He was the Lord of the West, eldest of all the Ainur. His eyes peered west toward the mortal world and saw further than any of his brothers or sisters. He could see the Darkness, swirling, forming, but its shape eludes his vision. He was the Lord of the Breath of Arda, and no wind blew across Eru's creation that it did not begin or end at the sacred Mountain Taniquetil. All things borne upon the wind-- the cries of animals, the laughter of men, the song of elves--nothing escaped his hearing. He is the one who led the Great Song, when his brother, Melkor, sought to bring discord to all. His ears still hear the tune, but across four ages, Manwe bows his head and realizes that he hears the song...
But the next verse is unknown to him. The next moment is unknown to him. He has entered the unknowing.
There is much change. Much that is not as it was before. Manwe rises from his throne and looks over his shoulder to see...not Eonwe, the Herald, the Banner-Bearer...but the Handmaiden of Varda, Ilmare. He tries to keep from his face the disappointment in his heart. His voice, when he speaks is soft, like a breeze upon a summer night, but his blue eyes are hooded. "I would walk this eve, Ilmare, among the creation of Eru." He descends from his throne and then gives a look over his shoulder, watching her.
Ilmarë bows to her lord. She has been attending him of late, as well as serving her Lady as companion and servant. Since her brother was cast from the position he has held since time immemorial, there has been disquiet and distress amongst the other Maiar. And everyone seems to have a different thought about what is happening. It is very confusing, and she is not sure who trusts one another any more. Still, she fills her role as Chief of the Maiar in Eonwë's absence as well as she can. "Aye, my lord, it is a quiet night. Would you have me attend you?"
Thoughtfully, the Lord of the West regards the Maia, her skin so black, it was blue, stars winking across her flesh so that she is more a walking night sky. He raises a hand and turns up palm up, beckoning with his fingers. "Come with me, Ilmare. Let us descend and walk among the green. The Winds bring the smell of the changing seasons in Middle Earth, and I am minded to leave behind this hall but for a while." Then the Lord of the West glided from his hall, and travels, upon foot as does mortals, the paths leading down.
Ilmarë follows him, glad to breathe the fresh air and tread soft grass after days spent in the marble halls of the highest of the Valar.
The mortal beings of Middle Earth go about their business guided by the setting of the stars and the rising of the sun but here in Aman's eternal twilight in a quiet glade time passes unnoticed. The creatures of the Taniquetil forest have become used to the presence of the one who sits so silent and still against the tree. They scurry about their way casting the occasional glance at her still form. Lost deep in her thoughts Yavanna Kementári does not even notice the soft rustling in the undergrowth, nor the passing of time. Her brow is furrowed by an uncharacteristic frown as she struggles to reconcile the yearnings of her heart to what her mind knows.
"There is much on the wind tonight," says Manwe gently. His boots crunch against the rock of the mountain path.
Ilmarë nods thoughtfully. "It seems the wind would bring tidings, if I but knew how to hear them."
"When I would walk with Eonwe, he would ask me, 'Lord, what is upon the winds of the world tonight? What says Middle Earth?' And we would talk of human cookfires, dwarven drinking songs, the smell of rain, and the whispers of lovers." For a moment, a smile curves the lips of the Lord of the West, and then it vanishes. "I must not overburden you, Ilmare. Your first duty is to Varda." He reaches the bottom of the mountain, his feet touching the soft grass, and he begins to walk the path ahead.
Yavanna's frown deepens as a persistent noise intrudes on her reflections. It sounded like.. footsteps? Blinking rapidly as she struggles to bring her focus from her thoughts to the world around her she absentmindedly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and raises her eyes. Her lips quiver and a soft gasp escapes them as she recognises the one approaching upon the path. "Manwë!" she breathes his name as she rises to her feet, "Thank Eru!'
