The she-elf’s manner caught Dragonborn’s attention in turn, and he could not help but ask, “Fena, do you know aught of magic?” Our cook roused herself from her reverie, glanced idly at the breakfast, nearly finished, though it had been enough for ten elves, and said, “Why do you ask?” “Well…” Dragonborn set down his knife and fork, pushed the great platter away, wiped his mouth with a silk cloth, and looked thoroughly sated.
He struggled to gather the words in his mind, doing his best to use Sindarin she could understand.
“You know the lord summoned me to the council chamber, and there I beheld a wizard!” He tapped his head as if to say the memory was far from pleasant, and the she-elf could not help but smile.
Yet her expression soon grew serious.
“He cast a spell upon me, and I grew muddled, as if the secrets of my heart were being laid bare…” The Dragonborn’s golden, slit-pupiled eyes betrayed neither joy nor sorrow.
“I liked it not.
So I gave a great shout; that roar you all heard.
Nay, ask me not.
I know not why my cry was so loud.” He looked at the she-cook, shrugged, and grunted.
Fena reluctantly shut her mouth.
Seeing she would press no further, the Dragonborn continued, “So I wish to ask you: do all elves know magic?” Though his grammar and wording were riddled with errors and made-up words, after much rambling, the she-cook managed to glean the gist of it.
She spoke, her voice as fair and melodious as a nightingale’s song.
“Magic?
Why do you wish to know of this?” “Because.” Dragonborn hid nothing.
“I wish to learn it as well.
Ha, look you: wizards can assail their foes with wind, storm, lightning, and mind-blasts, while hiding themselves away.
The enemy cannot find them, left to flounder like a bewildered moth blundering in circles.
Is that not… wondrous?” Fena listened carefully, straining to parse his words (the Dragonborn’s vocabulary was a tangled mess), then shook her head.
“Nay.
Magic is not as you imagine.” The she-elf earnestly explained the way of the world: “Wizards may possess many mighty and wondrous arts, but they cannot wield such power without restraint.
For every life and existence in this world is a creation of the great Eru.
To use magic wantonly, destroying the lives that Eru has made, is something Eru and the Valar do not permit.
The power of magic is a gift and a privilege bestowed upon the Istari by Eru and the Valar, a burden and a charge.
The Istari were given great power, but with the price that they must guide and protect the peoples of Middle-earth from darkness.
If they forsake that high purpose, their strength will wane over time and fade…” All this poured over the Dragonborn, some of it understood, much of it not, leaving him more bewildered than before.
“So…” He felt his mind falter under the flood of words.
Clinging to his last shred of reason, he asked, “Elves do not know magic?” The she-cook glared at him, vexed that he had absorbed nothing.
“If you mean those crackling, flashy tricks, then no!” She gathered the tableware, strode to a great basin, and began washing briskly.
“At least, I do not!
Elves have their own magic, but it is not the fireworks and glimmers you speak of.” “Oh?” The Dragonborn, who had thought the conversation fruitless, straightened at once.
His massive frame even cast a shadow across the bright kitchen.
The diligent chef quickly cleaned the dishes, dried them until they gleamed, and put them away.
Then she turned.
“Curious?
Come, let me show you.” With that, she seized the Dragonborn’s hand and dashed out of the kitchen like a whirlwind.
The tall, powerful Dragonborn smiled as he watched her run and leap ahead like a fawn, then strode after her, his long legs carrying him with a thunderous tread.
All through the Grey Havens, elves were thrown into confusion by the reckless pair; one tall, one short, one large, one small.
Yet the two only ran with greater glee, laughing like mischievous children.
Perhaps it had been long since such a joyful sight was seen; the elves paused, smiling, their hearts light as they watched.
Though the Dragonborn was tall and long of limb, the elf’s supreme agility and speed soon left him behind.
He lost sight of her graceful figure as she dashed ahead.
“Hey, wait for me!” he called, vexed.
Though his stamina surpassed even hers, their short bursts of speed and nimble dodging were beyond him.
He halted, defeated, trying to see where he had ended up.
The maze of flagstone alleys nearly confounded him.
Just as he prepared to slowly retrace his steps to the main road, the tall, slender elf-maid suddenly bounded before him.
