Lihan Taifun
Nienna wakes, to a room softly lit with candles. Aulë always insists that they leave all the candles burning, even when they sleep, lest she wake in darkness. “Think nothing of it,” he told her when she questioned this extravagance. “Are we not Valar? Are we not entitled to candles, and much more? Should my sweet Nienna stumble in a dark chamber, for the sake of saving a candle?” Now the room is filled with the gentle honey-scent of warm beeswax. The bedsheets, after a blissful night, have lost their fresh-pressed crispness, yet the linen retains traces of the scent of the herbs used in washing. Aulë demands that the Maiar bring clean linens every morning. “They are Maiar,” he says. ”It is their place to serve, and they should be pleased to provide whatever is needed.” And truly, the feel of clean linens against her skin, each time she slides into bed, is an unexpected pleasure.
Aulë – so kind, so wise, so thoughtful. Nienna carefully eases herself onto her side so she can watch him without waking him. Sleep has relaxed the habitual scowl on his face, the sign of his recent mistreatment by that overambitious Maia Eönwë. Now he is again the picture of the heroic Vala who at the Beginning of the World shaped the lands and the mountains. Nienna's eyes shine, and a soft smile curves her lips, as she silently watches his breathing.
Where else would she wish to be, other than here, beside him? She tries to imagine her customary duties here in Mandos. She could easily dissolve this physical body, drift back to her spirit form, cold and vaporous as that now seems, and move through the hewn rock walls of the Halls of the Dead. Maiar, servants of her brother Mandos, would make banal obsequious greetings. The chief of the Maiar of Mandos would bring a report on the most recent “progress” of some soul or another: “Mirian has been remembering his foster-father's generosity as well as his hot temper, and Annawen is finally realizing that her own jealousy contributed to ...” Bah, Nienna can hardly bear even to imagine such a recitation. Always the same problems. For every soul with a tragic story, there are a dozen more with the same story. If one soul attains peace, there remains a flock of other souls, harping on the same tune. “Lady Nienna, my husband ...” “Lady Nienna, I only wanted ...” “Lady Nienna, my child ...” “Lady Nienna, please ...”
In all those Ages, did anyone ever ask what Lady Nienna would like? What SHE needed? Did anyone ever mention that she was missing the scent of blossoms and herbs, the feel of silk and velvet and pressed linen? Did anyone even THANK her, for the endless years she spent in the Halls of the Dead? No, they assumed she would be there, took her presence and her effort for granted. Let them all take care of themselves now!
The mental interruptions from outside — the many cries from the mortal world, that Elf cleric, even that Maia of Varda's — she has ignored them all. They always think their problems so important — everyone always thinks their own problems are important — but how could they possibly be worth her time? The Dead and the Living, let them all look after themselves. Perhaps they will realize what is obvious to Aulë: that she also deserves joy.
Nienna purses her lips into a pout, and experiments with a dismissive gesture she has seen in the memories of the Dead – flicking a hand to the side. Even better, she flicks her hand though a loose tendril of her hair. Aulë told her how lovely her hair is when it moves. When she gets out of bed, she will try this very satisfying gesture in front of the looking glass.