Harsh Words

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Belenos and Lihan Taifun

Nienna peers from behind the sturdy bulk of Aulë, watching Manwë anxiously, watching Yavanna, who holds the dagger.  Her breathing is shallow, and she rocks nervously on her toes.

Yavanna turns to regard the Vala standing in front of her.  Her green eyes take in the haughty stance, the provocative jut of her chin, and the mutinous line of the lips.  Little remains of the gentle Vala of Compassion, whom she has known through so many Ages of time.  She looks into those green slanted eyes, searching for the gentle compassion she had always found there. but there is none to be found.  He gaze shifts to the one standing at Nienna's side.  Aulë.  Her Aulë.  Her husband.  Standing there, with a protective arm around Nienna and gazing at his wife as though she were a snake that had just crawled from the ground. 

Yavanna's heart quails before that gaze.  She had thought never to see that look in his eyes.  True, there had been a time long ago, when he had brought the Dwarves into being, that they had clashed.  He had hardened his heart to her pleas then, but it was nothing like what she saw now in those smoky eyes of his.  "Aulë!" Her heart and soul cried out to him, but his gaze did not waver.  Why?  Because of the Vala by his side.  Again she turned her gaze back to Nienna, and her eyes seemed to spark emerald shards as she spoke, "Step away from my husband."

Nienna's nostrils flare.  "You decide who your husband stands beside?  He crawls to do your bidding?  It seems he does not.  If he wishes to stand beside you, he is free to do so.  Yet I see where he has chosen to stand, and with whom."

Yavanna gasps as the other Vala's words fall about her head like blows.  She looks past Nienna to the chamber beyond. Could it really be the dark magicks that have caused this?  But her gaze lingers on the luxurious sofa and the tousled sheets on the sumptuous bed. Her eyes narrow dangerously as she looks back to Nienna.  Her shoulders square, and she straightens to her full height.  Yavanna is tall for a female Vala, her body strong and hard with muscle from her work.  She tosses her head and her hair whips around like a living thing, "Have you lost your wits, you simpering strumpet?  What business is it of yours what happens between husband and wife?  What gives you the right to play the consoling hussy? Or is this some new dimension to your role as Vala of Compassion?  If it is, I fear for every good wife in Aman and Middle Earth if you are to be this compassionate with all husbands!"

Nienna 's voice rises defiantly.  "Did I take him from you by force?  If he was happy with you, why is he not beside you?  If you had not driven him away with harsh words and petty demands, perhaps he would still be simpering in your home.  But once you drove him away …" Words fail her, as her anger overwhelms rational thought.  "Why should I explain anything to you?  Why would I expect you to understand?"  Yet part of the high color in Nienna's cheeks comes from the realization that most of what Aulë taught her about the physical world, he learned from this Yavanna.

Yavanna gasps again at the audacity of the other's words, "What makes you think you know what has happened between my husband and I.  Yes, MY husband. Not yours! Mine!"  She takes a step forward, and her hands clench at her sides in the heat of her anger, reminding her of the dagger she still holds.  Raising her hand she looks at it, studying it.  The blade is sharp and beautifully made.  She can feel the fine balance of the weapon as she holds it before her.  For a moment her focus shifts to the woman standing before her and then returns to the blade.  A slow humorless smile spreads across her face and she looks squarely at the other Vala. "There are ways to deal with ones such as yourself. Those who not only cavort with another's husband but then dare to be so shameless about it.  And you are about to learn of these ways, Nienna."  With a dexterous movement Yavanna flicks the dagger in her hand, reversing her grasp upon it and slides it into the back of her waistband before she continues, "Unlike some who wish to make their own rules and pass their own judgments I defer, as always, to my Lord Manwë."  Her eyes sweep over Nienna scornfully, "And you would be wise to remember your place and do the same."

Nienna 's eyes follow the dagger, as Yavanna's scornful words flow around her. Pulling herself up to the full height of this physical body, half a head shorter than Yavanna, she returns her cold gaze, and steps closer to Aulë's side, silently wrapping an arm around his waist.

Yavanna takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  This situation is so foreign to her.  Her heart screams at her to scratch those eyes out that have beheld her Aulë's naked form, to break those hands that have touched that form and pummel that body that has welcomed that of her husband.  But her head, her head says no.  Again she looks to the chamber beyond.  She can feel the evil there, coiled and lurking like a deadly miasma.  No, her head says no, so her voice is gentle when she speaks, "Nienna, sweet Nienna whom I have known through the Ages, you are not yourself.   He,"  she pauses and lets her glance sweep over her husband, "he is not himself either.  Nothing will be gained by a shouting match between any of us.  The only true way to resolve this is to trust in the one who has never let us down, to follow his advice and guidance, our beloved Lord of the West.  Come child, peace.  I await on Lord Manwë's words."

Aztryd's Welcome

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Ugerbog....ah, yes, the stout pugnacious little toad with arms that look like forests of hairy, hammy trees. Fafnir remembers the brute. He had the most pronounced brow and the intelligent look of the oxen they had for supper.  He turns his eyes to the Elder at the dwarven female's words, which are hard to catch amid the healthy squalling of a babe.  Where did she come from, this Aztryd? He watches the Elder carefully, eyes intent upon the expression on the brewer's face. How quaint, he muses to himself. Death and dying in the pantry, and delicious rumor and family disharmony for an after supper pie in the kitchen.

Eilif has just settled into her bedroll to sleep.  As reluctant as she was to risk the dreams again she knew she needed the rest.  Besides, even if she only pretends to sleep, it will help her to escape the meal that has been prepared.  Ever since the attack her stomach roils at the smell of cooking meat.  But surely, surely she can find now some peace, just for a little while.

Eilif's eyes fly open at an unexpected sound. She jerks her head up to look, nearly collapsing back as the now familiar dizziness takes her.  She lies a moment, moaning softly with the pain of it, and then she hears the sound again. That was a babe!  That was the squalling of a babe!  Hurriedly she rises and staggers tiredly to the pantry door.  Sure enough, the sound is louder here for there stood a stranger before Adelsteinn, and the wailing was coming from her pack.  Not only that, but the stranger was speaking in the most disrespectful manner to the Elder.  "Ho!" she calls out, "Do you not know your babe is squalling, woman!  Yet you spend your time showing disrespect to an Elder?  Shame upon you!  Attend your babe and remember your place!"

Fafnir's eyes widen at the sudden appearance of Eilif.  Oh, this IS interesting, he thinks, and unconsciously he straightens to his full height. Among dwarves he was freakishly tall, and to some of the more thick-pated,he was noted to be rather skinny. So Fafnir layered clothes, slouched, and swilled beer with the dullest and thick-wittest of all in the community so none would doubt but that he is, as they are, children of the Maker. Watching the second woman at the pantry door, he thinks she should collapse at any moment. He turns his head slightly, and leans toward the Elder, whispering. "Well, Eilif is right, good Elder. You are the pillar of our community, and the foundation of our people now.  It is a wonder she demands answers of you when she should give them."

