie, and finding the lyrics was to me like discovering treasure...

Go forth friends, and journey with me through a landscape of magic evoked by the music of the Elves 

The Passing of the Elves (A Elbereth Gilthoniel)

This piece most perfectly expresses the sadness I feel - for it is the song of the elves as they pass from Middle Earth to Valinor, never to return. In it is the beauty and magic and mystery of the elves, and their voices are sorrowful for they love Middle Earth, and although they are leaving it for a land still more fair and deathless, they mourn as they depart. But their sorrow at leaving Middle Earth surely cannot be compared to our sorrow - for to me the thought of a world without elves is immeasurably sad (although the "Lingerers" supposedly remain, invisible as the muses of the arts, inspiring humankind to the creation of all beautiful things...)

The lyrics are from one of the many Elven hymns to Elbereth Gilthoniel, the Queen of the Valar and Starkindler as she was named, of all the Valar most beloved of Elves, for her stars were the first things that they saw when they awoke in Middle Earth. The hymn is sung in Sindarin.

Fanuilos heryn aglar
(Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!)
Rîn athar annún-aearath,
(O Queen beyond the Western Seas!)
Calad ammen i reniar
(O Light to us that wander there)
Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath!
(Amid the world of woven trees!)

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
(Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!)
I chîn a thûl lin míriel
(Clear are thy eyes and bright is breath,)
Fanuilos le linnathon
(Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee)
Ne ndor haer thar i aearon.
(In a far land beyond the Sea!)

A elin na gaim eglerib
(O Stars that in the Sunless Year)
Ned în ben-anor trerennin
(With shining hand by thee were sown,)
Si silivrin ne pherth 'waewib
(In windy fields now bright and clear)
Cenim lyth thílyn thuiennin.
(We see your silver blossom blown!)

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
(O Elbereth Gilthoniel!)
Men echenim sí derthiel
(We still remember, we who dwell)
Ne chaered hen nu 'aladhath
(In this far land beneath the trees,)
Ngilith or annún-aearath.
(Thy starlight on the Western Seas.)

Rivendell (Many Meetings) - Hymn to Elbereth

When I first watched The Fellowship of the Ring, that night I lay awake for hours with this theme resounding in my mind. It is the most recurring and recognisable Elven theme in the Lord of the Rings movies, and it returns in The Hobbit.

While the lyrics to the song are, like "The Passing of the Elves", taken from a hymn to Elbereth Gilthoniel, this song has none of the former's sorrow, for it is not a lament, but full of deep joy and a worshiping of beauty.

Nef Elbereth Gilthoniel 

(O Elbereth Star-kindler) 

Silivren penna míriel 

(There slants down like shining jewels) 

Elbereth Gil...

Rivendell

Give up the Halfling

This piece of music is stirring and heroic, emphasising the courage inherent in the elves. Although I know some Tolkien purists disliked that in the Fellowship Arwen faces down the Black Riders, I personally always shiver with admiration and inspiration when she raises her sword and calls "If you want him, come and claim him!" then invokes the waters to gallop down and wash the enemies away.

The lyrics are in three languages, Sindarin, Adûnaic (the language of the Men of Numenor) and English.

The woman's voice sings from the Lay of Luthien Tinuviel, and her words are:

Tinuviel elvanui 

(Tinuuviel the elven-fair) 

Elleth alfirin 

(Immortal maiden)

The chanting of the Ringwraiths are:

Nêbâbîtham Magânanê

(We renounce our Maker)

Nêtabdam dâur-ad

(We cleave to the darkness)

Nêpâm nêd abârat-aglar

(We take unto ourselves the power and glory)

îdô Nidir nênâkham

(Behold! We are the Nine)

Bârî’n Katharâd

(Lords of Unending Life)

Then in English Arwen sings to Frodo:

What grace is given me
Let it pass into him
Let him be spared
Mighty Valar
Save him

Enya - Aniron

This is the most enchanting and ethereal love-song ever written, worthy of the tale of a love such as that of Arwen and Aragorn, immortal elf and mortal man. The lyrics are exquisite - and yet the "desire" for of Aragorn for Arwen Undomiel is like the impossible desire of a man for a star, so beautiful and out of reach. Well is she named "The Evenstar" - the star that shines like hope in the darkness of Aragorn's lonely road, a light beyond the fires of battle and above the evil and death - but, as he fears she could also represent the star that glimmers unobtainable above. Yet in this scene she gives him the Elfstone - her star-like pledge. Without her free choice, the man could never reach the star - but if she chose, she could give it to him. And so she does, forsaking of free will her immortality.

