Welcome to Valimar, the home of the enigmatic Valar. The dusky light
here is shaded still, like filtered twilight, deeper and more unearthly
than on the coast, with a hint of a light veil that hides the moon on it's
passing fancy. A strange and wonderfull scent is borne upon the slight
breaze, familiar almost. Standing on a great greensward that covers the
mountain path like an inviting carpet of emerald,the road winds east, back
to the top of Tirion, where the highest of her gleaming towers can still
just be seen. Looming in front of you, starting from the right of the path,
and rising in all her glory, is Oiolosse, highest of the peaks of the
pelori, and thus the world. Gazing with shaded eye, up her sheer surface,
the height of which one can only guess at, the light grows brighter as it
rises, ascending finaly through a cloud layer and continuing on, how far
one cannot tell. Yet a definate path exist's, incredulous though it seems,
winding it's way slowly up the massive rock. One would need to have a great
reason to undertake this quest, and a stout heart. And though it is said,
that Manwe, lord of all the Vala, who resides on Oiolosse's pinnicle, is the
wisest in all of this world, and the next, the quest is as often taken for
those seeking his great lady, Varda the exalted, as Tintalle, or star
kindler, and as Elbereth to the sindar, the star queen. It is to her that
so many, drowned in the shadow of darkness, overwelmed by middle earths
evils and toils, look for. Many an elf has climed the tower hills, east of
the havens, & west of the shire, longing homeward, in the hope of catching
a fleeting glympse of the lady, grey in her rainment, upon Oiolosse,
spreading her mantle of hope and protection, to all those seeking the
light, in the lamp of Valinor.
The sound of distant laughter drifts on the breeze, filtering
from somewhere on high, as does the lilting sounds of harps, and distant
voices, too beautifull to describe when you are far from here, and to
mesmerizing in it's trance at the time, to really pay attention. The whole
sensation is almost beyond you, as if some ruddy animal, half sensless or
mad, blundered into a garden of beautiful flowers, tended in loving care by
some unseen force, intent only on the weeds that grew between the rows.
West, the path eventually plunges into a narrow ravine,
the pass of the Calacirya, shouldered on both sides by the Pelori mountains,
the great teeth of the world. A little ways down the ravine, is a great
earthen ring, hundreds of feet across, covered still in green grass. This
was of old the mound where the two tree's once grew, casting their mingled
light down the length of the ravine east, out to Valinor. The Pelori
mountains rise higher and higher west to the roof of creation, the oldest
part of Valinor, wence the Ainulindale, the song of the Valar, instructed
by Eru, flowed down the Calacirya pass, and poured out upon the void,
creating arda, what the elves call the world.
The elves have long memories, and the memories of the Vala
longer still. In the tears of Yavanna, a gleam of the light of the two
trees still dwell, and in wonderous things inspired by them.
Back to Tirion
