Twilight Paths

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Belanos and AelKennyr Rhiano

Yavanna, Giver of Fruits

Yavanna's journey was nearly at end.  The lofty heights of Mount Taniquetil loomed above her, and already her path took her through the gentle glades on its lower slopes.   Although not really that far from her home, still the journey had seemed to drag on forever for her.  How many times along the way had she tried to reach out with her mind to her beloved Aulë, only to find a nothingness that she had never experienced from him before.  An echoing silence where once there had always been a warm welcome and the intermingling of minds.  So rather than reassurances or explanations, she only had the memory of his harsh words. Harsh words that seemed to resonate in her head with each footstep.

Beneath the twilight sky, the verdant grass at the base of the sacred mountain was dappled blues and greys and purples as Eonwë raced the frightened deer. The wind tore the breath from his mouth, and this physical body protested the punishment the Maia was inflicting, but still his feet flew over the land. So it was that the onetime Herald of Manwë danced upon wind rather than actually touched the earth. Under stars that neither knew nor cared for what was heavy upon his heart or burdened his thoughts, he found but little more solace than he did in the constant sword practice or sharpening of already sharpened blades. The visit to Manwë's throne room days ago had but made Eonwë more disconsolate. Finally, the legs of the physical body could bear no more punishment, and Eonwë has to stop, panting, bending over at the waist and placing hands, palms down, on trembling thighs, sucking in a lungful of the cool clean air.

Yavanna was so lost in thought she was quite startled at first by the appearance of another upon the path in front of her.  She had been so absorbed in her contemplations she had not noticed the passing of the herd of deer as they fled into the shadows of the nearby verdant forest.  Now before her was another being, bent double with hands on knees as though trying to catch his breath, long dark hair hanging forward and hiding his face.  For a moment she stood uncertain of what to do.  Such indecision was new to her, for she had always known her mind and had known what to do in any situation.  Hesitantly she decides to stay where she was on the edge of the forest shadows.

Several moments pass as slowly, the tightness in his chest eases. He stares at his hands as they rests upon his upper legs, wondering how it is the Children manage with such limitations. Slowly he uses his hands and his back to stand back up. Blue eyes widen as he finds he is not alone here, on this path. For a moment his eyes take in the form before him, even as the delicate scent of sweet blooming flowers fills his nostrils. Reverently, slowly, the Maia goes down on one knee and bows his head, his cheeks coloring in embarrassment. "Hail, Yavanna, Giver of Fruits, Lady of the Green and Growing," he greets her, his voice falling into that soft and velvet tone so familiar.

Yavanna 's green eyes flared wide as the other stood up, and she recognized the familiar form of Eonwë, the Herald of Manwë.  Familiar, yes, but in a most unfamiliar setting.  What was Eonwë doing here, of all places?  She raised a hand to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear as she watched him kneel gracefully in greeting.  There was none of the supposed impudence of which Aulë has spoken in his missive, only the careful respect that one always associated with the Herald.  "Hail, dear Eonwë,”' she greeted him. “Please, do not stand upon ceremony here for we are both but travelers upon the road.  Rise, please.”

Eönwë

Her voice was clear, like the waters of a brook, and gentle was the tone, soothing. Here stands the consort of Aule, the Maker, the traitor, but she spoke him fair, and as he dares to glance up before he raises, he sees nothing but a slight puzzlement in her green eyes. He rises, though less than gracefully, as the legs, exhausted by the brutal pace at which he had run, shake and tremble, and  so the Maia was forced to stagger a little. "I-I thank thee, my Lady Yavanna," he says as he recovers his balance. Then he looks down upon his raiment and says, in a voice surprisingly shy, "I had thought to meet no other here at this hour. Forgive how I must present myself to you." Blue eyes look up and into hers, and he swallows hard.

Yavanna watches the other rise, noting the slight stagger as he does so. Her gaze takes in his slightly disheveled clothing, the hair blown by the wind, and his sweaty brow.  This was not how she was used to seeing him, for as Herald of Manwë, Eonwë had always been immaculately attired and never anything but physically graceful.   Her brow creased even more with concern as she noticed his hesitancy as he spoke.  She took a step closer, her sorrows temporarily forgotten beneath her concern.  She smiled reassuringly and made a small dismissive gesture with her hand as she answered him, "There is nothing to forgive, dear friend.  Are you to be on duty eternally without respite?  But still it would seem you drive yourself even when not on duty for it would appear you have been running hard. Do you run to, or from, something?"