O môr henion i dhu: 

(From darkness I understand the night) 

Ely siriar, êl síla 

(dreams flow, a star shines.) 

Ai! Aníron Undómiel 

(Ah! I desire Evenstar.)

Tiro! 

El eria e môr 

(Look! A star rises out of the darkness.) 

I 'lir en êl luitha 'uren 

(The song of the star enchants my heart). 

Ai! Aníron... 

(Ah! I desire...)

The Diminishment of the Elves (Gilraen's Memorial)

This song contains the theme of "The Diminishment of the Elves" (yet another Hymn to Elbereth sung sorrowfully), but also deals with the concept of destiny for Aragorn and Arwen. Gilraen was Aragorn's mother, and she named him "Estel" or Hope, after his father was killed and she feared that evil would take her son before he was grown. So the young Aragorn was raised in Rivendell, and there he fell in love with Arwen, Elrond's daughter. The first two verses of the song are heard when Aragorn kneels by the statue of his mother, and deal with her love and care and fear for her son, but as though the words were singing through his mind and in his memory (hence the male singer). The second and third verses are sung concurrently, by two different choirs, one continuing Gilraen's song and the other beginning "The Diminishment of the Elves" -  as if one choir sings of Aragorn's destiny as his "father's son" (the king of Gondor), and the other of Arwen's inevitable "diminishment" if she does not go to the West - the two fates that bode to promise hardship and sorrow on them both, and doom upon the union of elf and mortal man...

From the doleful vocals the instrumentals after the singing become hopeful, and eventually build to a glorious, confident and heroic theme - the binding of the Fellowship.

Estel (Hope.)   Le iôn adar lín (You are your father's son.) U iôn naneth lín  (Not your mother's child,) A ché neg a ion neg (Little boy, little one.)

 Tolo na rengyne thei lien (Come into my arms.Slaying demons in the shadows) Dan na si fuin  (Night is falling).

 ... ilos lelin na thon (...white, I sing to you) Nefaer sí nefaearon (Beyond the sea, here beyond the great sea.)

Aragorn at the memorial of Gilraen, his mother

Arwen's Song

Unusually for the Elven songs, this one is sung in English rather than Quenya or Sindarin, yet the melody is haunting and ethereal and very Elven sounding. Arwen sings this as Aragorn leaves her for Rohan, and she sings of the inevitability of his destiny, the approaching darkness; of her bleakness and loneliness, and the fading of the glory of the elves. For she cannot wait for him forever - she must go to Valinor or if she remains, the shadow of Mordor may kill her, unless Aragorn embraces his kingship.  But as yet he refuses to do so...

With a sigh you turn away
With a deepening heart
No more words to say
You will find that the world
Has changed forever

And the trees are now turning
From green to gold
And the sun is now fading
I wish I could hold you closer

Arwen's Fate (The Grace of the Valar)

This song is another Elven song of mortality - it is heard as Arwen revives Aragorn in the river, by the "grace of the Valar", but it warns of the inevitability of death for Men, reminding that though Aragorn's life can be spared by miraculous means once, his death is an inescapable doom, and the decision that Arwen must make is whether or not to share his doom. The song is sung in Sindarin.

Immen dúath caeda
(Shadow lies between us)
Sui tollech, tami gwannathach omen
(as you came, so you shall leave from us)
Lû ah alagos gwinnatha bain
(time and storm shall scatter all things)
Boe naer gwannathach, annant uich ben-estel
(Sorrowing you must go, and yet you are not without hope)
An uich gwennen na ringyrn e-mbar han
(For you are not bound to the circles of this world.)
Uich gwennen na 'wanath ah na dhín.
(You are not bound to loss and silence.)

Boe naid bain gwannathar, 

(All things must pass away) 

Boe cuil ban firitha. 

