AelKennyr Rhiano
Atop the highest mountain in Arda, in the Pelóri on the shores of Valinor are the halls of Imarin, where lives Manwë, Lord of the West, and his spouse, Varda Elentári. Unto that mount did the Voice of Manwë, the Herald Eonwe returns from the chambers that were once the prison of the Dark Lord. His lips compress into a thin line, his eyes tight, steely; every line of his body bespoke a rage that smolders and burns within his heart. Into the home bestowed upon him by his compassionate Lord ages past, he tears the cloak from his shoulders and flings it into a corner of the outer chamber. With both his hands, he slams the palms against the aged wooden doors that open into the main inner room, the wood shuddering under the force. The groan of the door upon its hinges goes unnoticed by Eonwe as he pulls and tugs at his armour, unbuckling his bracers first as he recalls, again, the words and actions of the Mighty Smith.
"As you can see, there is nothing for you to record. The chamber has been cleansed. The spells are gone." The Vala had stood there and mockingly gestured at the blank walls. Eonwe hisses as he strides into the bedchamber and over to a stout wooden chest and heaves open the lid. Lovingly has the Mightiest in Arms always stored his armor there, brightly polished, tended with care, but tonight, he tosses each piece in as he peels them off, not bothering to buff or polish them or even wrap them in bits of wool, but he lets them clatter against each other.
"Puppy," Aule had called him. The Herald of Manwë called "snake," and "milksop." Eonwe snarls as he sheds the tunic and jerkin, tossing both atop a bed he seldom uses. Angrily he paces the room. The Maker has betrayed his brothers and sisters, just like the treacherous Melkor. There is no doubt in the Maia's heart. His hands curl into fists. After long centuries of rigid control, of control and practiced deliberation, this rage...this uncontrollable desire to smash, to attack to purge himself of the deep fires that burn both shock and excite him. He burns with a passion that is as strange as it is exhilarating.
Looking about the chambers, he sees where rests a secondary blade in its sheath. Reaching for the weapon, he slides the leather cross harness on and pulls the blade from its sheath, giving it a twirl of his wrist and slicing the air with it, hearing the blade sing in fierce joy.
He assumes a warrior's stance, the simple act of wielding the weapon soothing his frustration at not being able to act as his anger would direct him, for he tore himself away from that chambers with the greatest of reluctance. The thought of bringing steel against the neck of the Smith curves the Maiar's lips into a fierce grimace, and for a moment, he moves through room in a warrior's dance, bringing the blade up and through a series of slashes, stabs, parries, his blood singing.
"Why?" he thinks, as this body flows from one series of moves to another, "Why should I be so insulted, so mocked when I represent the Breath of Arda himself? Has my service unto Manwë, Lord of the West, come to mean so little that I must endure the taunts and crude jests of such a one as.." he growls the last.." as him, vile and twisted has the Smith become. "For now the second time, has one of the Valar fallen to his own pride and folly."
Calmed only by the practice with the blade, the feel of it in his hand, Eonwe fetches his practice armor from another chest and dons each piece. As he readies himself to go to the area set aside for practice with sword and shield, his heart burns again hot with anger. "And how is it Manwë allows such disregard for himself and for me?" He sweeps from the bed chamber and into the main room, warming to the topic. "For Aule's disobedience, he should share the Void with his dark brother and leave the making of Arda to another." He glides toward the door. "And I shall tell the Lord of the West so."
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"As you can see, there is nothing for you to record. The chamber has been cleansed. The spells are gone." The Vala had stood there and mockingly gestured at the blank walls. Eonwe hisses as he strides into the bedchamber and over to a stout wooden chest and heaves open the lid. Lovingly has the Mightiest in Arms always stored his armor there, brightly polished, tended with care, but tonight, he tosses each piece in as he peels them off, not bothering to buff or polish them or even wrap them in bits of wool, but he lets them clatter against each other.
"Puppy," Aule had called him. The Herald of Manwë called "snake," and "milksop." Eonwe snarls as he sheds the tunic and jerkin, tossing both atop a bed he seldom uses. Angrily he paces the room. The Maker has betrayed his brothers and sisters, just like the treacherous Melkor. There is no doubt in the Maia's heart. His hands curl into fists. After long centuries of rigid control, of control and practiced deliberation, this rage...this uncontrollable desire to smash, to attack to purge himself of the deep fires that burn both shock and excite him. He burns with a passion that is as strange as it is exhilarating.
Looking about the chambers, he sees where rests a secondary blade in its sheath. Reaching for the weapon, he slides the leather cross harness on and pulls the blade from its sheath, giving it a twirl of his wrist and slicing the air with it, hearing the blade sing in fierce joy.
"Why?" he thinks, as this body flows from one series of moves to another, "Why should I be so insulted, so mocked when I represent the Breath of Arda himself? Has my service unto Manwë, Lord of the West, come to mean so little that I must endure the taunts and crude jests of such a one as.." he growls the last.." as him, vile and twisted has the Smith become. "For now the second time, has one of the Valar fallen to his own pride and folly."
Calmed only by the practice with the blade, the feel of it in his hand, Eonwe fetches his practice armor from another chest and dons each piece. As he readies himself to go to the area set aside for practice with sword and shield, his heart burns again hot with anger. "And how is it Manwë allows such disregard for himself and for me?" He sweeps from the bed chamber and into the main room, warming to the topic. "For Aule's disobedience, he should share the Void with his dark brother and leave the making of Arda to another." He glides toward the door. "And I shall tell the Lord of the West so." > Next