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Shawn DaysleeperIn the extreme northwest of Valinor, within sight of the Outer Sea, is a dark place. The waves, crashing upon the rocky treeless wastes, echo the melancholy of these seemingly uninhabited lands. The wind blasts across the plains; the stars above were blazing in the perpetual darkness. Jutting among some battered cliffs, far beyond the lights of Tirion and Taniquetil, were brazen doors crafted to be bold and magnificent. They are flanked with two small-everburning candles, the meager light from which barely illuminated the doors. The doors were shut. Just within paces an uneasy Vala.
Mandos is clothed in long robes of changing design, the patterns spiritual and shifted constantly. His long black hair covers his frustrated face. He whispers aloud: “Never before has one soul caused such disturbance.” His whisper carries past the foyer into the myriad halls, the dimensions of which would be unconceivable to any mortal mind. He speaks aloud, recalling the events of his recent memory.
“First,” he begins, “a soul of the Children appears on my doorstep, obviously a lord of some sort” He shudders at the thought. He then shakes his head, frustratingly and irritated. He pounds his left fist into his other hand. “Never before have I heard such racket. Even Feanor was not this troublesome. 'Tilion, Tilion!'” Mandos shouts, mimicking the Teleri lord's voice. The echoes of the dead seem to reverberate in his halls of honour. “I pleaded to Illuvatar, and he simply sent the Teleri Lord’s soul back to his body. I inquired as to his reason, and he simply stated: ‘One Soul.’ I went about my business, but apparently I appeared flustered.”
“Then,” he says as he slowly calms. “Sister Nienna appear and inquires about my frustration. I spoke of the soul of Olwe, Teleri Lord, and she was concerned. She sped off quick as lightening.”
“And then scarcely an hour ago, brother Irmo troubles me, desiring to learn more of the soul of the Teleri Lord, as if wanting to befriend both Olwe and Tilion. He spoke of allowing Tilion to visit Olwe in a dream…” Mandos stops speaking, he obviously reaches his limit. “It’s time to pass this on to the source.”
He strides to his desk that was crafted from orichalcum, adamantium, and other rare metals of the world. Even here in his study, the voices of the dead echo ceaselessly. Sitting, he draws forth paper and a marker. Quickly he writes “Tilion, Lord and Steersman of the Moon…” he pauses a moment, letting his rage settle a while. After a time his hands relax, his mind calms. He strikes thru the greeting and begins anew. “My friend, I do not mind my charge, nor do I mind the souls of the Firstborn. I have a whole host of elves to watch over and organise, but when one shows up on my doorstep screaming your name, refusing to enter my Halls…” he pauses, then starts a new sentence of new thought. “Can you do something about him? I mean, how was I to know he was yours? My mind still echoes with his screaming your name. Brother Irmo will allow you to visit his dream, he said it was important.”
Again, the Lord of Spirits pauses, his face changes. For the first time in ages, or perhaps ever, he shows compassion. “I suggest you make the most of it.” He finishes and signs the letter then rolls the paper. He places a seal on the outside. Rising he goes to the doors and opens them.
A winged servant sits beside one of the candles; his clawed feet grappling the stone. Tentacles drape from his mouth. His eyes, little more than tiny green slits, are slightly luminous. His form may be strange, mythical, and unearthly; but he was ever loyal to the Lord of the Halls. Mandos gives the parchment to him. Without a word the servant spreads his wings and departs towards the lighted settlements far to the southeast, his haste aided by the seabreeze blowing from the Outer Sea. Mandos’ compassion fades from his face; he anticipates his charge will become ever more burdensome in these troubled days.
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Mandos is clothed in long robes of changing design, the patterns spiritual and shifted constantly. His long black hair covers his frustrated face. He whispers aloud: “Never before has one soul caused such disturbance.” His whisper carries past the foyer into the myriad halls, the dimensions of which would be unconceivable to any mortal mind. He speaks aloud, recalling the events of his recent memory.
“First,” he begins, “a soul of the Children appears on my doorstep, obviously a lord of some sort” He shudders at the thought. He then shakes his head, frustratingly and irritated. He pounds his left fist into his other hand. “Never before have I heard such racket. Even Feanor was not this troublesome. 'Tilion, Tilion!'” Mandos shouts, mimicking the Teleri lord's voice. The echoes of the dead seem to reverberate in his halls of honour. “I pleaded to Illuvatar, and he simply sent the Teleri Lord’s soul back to his body. I inquired as to his reason, and he simply stated: ‘One Soul.’ I went about my business, but apparently I appeared flustered.”
“Then,” he says as he slowly calms. “Sister Nienna appear and inquires about my frustration. I spoke of the soul of Olwe, Teleri Lord, and she was concerned. She sped off quick as lightening.”
“And then scarcely an hour ago, brother Irmo troubles me, desiring to learn more of the soul of the Teleri Lord, as if wanting to befriend both Olwe and Tilion. He spoke of allowing Tilion to visit Olwe in a dream…” Mandos stops speaking, he obviously reaches his limit. “It’s time to pass this on to the source.”
He strides to his desk that was crafted from orichalcum, adamantium, and other rare metals of the world. Even here in his study, the voices of the dead echo ceaselessly. Sitting, he draws forth paper and a marker. Quickly he writes “Tilion, Lord and Steersman of the Moon…” he pauses a moment, letting his rage settle a while. After a time his hands relax, his mind calms. He strikes thru the greeting and begins anew. “My friend, I do not mind my charge, nor do I mind the souls of the Firstborn. I have a whole host of elves to watch over and organise, but when one shows up on my doorstep screaming your name, refusing to enter my Halls…” he pauses, then starts a new sentence of new thought. “Can you do something about him? I mean, how was I to know he was yours? My mind still echoes with his screaming your name. Brother Irmo will allow you to visit his dream, he said it was important.”
Again, the Lord of Spirits pauses, his face changes. For the first time in ages, or perhaps ever, he shows compassion. “I suggest you make the most of it.” He finishes and signs the letter then rolls the paper. He places a seal on the outside. Rising he goes to the doors and opens them.
A winged servant sits beside one of the candles; his clawed feet grappling the stone. Tentacles drape from his mouth. His eyes, little more than tiny green slits, are slightly luminous. His form may be strange, mythical, and unearthly; but he was ever loyal to the Lord of the Halls. Mandos gives the parchment to him. Without a word the servant spreads his wings and departs towards the lighted settlements far to the southeast, his haste aided by the seabreeze blowing from the Outer Sea. Mandos’ compassion fades from his face; he anticipates his charge will become ever more burdensome in these troubled days.
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