(All life is doomed to fade…)

Arwen revives Aragorn

The lyrics of the song are ambiguous - they could refer to Arwen's difficult choice (for she is not bound to mortality and has the chance to depart Middle Earth for Valinor), or it could refer to Illuvatar's "gift" of mortality to humanity- of the souls of Men being able to depart the world entirely and go beyond the Houses of Mandos (where the souls of elves go before being reborn), for places unknown.

This second meaning is supported by one of Tolkien's Appendices to the Lord of the Rings where Aragorn, after a long and happy life chooses to "give up his life" before he becomes a dotard and incapable. Arwen tries to persuade him not to do this, but he tells her that his time is come and that she should now leave him and go to the West.

"Nay, dear lord," she said, "that choice is long over. There is now no ship that would bear the hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men, whether I will or I nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Númenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive.

"So it seems," he said. "But let us not be overthrown at the final test, who of old renounced the Shadow and the Ring. In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory, Farewell!" 

Arwen at the deathbed of Aragorn

The Grace of Undomiel

This song is a foreboding - a revelation of what would follow should Arwen decide to leave for Valinor with the rest of the Elves;  the consequences of what thus "would never be" ; of her regret and pining, and her immortal life without Aragorn. In this scene, Arwen has a vision of the son she would have if she stayed, she suddenly realises that though her father's prophecy of her future desolation when Aragorn eventually succumbs to his mortality is true, the sorrow would be worth it if she had a love-filled life and a child. The music that stirs when she makes her momentous decision to turn back is spine-tingling and triumphant.

Ngîl cennin eriel vi aduial
(I saw a star rise high in the sky)
Glingant sui mîr
(It hung like a jewel)
Síliel mae.
(Softly shining.)

 
Ngîl cennin firiel vi aduial,
(I saw a star fade in the sky)
Dúr, dúr i fuin
(The dark was too deep and so light died)
Naenol mae.
(Softly pining)

 
An i ú nathant
(For what might have been)
An i naun ului
(For what never was)
A chuil, anann cuiannen
(For a life, long lived)
A meleth, perónen
(For a love half given)

Arwen's vision

Lament for Gandalf

In the moonlit, echoing forest the Elves of Lothlorien mourn the death of Gandalf, and in their lament call upon him by his older names, Olorin the maiar, and Mithrandir. The first verse is sung in Quenya, and the second in Sindarin - both Elven languages - a combination which implies a universal lament on behalf of all the Quendi, for the fallen Gandalf.

A Olórin i yáresse
(O Olórin whom in time past)
Mentaner i Númeherui
(The West-lords sent)
Tírien i Rómenori
(To guard the East-lands)
Maiaron i oiosaila
(Of Maiar, the Ever-wise)
Manan elye etevanne
(What drove you to leave)
Nórie i malanelye?
(That which you loved?

Mithrandir, Mithrandir!
A Randir Vithren!
(O Pilgrim Grey)
Ú-reniathachi
(You will not wander)
 amar galen
(the green earth)
I reniad lín ne môr, nuithannen
(Your journey in darkness, ended.)
In gwidh ristennin,
(The bonds cut,)
i fae narchannen
(the spirit rent)
I Lach Anor
(The Flame of Anor)
ed ardhon gwannen
(From earth departed)
Calad veleg, ethuiannen.
(A great light, blown out.)

And then the chorus deals with the passing of the elves... It is sung in Quenya.

Melmelma nóren sina
(Our love for this land)
Núra lá earo núri
(Is deeper than the deeps of the sea)
Ilfirin nairelma
(Our regret is undying)
Ana
(Yet)
Ar ullume nucuvalme
(Rather than submit)
Nauva i nauva.
(What should be shall be.)

Lothlorien

The Host of the Eldar

This song appears as a herald of relief for the beleagured mortal forces of the Rohan, led by King Theoden, and as they march to honour the ancient allegience between human and elf, they chant powerfully of the fall of the forces of evil. Yet the second verse belies their confidence, and reveals their sacrifice, although the mortals do not understand their song (for it is in Quenya). The elves were not bound to help the Rohirrim, and they could have left for the Grey Havens and thus passed to safety without loss of life. As they are ageless, so their love for life increases - and their love for the land. Thus they fight, but their "regret is undying" for whether they die in battle or leave for the Grey Havens after victory, they must leave Middle Earth forever... This second verse is a repeat of the chorus of the "Lament for Gandalf", thus presaging sorrow and loss...

