Belanos
The woman stood upon the balcony of her home and looked out over her lands. She was tall for a woman and her figure willowy and graceful. The light breeze that whiffled among the leaves of the climbing vines above her, lifted a lock of her long auburn hair playfully before letting it drop across her brow. In a gesture that spoke of having been performed many times before the woman absentmindedly lifted a long, elegant hand and tucked the lock behind her ear.
The movement had not distracted her from her contemplation of the view, and well it ought not, for before her lay such breathtaking natural beauty that would capture the attention of the most hardened of souls. For Yavanna Kementári this was one of the most pleasing moments of her day, when she stood here in the early twilight and looked upon the results of her labours.
There was no pride in her pleasure, but rather a simple delight in the sensual beauty of the growing things before her. The majesty of the mighty oaks, the graceful drape of the willows by the steam, the soft curving swell of the land carpeted in moss, soft grasses and aromatic yellow chamomile combined with beautiful flowering shrubbery and climbing ivy in a way that was most pleasing to her eye, for before her lay the lands known as the Pastures of Yavanna, her most special place in all of Aman.
It was now, while she stood beneath the fragrant jasmine that draped the terrace of her home, that Yavanna paused at day's end to allow herself to take pleasure of her work, for hers was the making of these growing things, whether they be for beauty, for their produce or the nurturance of the small living beings who made their homes among them. As she watched a flock of grey plumed doves winged their way to their nests, and she could hear the softy scurryings of little furried creatures in the undergrowth below her. A soft smile curved her lips. Her world was at peace. Finally Yavanna turned reluctantly back to the confines of her home.
Although she'd taken care to make it as light and airy as possible, still she hated being indoors away from her beloved gardens. Yet the mortal body she wore needed sustenance and rest, she knew. She could, of course, choose to not use a mortal body for she was Ainur, a spirit being, and immortal, but she had always found she took her greatest pleasure from that which she created when she used a mortal form with all its senses. The visual beauty, the subtle fragrances, the delicate touch of petal or leaf, even the seemingly endless variety of flavour from the foods her gardens produced, all gave her delight.
Now as she strolled inside she saw that her maiar had faithfully prepared the evening meal for her and laid it out upon her table with the day's correspondence neatly stacked next to her place. She always liked to read as she ate, giving herself time to think on the news and requests each missive brought before she sat down afterwards at her writing desk to reply.
Gracefully she took her seat, again tucking back that wayward lock of her long wavy hair as she picked up the small stack of parchments. She smiled as she saw one was from her younger sister Vána, who lived with her husband to the North-east in the Woods of Oromë. She wondered what news her sister brought and had lifted the letter to open it when the distinctive handwriting on the one beneath it caught her eye. "Aulë!" she breathed. Even she had not admitted to herself how much she had missed her husband these past long weeks while he worked at the Halls of Mandos, but now the mere sight of his handwriting set her heart fluttering like that of a young mortal girl caught in the throes of first love.
Without hesitation she set her sister's letter aside and lifted that from her husband. Eagerly she slit the wax seal and shook the missive open. She absent-mindedly reached for a pear from the fruit and cheese platter set before her plate as she did so, sinking her small white teeth into the succulent fruit as her eyes eagerly raced over the words her husband had written.
She read with growing disbelief, and her eyes dropped to the bottom of the page to confirm that it really was her beloved husband who had written thusly to her. Surely she had mistaken the writing as his and it was from another, but no, there at the bottom of the page in a splatter of ink was his unmistakable signature. The sweet flesh of the pear sat like ash upon her tongue, and she chewed and swallowed it dully as she slowly re-read the letter, the rest of the fruit falling forgotten from her hand to roll unnoticed upon the table.