Eonwë watches her as she steps closer, and catches his breath as green eyes, filled with care, sweep their gaze over his sweaty face. She smiles, and with that smile, in that instant, Eonwë could feel a sigh of contentment sweep through every living thing and then gone, like a soft breath. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, aware even more of how he must appear. "I," he pauses and drops his gaze. "I was running, with thought to neither destination nor reason.”

Yavanna watches as the Herald drops his gaze. This was so unlike him. He whose gaze was always serene and level now seemed.. unsure?  Yes, she thinks to herself as she again tucks that rebellious lock of hair behind her ear. Yes, he seems unsure of himself. But of what would Eonwë have to be unsure?  Aulë was right. The Herald certainly is not himself, but not in the manner in which Aulë had implied.  The thought brings to mind again the letter that had spurred her journey to this place, and for a moment the sorrow returns.  Determinedly she pushes it aside.  Perhaps if she could draw the Herald out, she may discover more about what had passed between he and her husband.  She lifts a hand and gently reaches out to raise his chin so his gaze must once more meet hers.  Her voice, the same voice that has whispered so many things to life, is gentle as she speaks, “The Eonwë I know has always had both a destination in mind and a reason for that destination.  Tell me, friend, why now he does not?”

Tender is the long, tapering fingers as they touch his chin and lifts it so that his eyes meet hers. He cannot remember being so close to the Lady of all growing things, and yet he is standing this close to her, now, feeling her touch, breathing in the floral scent that always proceed her and  remains after her passing, the voice, so tender, so gentle and yet….sad?  He finds his voice and tries to keep it level and even as he answers her, "My Lady, it is true that Eonwë was always sure of himself and his path for so it was that his path was beside his Lord and his steps as his Lord directs. But this Eonwë is not that Eonwë." He takes a breath and then dares to ask, "But Lady Yavanna, many times have I been on this path of late and seen you not. How may I be of service to you?"

Yavanna's sorrow again rushes to the surface at the Herald’s question.  Her eyes are suddenly liquid with unshed tears as somehow the necessity to speak of that which drew her here makes it even more real. No more could she imagine it only a misunderstanding. Now she must voice it and make it real.  She lowers her lashes as she begins to speak, for she cannot bear to have another see the pain she knows would be reflected there.  Her voice, moments ago gentle and encouraging, is now husky and low as she answers, "I.. I travel this path because I must.  I seek counsel with the Lord Manwë.  I.. I.. " Suddenly she lifts her gaze back to his and words tumble from her lips. “What do you know of Aulë?” she asks. "You saw him recently, I know.  What happened? What do you know?  Will you tell me what happened between you?"  Her flood of questions peters out, and she can do no more than stand and wait for his answers.

Eonwë watches, alarmed by the transformation that comes over her face, her manner, her being: he takes a small step back.  He starts to reach out and touch her arm, but then he remembers who and what she is. Helplessly, he clasps his hands behind his back.

"What do you know of Aule?" she asks, and the question brings a sharp intake of breath from the Maia. Her words pour out of her, like wine from a jug. Then she is silent and waiting.

Aule! His blue eyes narrow, and he clenches his jaw. "The Maker, " he says, his voice hard. "I did see the Smith recently, as did my Lord bade me. Would that the Smith be half so faithful to the wisdom and wishes of My L-- of Lord Manwë," he finishes hurriedly. He looks at Yavanna. Her voice brought to life all living things. Yet, standing here, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her voice so broken, it is hard to remember what power is at her command and see only she who has been hurt by a faithless spouse. "Yes, my lady," he says, his voice softer now, "I have seen your Lord, but what I know of him would comfort you little, Lady Yavanna."

Yavanna tilts her head thoughtfully as she listens to Eonwë's reply.  Even through her sorrow she notes the muscles tighten in his jaw and the eyes narrow.  So there had been conflict between them?  It was beyond imagining.  Her gentle  Aulë and this usually serene Maia had clashed.  It was inconceivable. But then to her it was inconceivable that Aulë would ever write to her as he had.  Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.  Now she gazes at Eonwë a moment longer, searching that ruggedly handsome face for... she knew not what.  At last, she drops her eyes and stares at the ground, shoulders slumped as she whispers, “I seek not comfort, Eonwë, but truth.  I.. I would know what has happened for I fear my husband is not himself.”

Eonwë's eyes widen as he watches her shoulder slump and her gaze drop. Her voice, so soft, so filled with pain, speaks to the sorrow in his own heart. He reaches out and tentatively he touches her forearm. "I know not the Maker half as well as you, Lady Yavanna. For your gentle sake, I pray to Eru that it is a change that may be reversed."

