-General-
Such glimmers in the depths of the abyss were unknown to the curious people gathering outside Moria.
Men of Rhovanion, who were transporting goods through the forest in the company of some Elves, had joined the crowd. Great was their surprise to find most of the Elves kneeling, praying in their soft, ancient tongue. And it was no wonder, for the starry sky was shining with an unusual fervor.
"What is happening?" one of the men asked his companions, who shook their heads; they didn't understand what was going on either.
One of them, gathering his courage, approached an Elf whose closed eyes further accentuated her beauty. He planned to interrupt her prayer to ask, but a firm yet delicate hand stopped him.
Glorfindel, with a serene face, motioned for silence.
"Do not interrupt her," he said in a low voice. "It would be an extremely discourteous gesture."
He then looked up again with emotion at the stellar phenomenon.
"Excuse me, my lord," the man whispered, bowing his head as if afraid to break the silence. "But curiosity consumes me: who are they praying to? And why are the stars burning like that?"
Glorfindel smiled with the calm of the ages. He had always loved Men: their curiosity was a bright fire, but also an edge that could wound them. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but every word weighed like a stone in the water:
"The Star-Lady has descended into the depths of Moria. That is why the stars sing and dance: their mother is near."
The man tilted his head like a confused dog. He hadn't understood a single word. Valar? Star-Ladies? To him, they were just tavern rumors. He was a peasant, a mule-driver, not a scholar. And, out of courtesy, he swallowed his questions. He took a step back and returned to his group.
"Quick, what did he tell you?" the leader asked, his eyes shining with anticipation.
The man shook his head, shrugging.
"Something about a Star-Lady, and that's why the stars are behaving like this…" he replied, disconcerting the others. They looked at each other, confused.
'Who was the Star-Lady?'
"Are you empty-headed children?" a playful voice rang out, like a mischievous song.
The men looked up. Among the branches, Tom Bombadil was swaying like a monkey, laughing to himself.
"Oh, yes… they are, I see it on their faces," he chirped, nodding with exaggeration. Then he pointed at them with a naughty finger.
"Children, children… let Bombadil teach you a little history."
-Moria-
Our beloved Grey Wizard was running like a river in the rainy season, relentlessly pursuing the Balrog, whose reddish glow was easy to follow. Neither of them could stop: if they did, they would be devoured by the multitude of nameless creatures that were harassing them.
Although Aldril, with the power of Varda, had dealt with most of them, some smaller ones managed to slip away. To say that the quality of the names and souls of Gandalf and the Balrog attracted their attention is an understatement. Like hungry dogs, they began the hunt.
Then came a fleeting glow, like the explosion of a sun in the gloom. The nameless creatures screamed with voices that were not human and then fell silent, reduced to ashes by the searing heat.
But the light did not stop. It was not a passing flash: it was something greater, more vast. Wherever it passed, the tunnels opened as if the rock itself was retreating before it.
And what was that light?
We must go back a couple of hours, to when Aldril answered the call of the Silmaril. Even surrounded by colossal beasts, he advanced calmly, like someone walking among already vanquished shadows. Varda's light escorted him, weaving an ethereal halo that drove away anyone who tried to approach.
"It keeps calling you," Varda whispered in his ear.
Her voice, ethereal and soft, cleared Aldril's mind of all manipulation from the abominations. Because of this, even surrounded by beings that escaped comprehension, he remained firm, without falling into the madness that would have consumed anyone else.
With firm hands, Aldril bent down. He took the gem as if he were holding a living heart. Upon contact, the stone awoke: the silver and gold lights soared around him, dancing like two snakes of fire. They wrapped around his body with a gentle warmth, and then flew toward Varda, surrounding her with joy, like children returning to their mother's lap.
"They were forged by the hands of the most skilled of the Noldor," Varda whispered, her voice both a song and an echo. "In them pulse the last vestiges of my sister's work. Immense, locked, and dormant power, which only pure hands can hold."
The goddess looked at him with solemn tenderness.
"Today, once more, someone worthy rises. Go, son of Túrin, great-grandson of Eärendil! Show what those who bear such a precious gem are capable of!"
Aldril raised the Silmaril over his brow. The gem responded, and its radiance descended like a tide of fire, filling the abyss to the last crack. Wherever it reached, the creatures screamed… and then nothing was left of them but ash in the air.
Not even Fëanor ever knew it. The Silmarils were more than a craftsman's work: they carried within them the imprint of Eru himself. It is said that everything that happens is written in his design, but sometimes—very rarely—his eyes turn toward Creation. And when they did, in that instant, the Silmarils were born. That is why they burn with a brilliance that can destroy the nameless creatures.
The event made the earth tremble, giving way under the gem's pressure. In the middle of the chaos, Aldril, with Varda at his back, remained steadfast. The falling rocks disintegrated upon brushing his aura.
Aldril took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He hadn't spoken, lost in his trance, but a fervent emotion shone in his eyes: an obsession was being born.
It was intoxicating to possess such strength. He understood the limits he could aspire to and knew he would pursue them. He would no longer be content with his current power; he would train day and night until he reached that pinnacle again. He knew his state was temporary, so he took the moment to feel it fully.
"Time is running out, my little star," Varda whispered, tenderly stroking his cheek. "We cannot remain any longer. Your body is starting to give way, and your trial is coming to an end. Think about it, my son: embrace immortality or let the insistence of time lead you to the sleep of Mandos. Whatever your choice… I will be there. I will not abandon you."
Varda's divine body began to fade; her silhouette, once firm, was blurring. She would return, but she would not stop watching him. With a loving gaze, like a mother's toward her child, she bent down and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.
"Before I leave, this is your mother's message," she said: "Grow strong, my precious child. I will be with you soon. I hope that, upon my arrival, you will fill me with your stories, and I long to see you happy, surrounded by many children."
Aldril smiled wryly. Those who knew his mother had described her character, and these words only confirmed the idea he had of her. With joy on his face, he looked at Varda.
"If you allow me, Lady Varda, please give this gift to my mother," he said, stepping toward her with familiarity.
From his storage ring, he took out a precious necklace, carved by the Dwarves of Erebor. The material came from the exceptionally special Sakura tree. Hanging from it was a pendant with a portrait: Aldril embracing his mother. He had asked the Elves of Rivendell, famous for their art, to paint the image of the two of them sharing that hug, enjoying each other's company.
"Please tell her that I miss her and long for the day to meet her, for it is my greatest wish."
**
I took some time off from this fic, sorry, but we're back! Remember to support me with power stones, hugs to all of you, filthy orcs.
What did you think of the Arch of Moria? I'll read them.