The Force that no one stops.
The past brought it to dry up,
the presence summoned it again,
and so the future was lost.
The Force that no one stops.
Rhovanion, Mirkwood, Dark Elf Abode, Summer TA 2998
The anticipation rushed through Thangrineth, intoxicated her.
Everything in her urged to grasp after the brush, to sink the bristles into the color and to let intuition lead her hand.
But she could not yet begin.
She made a quick step backwards, away from the canvas and looked at the somber priming. Without a gap and evenly it covered the fine-pored fabric and was ready. ready that she created something unique upon it.
Thangrineth poured herself a glass of red wine, sipped from it and placed it aside. As much as she loved it and usually drank from it when she painted, it was not to her liking today. She was too excited.
»Magnificent«, she whispered with gleaming eyes and brought the shaking hands tightly together, to not grasp after the brush after all.
Loud clapping echoed through the high room with the tall windows, through which fell the sun-light; the glass was dyed in a light blue. Ventilation dampers let fresh air inside. Along the walls of the room stood five steps high shelves, full of glasses in different sizes, filled with liquid and solid ingredients, pigments, colors and mixtures, which she needed to paint. All of them were precious, some extremely rare and a few invaluable. Only with the help of a long ladder that could be moved around on small wheels, the uppermost shelves could be reached.
Thangrineth prowled around the canvas with her head held high, impatience and the zest for action drove her. The wide, dark red garments with the black and white embroidery on it moved fluently, alike to the surface of a lake. Here and there could color spots be seen, some older, some fresh. Witnesses to her creations.
She had bound the long black hair to a braid, so that it would not come into touch with the color on the pallet or the picture by accident. That emphasized her slender, beautiful face with the high cheekbones even more; the ears were leaf-shaped and showed that her beauty was not of mortal nature.
Thangrineth stepped before the window and opened the wings. The faltering sun-light fell inside, unto the canvas and upon her and the blue of her eyes acquired a darksome glimmer. Deeply, she breathed in the incoming air.
The winds grant me their blessing, she thought and felt the reviving east-wind on her face. The light gust carried the smell of fresh flowers with it; solitary white blossoms whirled into the room and descended unto the dark stone-floor.
It knocked against the entrance door. »The Winds are with you«, she heard the voice of an Elf say. »It came from the East, where our kind was born to strengthen your inspiration.«
Thangrineth turned around and bowed her head before the red-haired Dark Elf who stood upon her threshold; a black brownish mantle concealed his attire. »I thank you that you support my painting with your own talents, Helothór. It will be your doing that will form it into something unique.«
Helothór stepped into the room, two younger Elves clothed in simple grey followed him. They were younglings that were appointed to a master in order to learn from him. That was the usual custom in the Dark Elf conclave, where knowledge was one of the highest good that one could possess. It would ensure their all survival.
One of the two took the mantle of Helothór so that his black silken garments with the dark red seams came into vision. The other carried a large bag and set it down, on a sign of Thangrineth, next to an armchair. Then Helothór send the younglings out and seated himself. Attentively he was looking at his host, the arms leisurely folded on his stomach. »You are certain that you wish this, Thangrineth?«
»Desperately«, it came without hesitation over her lips. »I am eager to experience, what happens when I combine my zest for creation with the tones of a spell-flute.«
»Well, that cannot even I predict. Every Elf perceives it differently.« Helothór focused the green eyes on Thangrineth, whom he examined with checking looks. »You could fall into trance and stand as unmoving as a mountain. You could be filled by the wish to jump through the window and fall into the depths. Or you will thirst for blood.« The musician looked at the canvas. »That you will complete a picture in this state is one possibility of many.«
»Do it, Helothór!«, Thangrineth urged in a mixture of pleading, ordering and longing. She was aware of her impoliteness, but could not help herself. She wanted to create this work that would outdo every picture drawn before her. Everyone should see that she was not only an exceptional warrior, but also an incomparable artist. »Do it«, she added softer and hurried to the canvas.