Man ammen toltha i dann hen morn  

(Who brings to us this token of darkness)  

Si dannatha  

(Will fall)

Melmemma nóren sina   

(Our love for this land)  

Núra lá earo  

(Is deeper than the deeps)  

Núr(i). Il(firin) nair(elma)  

(Of the sea. Our regret is undying)

The Elves at Helms Deep

Visions of Music - Enya and "The Dream of Waking Earth"

Omnem crede diem cride diluxesse supremum
(believe each day that breaks to be your last) -  Enya, Pax Deorum

Music wakes me to story, evoking images and scenes within my mind. I've come to realise this gift is a form of synasthesia, but this knowledge does nothing to dispel my wonder at the beauty of my fantasies, and my sense of "travelling" to strange and wondrous places, within my own mind.

Behold below the story I envisaged when listening to Enya's beautiful "Pax Deorum". The story is strange, and heroic, and the ending mysterious. Alas - when the music ended I saw no more. But stories are never done, and perhaps one day I shall continue it.

The Song of Waking Earth

A wind calls above the School of the Lightgatherers: a cold, wet wind – a winter wind, that yet smells of coming sweet spring rain. With strong fingers of air it rakes the hair-fine needles of the plateau pines, so that the mighty trees toss their proud heads blackly against the night sky. But the high stone walls of the school stand firm, as they will for many years, and the wind spends itself wailing around the crenelated walltop, a wordless prophecy.

A time of change is indeed foretold – for the solstice of winter is past, and all growing things feel the foreboding of spring. Yet darkness still holds the land, and all life is gripped by bitter, blighting cold.

Beneath the meagre shelter of the rocky plateau upon which the School is built, huddles a village, surrounded by a few bare, frostbitten fields and a wide wilderness. Frequently, the inhabitants turn to look longingly toward the east – but the sun has not risen since Tallowtide, and since then, snowclouds have obscured the moon, so that none can measure the turning of the days save by the waning of candles, and notches on the hearth. As it happens every winter, Time itself is frozen in the village, but though they do not know it yet – this bleak time of waiting nears its end. Tonight is the ritual of Lightsummon. Soon, it begins again, in the School of the Lightgatherers.

Tonight, the courtyard of the Lightgatherers is torch-lit and crowded with moving figures; women all – old and young, of all heights, slender and thick-waisted; hooded and cloaked in black velvet. To a watcher on the ground their movements would appear casual – each woman walking, seemingly at whim throughout the courtyard, from end to end, around the perimeter; weaving in and out of the crowd. But if we were to glide on silent wings over the school, like a snow-owl, invisible in the night – the order in the chaos is revealed; an ever-shifting pattern, like a stately dance. No word is spoken, but as the snow in the courtyard is ground to slush by many feet, and the wind blows back the snow clouds, to reveal a sparkling sky of midnight-blue, a song is born.

From the throat of one neither old nor young, of middling height but a strong, wise face it begins – low, and quiet and rhythmic. But soon the song rises above the calling of the wind, for like a candle flame igniting many others, the chant is passed from woman to woman, growing in power until it contains the strength of a multitude. This is the song of Lightsummon; a song of many parts, and many voices. But just as a tapestry may be woven of many threads of varied hue, yet may reveal a glorious and cohesive pattern, so the song contained a mighty spell. They – the Lightgatherers – sang of the waiting of the world, and blowing clouds, and of the pounding heart of the earth that throbs with fiery force under the snow.

And now, from black iron sconces in the wall, the strongest and tallest among the women lift torches and carry them high, in gloved hands. The flames seem to blaze brighter and hotter for their singing, and fierce are the women’s smiles in the flickering light. The other Lightgatherers take warm censers from a brazier, and swing them on fine silver chains. From each moon-like globe emanates a fresh and woody scent that recalls the memory of green and pumping sap. As the sky is blown clear of the last snow-clouds, the heavy doors of the School swing open, and the Lightgatherers stride out into the night, moving swiftly in a double line across the plateau. The song now is powerful as a river, with the chanting of elder voices providing the depth, and the high harmonies of the maidens shifting and beautiful as the play of light on a rushing stream.