Adelsteinn stares at Aztryd for saying such audacious things to an Elder, a male elder at that. After a moment he shakes his head, walks to the table and reaches for a mug of ale. When Eilif speaks, he stares at her, equally stunned, but then grins at her words. Returning to the fire, he smiles to Fafnir 's whispered words, and, turning to Aztryd, he says, "I think it is you that owes some sort of explanation. How is it that you arrive here, unscathed and coming from the direction of the battleground." He nods back towards the hallway. "We have been cleaning up the survivors and mourning our loss for some time now."

Aztryd staggers a bit on legs still cramping from the swan saddle, and collapses onto a bench.  "You are an Elder?  You must know Azagak.  I am her granddaughter.  Truly, I am returning home, as I wrote to her.  We have been traveling all day, since before the dawn, and," -- here she glares over her shoulder at the rude woman -- "I have had time to tend neither to myself nor to the babe.  We expected to attend to such things when we arrived home, here.  But it is you, not I, who know of a battle."

Eilif strides forward into the room, as best she can stride on legs still strained and bruised from the recent attack and comes to stand before the newcomer.  Her tone softens a little at the obvious exhaustion of the stranger. "What is your name, woman?" she asks brusquely, "And rather than gab about your journey, tell me what it is your need for the babe, and I will bring it to you. Attend your babe first, and then ask questions, but I recommend you do the asking more politely than your words thus far."

Fafnir watches the red-haired Aztryd drop onto a bench, Azagak's grandget...he shrugs as the name means nothing to him. "A rather vocal line of dwarves, eh, Elder?" he whispers to Adelsteinn, and offers to take the mug from the brewer. "Let me take for you and replenish it." He looks over at Aztryd. She was very handsome, in that breathtaking bearded sort of way dwarven women have about them. But the squalling from the pack. "Yes," he agrees with Eilif, about to take a step forward before stopping. No, the air is fresher "here." he tells himself. "Surely, if you attend to the ....child...we can stop having to scream over its rather lusty cries?" Then he turns and moves off to the little stove, refreshing Adelsteinn's drink and pouring one for Aztryd, all the time wondering how he can actually get it to her and stay clear of the undoubtedly fragrant little bundle in her pack.

��

Adelsteinn looks at the bundle on the woman's back. "I agree you should tend to your baby first," he says as he accepts another mug of ale. Turning to Fafnir he smiles. "I would never turn down an ale. Especially not today. Too many things happening. Aren't you glad that there are certain things that only women do?"

He made a jest! Fafnir grins conspiratorially as the brewer relieves Fafnir of his tankard. "Oh, yes, Elder, bless the hairy arms of the Maker himself." Then he glances over at the tired and worn traveler. "Here," he says, and sets the tankard down on the table quickly. He backs away towards Adelsteinn. The odor that rises from the backpack reminds him of nothing so much as an unclean stable. He tries not to breathe through his nose again as he returns and stands behind Adelsteinn.

 Aztryd looks up at the woman, hobbling out before her, and nods to her.  "Aye, it is hard to outshout this little one.  A latrine would be welcome.  Food.  I doubt you have milk here, but soft bread will do for her.  Clean linens for her.  Water to wash."

She settles more comfortably onto the bench.  This is the first proper-sized bench she has sat on for months.  Looking up at the Elder, she continues. "As I said, I am Aztryd.  Azagak should have told you that I was returning.  I have come by a very long route, much longer than I expected.  Today, I have … " Suddenly, her story sounded unbelievable, even to herself. "…  We have flown across the ocean, from a far isle of Elves.  My guide and I."  She gestures toward Elwing, who stands just outside the room, excluded from a conversation in a language she does not understand.  "We left our swan outside, not knowing if it was safe to bring her into the tunnels."

Eilif blinks at the long list of requirements, and her mouth tightens into a thin line as she sees the other woman settle comfortably and begin to tell what sounds to her, quite a tall tale. "There are latrines down the end of the hallway you entered by, as you should know if you truly are Azegak's grand-daughter."

She nods towards the doors to the hallways beyond.  "But while a long journey is hardship enough, all here have been through hardships of their own as well.  So on your feet, woman. I cannot carry you to the latrine, nor would I wish to with your malodorous bundle.  When you come back I shall have the clean linens and bread, but you can fetch the water yourself from the water barrels by the door as you come through them.  It is hard times for everyone here I am afraid, and we must all pull our weight."

Fafnir shakes his head very slightly. She is certain, this Aztryd, with the manner in which she orders about the younger female. He half expected Eilif to refuse.  But she gives as good as she receives from the older female, and her response was very clear to Fafnir. It was to establish that she will pay Aztryd no servitude. Ah, but the precious child, he realizes. That  matters more, especially now.  But as the little mother continues to babble, Fafnir stares hard at here, mouth dropping open. Is she fevered? he asks himself.

"Fly?" he blurts out. Fafnir drops his jaw, completely taken unawares of what would pour from Aztryd's mouth. "Tell me, exactly, how did such a wonder occur that YOU rode upon a swan. Surely the creature's back is broke, and there is no hope for it." He tilts his head, glances over at the Elder and says," I bet, Noble Adelsteinn, that I could create such a feast upon fresh swan. I would marvel upon the beast that carries a mother and a screaming baby upon its back. Perhaps we should return the favor and carry it ever more...in our stomachs!"

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"Halt!"

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"Halt!" booms the voice of the Breath of Arda. His voice echoes through the chamber. Never before has he witnessed the act of a Maiar raising his hand against a Vala. Eonwe, what has happened to him? Manwe thinks to himself. Catching him in this act reaffirms his suspicion that perhaps Eonwe is the one responsible. But he remembers the wall and the dead elf outside with the corrupted plants within. Aule's wall. He sees them both before him now. Finally he will have the answers for his troubled soul. "I command you to halt your hand, Eonwe!" Manwe shouts.

There had been times through the Ages when Yavanna's travels had led her to the far north of the world.   Her feet had trod the grinding ice of Helcaraxe.  Her skin had felt the bitter, biting cold.  Her lungs had breathed air so cold it had felt like needles within her chest.  But the cold she felt now, as she stood beside the Lord of the West deep under the Halls of Mandos came from within.  It seemed to seep through her veins like an invidious poison, stealing through her body, through her limbs, through her mind and heart until she felt no more than a sculpture of ice, frozen from within, numb, unfeeling.   The illusion shatters as Manwë's voice booms forth, and she flinches as the pain comes rushing back.

Eonwe freezes in mid-motion, hand raised. Slowly, as though in a dream, the Maia turns his head in the direction of the sound of voice, eyes widening as he beholds his Lord, the Breath of Arda.  "Manwe," he breathes, feeling his heart  pounding hard in his chest. The word is a prayer, a sound of hope, a heartrending sound. He stands there, his eyes locking onto Manwe's for several painful heartbeats.  "My Lord," he whisper, and his vision blurs from the tears that suddenly spring to his eyes.

Aule whirls at the sound of Manwë's voice. So intent had he been on his confrontation with Eonwë that he had not even noticed the approach of the others, but now there in the doorway stood the very Breath of Arda himself and beside him, "Yavanna!"  For a moment his heart leaps as it has always done upon first sight of her, and then the bleakness closes in upon it again.


