An Encounter at Mandos

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AelKennyr Rhiano and Rhûn Darkmoon

The Halls of Mandos

Eonwe's left hand tightens upon the hilt of the hunter's knife at his side. His right hand curled and uncurls into a fist as he tilts his head back and regards the Hall of Mandos through blue eyes that miss little. A chill wind caresses his cheeks, but the Maia feels it not, nor the grumblings of his stomach. He has been in this physical body longer than in any other before, and the increasing demands of it have become an irritation. The trees surrounding the somber home of those elves who are in exile, cast asunder from their bodies, swayed at the touch of the wind, their limbs drooping, the leaves withered, and the trees themselves bowed, as though under a thousand sorrows. But Eonwe sees it not. For him, there is the hush of the air, the stillness found among the dead and the silent desperation of the newly dead. Now, to be here of his own accord, he can take measure of the place, the still dead hall of the still dead. With another dead breath, Eonwe stirs himself and with certain and deliberate strides, takes the stairs with purpose. "I will know if the Maker is here, among the dead, stirring up decaying disobedience until my good lord," he thinks. "I will prove the Lady Yavanna, good and gracious, aright in her suspicions, and I will yet serve my Lord." And so girded with this purpose, he enters the hall.

Nyarnyaro

Nyarnyaro hurries down the dark corridor. His face is troubled and he seems lost in thought as he walks. His feet in their soft leather shoes make barely a sound upon the smooth stone floor. It was eerily silent down here in the lower corridors. Few of the souls of the dead came this far below ground. Indeed these days it was mainly the Maiar in the Maker's service who walked these halls, attending to the summons of their Lord. The frown on Nyarnyaro's face deepens at the thought of his Lord. Never before had he seen him as he has been in recent times.

Nyarnyaro absently raises a hand to gingerly touch the swelling on his cheekbone. That would bruise by the morrow. He shook his head in disbelief. His Lord had struck him, all because he had dared to glance in the direction of the other occupant of the room, the Lady Nienna. What was the Lady doing there, closeted away with his Lord in such a manner? It wasn't right. Nothing was right anymore.

At the top of the stairs, Eonwe pauses for a moment.  His eyes narrow to slits and the hand upon the hilt tightens. His mouth becomes a thin line, and his nostrils flare. Somewhere below came the smells of a meal being prepared, and the Hall as he enters seems much warmer than he remembers it being last time.  He listens for a moment, ever the warrior, but at this top level, the only sounds were the soft swishing, as though a hand was pushing aside a curtain, and the deep doleful sighs of the dead within.  He forces his right hand to uncurl and his left to relax its grip upon the knife and enters the warm silky velvet duskiness of the inner hall.

Nyarnyaro rounds the corner of yet another long corridor. There at the end at last were the stairs that lead to the upper levels of Mandos.  From here he could hear a soft susurration from above.  No matter how long he had been here in his Lord's service he had never gotten used to the whisperings of the dead.  So many souls wandered the upper halls and so many seemed to sorrow and have regrets about their lives.  Try as he might to close his ears to their words, still he heard them and still they tugged at his heart.  What was the Lady Nienna doing locked away with Aule when so many needed her tender care?  His feet found the bottom stair and swiftly he mounted them, unseeing, his body moving effortlessly and automatically for he had trod this path many times recently.  He reaches the middle landing and begins to bound up the next flight of steps.

Eonwe's eyes sweep the hall, glances up to see the center part of the ceiling, opened to the night sky, but the sight does not cause his breath to catch, as in by-gone times. Now he is here, his head turns to consideration of what his next move should be. His heart seethes within him, heavy, hot, and full of  vengeance for him, for his Lord, for the gentle and good Lady of all things living. With sure and quiet steps, he moves off to the side of the main chamber,  into a side chamber where stairs lead both up and down. "Down," whispers Eonwe, "down I must go to unmask the unfaithful." And down he descends.