Manwe's eyes widen as he looks up to see the form of the Lady of all Things Green and Growing. "Yavanna," he replies, and his eyes sweep over her face. He extends a hand and walks toward her. "Yavanna, you are in distress," he says, his voice a calming wind. "What troubles you?"
Yavanna instinctively takes a step toward the Lord of the West, her hand outstretched to take his. This is not the first time she has sought his wisdom and solace when troubled and ever has he proven steadfast in his assistance. But she hesitates, her hand falling short of actually touching his. So much she thought she knew and could rely upon has changed. Rather she drops her eyes to the ground and simply whispers uncertainly, 'I.. I did not mean to interrupt your walk. You must have such little time to yourself I do not want to throw myself and my sorrows upon that.'
Manwe watches her hand drop, and his eyes follow it before lifting to look into her face. "You cannot interrupt me," he says, his voice soft, a great gentleness in the words. "Ever is my heart glad to see you, Yavanna." He extends his other hand, and takes both of hers. Squeezing them, he bows his head and leans it close to hers. "But what sorrows burden you? What heavies your heart?"
Yavanna's chest constricts at the soft words spoken. She raises her eyes to his, seeing the warmth and gentleness there which he has always shown to her. She casts a glance at his companion, recognising Ilmare, sister to the one who usually stood by Manwë's side. Eonwë. Eonwë who knew too of Aulë's strangeness. For a moment her sorrow seems to echo through every living thing in the glade as more leaves wither and curl before falling to the ground. She bites her lower lip a moment to stop the quiver that threatens. "It is Aulë.", her voice tremors but a little as she resolves to speak at last of her sorrows. "He is not himself."
Ilmarë bows to the Giver of Fruits, looking thoughtful as she mentions Aulë. Eonwë had spoken of Aulë being changed from his customary self. What has Yavanna seen or heard?
Aulë? Withered leaves swirl around between the Lord of the West and the Giver of Fruits, but Manwe notices them not. First Eonwe's charges against the Smith, and now Yavanna's heartfelt exclamation. A chill from one corner of Middle Earth rides the wind and curls around his physical form. "What do you mean?" he asks. "How is Aulë not himself? " He squeezes her hands and cannot help but give a brief glance at the Maia beside him.
Yavanna determinedly pushes down the sorrow that tears at her heart and threatens her composure. Resolutely she raises her chin and her voice firms as she gives her reply, " He has written to me, speaking words such as I have no heard from him before. Harsh words. Even when he so callously told me so many Ages ago that Dwarves, Elves and Men would have need to kill the trees I have brought to life with my very hands, he was not as harsh as this." Despite her resolution, her eyes drop and her voice quivers as she continues, "He.. he challenged my fidelity and called my counsel whining and admonishments. He... was arrogant and cruel in how he spoke."
Ilmarë gasps at Yavanna's words. It's one thing to believe that the Maker would speak to Eonwé harshly, but to Yavanna, his spouse!
Manwe's eyes narrow as he listens. Arrogant! That was how Eonwe described him. Arrogant and full of overweening pride. Manwe's lips presses together, and an anger and dread enter his heart. His voice rises, like a strong wind, as he replies to the distraught Vala. "Your fidelty is not at issue," he says, and his face grows stern. "Once before thy husband heeded not the will of Eru, and now he spurns his wife and my authority. It is not he who should call you into question. It is I."
He raises her hands, still clasped in his, and blue eyes bore into hers. "And you I question not, Yavanna, Giver of Fruits. But I do question him."
"Do you indeed, my lord?" Ilmarë looks surprised and a little hopeful. Someone is confirming Eonwe's reports at last.
Yavanna's skin flushes in a delicate blush as she hears Manwë's words as she confesses, "I did not want to believe what my eyes saw in his words, but.. but I encountered Eonwë upon this path in my journey to seek your counsel. It would seem that he too has seen this change in my husband." She looks down at where her hands are clasped in his. She lets a thumb idly caress one of his knuckles a moment to show her appreciation of his unhesitant support. "What are we to do, Manwë?" Her eyes are liquid pools of green as she lifts them to him in appeal.