At the commanding voice, Nienna turns halfway, not releasing her protective grasp on Aule.  Her tear-filled emerald eyes widen as she recognizes Manwe.    At his side is Aule's whining wife.  Nienna pauses, frowning uncomprehendingly at this latest intrusion, which is further unsettling this hideous day.

Manwë nods as Eonwe obeys his command, and the others gape in surprise.  He takes the moment to gaze over his surroundings. He had rushed down here, preoccupied, and had not paid too much attention to the feeling in the air.  Now, as he stands on the threshold of the chamber, the energies around him are strong. The feeling is like that he felt around the otherworldly flowers he and Yavanna exterminated such a short time ago. But this, this is even more evil. He senses a small movement at his side. Yavanna is stepping forward into the room, but he holds his arm out to block her. "Wait," he says to her. "There is an evil here.  It is so strong" he continues, his voice deep with foreboding, "I sense his dark energy, the dark magic of my fallen brother."

Yavanna had been drawn forward unthinking.  Like the moth drawn to the flame that will ultimately destroy it, she had been drawn closer to the surreal scene before her and had moved unthinking.  She blinks as the import of Manwë's words pierce the fog of pain that had encompassed her mind.  Now she lifts her head and extends her senses. "You are right!" she gasps and her mind recoils from the cloying fetidness of what she feels roiling within the chamber.  It was almost tangible.  She lifts a hand as though to reach out and touch it and her gaze falls again upon those in the room.  "They are in there.  They have been in there a long time."  She resolutely closes her mind to the thought of just how long her husband may have been there with Nienna. "Even Eonwë was there before you dismissed him."  She turns to look at Manwë, understanding dawning in her eyes.  "Could this be why?  Could this be why Aulë spoke to me so?  Could this be why your beloved Herald behaved as he did?"

Eonwe drops his hand and turns his back upon the Maker, his eyes still  locked upon the face of the Breath of Arda. Forgotten was Aule. Forgotten was Nienna. He takes a shallow breath, his chest tight, heart pounding. In his ears, there is a popping.  He steps away, the traitors forgotten.  Slowly, he bows his head and kneels. The words, well known and used throughout the centuries, fall from his lips, all the pain, hope, longing for the world he had known to be once more as he slowly sinks to his knees. "The will of the Valar be done," he says softly.

Aule watches incredulously as Eonwë sinks to his knees before Manwë.  His lip curls in disdain at what he considered blatant groveling on the Maia's part.  But Manwë was here now.  Now he had a chance to be heard, to be believed.  He was not going to let this lick-boot puppy provoke him into spoiling that. Folding his arms upon his chest he remains silent.  For now.

Manwe nods thoughtfully in response to Yavanna's questions. His face shows concern for his beloved Herald kneeling now before him. He is also anxious for Aule's condition. The evil in the chamber is very strong.  How long have they been exposed before he finally realised it? "I will get to the bottom of the cause of their behaviour very soon," he says to her and then turns to address the occupants of the chamber.  "But for now, all of you must leave the chamber. I will not have you exposed to the malevolence any longer.  I suspect my brother," he spits the word out distastefully, "has much to answer for. It is time to end this now!" Manwe says in a commanding voice.

Aule is unable to remain silent any longer.  His voice sneering, he demands, "To end what?  Disrespect on the part of this puppy who would raise his hand to one of the Valar?   Treachery on his part who would draw blade in my presence?  The doubting of a Lord of his loyal servant as you have doubted I? Yes, it is time it ended. Time it ended with the truth."

Gracefully, slowly, Eonwe rises fo his feet, He turns and regards the Maker. his eyes veiled, the emotion sliding from his face and a cold appraisal turns the blue of the eyes into glittering hard sapphires.  Then he steps back, his mouth a hard thin line. He turns on his heel, the look he flashes Yavanna full of sympathy, understanding for her pain.  Smoothly, lowering his gaze, he crosses the room towards his Beloved Lord and the visibly stricken Lady Yavanna.

Nienna hovers uncertainly, torn between millenia of habit of obeying the Lord of the West, and Aule's obvious scorn.  Yet if the impudent Eonwe is following Manwe's orders, she has no desire to imitate him.  Biting her lip, she stands in place, looking back and forth from Aule to Manwe.

Yavanna can do little but stand in stunned silence by Manwë's side, her mind struggling to take in all she sees and hears.  The words spoke by her husband seem those of a stranger.  Never had she thought to hear him speak in such a tone to the Breath of Arda himself.  Her green eyes flick from one to the other of the occupants of the chamber, not knowing what madness was going to come from their lips next.

 

Manwe's solemn eyes pass from Aule and Nienna. Turning to the one who came first, he smiles gently,
"Beloved Herald,  I see now that there is more to what you were trying to tell me." Manwe reaches his hand out to him. "Take my hand and join me. I want to hear fully what you have to say to me, and I will listen. Come, Eonwe, come, my beloved Herald, come stand at my side again."

Eonwe , once Herald for the Breath of Arda, a Maia still of his house, stops at the entrance of the cavernous chamber. Smoothly he reaches back and grabs the hilt of a elegantly designed dagger. Thin is the blade and sharp, the weight of it balanced to perfection. With a fluid motion, battle trained, he whirls about, and he send the dagger flying hilt over handle to land, solidly between Aule's bare feet. He boldly stare at Aule and then turns back to the Lord of the West. "My Lord, "he says, and bows his head. "I raised my hand to the smith. I drew blade in his presence. To this I confess freely. What need I to lie to he who knows my mind..." he pauses and looks up at Manwe, his eyes soft with his pain, his love, his anguish.  " I have no need of deceit, nor wish to betray the Lord I revere with all I am. "

 "By the imperishable Flame, I stand before you, my Lord, and say to you that gladly will I submit me to your judgment.  How can it be I would do else?  But, Lord of Arda, I came here, still your loyal servant. I came here, determined to know and see for myself, the darkness in the Maker's heart. I came so that if he plotted foul treachery, I could stand betwixt you and his villainy. Well, Lord, I remember the sorrow in your heart when Melkor sought to destroy all that Eru brought into being through the Great Song, in which.." he whirls and looks directly at Aule, "...in which we ALL have our part, Valar and Maiar, Children of Eru and all creations of Yavanna."  He raises a hand and points a forefinger at Aule, looking back at Lord Manwe, "And I tell thee,  my gracious and sovereign Lord, that this one has so corrupted and besmirched his own self, his own perfection, blessed by Eru as he is, and has led another who should see with eyes of gentleness the suffering they have both visited upon the Maia who only wish to serve. "  He drops his hand and takes a step to the Lord of Arda. "So, do with me as you will. I am yours, as ever, but my Lord, I cry justice for the Maia so ill used and demeaned that they have forgotten who,and what, they truly are."

Yavanna's gasps as Eonwë whirls unexpectedly and sends the sharp blade hurtling towards her husband.  She sags with relief, clutching Manwë's arm for support as it lands harmlessly between his feet.