From a mighty height, the path from the plateau curves down toward the village. Steep it is, and treacherous, as it has been unevenly eroded by many storms and is covered with loose gravel. But fast and sure as meltwater they descend, the Lightgatherers, and their song is heard long ere they reach the village below.

From the cold stupor of winter the villagers awake, and the inhabitants of every house, from youngest child to wizened grandfather, stand at their windows to watch the Lightgatherers come, and in each hand they grip a scrap of unlit tallow-candle.

When the company of Lightgatherers enters the village, the women’s quick stride slows to a solemn, steady tread, and their song becomes gentler; less fierce and more hopeful. Though they look neither to the right nor left, the singers’ voices wake in the heart of every listener soft memories of sunlight and tender growing things – and the torches and swinging censers create a warm, sweet-scented illusion of spring. As the Lightgatherers pass, each villager lights their candle, so that to a watcher it would seem the singers leave a trail of light that bravely burns even as the company passes out of the village into darkness…

For leave they must, and take an arduous route into the frozen wild. No road is laid to guide their feet, but the uncovered moon reveals a sparse trail of white pebbles leading into the distance. Onward they march – their defiant song swelling again in volume – and they stride unceasing, over crackling frost that glitters in the moonlight like splintered glass, and around deep drifts of snow; up rocky hillsides tufted with dead, cold-blasted grass.

For an long and weary way, their torches are the only lights in the frozen waste, save the cold and distant sky-companions, the stars and the moon, but all at once, sinuous and iridescent flames of green and gold appear in the sky, forming a flickering trail of light. Though the Lightgatherers’ song was powerful before; now it sounds exultant, as if the women’s hearts had been further strengthened by the fire of the sky, and the steady pace increases.

Down at last they venture, following a frozen river into a dark valley, wooded with tall, forbidding pines. This is the valley of Telmoth, wherein few dare to go. The ways of its forest are torturous, of blackness unrelieved by any glimpse of sky – and villagers mutter of fell beasts that roam unchecked and ravenous.

Yet resolute still, into utter dark they march, down into the terrible wood – young and old together. Their torches blaze like embers of the sun, and their song is fierce as fire. Downward and inward is their path, and yet they smile still, for to wake the earth to light again they must pierce dark winter’s heart with voices and with torches – and to summon back the sun they must enter deepest shadow. 

They enter the forest, a singing, shining company. But their light is lost between the vast trunks of trees, and their song fades with distance – till all that can be heard on the Telmoth’s lip, is the sound of wailing winds, and the roaring of the pines.

A Midsummer Night's Imaginings

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sighed for the dawn, and thee.

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Come into the Garden, Maud

Magical Garden by ermzam on deviantart

I thought I'd share with you today a short story I imagined last night, when at first I lay awake with a head buzzing with worries. To calm myself, I did what I love best, which is to imagine myself into another place; to craft a scene of such peace and beauty that I would forget my cares and fall blissfully asleep. It would have worked - except I thought suddenly that I did not want to lose this waking dream, but to write it down instead. So I kept myself awake writing down the visions that I saw, and until I fell asleep at last with the pen still in my hand and my writing book in my bed...

When I woke I told myself to write the story properly, with all the detail I had left untold in my midnight scribblings, but which I could see clearly, gleaming in my mind. So I wrote, and as I described those things I "saw" - I saw many other things and the simple scene grew...

I hope that you enjoy.

Night Garden by Arwen's Grace on deviantart

The Visitor in the Night-Garden

One night in deep midsummer I left my close stone chamber  with the tapestries and furs, and tiny window, and descended spiral stairways to the garden. The ancient stones which formed the steps leading from my room halfway down the tower were grooved with the tread of countless years. These I negotiated carefully, tiptoeing with wavering gait, for they were treacherous in the dark. For support, I kept one hand on the inner wall, the tower's spine, which was intermittently scored by the sword-cuts of an attack on the keep, repelled in the time of my grandfather.

