AelKennyr Rhiano
Restless, ever restless, Olwe padded across the bedroom floor and gazed out of one of the windows over his beloved Swanhaven, Alqualonde, once the chief city of the Teleri on the shores of Valinor, now an island in the world of mortals. Outside his window, the snow had finally stopped, though the bitter coldness seeped through the glass. He exhaled, and the glass fogged from the warmth of his breath. For a few moments, he watched, fascinated, as the glass cooled again and all traces of his breath were erased. He crossed his arms and hugged himself as he pointedly ignored the cooing, caressing voice that, over and over again, sang to him of his own death.
Olwe looked up at the stars, up at the moon and stared upon the celestial orb....for how long, he could not tell. Time was melting away for him. He went from moment to moment, each torment to each torment. To think beyond the present moment was to tempt a madness he was afraid he would not ever overcome. He was tempted to leave his chambers and descend to one of the verandas, from which he could better see the moon, but someone would be guarding his door and would follow him, and Olwe wanted solitude.
"Tilion." He mouthed the name and fogged the glass again. He closed his eyes as the voice within took up the name and chanted it over and over ... "Tilion, Tilion, Tilion." Then those invisible claws lashed out and slashed at his mind, at his soul. He stiffled a cry and wrapped his arms tighter around his stomach and chest. Swaying, he fell forward and threw out an arm to catch himself by bracing against the wall. He was able to remain standing, panting, for several moments, the pain ripping through muscles, skin, and the inner chambers of his being. He drew in ragged breaths and slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he focused on was the wall, then his arm which was bracing him. There was blood on the sleeve. He pushed himself upright and unwrapped his other arm from around his stomach...Blood! Looking down, he saw claw marks on his skin, on his stomach, blood oozing. Shaken, he gasped. and stumbled to his couch.
The bedchamber of the Lord of the Teleri was sparse, as it had always been, for he sought little in the way of personal comfort. Here was the couch where he would rock and croon to his daughter, Earwen, all those restless nights, so very long ago, when the infant was teething. Here was the couch where he and Tilion would sit together, talking, holding each other. Breathing in, the smell of moonbeams and starlight that was Tilion's own scent filled Olwe's nostrils, and he gave a tired small smile. There, in the center of the room was the rug upon which he and his daughter had many a meal and formal tea with her stuffed dolls. And in the center of the room, on that same, very important rug, was Olwe's cunningly crafted wooden bed.
Olwe looked over, now, at the bed, and while the bleeding slowed, memories unfolded. This was the bed that his dear friend, Celebrimbor, carved for him, when they first arrived in the Shining Lands. There is where he made love to Earwen's mother, and together they created his most beautiful daughter. To that bed, would he bring his infant daughter to her mother to look upon, though she did so less and less frequently, until she, one day, bade Olwe to not bring the tiny Teleri princess in anymore.
And soon after, Olwe was both mother and father to Earwen.
In that bed little Earwen would creep, after escaping the most vigilant of nursemaids, to tug at her father's arm and said, "Papa, Papa, Papa, wake up." Then when he rewarded her efforts with a bleary eye, she would ask in her solemn musical child voice, "Papa, were you asleep? I can't sleep? Can you sleep? Papa, I had nightmares. I want to sleep with you."
And he would argue, "No, no, Earwen, you are a big girl. You have your own bed, and Sairalinde will be looking for you." But he never won the argument. One look at her tear filled eyes, one heavy heave of her shoulders, one glance at her trembling lips, and Olwe would pull back the covers and bid her to crawl beneath them. Obedient, then, she would snuggle against her father and with her small hand, pat his chest as she lay her head against his shoulder. Then he would pull the covers up around them both and hold her tight, falling asleep with the sweet smell of her hair, the sound of her breath lulling him to the dreams of Lord Irmo.