Aule stares down at the dagger between his feet a moment and then looks up at the arrogantly turned back of the Herald before his eyes shift past him to look into those of the Lord of the West.  "Did you see that!  Did you see his insolence?  The puppy has risen above himself!  He flatters you with his sweet words, but surely his actions speak louder." His voice is a roar of offended pride. "Listen to me!  Please, I beseech you,  hear me, Brother!"

Nienna jumps back as the dagger lands at Aule's feet.  Enraged at this latest insult, she bends down and scoops up the knife. Clutching it angrily, she marches to Manwe.  Holding it, point up, before him, she fumes, "See what your 'Herald' has done, and continues to do!  Why do we continue to suffer his insolence?".

Listening with care to Eonwe's argument, Manwe continues to hold his hand to Eonwe. "You have come to me, Beloved Herald." He smiles gently "Judgement will be passed to he that requires it. I will hear the Maker's tale." He turns to look at Aule the Maker. "I understand how you might feel that no one has believed you" Manwe speaks in a gentle compassionate voice. "I want to hear your words and listen." His words are sincere and gentle. "Please take my hand, and come with me.  Come so we may sit together, and I will listen to what you say.  I promise you this."

Eonwe looks at the hand extended, hears the voice gentle, soothing. Like rain after a long drought, like water to slake a great thirst, the words of the Lord of the West wash through Eonwe's grief and anguish, and he not so much walks to the side of the Breath of Arda as stumbles blindly,  eyes filled with tears, gasping in lungfuls of air. What is this feeling? He asks himself, and closes the distance between them, hands extended, reaching out.  He has never known, before, the sense of loss, of separation before this all happened, but it is all wheat shorn of chaff now, to hear his Lord call him, "beloved Herald." He comes to the Lord Manwe, not as warrior, nor as herald, but as a soul lost, hurting, aching to be again in the presence of his Lord, to be...just once, the one in pain and in need of comfort, given freely and with love.

Yavanna reaches out and, with a deft twist of a wrist strengthened by long days spent tending the growing things of the world, removes the dagger from Nienna's grasp.  Her voice when she speaks is as hard and sharp as the blade she now holds. "You speak of insolence when you cavort with my husband so blatantly, and now hold bare blade before the very Breath of Arda!  You, whom I have seen with my very eyes hanging off my husband as though he belonged to you, you would dare tell our Lord what is right and what is wrong?  Remember yourself, Nienna!"  Yavanna's eyes flash green scorn as she rebukes her sister Vala.

Eonwe looks over at Nienna, his voice soft, still full the pain upon his face."You could have done no wrong to the Breath of Arda with that blade. The steel is mine, and I am my Lord's."

Aule stares aghast as Yavanna snatches the dagger from Nienna's hand.  Crossing the distance to the door with a few swift strides he steps between Nienna and Yavanna, an arm circling around the Vala of Compassion and edging her behind him to safety, "You, wife, are in no position to sully such a pure soul with your shrewish and judgmental tongue!"  His hands work at his sides, clenching and unclenching as though struggling not to raise them against the one he once loved so deeply and passionately. "Who are you to judge when you have more than enough to answer for yourself with how you treat your husband!"

Manwe holds up a hand and says loudly "enough! I have seen and heard enough from you," he says sternly and glares at Aule and Nienna. "I will want to know the details from all of you, but my feelings hold as I have shared with you. I sense dark magics, and they stir at my ancient fears. I now deliver a judgement until I decide further. And that is upon Melkor."

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Survivors

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Eilíf

Flames!  Flames and smoke!  Screaming!  Oh Gods, the screaming!  Fear and panic, the smell of blood and death all around her and yet she cannot move, cannot lift her sword, can do nothing but stare helplessly and watch her family, her community, her  home.. die.  With a start, Eilif awakes gasping, panting with panic.  The dream.  It was the dream again, she realizes.  Yet, unlike the night terrors of childhood this dream does not end upon waking.  It had been real.  It is real.  How long has it been now?  A day? Two? How long has it been since fiery death had walked the halls of Gamilfûn in the form of those creatures of legend and childhood stories; a balrog and a dragon?

Gingerly, not wanting to stir the pain in her head to more than a persistent throb, Eilif turns her head to look towards the pantry.  No longer just a pantry but now an impromptu infirmary, where others less fortunate than herself lay.  Some are sleeping and some unconscious still, such is the extent of their injuries. So few, so pitifully few remain of what had once been a bustling, thriving community.  She envies them their peaceful sleep, for there is  no peace in sleep for her.  She had thought if she would stay sitting on the rough wooden bench here at the long table in the kitchen that she can resist sleep, can escape the dreams.  But they have found her.  Pain, exhaustion and suffering takes their toll and sleep has crept stealthily upon her, dragging her back into the dream that is memory, dragging her back again to that day.

Adelsteinn

When in his beer cellar, Adelsteinn is in his own world. His brews age slowly in oaken and apple wood barrels over time. He carefully samples each drink before making sure it is fit for the goblets of Ulreg, Lord of Gamilfûn, in the southern Blue Mountains. The art of brewing, as Adelsteinn practices, is divine in his mind. Through his reverence of beer and a position passed through his generations in this ancient city, Adelsteinn is counted among the great brewers of the small folk. For his influence, he has been granted a position on the King's royal council.

That day had been a day quite like any other to Adelsteinn, for when he is in his brewery he is oblivious to the rest of the city around him. His cellar is deep and tucked away in small corridors, and few knew the paths to it as well as he did. But when he came from his workroom at the end of that day, he was not prepared for what he saw.

As he entered the upper halls, he saw the very stonework was smashed. Among the rubble had lain the bodies of his friends and folk, many of whom sampled his fine brews.  He had searched for survivors, and now they gathered in the kitchen, wounded and some unconscious. Shaking his head, disturbed by the sights and tormented moans of those in the kitchen, he wished to bring a little joy to their faces again.  With this in mind, he had returned to his stores, fetching the finest of beer and brought it back to his surviving kin. Bent on his thought that beer solves the worlds problems, he now passes the brew around.

Fafnir

The warm, rich aroma of meat cooking upon an open fire mingles with the salty lemon smell of grilling fish, as Fafnir raises the tankard of warmish ale to his lips and takes a long pull, the yeasty taste not quite to his liking, but in these spare days, it will do, yes, it will do.  He casts a measuring glance over at the oxen slowly cooking.  Yestereve, a young stonemason unknown to Fafnir and another, older dwarf -- also a stonemason, from the look of his expansive chest and hammy arms-- had ventured timidly out and found two cows too thick in the head to realize that grazing contentedly in the fields hard by a place where a dragon AND a balrog but lately supped was not conducive to a long and dull life. Rangy beasts they were, but what could one expect in the aftershock of an attack such as they have weathered. One could scarcely expect the more intelligent cows to stand around and wait to see if the dratted dragon would return for an entree. 

He sighs and takes another drink. Then again, he thinks, remember the stout and rather boorish dwarf who owned the swaybacked beasts. He claimed to produce the best beef this side of the Blue Mountains. Ah, Fafnir thinks, and with a two pronged fork, he deftly flips the meat and fish over to cook on the other side.  But that is an easy claim to make when the nearest competition is on the other side of the Blue Mountains. A hard journey from Gamilfûn to make just to sample a bit of cow.