She had changed into practical, close-fitting travel garb, a leather belt cinching her slender waist, and her long legs stood gracefully.
Her back bore an exquisitely carved bow inlaid with mithril and gems, a quiver of arrows, and two short swords at her hips.
“Why are you dawdling?
Come.” She took his hand again and raced off like the wind.
“Ah?” The Dragonborn was dragged along, bewildered, as they thundered through the Grey Havens, past the great gate of white stone, and out into the northern wilds.
On the high ground before the council hall, Gandalf the Grey puffed at a pipe filled with fine Southfarthing leaf, sending smoke rings into the air.
When he saw the dark-haired Dragonborn and silver-blonde elf-maid dash out of the Havens like a whirlwind, he turned to the lord of the port, Círdan the Shipwright.
“My lord, do you not mean to stop them?” Behind him, Círdan, wearing a circlet of sapphires and mithril and robes embroidered with gold thread that billowed in the sea breeze, answered, “No, Mithrandir.
Our Dragonborn is far mightier than we knew.
There is a strength in him we have not yet fully discerned.” The lord of the Havens stepped forward to stand beside Gandalf at the highest vantage, gazing out over the port.
“Besides, with Fena watching over him, no harm will come to him.” Gandalf drew deeply of his pipe, letting the fragrant smoke roll down his throat and stream from his mouth.
The two stood in silence upon the heights, bathed in the fiery light of Arien climbing the sky.
Elsewhere, Dragonborn was pulled by Fena north along the mouth of the Lhûn for a league, until they came to a small hill.
Looking back, he saw the tallest building of the Grey Havens, a bell tower of white stone, gleaming in the morning sun.
The great bronze bell, forged in the Second Age, hung facing west of the Lhûn and east of the Gulf, its patterns intricate and beautiful.
The Dragonborn muttered to himself, ‘My sight is absurdly sharp.
Three leagues distant, and still I see so clearly, this surely defies all natural laws.’ Fena noted his gaze and glanced back, but though an elf’s eyes are keen, they could not match his amber, slit-pupiled stare.
She saw the Grey Havens protected by holy light under Arien’s rays, but could not discern the patterns on the bell.
She turned back to him.
In her sight, the dark-haired Dragonborn’s amber eyes had narrowed to thin lines.
As she beheld his towering frame standing proud in the wind, a strange pressure came over her.
How mighty he is!
Perhaps only the High Kings of old could compare.
Shaking off the fanciful thought, she looked around and said, “Ocrianim, do you see yonder woodland?” His gaze returned, his pupils slowly dilating until they were sharp vertical slits once more.
He followed her pointing finger to a grove: a small wood nestled in a hollow a thousand paces from the hill near the Blue Mountains, thick with birch and holly.
On the sunward side, a small apple orchard had been planted, laden with summer fruit, green and red, most tempting.
It was one of the elves’ orchards.
In years past, they harvested the many orchards and fields around the Havens for part of their sustenance, trading for the rest, a commerce that formed one of the great northern trade routes.
In February, May, and August, the elves would open their strong gates to hobbit and northern human caravans, and after a brief three-day fair, courteously but firmly escort them away.
These days were called Celebess, the festival of joy.
The Dragonborn nodded.
“Good.” The she-elf drew her longbow and nocked an arrow.
“You wished to see elven magic, did you not?
Watch well.” She bent the bow, taking aim.
“I shall strike the second branch from the crown of that tallest apple tree!” Her voice was as gentle and lovely as ever, but the Dragonborn blurted out, “Impossible!” “O breeze from the Ered Luin, bear my arrow thither!” The elf-maid stood on the hill, her fair lips parting softly, her exquisite face shimmering with a faint silver light.
She loosed, and the arrow flew like a streak of light.
It crossed a thousand paces and struck true, embedded precisely in the second branch from the crown of the tallest apple tree.
That was not all.
The elf-maid drew and loosed again with blurring speed, releasing nine arrows in quick succession.
Each shaft, as if guided by some unseen hand, struck the previous one, splitting it down the center.
It pierced the shattered wood to hit the very same notch on the branch, until the nine arrows sheared the arm-thick limb clean off.
By the Nine!
Dragonborn’s eyes went wide, his mouth gaping enough to fit an apple.