In all the ages of their long life together never had her beloved Aulë spoken to her in this manner. No warm salutation, no affectionate greeting, no endearing way he had of using her name so it sounded like a caress upon his tongue. Just the abrupt word "Wife." Blinking in disbelief she slowly re-read his words. What did he mean her "admonishments?" She'd never admonished him in her life. Always he had listened to her counsel with warmth and interest, his head tilted lovingly towards hers as he listened. "Tied to the strings of her girdle?" "Her whining?" Hot tears flooded her emerald eyes, falling unnoticed upon the parchment as she continued to read her brow furrowed in confusion.
What was this nonsense about Eonwë? Surely it was not true. She could never imagine Manwë's most noble and gentle Herald ever drawing a blade in the presence of any of the Valar, let alone holding it to one's throat! What had happened? The hand holding the missive dropped to her lap, and she raised unseeing eyes to stare before her as she tried to accept the accusations in her husband's bitter words. It could not be. Surely it could not be.
With a shake of her head she lifted the letter and continued to read, her eyes growing huge in disbelief. "If mine you still are?" "Surrounded by disloyalty?" The words pierced her heart. The single page slipped from her fingers, and she buried her face in her hands, as though covering her eyes would blot out the memory of the words they had seen. "Aulë!" she whispered brokenly, her voice husky with pain. "My beloved. My heart. How can you speak so?"
Again she shook her head, as though denying the words she'd read. Yet when she lowered her hands at last, there the letter lay where it had fallen upon the table. She stared at it like it was a loathesome thing, lying there waiting to strike at her again, and in truth it had struck at her heart in a manner she'd never known, for a sharp pain pierced her breast as again the words it carried swirled around in her head.
She shook her head a third time, the unruly lock of her hair falling forward unnoticed. No. This cannot be true. There must be some explanation. She looked at the letter again, taking care not to touch it. He was going to see Manwë, he'd said. Well, so would she. But before seeing Manwë, she would seek out the Herald, for surely he could shed some light on this matter. She had to find out what had happened. It could not be true. Eru please, let it not be true!
She would leave immediately. There was no time for delay. Rising from the table, her meal forgotten, without word to any, she left her home and set out for Taniquetil, her heart heavy with sorrow. "Aulë!" her heart cried in anguish as she went. "My beloved!" And with each step her heart broke a little more. As she passed, her beautiful growing things felt her sorrow and faded with her going, leaving behind her a path of sadness and despair.
> Next Yavanna
The movement had not distracted her from her contemplation of the view, and well it ought not, for before her lay such breathtaking natural beauty that would capture the attention of the most hardened of souls. For Yavanna Kementári this was one of the most pleasing moments of her day, when she stood here in the early twilight and looked upon the results of her labours.
There was no pride in her pleasure, but rather a simple delight in the sensual beauty of the growing things before her. The majesty of the mighty oaks, the graceful drape of the willows by the steam, the soft curving swell of the land carpeted in moss, soft grasses and aromatic yellow chamomile combined with beautiful flowering shrubbery and climbing ivy in a way that was most pleasing to her eye, for before her lay the lands known as the Pastures of Yavanna, her most special place in all of Aman.
It was now, while she stood beneath the fragrant jasmine that draped the terrace of her home, that Yavanna paused at day's end to allow herself to take pleasure of her work, for hers was the making of these growing things, whether they be for beauty, for their produce or the nurturance of the small living beings who made their homes among them. As she watched a flock of grey plumed doves winged their way to their nests, and she could hear the softy scurryings of little furried creatures in the undergrowth below her. A soft smile curved her lips. Her world was at peace. Finally Yavanna turned reluctantly back to the confines of her home.
Although she'd taken care to make it as light and airy as possible, still she hated being indoors away from her beloved gardens. Yet the mortal body she wore needed sustenance and rest, she knew. She could, of course, choose to not use a mortal body for she was Ainur, a spirit being, and immortal, but she had always found she took her greatest pleasure from that which she created when she used a mortal form with all its senses. The visual beauty, the subtle fragrances, the delicate touch of petal or leaf, even the seemingly endless variety of flavour from the foods her gardens produced, all gave her delight.