Another sigh escapes him, and he bends at the waist to refill his tank. At least they had the good fortune to fall in with esteemed master brewer of their little community. Adelsteinn is the best, and an elder to boot.  As he straightens back up, he sees the brewer enter the great kitchen.  Sharp amber eyes watch the way the brewer carries himself.  He looks as though the mountain rides upon his back, Fafnir thinks, noting how Adelsteinin's eyes seem so haunted.  Then again, Fafnir tells himself, his gaze landing upon the back of the dwarven maid at the table, how many of us can claim that our dreams are not shadowed by the cracking of a fire whip, and the crunching of our kindred's bones as they are sliding down the maw of a dragon.

Eilif  smiles gratefully at Adelstienn for his thoughtfulness and reaches for the goblet of beer.  Her smile turns swiftly to a grimace as pain shoots up her right arm and she clutches it to her, nursing it until the sharpness of it settles to a dull throb.  She looks down at the arm, splinted and bandaged heavily.  Another reminder of that day.  Another reminder of her weakness and failure.  At last, awkwardly, she reaches for the beer with her left hand, her fingers fumbling against it clumsily as she frowns in concentration.  Such a simple task that she had done a hundred times in her lifetime was now rendered so difficult.  It wasn't just the fact she has to use her off hand to reach for the beer that made it so difficult.  She could barely SEE the goblet. 

Setting it back down with an awkward clunk upon the wooden table, she raises her hand to her face.  Delicately her fingertips trace the outline of the wound that slashed from her forehead, across her nose to run closely under her eye down to her cheek.  Her eyes watered at the pain of even her gentle touch.  Hating herself for such weakness she hastily drops her hand and reaches again for the mug, hoping none of the other occupants of the room had noticed. 

Adelsteinn goes over and stands by the fire to warm himself after the cool air of the corridors. He wonders how much of the city survived the attack. He is an elder of the great city, but are those in this room all that survive?

Aztryd freezes for a moment, hearing what sounds like whispered voices down the corridor.  Whispered voices, not sounds of added destruction.  With a quick glance back over her shoulder at Elwing, she creeps along the corridor, toward the kitchens.  Her progress cannot be described as stealthy, with  Nizl's squalls echoing off the close-set walls.

Fafnir raises the mug up to his mouth automatically, but stops as a motion from the woman at the table catches his eye.  Poised there, between placing lips upon the lip of the mug, the kiss of a man who needs ale more than water at this point in the course of things, he watches as she raises a hand and gingerly touches the healing slash to her face.  She had been passing fair...before. But now, now, with the wound looking ever so much like a second pair of blood red lips stretched from her forehead, over her nose and down a cheek, now her prospects for husband and family has seriously been diminished, if that could be a concern now. There are other matters more pressing than social standing he realizes, but he knows what it is like to be that  little bit different.  Slowly he lowers the goblet from his mouth, and he crosses the room, toward her.

Coming nearer, her back to him, he catches sight of a glass goblet before her. Adelsteinn, no doubt, undermining Fafnir's swell of compassion and commiseration unwittingly, must have pulled a spot of ale for the lass. His eyes narrow for a moment, before he gives a slight shrug of the shoulders and lifts the tankard up to his own mouth, taking a large swallow and going, "Ahhhh!" He has watched her over the two days since the attack. She is not one he would like to come up on, unannounced, from behind, that much and no more of her he knows.   He comes around and stands at the end of table where she can see him, pointing with his chin at the goblet before her. "Good, eh?" he asks, trying to give a lightness to his voice. "It will go perfect with the meal, I think."  He looks over her shoulder to the little stove in time to see a funnel of gray smoke rising from the food, even as the smell reaches him, promising charred and over cooked meat if he does not move fast enough.  "Maker's hammer," he curses, and slamming down the tankard quickly, he hurries back across the room to rescue their supper.

Deep in thought, Adelsteinn is quite worried about his kin. The council members and his friends. His focus was always on making sure his folk were happy. It seems his brew is being enjoyed by the maid at the table now, and he is about to ask a question when he hears the squalls coming down the broken corridor "What is that?" he turns to the doorway.

"What is what?" Fafnir asks idly, as he spears the meat and drops it upon a platter above him on the counter of the stove.  Soft moans mingle with loud cries of pain and anguish both day and night, it seems to him.  And after two days of people dying, and living, noisily, at first there is no difference to him between the sounds that he has grown accustomed to, and the sound that got the Elder's attention. He pokes at another steak and then gives a quick glance back over at the large cookfire, where Aidelstein was standing, listening. Seeing the expression on the other's face, he lays the fork upon the meat and moves toward the elder, his voice much lower. "What do you hear?" he asks.

Aztryd

 Aztryd pokes her head around the end of the corridor.  The kitchens appear undamaged -- and occupied!  A fire burns in the hearth.  Dwarves are scattered at benches pulled up to tables.  The smell of cooking fills the air.  Quickly, she ducks back to excitedly inform Elwing, "Yes, there are people here!  We have found them!"

Adelsteinn holds up his hand as if trying to listen. But as quickly as it arises, the sound seems to diminish. "I don't hear anything now., but I thought I heard a squeal..." But then he hears it again "There, could it be another survivor?"



Fafnir cocks his head to listen. Above the moans and groans coming from the pantry, how could he possibly tell? As he strains to hear, he watches the dwarven maid wobble on leaden feet to join the others sleeping or hurting in the pantry.  "Hear? Hear what, and over the wailing and moaning just a few feet away?" He looks over at the other, and then remembers. This is Adelsteinn, an Elder. Mayhap the last Elder. He softens his tone. "Truly, Elder, I have not so keen an ear as you. But do you think one of our kin has made it to find us?"  He cannot, dare not, challenge Adelsteinn. The future is uncertain, and the Elder needs a dwarf who supports him not make his job harder.  At least not TOO much harder. Just hard enough to share.

Aztryd pokes her head back into the kitchen.  The warmth and the smell of food draw her irresistibly, and the presence of other dwarves indicate that there is no immediate danger.  "Hallo," she says to the room at large.  "What has happened here?  Is there any supper to spare for a couple of weary travelers?"  Her eyes move across the room, looking for someone in charge.

Fafnir's eyes widen. So the Elder was right! There IS another survivor, and the wailing is coming from her pack. His gaze sweeps over the dwarven female, taking in her red hair, her traveling gear upon her back, the blush upon her cheeks that comes from the cold, maybe? Certainly no honeyed words.  He looks around past her shoulder and thinks he catches sight of something behind her, but it can be shadows cast upon the wall.  He looks over at the Elder, for once stunned into silence.

Adelsteinn looks to the source of the greeting and recognizes her in the poor lighting. "Aztryd?" he asks in a confirming voice. "Is that you? Everyone has been worried sick. I sent word to your hometown since I heard you disappeared. Where have you been?" he asks cheerfully.

