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AelKennyr Rhiano
Like a well- fitted robe, Ulmo "clothes" himself in the smaller form less frightful to the Children of Illuvatar, especially the Atani, the children of Man. He has been bestowed with several names as these second Children multiplied, and their civilizations spread across the mortal world, and by those names he responds; never, however, forgetting he,like all of the Ainur, are servants of Blessed Illuvatar. But the voice which rouses him from his palace Ulmonan, at the bottom of Vaiya, was not human.
It was Elwing the White, daughter of Dior the Fair, heir of Elu Thingol, and Nimloth, and the sister of Eluréd and Elurín. But Dior's reign was short lived...for the sons of Fëanor besieged Menegroth and slew Elwing's parents. Once more elf turned against elf, as in Alqualonde, and again Noldor were bathed in the blood of a second Kinslaying. As Ulmo reaches for his trident and leaves his watery halls, he shakes his head, for this, that elf should turn on elf is a mystery to his mind. The shorter lived children of men, too, turn kin against kin, brother against father. Sometimes they take their battles to this beloved seas, and in his heart there is a hard place, created over the years of seeing the dead and dying cast into his waters, the price of blood letting and war.
But Elwing the White escaped the Sack of Doriath and fled to the Sirion's Haven. With her was the coveted Silmaril. There met she Eärendil, he who would later become the patriarch of the Númenor kings. Two sons had she, Ulmo remembers, gliding through the waters, the currents carressing his form. Fishes parted, and sharks turned, swimming swiftly away from the Lord of the Seas. As he passes, several dolphins, engaged in play, swam eagerly toward Ulmo, encircling him, giving him an escort on his journey. Absently, he reached out a hand and gently stroked the smooth head of a dolphin closest to him.
Thinking back, Ulmo remembers the last time his name was on Elwing's lips. When the sons of Fëanor attacked the Havens of Sirion in an attempt to gain the Silmaril, Elwing threw herself into the Great Sea, calling out to the Singer of the Waves. He clothed her in the form of a white bird, so that she may fly safely to Eärendil in his ship. Upon her snow white breast was the Silmaril, safe.
Weaving unseen between two ships, and passing below their hulls, Ulmo frowns. The last he thought of Elwing, he saw her living in a tower by the shores of Eldamar, from which she fed the seabirds who flock to her windows and sometimes flew among them as a white swan, for the birds taught her their language, and the change wrought upon her by the Lord of the Seas to save her left her with that ability. He extends his awareness of all living things, both in the seas and out, and there! there was a spark that was Elwing....she was resting, now, wrapped in restful dreams sent by Lord Irmo himself. Ulmo does not intrude upon this rest, mindful of the need for sleep the Children require, but instead, as he nears the shores of Alqualonde, sends a mental statement to Mighty Manwe...
"Elwing the White is upon the Shores of Alqualonde. What means this, oh, Brother and King?" To Irmo he sends no inquiry, but continues on to Alqualonde...for soon, Elwing the White will awaken, and the darkness poised to consume the creation of Eru Illuvatar is flexing its hands, poised to strike.
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It was Elwing the White, daughter of Dior the Fair, heir of Elu Thingol, and Nimloth, and the sister of Eluréd and Elurín. But Dior's reign was short lived...for the sons of Fëanor besieged Menegroth and slew Elwing's parents. Once more elf turned against elf, as in Alqualonde, and again Noldor were bathed in the blood of a second Kinslaying. As Ulmo reaches for his trident and leaves his watery halls, he shakes his head, for this, that elf should turn on elf is a mystery to his mind. The shorter lived children of men, too, turn kin against kin, brother against father. Sometimes they take their battles to this beloved seas, and in his heart there is a hard place, created over the years of seeing the dead and dying cast into his waters, the price of blood letting and war.
But Elwing the White escaped the Sack of Doriath and fled to the Sirion's Haven. With her was the coveted Silmaril. There met she Eärendil, he who would later become the patriarch of the Númenor kings. Two sons had she, Ulmo remembers, gliding through the waters, the currents carressing his form. Fishes parted, and sharks turned, swimming swiftly away from the Lord of the Seas. As he passes, several dolphins, engaged in play, swam eagerly toward Ulmo, encircling him, giving him an escort on his journey. Absently, he reached out a hand and gently stroked the smooth head of a dolphin closest to him.
Thinking back, Ulmo remembers the last time his name was on Elwing's lips. When the sons of Fëanor attacked the Havens of Sirion in an attempt to gain the Silmaril, Elwing threw herself into the Great Sea, calling out to the Singer of the Waves. He clothed her in the form of a white bird, so that she may fly safely to Eärendil in his ship. Upon her snow white breast was the Silmaril, safe.
Weaving unseen between two ships, and passing below their hulls, Ulmo frowns. The last he thought of Elwing, he saw her living in a tower by the shores of Eldamar, from which she fed the seabirds who flock to her windows and sometimes flew among them as a white swan, for the birds taught her their language, and the change wrought upon her by the Lord of the Seas to save her left her with that ability. He extends his awareness of all living things, both in the seas and out, and there! there was a spark that was Elwing....she was resting, now, wrapped in restful dreams sent by Lord Irmo himself. Ulmo does not intrude upon this rest, mindful of the need for sleep the Children require, but instead, as he nears the shores of Alqualonde, sends a mental statement to Mighty Manwe...
"Elwing the White is upon the Shores of Alqualonde. What means this, oh, Brother and King?" To Irmo he sends no inquiry, but continues on to Alqualonde...for soon, Elwing the White will awaken, and the darkness poised to consume the creation of Eru Illuvatar is flexing its hands, poised to strike.
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