For one moment, the slow anger in the heart of the Lord of the West is brought to bear upon the diminutive Maia beside him, for her words prick his pride sorely. But the mention of Eonwe by Yavanna cools the temper. He cocks his head. "Eonwe? Upon this path? Why? What was he doing upon this path? What said he?"
Yavanna's mind recoils from Manwë's question. What had Eonwë said? His words would forever hammer at her heart. "There is no faith in the Smith." The words spun round and round in her mind like a litany, repeated over and over again. Again her sorrow radiates around the glade and leaves whisper quietly to the ground. One settles upon her hair and she brushes it aside as she lifts her eyes to meet those of the Lord of the West. "He was running from his pain." Her voice is gentle, for she knows the rift between the Herald and his Lord would be as painful for one as the other. "It tears at his heart that his words were not believed. But I believe them. I.. I know he speaks truth when he says 'There is no faith in the Smith'. I do not know what has happened that Aulë should speak and behave so, but speak and behave so, he does."
Unnoticed, the leaf settles upn her hair, first and then, with a careless flick of her hand, it drifts upon the wind to flutter to the ground. The wind gusts about them, there upon that path, causing vegetation that only a short time ago, seemed so green and verdant. Now all about them, it seems the life is being leeched out of the plants. He feels the anger seep out of his heart, and it is then the Lord of the West sees with a vision made clearer for the pain that seizes the spot where anger had spawned that his ire was not against the Maia or even the faithless Aule but with himself. The mind of Manwe discerns the blindness that led him to question the one being who would never lie, never turn away from him, never utter a deception. He gives a great and deep moan and sways a little as he does so. "Eonwe," he whispers. "I have wronged thee." He lifts his head, and in the eyes of the Lord of the West shimmers tears. "Yavanna, blind were my eyes, and deaf my ears. I chose to close my heart against the Herald, and so doing, I broke his."
Ilmarë reaches out a hand to steady him as he sways. "You did not know," she murmurs.
Yavanna's eyes are soft with compassion as she sees the pain in the other's eyes. So many have suffered because of Aulë. The Aulë she is hearing of is not her Aulë, the love of Ages, her tender companion and mate. Her eyes harden as she gazes upon the Lord of the West, his eyes shimmering with tears in his pain. She thinks again of that gentle soul she had met upon this path, Eonwë of the noble heart. The heart that was breaking because of Aulë's actions. Now she squeezes his hands gently in reassurance, those same hands that had so recently squeezed hers for the same reason, "You were not to know. None of us were to know. Do not be harsh on yourself. We.. we have all been caught unawares but surely there must be a reason for what Aulë has done? Surely there is something we can do."
Manwe shakes his head, the tears making a warn trail down the cheeks of the Breath of Arda. "No, Ilmare," I should have known to trust Eonwe. Always faithful, always steadfast. I should have listened to Eonwe, no matter how dreaded the message. Nor," he pauses, feeling the reassuring pressure of Yavanna's hands. "Nor should I have sent Eonwe from my side, seeing how and in what state he was in." He looks at Yavanna. "Eonwe, Eonwe was as I have never seen him. Never before has he forgotten himself so, been so vehement, so volatile." He purses his lips and nods at her words. "I must reflect, Yavanna, dearest Lady, sweet and much loved, upon this situation. I must see within past all hurt, all reproach, and listen to what may be there, placed by the wisdom of Blessed Eru. For it is Eru's grace that must give me vision."
Yavanna nods gently in agreement, "Yes, it is Eru who must guide us." She looks around the glade as though only now becoming fully aware of her surroundings, "But here is hardly the place for it. I fear my presence for so long has kept a few of our smaller furred friends from their normal doings and the eve draws late. Varda will be worried." With a last reassuring squeeze she releases Manwë's hands and turns to include Ilmare in her invitation, "Why not make our way up the mount and seek some rest, the better to seek guidance on the 'morrow?"
