AelKennyr Rhiano
Days have passed in the world of the Children of Illuvatar. The vessels of Arien and Tilion chased each other across the velvet sky for a handspan of days, and yet...
And yet, and yet...for Eönwë, once banner-bearer and Herald to the Lord of the West, in his mind, he is once more striding from the Halls of Manwë. He is once more kneeling upon the hard stone of the sacred mount and giving full voice to his pain, his dispair, his loss. In those days that followed, the Chief of the Maiar is no closer to understanding the separation from his Beloved Lord. "Who am I?" he had asked himself that day, sent from his Lord's side like a wayward and disobedient child.
"I am Banner-bearer. I am Herald. I am Chief of the Maiar, along with Ilmarë. I am the greatest of Arms in Arda." That is how he had answered. But he still did not know. "Who am I?" He wished, again, with a longing he never before knew, that Ilmarë would return from wherever she was. He could find her, he know. He could join her instantly, wherever the Maia was. Yet he hesitated. Truth, the truth hidden but unmistakable, is that he did not want to find the handmaiden of Varda, his own counterpart among the Maia. He did not want to see her face, hear her words; worse yet, risk her turning away from him.
How many times, over the handspan of days has he driven this physical body to near the breaking point in endless sword practice. How many hours did he sharpen blades, rewrap hilts, repair leather hilts, and run...by Eru!...run. Like the wind across a field of grain, did Eönwë run, startling birds from their hidden places, frightening deer that tried to outrun the Maia, eyes rolling in fear. He ran and ran and ran until he would drop, senseless to all else by the body's scream for air, for rest, for nourishment. And still he would but pause long enough to do what was needed to keep the body functional.
But even in running, he came back, back to Mount Taniquetil, back to the sacred Mountain, the place wherein dwelt the Breath of Arda. He never strayed from Pelóri Mountains on the borders of Valinor. He returned, again and again, body weakened, soul raw, over and over...to what he did not even know.
Always he had been the Voice of the Lord of the West. It was his pride. His joy. His soul sang when he saw satisfaction upon the face of his Lord. He moved with sure and steady confidence to obedience in all things. Was he not the one to first greet Eärendil when he reached the shores of Aman? Did he not take up sword and shield when commanded by Manwë to lead the Vanyar elves in the War of Wrath? When at last the Dark one was defeated. who but Eönwë was trusted to take the two remaining Silmarils into safekeeping.
How was the Smith any different from Melkor? Clearly he is rebelling against the Lord of the West, styling himself better to know what was proper and right to do. Long hours, with so little to do, now, has Eönwë spent, pouring over the encounter with Aulë, picking over the words exchanged. How could his Lord not see, not know? So plainly is to be seen how alike Aulë and Melkor are. Both were prideful of the creation of beautiful and novel things. Both usurped the prerogative of Blessed Eru and strove to make themselves as God over beings of their creation. Perhaps at the time of the great Song, the Maker's heart was pure. Perhaps he even endeavored to quell his rebellious tendencies...then. But long centuries have passed since the Singing of the Great Song. Perhaps, Mahal, the father of the dwarves, has become jealous and desirous of the authority and power of the Breath of Arda.
It matters not, Eönwë tells himself. It matters not. He looks out across the peaks of the Pelóri. and the restlessness seizes his heart, squeezes it. He shakes himself like an work beast shaking off rain. Once me he runs, wind whipping in his wake. Perhaps he can run far enough, fast enough to the answer he seeks, that will let him do that which he must do.
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And yet, and yet...for Eönwë, once banner-bearer and Herald to the Lord of the West, in his mind, he is once more striding from the Halls of Manwë. He is once more kneeling upon the hard stone of the sacred mount and giving full voice to his pain, his dispair, his loss. In those days that followed, the Chief of the Maiar is no closer to understanding the separation from his Beloved Lord. "Who am I?" he had asked himself that day, sent from his Lord's side like a wayward and disobedient child.
"I am Banner-bearer. I am Herald. I am Chief of the Maiar, along with Ilmarë. I am the greatest of Arms in Arda." That is how he had answered. But he still did not know. "Who am I?" He wished, again, with a longing he never before knew, that Ilmarë would return from wherever she was. He could find her, he know. He could join her instantly, wherever the Maia was. Yet he hesitated. Truth, the truth hidden but unmistakable, is that he did not want to find the handmaiden of Varda, his own counterpart among the Maia. He did not want to see her face, hear her words; worse yet, risk her turning away from him.
How many times, over the handspan of days has he driven this physical body to near the breaking point in endless sword practice. How many hours did he sharpen blades, rewrap hilts, repair leather hilts, and run...by Eru!...run. Like the wind across a field of grain, did Eönwë run, startling birds from their hidden places, frightening deer that tried to outrun the Maia, eyes rolling in fear. He ran and ran and ran until he would drop, senseless to all else by the body's scream for air, for rest, for nourishment. And still he would but pause long enough to do what was needed to keep the body functional.
But even in running, he came back, back to Mount Taniquetil, back to the sacred Mountain, the place wherein dwelt the Breath of Arda. He never strayed from Pelóri Mountains on the borders of Valinor. He returned, again and again, body weakened, soul raw, over and over...to what he did not even know.
Always he had been the Voice of the Lord of the West. It was his pride. His joy. His soul sang when he saw satisfaction upon the face of his Lord. He moved with sure and steady confidence to obedience in all things. Was he not the one to first greet Eärendil when he reached the shores of Aman? Did he not take up sword and shield when commanded by Manwë to lead the Vanyar elves in the War of Wrath? When at last the Dark one was defeated. who but Eönwë was trusted to take the two remaining Silmarils into safekeeping.
How was the Smith any different from Melkor? Clearly he is rebelling against the Lord of the West, styling himself better to know what was proper and right to do. Long hours, with so little to do, now, has Eönwë spent, pouring over the encounter with Aulë, picking over the words exchanged. How could his Lord not see, not know? So plainly is to be seen how alike Aulë and Melkor are. Both were prideful of the creation of beautiful and novel things. Both usurped the prerogative of Blessed Eru and strove to make themselves as God over beings of their creation. Perhaps at the time of the great Song, the Maker's heart was pure. Perhaps he even endeavored to quell his rebellious tendencies...then. But long centuries have passed since the Singing of the Great Song. Perhaps, Mahal, the father of the dwarves, has become jealous and desirous of the authority and power of the Breath of Arda.
It matters not, Eönwë tells himself. It matters not. He looks out across the peaks of the Pelóri. and the restlessness seizes his heart, squeezes it. He shakes himself like an work beast shaking off rain. Once me he runs, wind whipping in his wake. Perhaps he can run far enough, fast enough to the answer he seeks, that will let him do that which he must do.
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