AelKennyr Rhiano
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
The sounds of Eonwe’s boot striking the marble floor as he leaves the halls of Manwe, punctuate the words as they repeat over and over in the Maia’s head.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
His body feels as though it were burning from within, a fire sweeping up from deep in his gut and washing over him. He sees the Winds, the other Maiar as he passed, their eyes meeting his and quickly looking away, heads bow as they whisper anxiously to each other. He glowers at each one, his brow furrowed, his mouth pinched, and his eyes glittering like cold sapphires. At his sides, his hands are curled into fists, and his jaw clenches. He stiffens his back and lifts his head proudly. He has been the Herald for the Breath of Arda since the formation of the world itself. He would not slink from these halls that he knew so well. He would not crawl from the sight of Manwe, like a beaten animal. Too long has he worn the mantle of his duty, and this one last time he would leave as he had come: as the Banner Bearer of the Lord of the West.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
Carefully, he descended following the steps set into the stone of the mountain. Now alone, with only the wind, the sound of his footsteps, the words rolling about in his mind, he can feel this body’s chest tighten, his eyes burn and his vision blurs. He raises a hand to wipe at his eyes, and pulls it back, the fingers wet. He quickens his steps, not quite running, and to behold it would appear as though he was swimming more than walking, so fluid the steps, and so frictionless the motion. He passes the training area that Manwe himself, long ago, caused into being to bestow upon his herald, the Mightiest in Arms. Eonwe turns his face away from the sight: to look upon it now, to remember the pleased look upon the face of the Lord of the Valar as he revealed it to the Maia, was too painful. He remembers the affection, the quiet words from Manwe, and for the first time ever, the feet of the Maia stumble. Eonwe falls headlong, barely stretching out his arms to catch himself. On hands and knees, he drops his head between his arms and draws in one heaving breath after another. He pushes himself back to rest upon his heels. High overhead, an eagle circled, the large wings stretched out to catch a wind current. Tilting his head back, he watches the bird, its scream floating down to him.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
Eonwe closes his eyes. A scream answers the eagle. Startles it, Eonwe thinks, when he opens his eyes in surprise at the sound, for the bird changes direction and heads off to the South. A low kenning sound follows the scream, and after a moment, his throat feels ragged and torn. His mouth clamps shut, and in a moment of dull realization, it comes to the Maia that the sound issued from his lips and no other. He had no purpose now, no reason to exist. He had nothing, now, Eonwe tells himself, and he lowers his head and bows it, arms wrapping about his chest, hands clutching his arms. I am exiled, he thinks, and this physical form responds with long hard tremors.
“What am I?” he whispers, bereft. “Who am I?” His body shakes harder and harder. He draws in a ragged breath, and the pain, the knowledge that he is barred from Manwe’s is more bitter than any draught. “WHO AM I?” he throws back his head and screams, a harsh bitter, heart wrenching sound rising up.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
> Next
The sounds of Eonwe’s boot striking the marble floor as he leaves the halls of Manwe, punctuate the words as they repeat over and over in the Maia’s head.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
His body feels as though it were burning from within, a fire sweeping up from deep in his gut and washing over him. He sees the Winds, the other Maiar as he passed, their eyes meeting his and quickly looking away, heads bow as they whisper anxiously to each other. He glowers at each one, his brow furrowed, his mouth pinched, and his eyes glittering like cold sapphires. At his sides, his hands are curled into fists, and his jaw clenches. He stiffens his back and lifts his head proudly. He has been the Herald for the Breath of Arda since the formation of the world itself. He would not slink from these halls that he knew so well. He would not crawl from the sight of Manwe, like a beaten animal. Too long has he worn the mantle of his duty, and this one last time he would leave as he had come: as the Banner Bearer of the Lord of the West.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
Carefully, he descended following the steps set into the stone of the mountain. Now alone, with only the wind, the sound of his footsteps, the words rolling about in his mind, he can feel this body’s chest tighten, his eyes burn and his vision blurs. He raises a hand to wipe at his eyes, and pulls it back, the fingers wet. He quickens his steps, not quite running, and to behold it would appear as though he was swimming more than walking, so fluid the steps, and so frictionless the motion. He passes the training area that Manwe himself, long ago, caused into being to bestow upon his herald, the Mightiest in Arms. Eonwe turns his face away from the sight: to look upon it now, to remember the pleased look upon the face of the Lord of the Valar as he revealed it to the Maia, was too painful. He remembers the affection, the quiet words from Manwe, and for the first time ever, the feet of the Maia stumble. Eonwe falls headlong, barely stretching out his arms to catch himself. On hands and knees, he drops his head between his arms and draws in one heaving breath after another. He pushes himself back to rest upon his heels. High overhead, an eagle circled, the large wings stretched out to catch a wind current. Tilting his head back, he watches the bird, its scream floating down to him.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
Eonwe closes his eyes. A scream answers the eagle. Startles it, Eonwe thinks, when he opens his eyes in surprise at the sound, for the bird changes direction and heads off to the South. A low kenning sound follows the scream, and after a moment, his throat feels ragged and torn. His mouth clamps shut, and in a moment of dull realization, it comes to the Maia that the sound issued from his lips and no other. He had no purpose now, no reason to exist. He had nothing, now, Eonwe tells himself, and he lowers his head and bows it, arms wrapping about his chest, hands clutching his arms. I am exiled, he thinks, and this physical form responds with long hard tremors.
“What am I?” he whispers, bereft. “Who am I?” His body shakes harder and harder. He draws in a ragged breath, and the pain, the knowledge that he is barred from Manwe’s is more bitter than any draught. “WHO AM I?” he throws back his head and screams, a harsh bitter, heart wrenching sound rising up.
“You do not speak for the Lord of the West.”
> Next