Upon that bed they both sat and talked of so many things that were so important to his daughter as the years transformed her from child to woman. First it was imaginary playmates, and trinkets that Osse and Unien, and even the Great Valar Ulmo would leave upon the shore for the little Teleri Princess to find. Then the talk shifted to pointed questions about her missing mother, which he dodged and hedged around. Then onto little crushes and confessions of undying affections which seemed to change with the new moon...until finally came the day that Earwen asked her father to sit beside her on that same bed and told him that she was content to marry Finarfin, the third and youngest son of Finwe. Olwe stared at the bed and once again saw his beloved Earwen. "Papa, I believe we could bond and grow to love each other in time to come." She looked at him, her face so calm, so serene. "He reminds me of you, Papa. I want this marriage. I truly do."
Olwe bowed his head, remembering how once, he, too, said he was content to take someone as his life companion. Remembering how once, he thought he could grow to love her, that she would grow to love him, that the bond that so many teleri had with each other would, one day, be theirs, too. But it was not to be. The voice rose in volume, stirred by the mention of Earwen's mother, by the emotions that memories of her still stirred in the Lord of the Teleri.
"Lies, lies, lies, " it chanted. "She wanted a crown, not a soft hearted elf, " it purred. "She needed, wanted more than you could ever give. She needed someone..."
"Be still," murmured Olwe. "Be still, dark one."
"Someone with fire, someone with spark, someone who wasn't afraid to go out into the woods with her and..." the voice paused, and continued, the silky, oily voice sliding around his head and then digging in, like sharp talons. "Oh, but you saw, didn't you? You saw what she really needed?"
"BE STILL," Olwe hissed back. 'Be still. Be still. It is the past. It is long in the past."
"Oh yes, oh yes, in the past, in the past...ashes, ashes, ashes." The voice purred in his mind. "Wise you are, not to tell the child about the mother."
Upon his arrival here at Alqualonde, after leaving Sylvahara, Olwe remembered commanding that a swan be sent to Earwen, telling her of her father's request she come to Alqualonde. She was a grown woman, now, with grown children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. The line of Olwe has continued and grown. "No matter what you do," he whispered to the Voice."I will survive you. I will live through my daughter and her children and her children's children. Down through all the ages."
The voice roared with laughter. "Foolish, foolish Olwe," it rebuted him. "Do you not know...do you not yet realized? Children die all the time...Mothers die all the time....Daughters die all the time......
"So do Princesses, Queens and foolish Kings!"
Olwe would have liked to have scream his rage and defiance at the voice, but darkness enveloped him, and he slumped, unconscious on the couch.
> Next
Olwe looked up at the stars, up at the moon and stared upon the celestial orb....for how long, he could not tell. Time was melting away for him. He went from moment to moment, each torment to each torment. To think beyond the present moment was to tempt a madness he was afraid he would not ever overcome. He was tempted to leave his chambers and descend to one of the verandas, from which he could better see the moon, but someone would be guarding his door and would follow him, and Olwe wanted solitude.
"Tilion." He mouthed the name and fogged the glass again. He closed his eyes as the voice within took up the name and chanted it over and over ... "Tilion, Tilion, Tilion." Then those invisible claws lashed out and slashed at his mind, at his soul. He stiffled a cry and wrapped his arms tighter around his stomach and chest. Swaying, he fell forward and threw out an arm to catch himself by bracing against the wall. He was able to remain standing, panting, for several moments, the pain ripping through muscles, skin, and the inner chambers of his being. He drew in ragged breaths and slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he focused on was the wall, then his arm which was bracing him. There was blood on the sleeve. He pushed himself upright and unwrapped his other arm from around his stomach...Blood! Looking down, he saw claw marks on his skin, on his stomach, blood oozing. Shaken, he gasped. and stumbled to his couch.
The bedchamber of the Lord of the Teleri was sparse, as it had always been, for he sought little in the way of personal comfort. Here was the couch where he would rock and croon to his daughter, Earwen, all those restless nights, so very long ago, when the infant was teething. Here was the couch where he and Tilion would sit together, talking, holding each other. Breathing in, the smell of moonbeams and starlight that was Tilion's own scent filled Olwe's nostrils, and he gave a tired small smile. There, in the center of the room was the rug upon which he and his daughter had many a meal and formal tea with her stuffed dolls. And in the center of the room, on that same, very important rug, was Olwe's cunningly crafted wooden bed.
