Imladris, 35th day of Ethuil
I have only just arrived in Imladris on my errand - and what an unexpected surprise! A face I last saw many years ago appeared before me! It took me some moments to place her face, to ponder her name, and to fix them both in my mind, for it has been long. Yet it is true: Mornariel, the daughter of Ondotano of Nargothrond, is indeed here in Imladris!
Ondotano was a great artisan, a skilled stonemason of the Noldor, worthy of his name, and a welcome boon in the fortification and repair of the Havens of Beleriand; the black days of the siege - only lifted by the timely arrival of the Noldor out of the West - had caused considerable damage in places, and there was much work needed to restore and rebuild. I have heard many who praised Ondotano’s techniques – and his willingness to teach them to others.
Though we were never truly acquainted, I must confess that seeing his daughter again has brought the memory of those days back to mind, fresh as the sea-breeze: the bustle of activity; the sound of many hammers, chisels and saws at work; the smell of chipped stone and sawdust carried on the wind, merged with the scent of the ovens, preparing tasty bread and dishes for the hungry workers; the dazzling white of freshly rendered walls; and the docks…we berthed our ships and filled the quay with all manner of stores and material, sourced from along the Falas and up the Sirion…
I was heartened to recall my first sight of Mornariel in Brithombar: a quiet young elf-maiden, ever-studious, with her pen and notebooks, seated amid the busy chaos of rough-hewn stone blocks, and hard-working stonemasons. I had just delivered to the dock a consignment of marble for the tower they worked on, and while discussing details of the manifest with one of Ondotano's assistants, I overheard someone assert it was an unsuitable place for a maiden; that she should be elsewhere, perhaps cooking – and drawing a bath for their dust-laden bodies. When told who she was, they thought better of their criticism, and held their tongues, lest they suffer a stern glance and wrathful words from her proud father.
If she heard their words she showed it not, for Mornariel’s pen never ceased its passage across the page, her glance ever returning to a delicate blossom of Uilos that had taken root in a crack in the older stonework, overlooking the drop to the blue sea below.
It was a time of hope, and our spirits were high!