Fafnir looks from Adelsteinn back to Aztryd. THIS is Aztryd? He frowns a little as he hears the Elder greet this newcomer. That was not what he heard whispered amongst the gossiping magpies who prepare the meals here in the communal kitchen. No, nor those in the market or those sitting around, watching their younglings playing.  She...she had a husband, didn't she? Didn't he throw her out or something? He regards her carefully.  There was something about her.  And there was that altercation where some foreign party of dwarves came to the gate and started making some foolish demands. So, this is Aztryd.  He watches carefully the Elder and continues his silence.

"Did you now, sir?" asks Aztryd skeptically.  "I would be much surprised if that old goat LORD Ugerbog hadn't already told the story to the whole world."  She speaks his title with a venemous emphasis.  "Though, knowing him, he wouldn't tell the whole story.  But surely you have seen the letter I wrote to Azagak, and so you would know the truth of the matter.

"I returned home, as I said I was intending to do.  When my letter was delivered, all appeared well here in Gamilfûn. But,"  she sweeps a hand around the room, "what has happened?"

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Into the Dark

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Cinnamon Raymaker and Lihan Taifun

Aztryd warily examines the wreckage of the gate frame. The ground where the two of them had landed was covered in snow, but here the ground is nearly clear of it, as if a great fire had melted all away.  Cold, clean winds have swept away any smells of battle.  For all Aztryd can tell, in the dark, this gate could have been broken and deserted years ago.  But that cannot be true!  She turns hollow eyes to Elwing, and whispers, "You were here a few weeks ago.  All was well, was it not?"

The exhaustion of the day sweeps over Aztryd in a rush.  Legs cramped by hours in an unfamiliar saddle begin to wobble.  A body chilled by hours of cold wind and sea spray begins to shiver.  A stomach waiting for a warm festive meal of welcome now hangs hollowly, draining at her remaining strength.  A mother's heart, who for hours has been assuring restless little Nizl that all will soon be well, now sinks desperately.  Taking a deep breath, she leans a hand against the wall to steady herself, not with hope but with endurance.

Elwing gathers the warm cloak closely around her frozen body as she watches Aztryd making her way towards her home.
The cold has chilled her feet numb, and she stumbles slightly as she feels sharp pebbles underfoot. Stepping gingerly she moves closer to Aztryd to answer her question. "Yes sister, all was indeed well," she assures her. But all is not well here. The signs look very grim for those she had met only recently.

"Wait, one more moment," says Aztryd, eying the deeper darkness that is the entrance.  "I want my hands free when we go in."  Unslinging the pack from her back, she makes the necessary rearrangements, returning the squalling, damp, and smelly Nizl to her nest inside the pack. "Sorry, magpie, we need better shelter before I unwrap you.  And Mama might yet need this." She pats the axe hanging at her side.  It is only a wood-chopping axe, a housewife's tool, not a warrior's battle axe, but it is a comfort in this uncertain situation. 

Finally, Aztryd extracts a small bundle wrapped in oiled leather, and tucks it into an outer pocket.  "Fire-starter," she explains to Elwing, "in case we find any dry torches."  She frowns uncertainly, wondering whether any usable supplies are left in this ruin.  "Aye, then," says Aztryd resolutely, slinging the pack back onto her back with a practiced shrug.  "Let's see what there is to see."

Biting her lip at her friend's words, Elwing shakes herself to ease the feeling of lethargy which has descended upon her. Scrabbling around at her feet, she picks up a decent sized rock, which she holds close to hand. It is  a meager weapon but at least the solid feel of it gives her comfort. Looking to Aztryd, she proclaims, "I'm ready, Aztryd."

Resolutely, Aztryd walks through the gateway.  Stealth is of no use now, and she could not move quietly even if she wished, not with Nizl squalling.  The high, wide entrance hall, usually lit with bright lanterns, is dark and cold.  The only light comes from moonlight peeking between clouds and filtering through the air shafts and the gaping gate hole.  But this is Aztryd's childhood home, forever etched in her memory.  She moves confidently across the floor, tracing a route she knows by heart.  Her feet catch on strange bits of rubble that litter the floor.  Here, farther from the open entrance, the air is less fresh, and the stench of smoke lingers -- burnt wood but also burnt meat, burnt leather, burnt hair.

Elwing watches Aztryd easily picking her way through the darkened tunnels and gingerly follows her, every so often stubbing her chilled toes on unidentified bits of rubble and letting out a gasp of pain.  The stench reminds her of something she has recently experienced and she recoils in horror.

"The kitchens are this way," Aztryd says, pointing in the dark. "People will need to eat, no matter what else has happened."  She tries to hold her voice steady, not speaking the fear in her heart:  only the living need to eat.

Aztryd's pain is clear, even through bravado  in her strained voice, and Elwing's heart goes out to her. "Indeed, little sister, that would be the surest place to find your gammy and the others," she answers, hoping to make Aztryd feel a little better in the process. As it stands, they need to find warmth, water and food very soon, or they may perish along with the dear precious child in Aztryd's bundle.

Moving to a side tunnel off the entrance hall, all is now dark, and Aztryd is travelling blind.  Yet dwarven sense of direction is sure, even underground.  She runs her left hand lightly along the wall for guidance, keeping her right hand free, and near her axe.  Nizl's wails echo off the corridor walls.  Aztryd's heart is hammering nearly as loudly.

Elwing continues to follow Aztryd along the corridors of the clan home, wishing she could see as well in the dark as she could from the sky above. Her senses straining, her whole being is alert to the atmosphere surrounding them. She can only hear Aztryd and Nizl thus far, and her heart sinks at the thought of what that could mean.

Coming around the last curve of the tunnel, Aztryd sees a pale glow of light, no brighter than a single flickering oil lamp.  She hears -- she thinks she can hear, when Nizl stops squalling to catch a breath -- muffled voices and shuffling feet.  Whoever or whatever it is must surely have heard Nizl.  Aztryd turns and whispers to Elwing, "It seems we are not alone here after all."

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Traitor

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Nienna looks up aghast at the Maia's harsh words.  Sitting upright, she glares at him imperiously.  "What words are these? How do you dare to speak to Lord Aulë so?  Why do you speak at all?"

Eonwe turns his gaze from the Maker to the Valle of Compassion, his eyes still bright, and his lips twist into a  bitter smile. "Lady Nienna, she who offers comfort and compassionate care to those in dire distress.  Who, my Lady, is in need of your gentle embraces and sweet tears this night?" His hands curls into fists, and his gaze slides back to Aule.

Aule watches Nienna as she plays with her looks.  He takes great pleasure in her delight in the physical world and her physical body.  His frown deepens as the doors of the chamber open and two of his serving Maiar enter.  He turns to watch them carry out their duties, untrusting and suspicious, as he was of all these days save the Vala by his side.  His eyes narrow as he watches them. There is something.. something about the leading Maia.  His walk is wrong.  His demeanor is wrong.  And something else.  He folds his arms as he watches him.  There was something familiar about him.  But what is it?  And now, now not only does he lack the proper demeanor for one in such lofty presence, but he dares to turn and speak!   Shocked at first at the audicity, Aulë is slow to realise just who stands so cunningly disguised before him.