Midway down the stairs, the old steps were replaced with sandstone, softer than the ancient granite, but as yet unmarked by time. When I was but an infant, a great deal of the old stone had been severely damaged by the acid slime of the Terrible Worm and her foul hatchlings when they invaded during the Red Years, and after they were destroyed the pitted rock was quickly replaced. The new stone left tiny grains on the sweat-sticky soles of my feet, as I flitted from the tower through the great hall - deserted save for a boarhound sprawled below the dais with a bone - out into the pleasure-garden.

The pleasure garden was lush and sweet-smelling; tangled and delightful. In the bleak winter it was enclosed within a protective palace of glass, but tonight it was open to the night breezes, which loitered in the pathways, creating rising, swirling eddies of cool air that raised the hairs on my skin and tingled my body with exultant, heart-jumping pleasure. For a time I wandered the labyrinthine paths, white stone laid between thick-planted, exotic beds of maraya, jasmine and summer-roses - lost in waking dreams - and the twining vines reached lovely tendrils over me. 

At every junction of the path there stood a moonwashed fountain of white marble, each a different and fantastic sculpture. The first that I encountered was an ancient hero of my family - my great-grandmother Temara who held the keep against attackers after her son was slain. To me it seemed her petrified image yet retained some of her legendary vitality and courage. 

The next fountain flowed from the snarling maw of a strange and rare beast - a fire leopard, whose coat in life was black as coal and spotted with crimson embers - and the next was of a hooded, faceless god of elder days who stood with palms outstretched and pouring with water. This last image particularly was conducive to strange thoughts, and yet I lingered there awhile, listening to the musical falling of the water, which to me sounded like the gentle notes of a wooden xylophone.

At last I wearied, and followed a moon-bright trail to the secret centre of the garden - a round, hedged enclosure formed by close-planted bushes, with a hidden entrance under branches. Here was the castle's shrine to Hypnos, god of sleep - a stone wall carved with prayers and covered in ivy. Within its gentle curve sheltered a white bed of smooth, painted metal, whose bedposts rose to form an arched canopy, meeting at a graceful point at the top. At the head and at the foot of the bed grew a tree of white wisteria, whose flowers hung in clusters like dripping, sweet-smelling stalactites over the sleeper, while on either side of the trees, the dark green foliage of blossom-starred maraya filled any gaps.

White wisteria

To that leafy bower I hastened, and on that bed I laid myself, under soft white sheets of fine cotton and the furry weave of poplar-felt. I lay awhile listening to the shrill, quiet scritterings of nocturnal insects in the bushes, and the occasional call of a night-bird. Beyond the secret garden I could hear the gentle soothing music of the fountains, and thus gradually, I sank into a state of deep calm.

And then it seemed to me that another entered the secret garden, on quiet feet - a tall man with a face fair and pale as moonlight, and hair as dark as shadows. He was black-clad, and he wore a cloak of dark gauze which flowed behind him, as though constantly stirred by night winds.   

The hedges parted before him without a rustle, and soft-shod he strode the white path through the secret garden. Some distance from my bed he stopped, and turned his face up to the moon. Wild then he looked, and beautiful, but though he was so strange I felt no fear. He began to sing, and his song was the ebbing of the sun and the spreading of shadow, the cool relief of night and the mystery of darkness. And it seemed to me that the sounds of the insects and the birds; the winds, the waters and the rustlings in the leaves - blended in his song and added to it. The song swelled deeply like a pool of sweet water - and all at once I heard a high and cold refrain, as though the stars themselves had joined in chorus to the melody. 

After a time, the man stopped singing, but it seemed his voice continued in all things and everywhere. Now he walked closer, until he stood between me and the moon, and his shadow fell across my bed. But the calmness in me was deep, and instead of fear I felt only peace and a great wonder.

Now he spoke in a low tone - and it seemed he spoke to me, and only me - but his words were strange, though I thought I understood the tone. At first he spoke rapidly and with passion, but then his words slowed and it seemed he mused aloud. Drifting, I listened, for it seemed he spoke of a mystery I desired much to know, but could not understand.

At last he knelt beside my head and gazed with darkening eyes upon my face. Fain I would I have met his gaze - but with the stirring of his breath against my cheek my eyes closed of themselves. I thought he sighed... then knew no more till morning.

And in the morning - what happened? Ah - that is a story for another night... 

