Rhûn Darkmoon
The distant peaks of the Pelori Mountains gleam softly under the gentle hand of night. The land is silent and still. The panorama of stars are well into their nightly dance across the sky. In the woods a vixen slinks silently from shadow to shadow to her lair where her young ones greet her, yipping softly in their excitement as they smell the kill she has brought to them. Overhead the trees of the forest whisper their secrets to each other with the passing of a gentle breeze.
Although tired from the long hunt of the night the vixen is unable to settle and paces restless in the confines of her den. She raises her nose and snuffles at the breeze as she seeks a cause for the unease that is upon her. Her eyes gleam amber bright in the starlight as they turn to gaze towards a light that flickers in the distance beyond the edge of the forest that is her home. Night after night that light has flickered where previously none had shone so late. The vixen shakes herself, fluffing her fur against the chill of her disquiet. At last, her kits quiet and satiated from their meal, she settles herself at the mouth of her den, her chin resting on her paws but her eyes never leave that flickering light.
Beyond the edge of the forest, cloaked in the dark of the night, lies the Halls of Mandos. Light streams from a single window onto the grounds beyond. A shadow passes across it from time to time as the occupant paces restlessly to and fro by the window. For this is the manner in which Aulë Talka Marda, Friend of the Noldor, the Maker, now spent his nights. His hair and beard dishevelled, his clothing creased from long wearing, he mutters darkly as he paces. Occasional phrases can be heard as his feet take him restlessly back and forth.
"Insolent puppy!' trails off into dark mumblings, followed by, 'How DARE he question my loyalty!' Suddenly his voice rises sharply as he shouts to the silent walls, 'How dare he bare his blade to me, to ME!'
As the heat of his wrath bursts forth, he pauses a moment and tilts his head as though listening to an unheard voice. Without thought he turns and stares sightlessly in the direction in which lies that dark chamber in which he spends his days. More and more of late he has found himself reluctant to leave it, finding there the only ease to the agitation that had become such a constant part of his daily life. Even now, deep in the hours of darkness he feels the tug of it, like a hook cast cruelly in his flesh for it pulls at him ruthlessly, constantly, until he again steps over that shadowy threshold.
The thought of that dark cell brings to mind again the confrontation there with the Herald. His lips curl into a silent snarl as his mind replays yet again the arrogant stance of the upstart Eonwë, his sneering voice completely devoid of the proper respect that should be shown to the Maker and his final act of contempt in drawing his sword in his presence.
By now his face is puce with his rage. Without thought he kicks out at the chair before his writing desk, venting his wrath as he sends it crashing across the room. His chest heaves with the intensity of his fury and he stares unseeing at the spot where the hapless chair had been. He blinks a little for a moment as his vision clears and tilts his head as he notices a sliver of white peeking out from behind one of the legs of his desk.
Bending, he reaches for it, his fingers closing upon the long forgotten missive from Yavanna. He huffs a little as he remembers the night he had placed it aside for later reading. 'Well, now is later.' he mutters as he straightens and splits the seal with his thumbnail. The parchment crackles as he impatiently opens the letter. His eyes skim down the words and he mutters a little and crooks an eyebrow at the news and admonishments of his wife. His brow darkens again as his mind reads only judgement and criticism in words that normally he would have found filled with love and gentle caring. When he reaches the end, he gives a snort and mutters, 'We'll see about that, my fine wife!', the last word barely more than a sneer of contempt.
With brisk footsteps Aulë strides across the room and retrieves the writing chair from where it had come to rest, lopsided against the wall. Placing it before his desk he seats himself and reaches for fresh parchment and quill. Dipping the quill into the inkpot, he begins to write.
"Wife," he begins, deigning the use of any endearments, "I find your admonishments both unnecessary and ill-informed! I am more than capable of making my own decisions without being tied to the strings of thy girdle! Nor should I have to waste my time and energies dealing with your whining when matters most dire confront me." Unnoticed, the heated strokes of the quill splutters ink messily across the page.
Further he writes, "It has been my intent to remain working here at the Halls of Mandos indefinitely for I would not leave until my study of the dark magicks is complete. Indeed, it is even my intent to move my quarters to those formerly dark chambers, the better to facilitate my work without the daily trek down to the depths of the Halls." He leans back a little in surprise at this for the thought had not entered his head until this minute. After a moment he nods briskly and mutters, 'Well, it makes perfect sense,' and then bends again to his task.
"Alas, it has come to my attention that at last the arrogance of Manwë's little pet Herald has shown his true colours. He dared to even draw his blade in my presence and indeed hold it to my throat! It has become apparent to me that he is a viper in our fair brother's bosom and this I cannot allow to continue! With this in mind then, I find I am forced to leave my current task and journey to Taniquetil and inform him of the unforgivable actions of that insolent puppy Eonwë, lest the puppy prove to have more than milkteeth and turn my brother's heart against me."
His quill pauses a moment from it's wild dash across the page as his lips curl in contempt as he ponders his next words. "Indeed, my wife, if mine you still are, I would say I hear the whisperings of that unweaned milksop reflected in your words to me in your latest missive. Methinks that treacherous cur has perhaps been whispering in your ear in my absence, no doubt using his effeminate charms to turn your head and your heart from your loyal duty! It would appear I am surrounded by disloyalty!" The tip of the quill actually punctures the parchment, such is the force with which he wields it. Ink splatters again but Aulë's eyes see nothing but perceived treachery all about him.
With a flourish and no closing endearments at all, he boldly signs his name. Hastily he affixes his seal to the missive and tosses it carelessly among the pile of correspondence waiting to be sent. Already it is forgotten as he rises from his chair, strides from his rooms and, ignoring the lateness of the hour goes to summon his maiar. They must move his belongings down to Melkor's cell at once and he had a journey to prepare for. There was no time to be wasted!