Nienna lurches to her feet, and strides angrily to the impudent servant.  "Never," she breathes fiercely, "never has any Maia so spoken to a Vala!"

Nyarnyarro stares in growing horror at the Maker's face. Never has he seen a look of such hatred upon another as he now sees upon that of his master as he recognises the one who stands before him.  It is wrong.  He glances around the chamber, taking in the Lady Nienna lounging indulgently on an opulent couch, the silk and satin draped bed. It is just all wrong.  And it is time it stopped.

He turns his gaze to his companion.  Eonwë stands tall and proud before the Smith, unflinching.   Yes, it is time someone set things to rights, but Eonwë could not do it alone.  Not against an Ainu.   And he will not have to do it alone, not if Nyarnyaro has anything to do with it.  He is only one Maia, true, but he has a voice.  A voice that could call others to the Herald's aid. Casting one last look at the other Maia he begins to cautiously edge his way from the chamber.   He has fought at this one's back before.  He will seek help from the other Maiar here at Mandos, and together they will fight at his back again, and fight he knew they must.   He casts one last glance at the thunderous expression on the Smith's face as he slips through the still open doors.  Yes, fight they must.

Yavanna's hair swirls restlessly around her shoulders as she follows the Lord of the West down yet another long corridor.  The air here is musty and dank for by now they are well below the surface.  The hallways are only dimly lit, the flames of the torches dance and leap as they stir the air with their passing, casting eerie shadows ahead of them upon the cold stone walls.  "It is as though they know," she thinks as she hurries on. "It is as though they feel the same fear and hurry us on."  She stops, rooted to the spot as the realisation hits her.  Yes, she is afraid.  Afraid of what she will find at the end of this day.  Afraid of the very answers she has sought so urgently. 

Manwe, lost in his thoughts of unforeseen chaos before him now, stops abruptly when his companion halts. The spirits of the dead flow along the halls, much like a slight breeze of the air. But the air is laden with a chill demeanor. They have descended deep into the Halls of the Dead, and urgency drives them on. But this pause surprises him. He waits a moment, but his anxiety builds. "Yavanna, why do you halt in this pursuit? Do you see something ahead?" Manwe asks worriedly. If indeed something were visible ahead, Manwe wondered now about his very perceptions. He awaits her response, hoping his worries are unfounded.

Yavanna gives a small shake of her head as she looks up at Manwë.  She sees the same fear reflected in his eyes.  Her heart goes out to him in that moment, for she knows the outcome of this journey is as important to him as it is to her. "I.. no, no, it is nothing." she attempts a reassuring smile as she hurries to catch up with him. "Come, my Lord, let us not delay."

Aule does not take his eyes from the Maia standing so boldly before him as he answers Nienna.  "Yes, there has been one.  One upstart puppy of a Maia who has spoken so boldly before." His eyes narrow even more now as he looks closely at the one standing so boldly before him. "And I think now he has taken to not only boldness and disrespect, but now, deceit as well, have you not, Eonwë?  For it IS Eonwë who stands before us now?' He lets his eyes roam the other insolently before giving a snort, 'I must say I approve of your new look. It suits better your role as lackey to your betters. But you have yet to learn the proper demeanour, I see."

Nienna 's eyes widen as she takes in Aulë's words.  She looks from one to the other.  "This is Eonwe?  You did not exaggerate when you told me of his insolence and treachery.  How could he have sunk so low?"  She turns back to Eonwe.  "Get thee gone!  I will not have thy foul presence here!"

"Never has one of the Valar so betrayed herself and us all," Eonwe answers Nienna, his gazes locked upon the face of the Maker.  He takes a step forward, toward the Maker, his voice low and quiet, yet it rises up and fills the room with a cold heat. "Deceit," he says, and lets the word settle about them, like a cold mist around the sacred mountains. "Yes, You drink and eat deceit, and feed it to others." He juts his chin in the direction of the other Vala.  "You have poured it into her ear, like a poison.  You have fashioned it into a whip with which to beat my brother and sister Maiar into submission.  Deceit is all you would see..."he pauses and spits out the word, "Maker."  He takes in a breath.  "For that is what you are best about." And Eonwe casts off the disguise like a used blanket and takes the form that has always been his.

Nyarnyaro's feet slap hard against the stone floor, echoing hollowly in the empty corridor.  As soon as he is free of the chamber he shall set out as fast as his legs could carry him in search of help.  Now as he runs his mind keeps playing out the scene he had just witnessed.  He must get help and he must get help fast!  So preoccupied is he, and not expecting to encounter others at such a deep level of Mandos, that he is completely taken by surprise  as he rounds a corner and runs full tilt into a strong, muscular body.  Shaken from his preoccupation he looks up as he clutches at the other, as intent on saving himself from falling as saving them.  "Lord Manwë!" he gasps, his voice a mixture of shock and relief, "Thank Eru, you have come!"

Shocked, Manwe grabs the one before him as he runs into him. After hearing the gasping voice, he steadies himself and the Maia. "Here now, what is the rush?" he asks. "Steady on, slow down, what is so urgent?" He recognizes the panic on the Maia's face.

"Nyarnyaro!" Yavanna gasps, for even in the gloom and in his disheveled state, she recognises the Maia who has served her husband faithfully for many Ages.  But this isn't the calm, self-assured Maia she has known for so long. Never has she seen him so perturbed.  The urgency of his manner and tone sends a shiver of dread through her.  She looks up at Manwë, her eyes huge and luminous, "He serves Aulë, my husband."

Aule moves to stand protectively by Nienna's side as Eonwe takes a step forward. "I see you have gone deaf as well now.  Did you not hear the lady's command?  I reinforce it with my own.  You bring insults and hate to our home.  I give you one chance to be gone or face the consequences.  Be Gone!"

Eonwe gestures around the chamber as he speaks. "Home?" he asks, voice thick with sarcasm and disdain. "The abandoned stone prison of your fallen and twisted brother, he who would have corrupted and destroyed all Eru wished called into being? Call you it home?" He folds his hands across his chest. "Nay, Maker, upon reflection, you are aright in that. It should be thy home, from this time evermore, such as it was HIS home. For I see me you are no better.  Here you speak of home and cosy to a Lady not your own, while with traitorous and painful words you spurn and torment your own sweet wife. Yes. your home should be these walls, but never should they be the Lady Nienna's, for she is but a pawn in your vile and lustful desires."

Nienna sputters and fumes, unsure which of these vile statements to respond to first.  With angry tears in her eyes, she simply shouts, "Out!  GET OUT!" and points shakily toward the still-open door.

Nyarnyaro takes a deep breath to steady himself even as he continues to shift from foot to foot with impatience.  Unable to restrain himself, he blurts out, "My Lady Yavanna, my Lord Manwë, I must tell you.  My Lord Aulë and the Lady Nienna are down in the chamber, the one.. the one that used to be Melkor's cell.  They.. they are living there and now.." He pauses and flushes with embarrassment as he glances at the Lady Yavanna, embarrassed to be the bearer of such news, yet the urgency of the situation compels him to continue.  '"And now, My Lord, Eonwë, your Herald, is down there with them, and he has called my Lord 'traitor,' and I have come to seek help, for I fear my Lord will do him harm.  Please! You must come. You must hurry!  There is no time to waste. Please!"