Manwe give a mute nod, and turning away from the Giver of Fruits, he drops one of her hands and holds the other tight. In his ears is a buzzing noise, like that of a small insect, but the glade is devoid of such creatures. It is the rushing of blood, pumped by a heart that feels like a great hand is squeezing it. Bowing his head, in silence, the Lord of the West leads the Consort of Aule up the rocky path.
Aule, the Smith. Aule the Maker.
Aule, the traitor?
> Next
But the next verse is unknown to him. The next moment is unknown to him. He has entered the unknowing.
There is much change. Much that is not as it was before. Manwe rises from his throne and looks over his shoulder to see...not Eonwe, the Herald, the Banner-Bearer...but the Handmaiden of Varda, Ilmare. He tries to keep from his face the disappointment in his heart. His voice, when he speaks is soft, like a breeze upon a summer night, but his blue eyes are hooded. "I would walk this eve, Ilmare, among the creation of Eru." He descends from his throne and then gives a look over his shoulder, watching her.
Ilmarë bows to her lord. She has been attending him of late, as well as serving her Lady as companion and servant. Since her brother was cast from the position he has held since time immemorial, there has been disquiet and distress amongst the other Maiar. And everyone seems to have a different thought about what is happening. It is very confusing, and she is not sure who trusts one another any more. Still, she fills her role as Chief of the Maiar in Eonwë's absence as well as she can. "Aye, my lord, it is a quiet night. Would you have me attend you?"Thoughtfully, the Lord of the West regards the Maia, her skin so black, it was blue, stars winking across her flesh so that she is more a walking night sky. He raises a hand and turns up palm up, beckoning with his fingers. "Come with me, Ilmare. Let us descend and walk among the green. The Winds bring the smell of the changing seasons in Middle Earth, and I am minded to leave behind this hall but for a while." Then the Lord of the West glided from his hall, and travels, upon foot as does mortals, the paths leading down.
Ilmarë follows him, glad to breathe the fresh air and tread soft grass after days spent in the marble halls of the highest of the Valar.
 |
"There is much on the wind tonight," says Manwe gently. His boots crunch against the rock of the mountain path. Ilmarë nods thoughtfully. "It seems the wind would bring tidings, if I but knew how to hear them."
"When I would walk with Eonwe, he would ask me, 'Lord, what is upon the winds of the world tonight? What says Middle Earth?' And we would talk of human cookfires, dwarven drinking songs, the smell of rain, and the whispers of lovers." For a moment, a smile curves the lips of the Lord of the West, and then it vanishes. "I must not overburden you, Ilmare. Your first duty is to Varda." He reaches the bottom of the mountain, his feet touching the soft grass, and he begins to walk the path ahead.
Yavanna's frown deepens as a persistent noise intrudes on her reflections. It sounded like.. footsteps? Blinking rapidly as she struggles to bring her focus from her thoughts to the world around her she absentmindedly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and raises her eyes. Her lips quiver and a soft gasp escapes them as she recognises the one approaching upon the path. "Manwë!" she breathes his name as she rises to her feet, "Thank Eru!'
Manwe's eyes widen as he looks up to see the form of the Lady of all Things Green and Growing. "Yavanna," he replies, and his eyes sweep over her face. He extends a hand and walks toward her. "Yavanna, you are in distress," he says, his voice a calming wind. "What troubles you?"
Yavanna instinctively takes a step toward the Lord of the West, her hand outstretched to take his. This is not the first time she has sought his wisdom and solace when troubled and ever has he proven steadfast in his assistance. But she hesitates, her hand falling short of actually touching his. So much she thought she knew and could rely upon has changed. Rather she drops her eyes to the ground and simply whispers uncertainly, 'I.. I did not mean to interrupt your walk. You must have such little time to yourself I do not want to throw myself and my sorrows upon that.'