Yavanna 's unshed tears can no longer be held back at the gentle touch of the Maia.  Silently they glide down her cheeks and fall to the ground.  Around her, unnoticed by either of them, the living things become still, ceasing the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the whispering of grasses in the wind, for all that is growing feels her sorrow and weeps with her. The trees seem to stand not quite so tall and their leaves droop and fade. The grasses no longer bend and flex beneath the breeze, but rather once blown flat simply lie there, defeated and unwilling to rise again.  "Tell me, please," she raises her eyes to his as the tears still spill heedlessly down her cheeks. "Tell me please, what happened that you, too, believe he is changed."

Eonwë looks down into the green eyes, brimming with tears, and the  world around them falls away from his awareness. He reaches out his other hand and stops just short of brushing away her tears. His face flushes as he realizes what he is about to do and he drops his hand down to his side. Bowing his head, he answers her softly. "I was sent by my Lor--- by Lord Manwë to Mandos, to the old prison of your fallen brother, for the Maker had written unto .." he struggles not say "my Lord." for it falls from his mouth so easily..." Lord Manwë that discovered  upon the walls were dark incantations and arcane symbols. Lord Manwë sent me to record carefully what I saw there, but by the time I had arrived, The Maker had cleansed the chambers and destroyed the markings. If, indeed, there were ever markings."

Yavanna blinks in confusion as she listens to the Herald's words, the action sending the last of her tears scattering down her cheeks.  Why was he insisting on referring to his Lord as Lord Manwë?  What was there that made him doubt Aulë's word. Her green eyes, as changeable as the depths of the forest, become dark with concern again as she looks questioningly at the other's bowed head, "But had not Aulë already begun recording the symbols and cleansing the chambers before he heard from your Lord?" she asks. "Might he not have already completed the task before his missive arrived?  I.. I do not understand. What makes you doubt his word?"

Eonwë clenches his free hand into a fist, and his other hand upon Yavanna's arm tightens its grip for a few seconds." My lady, if he had recorded those writings, he deign not to share that information, and Lord Manwë made it clear in a missive he directed me to write that nothing was to be touched. Moreover, the very manner in which the Maker greeted me left little doubt of his disregard for the wishes of my Lo--- of Lord Manwë." He raised his head and gazed into the face of the Vala. "But, my Lady, I am used to having my words discounted. After all, I am but a Maia, and for my speaking unto the Lord of the West, that which I knew to be true, I have been thrust from my Lord's...from Lord Manwë's service."

Yavanna's mind reels in shock at Eonwë's words. Questions flood her mind and tumble from her lips, "What.. what do you mean your words are discounted, dear friend?  You are held in high regard by all.  Being Maia does not make you lesser.  Are you telling me that you no longer serve Lord Manwë?  How can this be so?  You have always been his loyal Herald. None doubt that, surely?” She pauses a moment and takes a steadying breath before she continues, her voice low as she asks the question closest to her own heart. “But.. what do you mean his manner?  What about his manner?”

Eonwë slowly drops his hand from where it had rested upon her arm. He gives her a self-conscious look before he shifts his weight from one leg to the other and lifts a leg to rub the back of it. "I..this body.....the muscles feel as though they  are drawing up."  Then he catches himself and gingerly lowers the leg. "Forgive me, my Lady," he asks and then stand before her, still, as he continues. "Am I, Lady Yavanna, your 'dear friend?' For I tell you now, that the Maker treats the Maiar called to assist him as little better than mindless servants. I tell you now that Lord Manwë refused to hear the words of a Maia warning him that again one of the Vala has taken upon himself to consider himself higher than the Breath of Arda. Even I, who have served him always, love him better than ever I could myself, revere and wish for naught else but to be by his side and do his bidding...even my words were held as little account. None doubt me, my Lady? All doubt me, and so here I am and here I come, to see if I can outrun the emptiness inside."

Yavanna flinches as she hears the words tumbling so quietly yet so ruthlessly from Eonwë's lips.  Beyond the words she could feel his despair, the crushing emptiness for it was a despair and emptiness that had an echo inside her own heart.  "Aulë!  My Aulë, what have you done?" she cries silently in her mind, "What has happened to you my love that you should behave so?"  Yet it was not only herself whom he had shattered by his words but this gentle soul who stands before her now.  Taking a step closer, she reaches out to the Herald who is Herald no longer and lays a hand upon his cheek. "You are my dear friend, Eonwë.  You say all doubt you?  I do not.  I.. I cannot say why Manwë has made the choices he has but.. but I know you speak truth about Aulë.”