"Eonwe is here!" Manwe says aloud. He suspected he was, but here is telling evidence of his presence. His feelings change from despair to hope. The thought of seeing his Herald again brings a moment of joy to his heart before the doubt and worry come flooding back.  Questions whirl in his mind. "What is this about Aulë and Nienna?  What has this to do with my Herald?" His need for answers is moved by the Maia's urgency. He says, "Lead us to them."

Yavanna sees the joy flash across Manwë's face as he hears Nyarnyaro's words.  So Eonwë is here.  But the Maia's words bring no joy to her own heart.  Aulë is here also.  Aulë, living with Nienna.  Aulë whom Eonwë has now called 'traitor' to his face.  It is not only Yavanna's heart that feels turned to stone.  It is her entire being.   Her body feels as cold and hard as the walls around them.  Her face feels rigid and frozen, like it will never smile again.  Living with Nienna?  What did he mean, Aulë is living with Nienna? But the others are moving off hurriedly down the corridor, and she must follow.  As with the Lord of the West, she must have answers,  but she doubts there will be any joyous reunion at the end of the day, such as she had hoped there would be between Manwe and Eonwë.  No. For her there will be nothing but dust as her world crumbles around her.

Eonwe unfolds his arms and gentles his voice as he is moved by the tearfilled voice. "Come with me, Lady Nienna.  Take my hand, and let me lead you out of this befouled den of shame." He stretches out his hand to the Vala of Compassion.  "You do not have to besmirch your reputation and your honor so, my Lady. Come, let me take you to Lord Manwe, please."

Aule strides swiftly across the small distance separating he and Eonwe.  His hands are clenched fists held taut by his sides, and his nostrils flare wide as he glares at the insolent Maia. "Do not touch her!  You come here and dare to judge us?  Dare to judge ME!  You, who are nothing but Manwe's errand boy, his milksop messenger, a lowly Maia, you dare to judge your betters?  You come here and pose as so pure and righteous, but it is no virtue that drives your words.  Look into your heart, if you have one, Eonwe and see the truth.  It is envy.  Yes, envy! Envy and bitterness! Envy that you have been denied love throughout your life.  Bitterness that all you do with your time is carry tales for Manwe, run and do Manwe's bidding.  You probably spoon the food into his mouth and wipe his posterior for him too, when there is need.  Hurry home, Eonwe, back to Taniquetil.  Your lord might have need of you.  Scurry home like the cur you are, for you are not wanted here!"

Nienna draws back from Eonwe.  For a moment, the tone of his voice reminded her of something from long ago.  Something she can't quite remember.  But Aule's rebuke drives that from her mind.

Eonwe drops his hand and casts one last look to the Lady Nienna.  In his eyes, undisguised, is a mingling of regret and sorrow.  His mouth had softened with his words, but as he turns to Aule, it firms into a tight line, the eyes now bright and sharp.  He, too, takes a step forward, toward the Maker. No gentle voice answers the taunts, but one that is low, almost a growl, thick with undisguised disgust. "I should pity you," he answers, "Maker, Smith, Lord of tiny misshapen creatures you once hoped would steal a place upon the world intended for Eru's bright creations. I should pity  the worm that walks upon two legs, that thinks..." he pauses and drops his voice lower, "of only  his own small worm betwixt those legs." He brought his voice back up. "I should pity he who has such a high place and can do naught but keep it by standing upon the backs of my brothers and sisters.  Maker?" he hisses the last word. "It should be you are called Aule the Impotent. Aule the misspent. Aule the Bent. He who had the greatest of destinies but would rather crawl upon his belly and follow his own dark brother in treachery.  Thy true Lady is ill served by such as you.  I cannot think me but she would be better served with any true Vala but you."

Nyarnyaro  needs no further urging and sets off back down the way he had come. He needs not glance back to see if the others follow for he can hear their urgent footfalls behind him as he runs.  Thoughts tumble through his mind in jumbled disarray.  Please, please, he pleads silently to no one in particular. Please let them be in time!  Yet now he runs with hope as well as desperation.  Now he runs with the Lord of the West at his heels, and the Lady Yavanna.  If anyone can set things right it is these two who now run with him with such urgency.  Please, please, let them be in time!

Aule's jaw clenches tight as Eonwe's words fall upon his ears, like blows raining upon his head.  With each insult spoken the fists held clenched at his sides rise more and more as his wrath roars through him.  He shakes his head to clear his vision of the red film of rage that seems to blur it.  Finding his voice at last, he roars, "Why you insolent puppy!"

Nienna rushes forward to protect Aule.  Throwing an arm around him, she attempts to squeeze herself between the two angry men."It's not true!"  Nienna retorts angrily.  Her eyes are still stinging.  "This vile creature doesn't know what he is talking about.  He doesn't know anything.  Don't!" she cries desperately.  "Don't fight!  Just … ," she looks over her shoulder at Eonwe, "… just go!"

Smoothly, easily, Eonwe steps to the side, neatly avoiding the distraught Nienna. "Puppy, am I?" His control breaks, seeing the Vala of Compassion so brought low as to rush to Aule's side and wrap her arms about him, like a common mortal camp follower, selling her wares to one who neither knows or cares more for her than what she offers in the dark of night.  "Thus speaks the snake in our midst." And with his words, he raises his hand to strike the Smith.

Yavanna's feet drag as she forces herself to follow Manwë deeper below the Halls of Mandos. Again she pauses a moment, her head tilted and listening.  She can hear something.  Voices!  Muffled by the rock in between, but voices, raised voices.  Aulë!  That is Aulë's voice!  She hurries on, overtaking the others as they round yet another corner in this seemingly never-ending labyrinth of corridors under the Halls of the Dead.  Now the voices are louder.  Hair streaming behind her, she sprints down the last corridor that leads to the open doors of the chamber that had once held  that despised one, Melkor.  There!  There is Aulë!  Despite itself her heart hammers in her chest a moment before she fully takes in the scene before her.  Yes, there is Aulë, and Eonwë and.. Nienna.  Nienna as she'd never seen her before.  Nienna, clinging to Aulë!  Her feet that had propelled her so eagerly down the corridor now turn to lead, and she stops short of entering the chamber, her hands hanging limp by her sides, her eyes limpid with pain as she watches the scene unfold before her.

Following the Maia with renewed vigour, the Lord of the West hurries through the maze of corridors. "Eonwe, at last!" He is unsure whether to be glad or anxious, but he has to know.  Yavanna overtakes him around a corner, but after a time she stops before an open doorway. The doors to Melkor's old prison. At last, he is here! Manwe approaches and stands beside Yavanna.  Over the Ages,  Manwë Súlimo, Lord of the West and Breath of Arda had seen many things, momentous, small, joyous and evil, but nothing, nothing could prepare him for the sight before them now.

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