Now as she strolled inside she saw that her maiar had faithfully prepared the evening meal for her and laid it out upon her table with the day's correspondence neatly stacked next to her place. She always liked to read as she ate, giving herself time to think on the news and requests each missive brought before she sat down afterwards at her writing desk to reply.
Gracefully she took her seat, again tucking back that wayward lock of her long wavy hair as she picked up the small stack of parchments. She smiled as she saw one was from her younger sister Vána, who lived with her husband to the North-east in the Woods of Oromë. She wondered what news her sister brought and had lifted the letter to open it when the distinctive handwriting on the one beneath it caught her eye. "Aulë!" she breathed. Even she had not admitted to herself how much she had missed her husband these past long weeks while he worked at the Halls of Mandos, but now the mere sight of his handwriting set her heart fluttering like that of a young mortal girl caught in the throes of first love.
Without hesitation she set her sister's letter aside and lifted that from her husband. Eagerly she slit the wax seal and shook the missive open. She absent-mindedly reached for a pear from the fruit and cheese platter set before her plate as she did so, sinking her small white teeth into the succulent fruit as her eyes eagerly raced over the words her husband had written.
She read with growing disbelief, and her eyes dropped to the bottom of the page to confirm that it really was her beloved husband who had written thusly to her. Surely she had mistaken the writing as his and it was from another, but no, there at the bottom of the page in a splatter of ink was his unmistakable signature. The sweet flesh of the pear sat like ash upon her tongue, and she chewed and swallowed it dully as she slowly re-read the letter, the rest of the fruit falling forgotten from her hand to roll unnoticed upon the table.
In all the ages of their long life together never had her beloved Aulë spoken to her in this manner. No warm salutation, no affectionate greeting, no endearing way he had of using her name so it sounded like a caress upon his tongue. Just the abrupt word "Wife." Blinking in disbelief she slowly re-read his words. What did he mean her "admonishments?" She'd never admonished him in her life. Always he had listened to her counsel with warmth and interest, his head tilted lovingly towards hers as he listened. "Tied to the strings of her girdle?" "Her whining?" Hot tears flooded her emerald eyes, falling unnoticed upon the parchment as she continued to read her brow furrowed in confusion.
What was this nonsense about Eonwë? Surely it was not true. She could never imagine Manwë's most noble and gentle Herald ever drawing a blade in the presence of any of the Valar, let alone holding it to one's throat! What had happened? The hand holding the missive dropped to her lap, and she raised unseeing eyes to stare before her as she tried to accept the accusations in her husband's bitter words. It could not be. Surely it could not be.
With a shake of her head she lifted the letter and continued to read, her eyes growing huge in disbelief. "If mine you still are?" "Surrounded by disloyalty?" The words pierced her heart. The single page slipped from her fingers, and she buried her face in her hands, as though covering her eyes would blot out the memory of the words they had seen. "Aulë!" she whispered brokenly, her voice husky with pain. "My beloved. My heart. How can you speak so?"
Again she shook her head, as though denying the words she'd read. Yet when she lowered her hands at last, there the letter lay where it had fallen upon the table. She stared at it like it was a loathesome thing, lying there waiting to strike at her again, and in truth it had struck at her heart in a manner she'd never known, for a sharp pain pierced her breast as again the words it carried swirled around in her head.
She shook her head a third time, the unruly lock of her hair falling forward unnoticed. No. This cannot be true. There must be some explanation. She looked at the letter again, taking care not to touch it. He was going to see Manwë, he'd said. Well, so would she. But before seeing Manwë, she would seek out the Herald, for surely he could shed some light on this matter. She had to find out what had happened. It could not be true. Eru please, let it not be true!
She would leave immediately. There was no time for delay. Rising from the table, her meal forgotten, without word to any, she left her home and set out for Taniquetil, her heart heavy with sorrow. "Aulë!" her heart cried in anguish as she went. "My beloved!" And with each step her heart broke a little more. As she passed, her beautiful growing things felt her sorrow and faded with her going, leaving behind her a path of sadness and despair.
> Next Yavanna