A single color would touch the fabric, just a single one! But especially would complete the perfection. Complete and matchless. Carefully she removed the lid and saw the dark yellow shine. Thangrineth shuddered, grasped a thick brush and looked expecting and impatiently at the same time at the musician.
Helothór had opened the suitcase and taken his instrument. The corpus was made from the purest of silver. Valves sat on it, over thin strings at times connected with one another. Different drillings had been brought into the shining metal. The Elf took further parts out of the bag, metallic ones, glass one and placed them under quiet murmuring into each other; finally did Helothór pour a clear, gleaming liquid into a bellied glass vessel and fine-tuned it against one end of the corpus.
Even though Thangrineth followed every step that the musician undertook, she did realize how exact the parts were intertwining. Without a century long study could no Elf, especially no other being play on this instrument. The liquid, so it was said, was the star-blessed water that could only be acquired through months of ceremony and the elvish art of enchanting. Through the swinging tones they would unfold their powers and affect the mind of the listener.
»Receive the driving power of our kin and creation itself, Thangrineth«, he whispered and set the lips unto the instrument. Softly his finger-tips were laid on the flaps.
Helothór blew slightly into it and a shrill tone begun. The liquid seethed cautiously, then ever stronger, as if it was being boiled. Steam rose up, that Thangrineth could see in the glass elements. Through Helothór there seemed to be multiple streams of air at once to rush through the instrument, conjuring high, unfitting tones at the same time.
Thangrineth's fine hair on her neck rose up and a gleaming pain stung her behind her eyes, blinded her. Gasping, she withstood the agony. Suddenly the tones changed and became a wondrous melody.
Energy rushed through her body, send from her head and she saw her fingers illuminated by a faint blue. The east-wind caressed her face and whispered the inspiration that she required.
Thangrineth saw herself, how she sunk the brush into the vessel, let the bristles fill themselves with color and led the hand there where it seemed fitting. The divine was leading her, her soul and the east-wind to the otherworldly tune.
Slowly, the fine tip of the thick, puffy brush was gliding over the canvas and left on the somber priming a dark yellow, straight line that became thin and thinner. Thangrineth heard the quiet, rubbing sound with which the rest of the color was brought upon the fabric.
The color was alike to a mixture of an oily gold with just a breath of blackness; it shimmered metallic, and yet there seemed to be life in this exceptional dark yellow. Liquid turned liveliness with a menacing power of illumination.
The hair flickered in a spirited movement to the right and then were suddenly drawn down. The line had become weaker and ended abruptly. Incomplete!
But Thangrineth knew what her work was missing still.
She saw it finished before her and heard already, how her name was called out for it in envy, in highest recognition and amazement.
The tip of the brush levitated over the glass vessel, was moved inside and was retracted. Only a vanishing little reminder of the color was sticking to it.
To little! Thangrineth's harmonic state received a rift, a gaping wound, through which her inspiration was flowing and was gone. To little! Now her picture was endangered. »Inúr!« rung her call out to the half-opened door.
To her own amazement followed her soul her voice, as if she hurled it away from her, while her body remained before the canvas.
Her call flew through the hall-way, where upon stone walls hung paintings of somber beauty and rushed through the artful carved wood of a double-winged portal that described a battle-scene.
Further she did not see.
The right half of the portal was opened. A tall-grown young woman in a tight dark-grey dress hurried through it and to the chamber where she usually painted her pictures.
Her soul followed her, flew around her.
She was a mortal woman of the race of Man and after their standard unnatural beautiful. Even the Elves had to acknowledge that and admit that she could almost measure herself with the most beautiful of their undying race. But in the blue eyes of the woman stood tears and the black hair waved after her like a funeral veil. Around her throat lay the leather slave-band with three filigree silver buckles, that throttled her so far that she could only breathe with hardship. Eating and drinking she was only allowed when directly addressed.
Inúr reached the half-opened door, through which fell light into the hall-way and behind which her mistress was. She knocked against it, that she would be allowed to enter the chamber. Would she do so without permission, so would it mean her death. Thangrineth and her brother Achastelion had charged her on that especially. Inúr's predecessor had paid his life due to a such a thoughtlessness, after he had served half a life of Man. The Dark Elf twins did not forgive Man anything.