Olwe looked over, now, at the bed, and while the bleeding slowed, memories unfolded. This was the bed that his dear friend, Celebrimbor, carved for him, when they first arrived in the Shining Lands. There is where he made love to Earwen's mother, and together they created his most beautiful daughter. To that bed, would he bring his infant daughter to her mother to look upon, though she did so less and less frequently, until she, one day, bade Olwe to not bring the tiny Teleri princess in anymore.
And soon after, Olwe was both mother and father to Earwen.
In that bed little Earwen would creep, after escaping the most vigilant of nursemaids, to tug at her father's arm and said, "Papa, Papa, Papa, wake up." Then when he rewarded her efforts with a bleary eye, she would ask in her solemn musical child voice, "Papa, were you asleep? I can't sleep? Can you sleep? Papa, I had nightmares. I want to sleep with you."
And he would argue, "No, no, Earwen, you are a big girl. You have your own bed, and Sairalinde will be looking for you." But he never won the argument. One look at her tear filled eyes, one heavy heave of her shoulders, one glance at her trembling lips, and Olwe would pull back the covers and bid her to crawl beneath them. Obedient, then, she would snuggle against her father and with her small hand, pat his chest as she lay her head against his shoulder. Then he would pull the covers up around them both and hold her tight, falling asleep with the sweet smell of her hair, the sound of her breath lulling him to the dreams of Lord Irmo.
Upon that bed they both sat and talked of so many things that were so important to his daughter as the years transformed her from child to woman. First it was imaginary playmates, and trinkets that Osse and Unien, and even the Great Valar Ulmo would leave upon the shore for the little Teleri Princess to find. Then the talk shifted to pointed questions about her missing mother, which he dodged and hedged around. Then onto little crushes and confessions of undying affections which seemed to change with the new moon...until finally came the day that Earwen asked her father to sit beside her on that same bed and told him that she was content to marry Finarfin, the third and youngest son of Finwe. Olwe stared at the bed and once again saw his beloved Earwen. "Papa, I believe we could bond and grow to love each other in time to come." She looked at him, her face so calm, so serene. "He reminds me of you, Papa. I want this marriage. I truly do."
Olwe bowed his head, remembering how once, he, too, said he was content to take someone as his life companion. Remembering how once, he thought he could grow to love her, that she would grow to love him, that the bond that so many teleri had with each other would, one day, be theirs, too. But it was not to be. The voice rose in volume, stirred by the mention of Earwen's mother, by the emotions that memories of her still stirred in the Lord of the Teleri.
"Lies, lies, lies, " it chanted. "She wanted a crown, not a soft hearted elf, " it purred. "She needed, wanted more than you could ever give. She needed someone..."
"Be still," murmured Olwe. "Be still, dark one."
"Someone with fire, someone with spark, someone who wasn't afraid to go out into the woods with her and..." the voice paused, and continued, the silky, oily voice sliding around his head and then digging in, like sharp talons. "Oh, but you saw, didn't you? You saw what she really needed?"
"BE STILL," Olwe hissed back. 'Be still. Be still. It is the past. It is long in the past."
"Oh yes, oh yes, in the past, in the past...ashes, ashes, ashes." The voice purred in his mind. "Wise you are, not to tell the child about the mother."
Upon his arrival here at Alqualonde, after leaving Sylvahara, Olwe remembered commanding that a swan be sent to Earwen, telling her of her father's request she come to Alqualonde. She was a grown woman, now, with grown children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. The line of Olwe has continued and grown. "No matter what you do," he whispered to the Voice."I will survive you. I will live through my daughter and her children and her children's children. Down through all the ages."
The voice roared with laughter. "Foolish, foolish Olwe," it rebuted him. "Do you not know...do you not yet realized? Children die all the time...Mothers die all the time....Daughters die all the time......
"So do Princesses, Queens and foolish Kings!"
Olwe would have liked to have scream his rage and defiance at the voice, but darkness enveloped him, and he slumped, unconscious on the couch.
> Next