Nyarnyaro's feet take him up the steps two at a time. At this hour he did not expect to encounter another upon the stairs.  Lost in his thoughts he is only just able to avoid knocking the other to the ground before he is even aware of their presence.  Reaching out a steadying hand, he begins to apologise, "I.. I am so sorry. I was.. " He stops and stares as he recognises Eonwe, Herald of Manwe, standing before him. "Eonwe!" he gasps in surprise. "My Lord Herald, what.. what brings you to Mandos at this hour?  Can I be of assistance to you?  By the Breath of Manwe, I nearly knocked you to the ground.  I apologise profusely.  I.. I am so sorry."  Realising he is gabbling, Nyarnyaro falls silent and stands with his head down repentantly, hands meekly clasped in front of him.

Coming up the stairs towards him is a single Maia. Eonwe starts to sweep past him, only instead to find the other Maiar walking directly into him. Surprised, he feels the other takes his hand to stead him, though in truth the fellow Maia did no more than bump into him. He looks up at this other's words, but does not correct him in calling Eonwe "Herald."  Instead he watches the other dip his head.  "I see the Smith, " says Eonwe, his voice deep, low, and measured.  He tilts his head, about to ask if this one had seen the Smith but stops as he sees a shadow upon the other Maia's face where none should be. Reaching out, Eonwe cradles the other's chin his his right hand and tilts the face up toward his. Directing the head first to the left, then the right, his eyes narrow. "Your face is bruised. How did this happen?"

Nyarnyaro's hand automatically reaches up again to touch the tender spot on  his cheek, his fingers stopping just short of doing so as he flushes with embarrassment.  His grey eyes are dark and troubled as he stares up at the other Maia for he wages an internal battle between loyalty to his Lord and his basic honest nature.  Yet the Herald had said he seeks the Smith.  He hesitates a moment longer and then comes to a decision.  "My Lord Eonwe, pardon my presumption but .. but if you seek my Lord then there are some things you should know before you do so."  He pauses and glances around this very public area, and even though there are no others present at the moment, some of the souls could wander past at any time.  "Please," he whispers, the grip of his hand on the other's arm tightening to emphasise the urgency. "Please, come with me where we may talk privately?"

Eonwe looks down at the Maia's hand and back up into the troubled grey eyes. That the other Maia, his brother, reached up to touch his cheek before a look of indecision  crossed his face gives Eonwe a pause. Although relieved of his responsibilities, he has been Chief of the Maiar for all the passing of the ages, and this one's discomfort, the worried and pleading tone of his voice, gives Eonwe pause from his single goal.  Looking back up the stairs and then back down, from whence his fellow Maia had come, he nods. "Come, yes, lead the way," he tells the other, a soft gentleness in his tone. 

 Nyarnyaro gives a short polite nod. "This way, please." He releases the other's arm and continues up the stairs, turning to beckon with his hand for the other to follow. "It is nearby, and we should not be disturbed there." He turns the corner and leads the other towards the back of the building before turning into another corridor. It is long and dark as are most in this home of the dead, and he could see a few souls wandering at the far end. He could hear their soft laments, and his heart went out to them, their sorrow firming his resolve to reveal to Eonwe the situation with his Lord and the neglect of the Lady Nienna. Pausing, he indicates a door. "Through here."

Eonwe follows his fellow Maia back up the stairs and down the corridor, which, as he studies the surroundings, was no corridor of stone and mortar but one of dreams and faded memories. Tall oak doors, not real wood, but remembered dreams of doors in other places, other times, lead into rooms that exist only by the will and memory of souls who cannot yet give up the trappings of mortal existence. He stretches out a hand to brush a wall and watches his fingers sink into the ghostly stone.  A faint glow gives the walls and doors their otherworldliness. Turning to his left as that first hall ends, he sees the other Maia making his way down a longer corridor. Just beyond him three dark cloaked shades wander the hall listlessly. As Eonwe pulls up beside the other Maia where he stands waiting,  the one-time Herald of the Breath of Arda watches the three figures again for a long moment. Then he enters the room and turns expectantly to his brother Maia.