Fascinating found the Elf, that her current angle of view told her more about Inúr: The tone of her call had warned her of her discontent and that afflicted and saddened the young woman at the same time.
The music in the chamber had ended. Helothór had stopped to play, as he had noticed that something was not going after the host's wishes.
Something pulled Thangrineth's soul through the door and forced her back into her body. The soul journey had come to an end without that she could have finished her painting. And it was Inúr's fault!
»Come«, she ordered her with a soft voice to nurse her with false safety. She would not show her anger. Not yet.
Shaking the young woman opened the door, lowered her eyes and stepped over the threshold. She was not allowed to look at the Dark Elf. Not without permission.
»Milady, how can I serve?«
»Inúr, I had told you that you should inform me when the supply of the Dimgold-yellow goes nigh its end«, she said kindly and fed upon her growing fear. It certainly became cold about her. She had made a mistake and she was too friendly to her. She had to think that her fate was now sealed.
Trembling, she shut her eyes. »Kill me swiftly, milady«, she pleaded and bit down unto her lower lip to repress the sobbing. »The ancestors of my people will hopefully receive me mercifully.«
»The Dimgold-yellow, Inúr.« Thangrineth felt still intoxicated. Even though her soul was no longer levitating, her mind still did. She smelled Inúr's fear like a sweet, beguiling scent.
»My omission, milady.« She threw herself down to the ground before her. »I held the glass filled to a third. My eyes have deceived me, milady.«
Thangrineth moved up to her. One never heard an Elf, when it was not wished, one of many wonderful attributes of her people. Her slender, almost scrawny hand reached below Inúr's chin and raised her head. »Look at me.« The eyes of the young woman were gliding inevitably over the form of the Dark Elf. »On your knees, Inúr.« She pushed her head further up, so that she had to look at her face; the black leather band around the neck was crunching.
Inúr was robbed of any speech. Thangrineth knew: The beauty of Elves and especially her own filled the young woman with joy, which covered the fear for but a swift moment. That was the reason why she had entered serfdom by her own will.
The Dark Elf looked at her reprimanding, the eyes perceived every detail. No one possessed a more pretty slave than her. To kill her would have been a waste. But still she had receive a punishment, one that hit her and let her suffer. Bodily and spiritually.
»You know that his yellow can only be obtained under great effort and danger. I wanted to complete my painting today. For that I called for Helothór, who came from afar to raise me and to complete with me a master piece like no one else ever created.« Still lay her fingers on the chin of the young woman. Her neat finger-nails surely hurt her skin. »That I will not be able to do anymore. Because of you.«
»My negligence is unforgivable, milady«, she answered with a broken voice.
It was not feigned what she said. Thangrineth knew how terrible she felt, to be a traitor against the art of her lady. She granted her a short look past her unto the unfinished picture.
Inúr shuddered. »What otherworldly art - and undone through my omission!« She gulped with some hardship to dampen her throat, while she lost another tear. Tears of shame, not of fear.
»Inúr, I was ever pleased with your services«, Thangrineth said with honest disappointment. »I never had a slave before you who was so loyal and eager to serve me and my brother. For that reason«, the slim fingers gave her free, »you will live.«
»Milady!«, the young woman called out of aghast joy and sank before the knees of the Dark Elf, kissed the seam of the garments and the tips of the boots. »Never again will I be inattentive!«
Thangrineth touched her shoulder and she looked thankful up to her. Then she was horrified, as she saw in the right hand of the Elf a slim dagger. Her terror was to Thangrineth's delight.
»You said your eyes would have deceived you?«
»Yes, milady.«
»Then I will only punish them, for the rest of you, Inúr, is innocent and will further serve me well.« With the left hand, she held the black hair of the woman. Quick as lightning the right stung two times down and destroyed the eyes, before Inúr could have had the chance to blink.
The young woman cried out, but she did not move and accepted the punishment. Clear liquid and blood ran down her cheeks, followed the trails of the tears.
