He raised the letter to his face, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a hum of curiosity at the subtle, marine fragrance. The handwriting was blocky, yet confident; a child’s penmanship. “Fairy” was an odd way of describing a Maia, but not unheard of, and there was only one person who he could reasonably assume to be his distant ward– if only in a ceremonial sense.
He sat down to write:
“Dear Mitsalaumë,
You’re very clever to have restored these as fully as you have. I imagine they have been submerged for quite some time. Do you know what they are for?
These are prayer beads; carved of boxwood, they feature scenes from the Ainulindalë, the First Music. I have only seen them referenced in texts, since they are almost exclusively made and used by the Vanyar of Aman. However they came to be at the bottom of the sea is a mystery to me.

I can see the difficulty you must be facing: the final bead is glued shut by some sort of mollusk’s secretions, and the wood has swollen with water, rendering the hinge useless.
I have done my best to coax the wood fibers back to their original shape, and used a solvent to remove the encrusting material. Woodworking is not my usual métier, but I have learned a few tricks here and there.
(If you can pardon the blasphemy, you might call Yavanna my “godmother”, as spouse of Aulë. Her retinue and Aulë’s sometimes mingled, and I did not close my ears to their Music.)

As you can see, the final bead now opens, revealing an intricate scene of the birth of Manwë. (I note Melkor is omitted in this revision of history. Typical.)

You’ve found something very rare and extremely beautiful. Craftsmanship like this is something to be treasured, however distasteful I may find the subject matter. Keep it safe, and DRY if you can.
By the by, does your father know you’re writing me? We can keep this our little secret, if you wish.
Ever at your service,
~S.