 Nyarnyaro politely follows the Herald as he enters the room he had indicated.  "These are the kitchens, such as they are," he explains. "There are not many of us here who have need of them, only those of us who serve my Lord, and of course, he and the Lady Nienna."  He pauses and flushes again at the thought of what he must soon reveal and then hurries on. 'We shall not be disturbed here.  The others are resting until it is time to prepare the morning meal for my Lord. I.. I am just here in case he should call for something during the night." Shifting uneasily as he thinks of the result of that recent call. He indicates a bench. "But please, I am being thoughtless. Won't you take a seat and some refreshment after your journey?"

Eonwe nods as the other speaks. Now with the warm glow of the wood burning in the stove and the larger fireplace, he watches the face of his brother Maia carefully and see the flush sweep across his features, a troubled look to match the troubled tone of his words. There was a pause after he mentioned the Valië of Compassion, as though the thought she may desire refreshment a troublesome one. His brow creased in careful deliberation, Eonwe does not still but instead takes a step toward the other Maia.  "You know my name," he says quietly. "I have not been given use of yours. By what are you  called?"

"I am Nyarnyaro," he says deferentially as he drops his eyes from those of his guest, not wanting to reveal his inner turmoil.  He moves over to the shelving above one of the fireplaces and rummages in a basket of cloth.  Selecting a small square of clean linen, he moves to one of the nearby waterbarrels and dips it into the water, feeling it cool and chill upon his fingertips as he goes so.  Shaking the excess water from the cloth, he closes the waterbarrel again and then perches on its lid, tenderly dabbing the cloth against his injured cheek.  He closes his eyes with pleasure at the relief the coolness brings to the bruised flesh.  Opening his eyes again, he gazes levelly at the other Maia.  "You asked how I came by this wound?  It was given me by my Lord, by the one you seek."

Eonwe watches the other Maia, Nyarnyaro, as he moves about the kitchens, easily locating what he needs. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees evidence of a recently and hastily prepared meal, or so it seems to him, for there is a large spill upon the table, and the smell of stale wine in the room. The two bowls of a broth of some sort, from the aroma, still steamed and the bread upon the platter not yet hardened from exposure to the air.  More pots sat upon a second table, and upon the third were glasses of half filled drink. His blue eyes flick back to the Maia as he perches atop the waterbarrel. 

As Eonwe hears the admission spill from Nyarnyaro, his heart grows hard and heavy, and he feels his skin warm and his right hand clench. "Hit you?" he asks, his voice colored with his rising anger. "The Maker HIT you?"

Nyarnyaro gives a small nod and looks down, his hands playing with the cloth he holds.  He is silent, a muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching as he remembers that humiliating scene.  Then he opens his mouth and the words spill forth. "Nothing is right here any more," he blurts. "No work is done by my Lord.  He spends all his time in his new chambers with the Lady Nienna.  She does not work with the souls any more.  They lament and mourn and there is none to comfort them.  She.. she.." he pauses and swallows as he gathers his resolve. "She has become haughty and demanding.  She never leaves my Lord's chambers.  Neither of them do any more.  We.. we are only allowed in to bring what is demanded. Not requested, but demanded.  No one is allowed to speak or question.  No one is allowed to look up or around the room.  That.. that is why he struck me. I dared to glance at the Lady." He raises eyes full of hurt and bewilderment to the Herald, 'Nothing is right."

There is a moment, in battle, when the heart becomes calm, the mind becomes itself a sharpened weapon, and the body readies itself. A perfect moment of perfect stillness fills a warrior as he grips his weapon a little firmer, and a practiced eye notes every detail of the battlefield, every bird, every animal, every enemy, even every blade grass. Eonwe has felt that calm, standing with his brothers and sisters, waiting beside Valar to meet and crush the opposition of the Twisted One. In that moment every detail of the warrior's surroundings becomes clear, and etched into the mind. Such a moment was this. He stood, stock still, only his eyes moving as they sweep up and across Nyarnyaro's face. Each bit of information stretches out before him, and he knows the answers even before he asks, but  asks he does. For any warrior would tell one unused to the battlefield that one prepares for deadly conflict only with what he knows, not suspects of the enemy. There is no doubt in Eonwe's mind that the Smith is the enemy, not just his enemy, but the Maiar's enemy, the Valar's enemy, the Children's enemy...and Manwe's enemy.  "Tell me of the Lady Nienna and of Aule the Deceiver. Tell me it all. What do you know?"