Yavanna's skin flushes in a delicate blush and she drops her hand, clasping it before her with the other.  Her eyes stare are her clasped fingers a long moment, and her voice is filled with shame when she continues. "He.. he has spoken to me harshly also in a manner which I have never heard from him before.  He was sharp and.. and hurtful with his words.  So..so I know what you say of him to be truth.  I do not doubt you.”.. She lifts her head and looks him levelly in the eye, “I believe you, dear friend.” The last words are spoken with emphasis.

Eonwë gasps at the touch of her hand, so gentle, upon his cheek, the cool, feather light weight of her fingers. None have ever touched him so. He has never missed the closeness others seem to need, seem to share so effortlessly. For it to be Yavanna --whom the Firstborn long ago dubbed "Queen of the Earth," not understanding yet that their worship should be for Eru alone-- for it to be she who touches him now, when her own sadness is great, stirs feelings in Eonwë for which he has no words. As she speaks and drops her hand from his cheek, he raises a hand to touch where her hand had been, his eyes a little wide. As she reveals to him how she, too had been ill-used, he sets his jaw, and his eyes narrow to mere slits. "How dare he treat you so, my Lady," he says, with heat in his voice. "You of all, he should adore and cherish. It is not meet he should treat you with disdain or hardness." He stops for a moment and flushes as she calls him 'dear friend. She believes me, he realizes. Then his thoughts turn to the Maker, as he last saw Aule. "There is no faith in the Smith, my Lady.  He cannot be trusted beyond satisfying his own desires."

Yavanna seems to almost crumple in on herself at Eonwë's words.  All around her now the forest and glade is utterly still.  The trees seem suddenly older and more frail. As though they shed tears of sorrow, leaves begin to flutter to the ground, brown and lifeless although here in Aman there are no changing of the seasons such as in Middle Earth.

"There is no faith in the Smith."  The words hammer her heart ruthlessly.  For a moment they threaten to overwhelm her.  It is then that her shoulders square and she lifts her chin.  Her green eyes are emerald bright and hard as she says, "I thank you, my friend, for your honesty with me.  I.. I would think a while alone upon your words, if I may.  And you, you dear gentle soul, must find a way to make Manwë see the truth of your words also.  For now though, please, I would ask you leave me, so I may think on all that I've heard before I continue my journey to seek out the Lord of the West."  She somehow manages a smile to soften her dismissal of the Maia, although the edges of it are brittle. "Be safe, dear friend, and may you be back at your Lord's side soon."

Eonwë watches her. He has seen solders, among the Children, upon the battlefield, suddenly realize their cause was lost and defeat would be their bitter bread. But rather than submit to the crushing knowledge, they rise up. They grip their swords tighter. They lift their heads higher. They call out to companions to fight on, fight on, even when death is the only victory. And so now, as he watches Yavanna, he recognizes the squaring of her shoulders, the look in her eyes. He knows the dismissal and hears it clearly, yet pauses. "I know, my Lady, that Lord Manwë will not forsake you," he says softly. "I know it in my heart.  I have had no joy of my words, I pray you know that." He bows his head and murmurs, "Were I but aught else and could bring your errant Smith to his senses." But aloud he says, "Of course, my Lady, I shall take my leave, and pray Eru grants an answer that will lighten your heart. As always, may the will of the Valar be done." He steps back and bends his knee to her. As he rises, he finds his anger rise against the Smith once more. How dare he treat the Giver of Fruits so! "Please, my Lady, whatever Eonwë is now, know he is your friend...too." Then the Maia backs up two more steps, turns and runs  once more into the night, his heart torn between the angst he feels for the pain in Yavanna's heart and the hatred which sits like a dark, carnivorous beast inside him.

Yavanna's gaze softens a little as she watches Eonwë disappear into the night. 

In all the Ages she had known few more loyal and trustworthy than this Maia who had until recently always stood by the side of the Lord of the West.  What had happened to the world that he should have been dismissed?  What had happend that Aulë should behave so?  Her eyes hardened again at this last thought.  With a heavy heart she steps slightly off the path and takes a seat upon the soft forest floor with her back against the bole of a tree.  She sighs heavily as she closes her eyes to meditate on all she had heard.  If any had listened there was a faint susurration rustle through the forest as though it too sighs with her.  Try as she might to calm her mind, she cannot calm her heart for it clamours with the words, "Aulë, my Aulë, what have you done?"

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