Manwe watches her hand drop, and his eyes follow it before lifting to look into her face. "You cannot interrupt me," he says, his voice soft, a great gentleness in the words. "Ever is my heart glad to see you, Yavanna." He extends his other hand, and takes both of hers. Squeezing them, he bows his head and leans it close to hers. "But what sorrows burden you? What heavies your heart?"
Yavanna's chest constricts at the soft words spoken. She raises her eyes to his, seeing the warmth and gentleness there which he has always shown to her. She casts a glance at his companion, recognising Ilmare, sister to the one who usually stood by Manwë's side. Eonwë. Eonwë who knew too of Aulë's strangeness. For a moment her sorrow seems to echo through every living thing in the glade as more leaves wither and curl before falling to the ground. She bites her lower lip a moment to stop the quiver that threatens. "It is Aulë.", her voice tremors but a little as she resolves to speak at last of her sorrows. "He is not himself."
Ilmarë bows to the Giver of Fruits, looking thoughtful as she mentions Aulë. Eonwë had spoken of Aulë being changed from his customary self. What has Yavanna seen or heard?
Aulë? Withered leaves swirl around between the Lord of the West and the Giver of Fruits, but Manwe notices them not. First Eonwe's charges against the Smith, and now Yavanna's heartfelt exclamation. A chill from one corner of Middle Earth rides the wind and curls around his physical form. "What do you mean?" he asks. "How is Aulë not himself? " He squeezes her hands and cannot help but give a brief glance at the Maia beside him.
Yavanna determinedly pushes down the sorrow that tears at her heart and threatens her composure. Resolutely she raises her chin and her voice firms as she gives her reply, " He has written to me, speaking words such as I have no heard from him before. Harsh words. Even when he so callously told me so many Ages ago that Dwarves, Elves and Men would have need to kill the trees I have brought to life with my very hands, he was not as harsh as this." Despite her resolution, her eyes drop and her voice quivers as she continues, "He.. he challenged my fidelity and called my counsel whining and admonishments. He... was arrogant and cruel in how he spoke."
Ilmarë gasps at Yavanna's words. It's one thing to believe that the Maker would speak to Eonwé harshly, but to Yavanna, his spouse!
Manwe's eyes narrow as he listens. Arrogant! That was how Eonwe described him. Arrogant and full of overweening pride. Manwe's lips presses together, and an anger and dread enter his heart. His voice rises, like a strong wind, as he replies to the distraught Vala. "Your fidelty is not at issue," he says, and his face grows stern. "Once before thy husband heeded not the will of Eru, and now he spurns his wife and my authority. It is not he who should call you into question. It is I."
He raises her hands, still clasped in his, and blue eyes bore into hers. "And you I question not, Yavanna, Giver of Fruits. But I do question him."
"Do you indeed, my lord?" Ilmarë looks surprised and a little hopeful. Someone is confirming Eonwe's reports at last.Yavanna's skin flushes in a delicate blush as she hears Manwë's words as she confesses, "I did not want to believe what my eyes saw in his words, but.. but I encountered Eonwë upon this path in my journey to seek your counsel. It would seem that he too has seen this change in my husband." She looks down at where her hands are clasped in his. She lets a thumb idly caress one of his knuckles a moment to show her appreciation of his unhesitant support. "What are we to do, Manwë?" Her eyes are liquid pools of green as she lifts them to him in appeal.
For one moment, the slow anger in the heart of the Lord of the West is brought to bear upon the diminutive Maia beside him, for her words prick his pride sorely. But the mention of Eonwe by Yavanna cools the temper. He cocks his head. "Eonwe? Upon this path? Why? What was he doing upon this path? What said he?"
