AelKennyr Rhiano
Time passed, with nothing but the soft swishing of fabric brushing against fabric, across stone. The wood in the fires of the stoves crackled and shifted and fell into pieces in a shower of cinders and embers. The damp cold from the walls, the floor exuded and wrapped icy fingers around Eonwe's physical body until the Maia pushed the wood bench from the table where he had taken his cold meal and rose. Crossing the kitchen, he went to the closest of the cook stoves. In a gesture so much more familiar to one of the Children of Eru than to a Maia, he stretched out his arms toward the blaze in the stove and started rubbing his hands vigorously, flexing his fingers.
Minutes stretched out and still his fellow Nyarnyaro was down below, in the chambers that once held Melkor prisoner. His mouth tightened into a thin line as he mulls over, again, all that the Maia of Aule had told him, how Aule himself had struck Nyarnyaro for merely gazing upon Nienna. Warmed by the heat of the fire, Eonwe slowly paced back and forth, the popping and crackling of the fire, the soft swishing of the wandering shades overloud in the dead silence.
Beneath the bowels of Mandos, there was Aule, the Maker...the traitor, thought Eonwe, and there, too, the Valie Nienna. His thoughts came back to the bruise on Nyarnyaro's face. A corruption has erupted from those chambers below, like pus from a festering sore. "I must root it out, " Eonwe thinks. "I must shift for myself what has transpired here." He casts his thoughts back over all he had gleamed from the servant of Aule. "They are not like themselves," Eonwe thinks. "His Maia."
He stopped in his pacing, his piercing blue eyes, narrowing as he thought. The servant of Aule seemed ....less...that was the only word Eonwe had for it. He seemed beaten, downtrodden, reduced, lesser. "What has he done to my brothers and sister?" he asked himself softly, as his thoughts led down troubled musings.
"It is not the first time corruption spewed from those about the Maker," thought Eonwe, his mind casting back to memories of other Maiar in the service of the Smith. Sauron was once the mightiest of all of the Maiar serving Aule. He used his knowledge of Arda for the service of Melkor himself, and then went on to become a dark and terrible evil, corrupting t Firstborn of the Children of Eru, the elves. "He called himself Aulendil, and we thought it was a perversion and an insult to the Maker, a devious disguise. What if it wasn't?" Eonwe asked aloud. "What if it were all part of some far-seeing plan? Or what if the Maker and his foul servant sought to use Melkor himself?"
For several moments, Eonwe stood, still, his eyes narrowed, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. His thoughts chased each other, each one birthing more questions than answer. Finally he shook his head. "No, I can find no answers waiting here. I must enter the chamber. I must see." He lifted his head. "But not as Eonwe."
A casual thought, and his clothes melted from him, his body instead dressed in a formless cloud that swirled and coalesced into the long flowing robes he has seen the Maiar of Mandos wear. Another thought and the color leeched from his long hair until it hung about his face in silver grey strands.
Looking down, Eonwe pursed his lips and with yet another thought, his tall, muscular frame grew shorter, less sinewy, of a height with the servant of Aule. Lifting a hand, he stroked his chin, his cheeks. Bringing both hands up to his face, he rubbed at it, and as he did, his face seemed like soft clay, and he a potter. Kneading, rubbing, smoothing, slowing his face changed. Finally his hands stopped, and he dropped them. No longer did he bear the face of the onetime Herald of Manwe.
He turned to the fire, his eyes unfocused as he shifted and reshaped his physical form. The flames danced and writhed. Caught in their embrace, the wood continued to be consumed. Still Eonwe molded, refitted, reform his physical body until nothing of the Herald remained. "Like you, " he told the wood, " I become something ...else."
> Next
Minutes stretched out and still his fellow Nyarnyaro was down below, in the chambers that once held Melkor prisoner. His mouth tightened into a thin line as he mulls over, again, all that the Maia of Aule had told him, how Aule himself had struck Nyarnyaro for merely gazing upon Nienna. Warmed by the heat of the fire, Eonwe slowly paced back and forth, the popping and crackling of the fire, the soft swishing of the wandering shades overloud in the dead silence.
Beneath the bowels of Mandos, there was Aule, the Maker...the traitor, thought Eonwe, and there, too, the Valie Nienna. His thoughts came back to the bruise on Nyarnyaro's face. A corruption has erupted from those chambers below, like pus from a festering sore. "I must root it out, " Eonwe thinks. "I must shift for myself what has transpired here." He casts his thoughts back over all he had gleamed from the servant of Aule. "They are not like themselves," Eonwe thinks. "His Maia."
He stopped in his pacing, his piercing blue eyes, narrowing as he thought. The servant of Aule seemed ....less...that was the only word Eonwe had for it. He seemed beaten, downtrodden, reduced, lesser. "What has he done to my brothers and sister?" he asked himself softly, as his thoughts led down troubled musings.
"It is not the first time corruption spewed from those about the Maker," thought Eonwe, his mind casting back to memories of other Maiar in the service of the Smith. Sauron was once the mightiest of all of the Maiar serving Aule. He used his knowledge of Arda for the service of Melkor himself, and then went on to become a dark and terrible evil, corrupting t Firstborn of the Children of Eru, the elves. "He called himself Aulendil, and we thought it was a perversion and an insult to the Maker, a devious disguise. What if it wasn't?" Eonwe asked aloud. "What if it were all part of some far-seeing plan? Or what if the Maker and his foul servant sought to use Melkor himself?"
For several moments, Eonwe stood, still, his eyes narrowed, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. His thoughts chased each other, each one birthing more questions than answer. Finally he shook his head. "No, I can find no answers waiting here. I must enter the chamber. I must see." He lifted his head. "But not as Eonwe."
A casual thought, and his clothes melted from him, his body instead dressed in a formless cloud that swirled and coalesced into the long flowing robes he has seen the Maiar of Mandos wear. Another thought and the color leeched from his long hair until it hung about his face in silver grey strands.
Looking down, Eonwe pursed his lips and with yet another thought, his tall, muscular frame grew shorter, less sinewy, of a height with the servant of Aule. Lifting a hand, he stroked his chin, his cheeks. Bringing both hands up to his face, he rubbed at it, and as he did, his face seemed like soft clay, and he a potter. Kneading, rubbing, smoothing, slowing his face changed. Finally his hands stopped, and he dropped them. No longer did he bear the face of the onetime Herald of Manwe.He turned to the fire, his eyes unfocused as he shifted and reshaped his physical form. The flames danced and writhed. Caught in their embrace, the wood continued to be consumed. Still Eonwe molded, refitted, reform his physical body until nothing of the Herald remained. "Like you, " he told the wood, " I become something ...else."
> Next