In Silence, Manwë's Hall

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AelKennyr Rhiano

 

The heel of his boots struck the marbled floor of the corridor, the sound sharp and jarring to the ears of this physical body, causing Eonwe to grit his teeth. He stopped for a moment, simply to allow the sound to die away before continuing on.

The coolness of the forever twilight was in the walls. As Eonwe strode forward, he reached out a hand and trailed it along the nearest wall, feeling the smooth firmness of the stone.  His brothers and sisters, ages past, brought this building into being, not through song or thought but with the work of physical hands and tools designed by none other than Aule. It is only now, the longer that Eonwe remains in physical form, that he can appreciate the labor and time which went into the construction. As he walks on, a frown crosses his lips, and his brow furrows. Why did he not notice then? Unknowingly he chews upon his bottom lip in thought. Ah, but in those days, Manwë moved across the breadth of Aman,  with Eonwe ever at his side, at his beck and call. 

It was there, from the very beginning of his existence, the desire, the need to serve the Lord of the West, as it was in Ilmare to be handmaiden unto Varda Elentári. But Ilmare became more and more interested in the movement of the stars, while he, Eonwe, desired nothing more nor less than to ever be faithful and steadfast in his duties.  The centuries flowed into one long, unending seeking to be ever near the Breath of Arda, to be in all wise, the true and steadfast Herald.

Even when Eärendil reached the shores of Aman and appealed to Manwë, and thus was Eonwe sent to Middle-earth to fight the War of Wrath, leading the Vanyar...even then only physical distance separated the Mightiest in Arms from his Lord, for his will was the Will of the Lord of the West.  Even the Lady Varda remarked to Eonwe once, "So close you are to your Lord, you are as a son to him, were we like unto the Children of Illuvatar and begat offspring unto ourselves." 

Eonwe had flushed with pleasure at the remark, treasured it, and even now, a small smile steals across his face.  Until he remembers why he treads the hallway to the throne room at an hour when it is most untended and unoccupied.

He paused at then point where the corridor opens into the great hall of Manwë, at the threshold, where one more step would carry you into the splendor of the throne room. Ahead the eye can see the curved room, the fine interplay of smooth, marble trimmed with gold and the creamy white carved marble, the winged lions proud and majestic as they looked at each other across an elegant vase. At the entrance, the flame burned bright on the tall column. Without hesitation, Eonwe reached out with his mind and doused the flame, casting the entrance in shadows. His throat squeezed close and his hands tightened into fists, but with a deep breath, he stepped inside, into this room he has known through the long centuries: The throne room of Manwë.

Reverently, Eonwe stepped up upon the first raised circular platform, his eyes scanning the room as though to see it for the first time. And, in truth, he was, for mortal eyes, though limited in perception, revealed to him much more than he had seen before. The embedded golden fire bowl still contained the same fire as first burned with the hall was new, but now as he watched the dancing orange, red, and yellow flames, heard the popping and roar of the fire, he felt its warmth and could discern the myriad tongues of fire, all competing for air to fuel itself. Lifting his eyes up to the ceiling, he recognized how cunningly the marble was chosen for its resemblance to a cloud filled sky in middle earth, and through the open center, he could see the cleverly wrought lights which provided a back light and which highlighted the second ceiling, also the blue of the sky such as the Children see when Arien's vessel lights up the sky.

Lowering his gaze, he allowed his eyes to travel over the 8 formless statues, seated in plain, high backed thrones.  Eight statues for the 8 remaining Arator. Where once Melkor's statue sat is an empty throne, directly behind the majestic throne of the Lord of the West. Eonwe remembered the day the Breath  of Arda ordered the statue removed. "Do you wish it destroyed?" his herald had asked. With eyes that held such grief, such loss, such pain that Eonwe's own eyes felt heavy, the Lord of the West shook his head. And when he ordered his own throne placed where it stands even now, Eonwe ventured to ask the why of it, and his Lord explained. His Lord always explained.

Manwë's Throne Room, with statues of the Aratar

But now, there was only one question in the Maiar's heart, and he could not bear to ask it of  his Lord. He could not bear the thought of not being heard. He could not bear the thought of not being answered. 

Why? Why do you not believe me?

Trembling, but not with cold nor fear, the Maia who was once herald walked up to the foot of the steps leading to Manwë's seat.

The Throne of Manwë

How many times had he followed his Lord up there, stood next to the throne, ready to assist of obey. Now, at this hour, the throne was as empty as his heart felt. Bowing his head, he dropped to a knee, murmuring  what all Maiar said when in the presence of the Lord of the West, "May the Will of the Valar be done."  But his legs were leaden, his heart heavy as iron, and he could not rise.


"Blessed Eru," whispered Eonwe, his voice containing none of the elegance, the smooth timbre or  masterful tone the Maia displayed when Herald of the Lord of the West. Instead, his voice is mournful, pained, full of tears his eyes refuse to shed.  "Blessed Eru, I am lost. My heart, "he pauses, feeling the physical organ tighten and squeeze. "This heart hurts. It hurts, and I cannot find rest, nor ease for it or this body." A shudder runs though his frame as he runs a tongue over cracked lips. "I care nothing for this body's welfare. Yet to be without it, to be as I am when not sheathed in flesh, would be more than I can stand."  He swallows.

"Ilmare thinks I should go to my Lord, to...." he pauses and finds that name of the Breath of Arda sticks in his mouth, like a sweet taste to be savored for its flavor is all too short-lived. "To Manwë, " he finishes.  Now that he had spoken the name of his beloved Lord, the rest of the words poured out, like water freed of a dam:

"My soul is a desert,
Yet I have no thirst.
Parched but not for water,
My feet drag forward,
And I search.

Where shall I find
the elixir I seek?
Where shall I hear
My much loved Lord speak
if not to me?

My heart is a wasteland,
Yet still it beats.
Empty of everything
Yet still I continue
and I bleed.

Speak to me, My Lord.
Call me again to Serve.
Speak to me, My Lord,
Words from your mouth like water
And I shall answer thee.

And I shall answer thee,
And leave thee ... nevermore."

Startled by his own words, falling from his lips like rain, Eonwe's head drops lower. "Please, Blessed Eru, know I well I am but Maia and beneath the mighty Vala, but I reported to my Lord but what I witnessed. Please, please, I am but a wisp of spirit in thy image. I beseech, bring unto Manwë, Lord of the West, that which he needs to see I spoke but the truth."

Eonwë

He took a painful breath and slowly rose gracefully to his feet. "So that if he believes not this lowly Maia, he may yet believe another."  He raised his gaze to take in the empty throne of the Lord of the West. His throat worked, and his jaw clenched. There were no more words. Only the sound of the flames.  Just the sound of the flames, and footsteps leading the Mightiest in Arms from the Hall of Manwë.

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