Yavanna's mind recoils from Manwë's question. What had Eonwë said? His words would forever hammer at her heart. "There is no faith in the Smith." The words spun round and round in her mind like a litany, repeated over and over again. Again her sorrow radiates around the glade and leaves whisper quietly to the ground. One settles upon her hair and she brushes it aside as she lifts her eyes to meet those of the Lord of the West. "He was running from his pain." Her voice is gentle, for she knows the rift between the Herald and his Lord would be as painful for one as the other. "It tears at his heart that his words were not believed. But I believe them. I.. I know he speaks truth when he says 'There is no faith in the Smith'. I do not know what has happened that Aulë should speak and behave so, but speak and behave so, he does."
Unnoticed, the leaf settles upn her hair, first and then, with a careless flick of her hand, it drifts upon the wind to flutter to the ground. The wind gusts about them, there upon that path, causing vegetation that only a short time ago, seemed so green and verdant. Now all about them, it seems the life is being leeched out of the plants. He feels the anger seep out of his heart, and it is then the Lord of the West sees with a vision made clearer for the pain that seizes the spot where anger had spawned that his ire was not against the Maia or even the faithless Aule but with himself. The mind of Manwe discerns the blindness that led him to question the one being who would never lie, never turn away from him, never utter a deception. He gives a great and deep moan and sways a little as he does so. "Eonwe," he whispers. "I have wronged thee." He lifts his head, and in the eyes of the Lord of the West shimmers tears. "Yavanna, blind were my eyes, and deaf my ears. I chose to close my heart against the Herald, and so doing, I broke his."
Ilmarë reaches out a hand to steady him as he sways. "You did not know," she murmurs.
Yavanna's eyes are soft with compassion as she sees the pain in the other's eyes. So many have suffered because of Aulë. The Aulë she is hearing of is not her Aulë, the love of Ages, her tender companion and mate. Her eyes harden as she gazes upon the Lord of the West, his eyes shimmering with tears in his pain. She thinks again of that gentle soul she had met upon this path, Eonwë of the noble heart. The heart that was breaking because of Aulë's actions. Now she squeezes his hands gently in reassurance, those same hands that had so recently squeezed hers for the same reason, "You were not to know. None of us were to know. Do not be harsh on yourself. We.. we have all been caught unawares but surely there must be a reason for what Aulë has done? Surely there is something we can do."
Manwe shakes his head, the tears making a warn trail down the cheeks of the Breath of Arda. "No, Ilmare," I should have known to trust Eonwe. Always faithful, always steadfast. I should have listened to Eonwe, no matter how dreaded the message. Nor," he pauses, feeling the reassuring pressure of Yavanna's hands. "Nor should I have sent Eonwe from my side, seeing how and in what state he was in." He looks at Yavanna. "Eonwe, Eonwe was as I have never seen him. Never before has he forgotten himself so, been so vehement, so volatile." He purses his lips and nods at her words. "I must reflect, Yavanna, dearest Lady, sweet and much loved, upon this situation. I must see within past all hurt, all reproach, and listen to what may be there, placed by the wisdom of Blessed Eru. For it is Eru's grace that must give me vision."
Yavanna nods gently in agreement, "Yes, it is Eru who must guide us." She looks around the glade as though only now becoming fully aware of her surroundings, "But here is hardly the place for it. I fear my presence for so long has kept a few of our smaller furred friends from their normal doings and the eve draws late. Varda will be worried." With a last reassuring squeeze she releases Manwë's hands and turns to include Ilmare in her invitation, "Why not make our way up the mount and seek some rest, the better to seek guidance on the 'morrow?"
Manwe give a mute nod, and turning away from the Giver of Fruits, he drops one of her hands and holds the other tight. In his ears is a buzzing noise, like that of a small insect, but the glade is devoid of such creatures. It is the rushing of blood, pumped by a heart that feels like a great hand is squeezing it. Bowing his head, in silence, the Lord of the West leads the Consort of Aule up the rocky path.
Aule, the Smith. Aule the Maker.
Aule, the traitor?
> Next