-Ilarion-
I couldn't resist the sigh that escaped my lips; a small vapor was visible due to the glacial cold. A few hours from our location stretched the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë; it was no wonder the cold reached even these places. At least we had to be thankful it didn't reach the extreme of freezing us entirely, otherwise many of my kin would have succumbed to hypothermia or the deadly ice.
"A desolate, deathly wasteland, don't you think?"
The melodious voice of my dear cousin tore me from my thoughts. With the grace of an angel, Galadriel approached. Her hair, still touched by the radiance of the Two Trees, enhanced her Vanyar beauty. Honestly, were it not for the fact that she was my cousin, I never would have thought she belonged among the Noldor.
And how could I, when most of us bore hair black as night, with subtle starlight gleams that danced like streamers: a legacy of the last brilliance of the Sacred Trees.
"It is," I replied. "But, despite the loss of the light of both Trees, we can still see clearly. Hasn't that made you curious?"
My curiosity was genuine. We didn't see that clearly, but we could still distinguish shapes at a certain distance. Perhaps some Elvish trait?
Galadriel, for a moment, stood still and frowned slightly. How is it that every action she takes exudes elegance and beauty?
"I ignore it, dear cousin," she said after a sigh. "Perhaps some trait of our own? The truth is I have never stopped to think about it; with everything that has happened to us in such a short time, my thoughts wander to other things."
In that sense, she was right. We had been through many ups and downs in such a short time; our only thought should be how to survive and escape Valinor.
I never would have imagined the fate of the Noldor would be so cruel: from the first blood shed in Valinor to being killed by Ulmo.
Now I understood why no Noldor are mentioned in the War of the Ring; it is probable that all of them died, and that only Galadriel survived.
Lost in my thoughts, I failed to notice two bright points rising from Valmar: like burning comets, they launched themselves into the starlit sky of Varda.
...
-Váli-mà (Valmar)-
The Valar were disconcerted. In such a short time, too many calamities had struck them: the destruction of the Trees, the flight of Morgoth with the Spider, the rebellion of the Noldor, and now, the massacre at Alqualondë.
Light barely existed; only the stars and the remnants of the Trees' brilliance allowed vision, fighting against the dense darkness that constantly tried to devour every trace of clarity.
The thick, somber mist was held back by the winds of Manwë; thanks to them, the world had not completely fallen into shadow.
The Lord of the Winds sat on his throne, meditating sadly: he thought of Fëanor, his sons, and the wasted greatness.
It was well known that Finwë's son had been the most powerful among the Elves, the most skillful; one who could have gone very far, had he not fallen into the path of pride and vengeance.
And now only a legacy of blood remained. The youngest of Fëanor's sons had the potential to surpass his father, but that power would be lost by following him in his madness and abandoning Valinor.
Even Manwë did not know what his destiny would be: whether his brilliance would fade or if, on the contrary, it would grow stronger.
The Vala sighed and ceased his compassion. He stopped meditating and, looking at his siblings—who were steeped in their own sorrow—he stood up and spoke:
"We must do something," he said, drawing the attention of all the Valar and Maiar present. "The light of the Silmarils is no longer an option... but the world must not remain in this darkness. We need light, no matter what!"
Yavanna, the most grieved of all, nodded sadly. Since Morgoth's betrayal, she and her husband Aulë had tried to restore life to Telperion and Laurelin, her beloved children.
She had sung to their roots, shed tears and blood upon their trunks... but the light never returned.
However, she had achieved something small: from Telperion sprouted a last silver flower in the shadow of its dead trunk; and from Laurelin fell a golden fruit from its agonizing branches.
When Yavanna gathered them, the battered and dry Trees disintegrated completely, turning to dust.
Aulë then set to work, and in his forge, he created an object to keep safe the last gifts the Trees had left them.
Now Yavanna, with reservation, showed them to everyone.
From her neat green robe, she took out both gifts from her dear children. She feared losing the last vestige of such a beautiful creation, but Manwë's words had reminded her that she must share that discovery with everyone.
The Valar watched solemnly.
Manwë, with a ray of hope in his eyes, approached and extended his hands over the gifts.
"They shall be consecrated by me," he said, to everyone's surprise. "They will not have the glory of the Trees, but they will illuminate the world."
Then, turning to his brother, he continued:
"Brother, can you adapt your creation so that it may fly?"
"I will try," replied the Master Smith, taking both gifts from his wife's hands.
Thus it was that, while the Noldor were still rescuing their kin from the sea, the Valar gathered, giving their gifts and working with purpose.
Aulë, with the help of his siblings, quickly forged two carriers: a floating silver island for the flower of Telperion, and a chariot of fire for the fruit of Laurelin.
Both creations were blessed: by the winds of Manwë, by Yavanna's love for life, and by the divine touch of Varda, ensuring that their light reached every corner of the world.
Manwë contemplated both gifts with deep concentration.
"Not only Valinor must see this light," he proclaimed. "The Noldor who have departed also deserve to behold it, for not all were guilty."
And with his arms outstretched, he declared:
"May both illuminate the entire world! And furthermore: may their light be a thorn in Morgoth's side, a reminder that the Valar have not forgotten his betrayal."
But Varda, the wisest among the Valier, knew the danger Morgoth posed.
Approaching her husband, she laid her delicate hand upon Manwë's and spoke to him gently:
"It is not enough to send this light into the sky, Manwë. Morgoth has always destroyed that which has shone against him. Remember: he did it with the Lamps, and also with the Trees. I am sure he will try again. If we wish this light to endure, we must have someone protect it."
Varda's concern fell like cold water upon the Valar.
A bitter silence settled over them; it did not seem like a decision, but a sacrifice.
Two among them had to renounce everything they had been: the freedom of their existence, the joy of inhabiting the world with their kin. Two had to lose everything forever, with no reward, if they wished to sustain those lights in the sky and ensure that, this time, they would endure.
The Valar did not ask for volunteers for such a sentence. But, as the silence grew denser, a clear voice broke it:
"I will do it," said Arien, the Maia of fire and a follower of Aulë. She did not fear renouncing everything, nor did she fear the fire of Laurelin, for fire had been part of her being since her origin.
By her side, Tilion, a Maia follower of Oromë, with a wandering and nostalgic heart, who had secretly loved Arien all along, spoke firmly:
"If she goes, I will follow her."
Varda looked at Tilion. For a moment, a spark of appreciation shone in her eyes, for only she knew the love that this Maia professed for Aulë's follower. He had even once sought her counsel.
"You both will follow an immutable path," said Varda. "You will always travel in turns, from east to west; you will cross the skies and return beneath the world to begin again. One shall go out first, and then the other. Are you sure of this?"
"Yes... yes," they both answered in unison.
With the confirmation of the two Maiar, it was arranged that, when Aulë completed his labor, Tilion would guide the silver flower.
Its light would be faint, so the world could still contemplate the stars, and so as not to disturb the rest of the beings dwelling beneath it.
As for Arien, she would carry the golden fruit in her chariot of fire: the one that would shine with true strength, marking the start of the day and the world's labors.
Finally, Manwë looked at Yavanna.
"As the mother of the Trees," he said, "it is your duty to name the last gifts of your children."
The Valier nodded. With love and nostalgia, she approached the final vestiges of her beloved Trees and, in the presence of everyone, named them:
"They shall be called Sun and Moon."