Tolkien and the Elvish Muse

...themselves they named the Quendi, whom we call Elves; but Orome named them in their own tongue Eldar, people of the stars, and that name has since been borne by all that followed him upon the western road.. In the beginning they were stronger and greater than they have since become; but not more fair, for though the beauty of the Quendi in the days of their youth was beyond all other beauty that Iluvatar has caused to be, it has not perished...                                                        - The Silmarillion, J. R. R. Tolkien

Elf Fantastic by John Howe

Whosoever rejoices in the exploration of fantastic and beautiful "secondary worlds" will surely appreciate any "extra" information to add further depth to their immersion. At least, such is the case with me. After recent and delightfully immersive experience watching the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy on one day, and two days later watching The Hobbit (both times dressed in elf-attire) I avidly sought out Tolkien's other volumes on Middle Earth - revisiting the Silmarillion and reading Morgoth's Ring for the first time. 

This picture makes me think of the maiar, or lesser-spirits of Arda - many of whom were helpers of Yavanna, goddess of all living things, and were wondrous in beauty .

Perhaps I had previously been too young to appreciate them properly, but I was struck, as never before, by the wondrous richness of Tolkien's world, and the incredible mythological tapestry he created upon which to weave his tales. For to the lover of myth and great legends like those of King Arthur, the Mahabharata and the Odyssey, the Silmarillion is infinitely fascinating, dealing with the Music of the Ainur and the creation of Arda in the Valaquenta, and in the Quenta Silmarillion the epic exploits of the Elves before the Third Age.  

Morgoth's Ring, cover art John Howe

Morgoth's Ring is composed mainly of notes and various drafts for the Silmarillion: interesting as it reveals the workings of Tolkien's mind and the process of "secondary" creation. But most intriguing of all is the essay "Laws and Customs among the Eldar", which reveals much about the nature and behaviour of the Elves, including marriage customs, naming traditions and the relation of the soul (fea) to the body (hroa). 

Luthien's Lament before Mandos, in the halls of the dead

The immortality of the Elves lies in their fea being "bound" to Arda (the world) until the End of Days, but their bodies can be slain, albeit with difficulty. The souls do not depart the world, but travel to the Hall of Mandos (lord of the Dead) in Valinor - the place to which the Elves depart at the end of The Lord of the Rings. There they are "corrected, instructed, strengthened or comforted, according to their needs or deserts" by the Valar, the gods who reside in Arda, before being reborn in an identical body and enjoying a second childhood sweetened by the intelligence and memory of the first life. After their rebirth however, most Elves do not return to Middle Earth, but stay forevermore in the West, in blessed Valinor.

The Grey Havens, by John Howe

Of the Elves who do not die, and who do not take the white ships into the West - Tolkien writes most poignantly. These are the Lingerers - whose souls, as they remain for long Ages of the world, gradually consume their bodies, until "the body becomes at last a mere memory held by the fea". After the passing of their kindred, these last elves of Middle Earth become invisible to mortal eyes...

However...

"[The Lingerers] do not seek converse with Men at all, save maybe rarely, either for the doing of some good, or because they believe in a Man's spirit some love of things ancient and fair. Then they may reveal to him their forms (through his mind working outwardly, maybe), and he will behold them in their beauty. Of such he may have no fear, though he may feel awe of them... For the hearts of true Men uprise in joy to behold the true likenesses of the First-born, their elder kindred; and this joy no evil can counterfeit."

What is this? For those of us who mourned the passing of the Elves from Middle Earth, or feel sorrow at the loss of magic from the world - Tolkien provides relief. For those of us who feel the beauty of the Elves like shining stars in the heart, and long for them - for us who feel "love of things ancient and fair" - an inspirational fancy. In his creation, the Elves are the muses of art, poetry, music and writing - thus in our mortal makings we reveal their forms... 

I feel the mythic truth of this. I see the high, ethereal beauty of the Elves in art...

In sculpture...

...and in architecture...

I hear their voices in music...

Enya - Aldebaran

Libera - Jubilate Deo

In Nature and in fantasy I feel their presence.

Ancient Voices, by Rob Alexander

In all beauty around me are evidence of the Lingerers. Thus the worlds of Middle Earth and our own world are brought, beautifully, together.