Nyarnyaro stares at the other Maia a moment, stunned by the vehemence he hears in the other's words.  All this time of worrying, all this time of struggling to deal with a changing world and a changing Lord.  All this time when he and the others had become somehow less than what they were. Not Maiar, powerful beings who had stood, if not side by side with Eonwe on the battlefield against the Twisted One, then at his back. They had somehow  become nothing but lowly servants, kitchen staff, scullery workers.  Now, remembering again just who and what he was, Nyarnyaro's jaw firmed and he lifted his chin as he replied. "From the time my Lord first began working in those chambers, the former cell of Melkor, he has changed.  It has become more and more noticeable, the longer he worked there, and now he... he lives in there!  He will not leave it.  He is arrogant, rude, rough.  He went away for a short time and would not tell us where.  When he returned he had the Lady Nienna with him, and she was in a mortal body.  She has remained in his chambers with him ever since and.. and is not herself."

Nyarnyaro looks down and twists the now limp cloth in his hands.  His voice when he continues is no longer angry, but saddened. "She.. she no longer cares for the dead.  She doesn't even seem to notice their sorrow.  She .. she only thinks of Aule and hangs off him like a street strumpet such as you would see anywhere in Middle Earth."  His words come to an abrupt halt at the realisation of what he has said, and he looks down at his hands, his face flushed crimson.

Eönwë

Eonwe begins to pace slowly, measured steps, the soft sound of his feet treading the stone floor muffled now and then by the popping and crackling of the fires in the stove and the fireplace. The room grows warmer to Eonwe, and he tugs at little at the neckline of his cloak before shedding it, revealing the sword strapped to his back. "He has corrupted her," murmurs Eonwe.  "He taken from among the purest of the Valar and despoil her." His voice was, nearly a growl. "And while he sets about creating chambers in the bowels of the earth, much like his truncated creations, he defiles the vows he makes to the Lady Yavanna, she who is good and kind, gentle and giving. Lady Nienna would never soil herself so, save she has had her wits overturned in some manner. He has done something to her." He curls and uncurls his right hand.  He looks up and over at the other before him. "He is nestled in the old prison of the Twisted one , Melkor, like a fat snake. What does he do in that chamber? What do you see? "

Nyarnyaro watches his guest pace up and down, as out of place here in these kitchens as a panther in a flower garden.  Every move he made spoke of power and grace.  Every glance showed the sharp mind, the eyes missing nothing like a predator in search of prey.  A shiver ran down Nyarnyaro's spine as he realised just who that prey might be, his own Lord.  Yet something had to be done. Something must be done!  Unflinchingly he looks into those blue eyes, as cold and hard as the frostiest of winter mornings. "We see nothing.  We are not allowed to look.  No one is there lest we are taking them food, bathwater or fetching and carrying laundry.  We.. we are just.."

He pauses a moment and tilts his head as though listening.   Then  his shoulder's slump and his head loses again its proud carriage as he slips off the water barrel.  "I .. I must go.  The lady has need and I dare not delay answering.  Please, pardon me. I do not mean to be rude leaving you, but I must see what it is she requires."

 Eonwe's face tightens and a frown pulls his lips into a thin line. He watches at the other Maia jumps up and hurries out the room. He watches through the transparent ethereal walls as Nyarnyaro, shoulders slumped, face dejected, walks quickly down the hall and out of sight. Then, he who was Chief of the Maiar crosses over  to the table, to one of the bowls of broth, now cooled and quickly congealing. Sitting down, he hears the complaints of his stomach and picks up the bowl with both hands, bringing it up to his lips and slowly sipping the broth. It was cold and metallic tasting but nourishing. This body must be nourished and treated well, Eonwe thinks to himself. The mind must be keen sharp if I am at all to unveil the corruption that has spawned in Mandos' hall." 

Slowly, he finishes the broth, turns and devours the bread, seeks out a mug and fills it with clear, clean water from the barrel upon which Nyarnyaro sat, and sits again to wait for Nyarnyaro.

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