Thangrineth breathed deeply in and felt a note of satisfaction. She let go of the full black hair and wiped her dagger clean on them, before she sheathed it again. »I expect, that very soon you will be able to move through my house, so as if you could still see«, she spoke and loosened the middle buckle of the band. »Go to Fredú and let yourself be cared for. Today, you will be freed of all your duties. Do you see my kindness?«
»Yes, milady«, she cried and pressed the hands before the cut eyes.
»Prove to me that you deserved it, despite your mistake. Now out with you!«
The young woman got up, sought uncertain about and groaned while doing so of pain. She needed long, until she had found the exit.
»Would she have been my slave«, Thangrineth heard Helothór say behind her, »she would have fallen victim to my blade.«
Thangrineth turned around to him. The musician had disassembled the instrument and placed back into the suitcase. He stood next to the armchair.
»Would she have been a usual slave, she would have undone her life and not even be allowed to sully my blade with her blood«, answered the Dark Elf to her kinsman. »But she is one of the tribes of Mirkwood and loyal to me. Her suffering delights me more than her death.«
»You think, she will forgive you this deed?«
»She thinks, it is her own fault«, Thangrineth corrected him with a smile. »I have forgiven her.« Then she laughed. »I do not need to understand her, Helothór. She shall just serve me.«
The musician did not answer and called for his pupils. »And I do not need to understand you, Thangrineth. You shall just pay me. Please send the agreed upon price to my house.«
»That I will do. My thanks for your services, and let it be said, that they are utterly exceptional. A great experience, that I would like to repeat by the next picture.« She away from him and moved through the room to another door. »Now excuse me, I must obtain new color.«
Inúr stumbled the hall-way along to the quarters of the slaves, to let herself be aided. The pain seemed to sink through her eyes into her head, her legs became weaker.
»Fredú?«, she cried in agony, as she had closed the portal behind her. »Fredú?«
»Yes, Inúr?«, she heard the woman say and instantly breathe sharply and frightened in. She was a woman of the Riddermark and a lot older than Inúr. »My Goodness! By Béma!«
»Our lady was merciful to me, I would have deserved death«, she replied instantly to defend the deed. Then she felt how she was grabbed by the arm and pulled along. »She sends me that I may be helped and cared for by you.« Fredú led her to a bench, as the legs could no longer support the young woman.
»The Dark Elves do not know mercy, Inúr. Especially not Thangrineth. Everything what they do or not do happens out of malevolence.« Something rustled , glass clashed, then it gurgled. »I will put knotweed soaked cotton balls onto your eyes. That will prevent an infection. Be careful, it burns.«
As the acidic juice touched the wounds, Inúr cried out what raging pain and emotions were within her. Fredú bound a cloth around her head and before her eyes to fixate the cotton balls.
Despite the pain was Inúr glad to be still alive. She was further allowed to serve the twins, whom she had followed by her own will, after she had seen them paint nigh her home village. The piece of art that the siblings had created together on the fabric had taken her in a magical way and had not given her free again. The same effect had their elegance on her.
»What did you do?«, did Fredú ask her.
»I have ruined her picture. She did not have enough color.« She thought of the canvas, of the magnificent what she had been allowed to see. Thangrineth possessed a very lively manner to paint, her temperament got at times the better of her. At some time she cursed or she laughed, sometimes she hurled the pallet, if the work was not to her liking or something did not go as she had wanted. More than once, she had destroyed pictures that she had long worked for.
Inúr found everything what the Dark Elf twins had brought unto wood, parchment or canvas, almost completely. She took up the remains of the destroyed pieces and hoarded and warded them like a pile of treasure hidden in her little chamber.
»Because of a missing color she is taking your sight?« Fredú spit out unto the ground. »And you do not hate her for that?«
»No. How could I? It was my fault.« Suddenly, she became aware how felon the punishment had truly been for her: Never again would Inúr look upon the incomparable beauty of the twins and their art!
Grief-stricken did she fall to her sobbing.