> Next Aulë > The Letter
Although tired from the long hunt of the night the vixen is unable to settle and paces restless in the confines of her den. She raises her nose and snuffles at the breeze as she seeks a cause for the unease that is upon her. Her eyes gleam amber bright in the starlight as they turn to gaze towards a light that flickers in the distance beyond the edge of the forest that is her home. Night after night that light has flickered where previously none had shone so late. The vixen shakes herself, fluffing her fur against the chill of her disquiet. At last, her kits quiet and satiated from their meal, she settles herself at the mouth of her den, her chin resting on her paws but her eyes never leave that flickering light.
Beyond the edge of the forest, cloaked in the dark of the night, lies the Halls of Mandos. Light streams from a single window onto the grounds beyond. A shadow passes across it from time to time as the occupant paces restlessly to and fro by the window. For this is the manner in which Aulë Talka Marda, Friend of the Noldor, the Maker, now spent his nights. His hair and beard dishevelled, his clothing creased from long wearing, he mutters darkly as he paces. Occasional phrases can be heard as his feet take him restlessly back and forth.
"Insolent puppy!' trails off into dark mumblings, followed by, 'How DARE he question my loyalty!' Suddenly his voice rises sharply as he shouts to the silent walls, 'How dare he bare his blade to me, to ME!'
As the heat of his wrath bursts forth, he pauses a moment and tilts his head as though listening to an unheard voice. Without thought he turns and stares sightlessly in the direction in which lies that dark chamber in which he spends his days. More and more of late he has found himself reluctant to leave it, finding there the only ease to the agitation that had become such a constant part of his daily life. Even now, deep in the hours of darkness he feels the tug of it, like a hook cast cruelly in his flesh for it pulls at him ruthlessly, constantly, until he again steps over that shadowy threshold.
The thought of that dark cell brings to mind again the confrontation there with the Herald. His lips curl into a silent snarl as his mind replays yet again the arrogant stance of the upstart Eonwë, his sneering voice completely devoid of the proper respect that should be shown to the Maker and his final act of contempt in drawing his sword in his presence.
By now his face is puce with his rage. Without thought he kicks out at the chair before his writing desk, venting his wrath as he sends it crashing across the room. His chest heaves with the intensity of his fury and he stares unseeing at the spot where the hapless chair had been. He blinks a little for a moment as his vision clears and tilts his head as he notices a sliver of white peeking out from behind one of the legs of his desk.
Bending, he reaches for it, his fingers closing upon the long forgotten missive from Yavanna. He huffs a little as he remembers the night he had placed it aside for later reading. 'Well, now is later.' he mutters as he straightens and splits the seal with his thumbnail. The parchment crackles as he impatiently opens the letter. His eyes skim down the words and he mutters a little and crooks an eyebrow at the news and admonishments of his wife. His brow darkens again as his mind reads only judgement and criticism in words that normally he would have found filled with love and gentle caring. When he reaches the end, he gives a snort and mutters, 'We'll see about that, my fine wife!', the last word barely more than a sneer of contempt.
With brisk footsteps Aulë strides across the room and retrieves the writing chair from where it had come to rest, lopsided against the wall. Placing it before his desk he seats himself and reaches for fresh parchment and quill. Dipping the quill into the inkpot, he begins to write.
"Wife," he begins, deigning the use of any endearments, "I find your admonishments both unnecessary and ill-informed! I am more than capable of making my own decisions without being tied to the strings of thy girdle! Nor should I have to waste my time and energies dealing with your whining when matters most dire confront me." Unnoticed, the heated strokes of the quill splutters ink messily across the page.
Further he writes, "It has been my intent to remain working here at the Halls of Mandos indefinitely for I would not leave until my study of the dark magicks is complete. Indeed, it is even my intent to move my quarters to those formerly dark chambers, the better to facilitate my work without the daily trek down to the depths of the Halls." He leans back a little in surprise at this for the thought had not entered his head until this minute. After a moment he nods briskly and mutters, 'Well, it makes perfect sense,' and then bends again to his task.
"Alas, it has come to my attention that at last the arrogance of Manwë's little pet Herald has shown his true colours. He dared to even draw his blade in my presence and indeed hold it to my throat! It has become apparent to me that he is a viper in our fair brother's bosom and this I cannot allow to continue! With this in mind then, I find I am forced to leave my current task and journey to Taniquetil and inform him of the unforgivable actions of that insolent puppy Eonwë, lest the puppy prove to have more than milkteeth and turn my brother's heart against me."
His quill pauses a moment from it's wild dash across the page as his lips curl in contempt as he ponders his next words. "Indeed, my wife, if mine you still are, I would say I hear the whisperings of that unweaned milksop reflected in your words to me in your latest missive. Methinks that treacherous cur has perhaps been whispering in your ear in my absence, no doubt using his effeminate charms to turn your head and your heart from your loyal duty! It would appear I am surrounded by disloyalty!" The tip of the quill actually punctures the parchment, such is the force with which he wields it. Ink splatters again but Aulë's eyes see nothing but perceived treachery all about him.
With a flourish and no closing endearments at all, he boldly signs his name. Hastily he affixes his seal to the missive and tosses it carelessly among the pile of correspondence waiting to be sent. Already it is forgotten as he rises from his chair, strides from his rooms and, ignoring the lateness of the hour goes to summon his maiar. They must move his belongings down to Melkor's cell at once and he had a journey to prepare for. There was no time to be wasted!
> Next Aulë > The Letter