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They are so close now. As their footsteps echo eerily where so few living feet trod, Manwë feels a growing urgency to find the answers he seeks. And yet, and yet, what if those answers are not ones that he wants to hear? Manwë finds his hope and fear battling within him with each step he takes. He long misses his Herald at his side and hopes he is safe. His heart aches at this loss, for he has felt it so long. As he walks the cold stone corridor, the wisps of the dead part reverently, but no god is he. He is here for answers. He is also here for Eonwë. Is he safe? Or will his aching and anxious hope finally come to an end with an unspeakable end?
Through Ages have these Halls stood. Yet as Yavanna follows Manwë down yet another flight of stairs, even in her preoccupation she cannot help but marvel at their condition. They are as though they were newly hewn. The walls around them still have the sharp crispness of fresh-cut stone. Few mortal bodies have passed this way. Few solid feet have trod these stairs. Not for Mandos the mellowing with age. Mandos is timeless. Now as she follows Manwë's guidance through the winding corridors and halls, down endless staircases, to Yavanna it really does seem as though time is standing still. If she did not know that Manwë knew the way to their destination well, she would think they were going around in circles. Or perhaps it was just her thoughts that were going in circles as the endless battle of doubt and hope rages in her head?
Another corridor and deeper still they descend. Despite the ages and time passed since last he trod these halls, Manwë knew where to proceed towards. He was here, long ago, when his brother, the Lord of Might, was chained. "Brother he is not to me," Manwë says in his mind. Melkor had been chained and imprisoned deep in the bowels of Mandos. As he approaches, his anxiety grows. He does not fear the enemy, but he now realizes his lack of sight. And here he was when Melkor was released. He remembers that day long ago as if it was yesterday, the day evil was released once again upon the world. Manwë knew not where Eonwë had gone in Mandos, but without further clues to his cause, he strides towards the old prison chamber of his enemy.
Nyarnyaro pauses a moment and glances again at his companion. Even in disguise carrying food like a common servant, Eonwë still bears himself like a warrior. Even though it is clear to Nyarnyaro that something is deeply troubling the other Maia, yet still he carries himself proudly. With a small nod of his head, in that moment Nyarnyaro made a decision. No more groveling. No more cringing. He was a Maia, and had fought with the other in battle. He was a Maia and served what was right above all else. He squares his shoulders and his hand is firm as he resolutely pushes open the door.
Nienna's eyes flick up momentarily toward the door as it opens. She sniffs impatiently, seeing the Maiar bringing supper. Their interruption has broken her concentration, and she stares disconsolately at the looking glass, as the changes to her appearance melt away. She mutters petulantly under her breath, "Why must these physical forms be so difficult to arrange?" Yet it no longer enters her mind to return to spirit form.
Beside him, Eonwe waits and watches. Watches as Nyarnyaro pauses, watches as the other Maia's hand raises, hesitantly toward the door, watches as this Devoted Maia gives a small nod and then stands a little straighter, a little taller. He watches as Nyarnyaro reaches for the door, and a small brief smile crosses the lips of Eonwe. He shifts his weight and feels the reassuring pressure of the hilt of a dagger against a hip, feels the leather straps about his upper thigh, securing it in place. It was tucked away, beneath the folds of his outer tunic, but yet readily available. Blue eyes drop down to the hot soup he carries and back up to watch as the other Maia enters the room. Anxiously, he peers past the other's shoulder, eager to finally know what is dared not spoken of, above.
Nyarnyaro can feel Aulë's eyes upon him as soon as he steps into the chamber. Still holding his shoulders square, nonetheless he is careful to keep his eyes upon the tray of food he carried. The heavy scent of the perfumes she now wears alerted him easily enough to the Lady Nienna's whereabouts in the room so he takes care that he does not even glance in that direction. "Your meal, my Lord," he murmurs respectfully and risks a glance at the Smith as he does so. His audacity goes unnoticed this time, for now Aulë's gaze is no longer upon him, but fixed firmly on his companion. As Nyarnyaro stares, he watches those eyes narrow and grow flinty hard.
Eonwe follows the other Maia in. The cavernous chamber had been hollowed out even more since the days Melkor were imprisoned here beneath the bowels of Mandos' Hall. Blue eyes with frank curiosity and battle trained apprisal sweeps about the room, spying the trappings of a comfortable living in this stony hollow of earth. There a table sits, waiting for the meal he and Nyarmyaro bring. Close by it, a reclining couch such as found in the halls of his Lord Manwe. Seeing it here, his gut clenches in anger, and his eyes grow sharp and bright. Looking further, his eyes widen as he sees a bed across the room, silky satin sheets and a mound of pillows, and bile rises to his throat, and then...then...THERE...her skin a bronze, her eyes appraising her form in a mirror....there is the Valle of Compassion, the Lady Nienna. Not duty bound, as when she once summoned him to bequeath to one of the Children who call upon her a sword for protection's sake. No, there is no duty in the gaze with which Nienna favors her reflection. Her face, to him, looks pouting and self-indulgent, and even across the room, the cloying scent of a perfume so sweet he near chokes upon it assails him.
He should look down. He knows. He should bow his head, meek and mild and obedient. He should scurry to the table, quickly set down the soup and leave immediately. But he does not. Instead, with the gait of a warrior, with the stride of one taking the battlefield, with head held high, and eyes ablazing, he crosses the room, places the tureen upon the table. Slowly he turns and brings blue eyes, alight with a burning fierce gaze, to rest upon the face of the Maker. Tilting his chin slightly, he speaks. "Greetings, Lord Maker. Or should I name you better by calling you 'traitor?'"
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| Deep within the Halls of Mandos |
Through Ages have these Halls stood. Yet as Yavanna follows Manwë down yet another flight of stairs, even in her preoccupation she cannot help but marvel at their condition. They are as though they were newly hewn. The walls around them still have the sharp crispness of fresh-cut stone. Few mortal bodies have passed this way. Few solid feet have trod these stairs. Not for Mandos the mellowing with age. Mandos is timeless. Now as she follows Manwë's guidance through the winding corridors and halls, down endless staircases, to Yavanna it really does seem as though time is standing still. If she did not know that Manwë knew the way to their destination well, she would think they were going around in circles. Or perhaps it was just her thoughts that were going in circles as the endless battle of doubt and hope rages in her head?
Another corridor and deeper still they descend. Despite the ages and time passed since last he trod these halls, Manwë knew where to proceed towards. He was here, long ago, when his brother, the Lord of Might, was chained. "Brother he is not to me," Manwë says in his mind. Melkor had been chained and imprisoned deep in the bowels of Mandos. As he approaches, his anxiety grows. He does not fear the enemy, but he now realizes his lack of sight. And here he was when Melkor was released. He remembers that day long ago as if it was yesterday, the day evil was released once again upon the world. Manwë knew not where Eonwë had gone in Mandos, but without further clues to his cause, he strides towards the old prison chamber of his enemy.
Nyarnyaro pauses a moment and glances again at his companion. Even in disguise carrying food like a common servant, Eonwë still bears himself like a warrior. Even though it is clear to Nyarnyaro that something is deeply troubling the other Maia, yet still he carries himself proudly. With a small nod of his head, in that moment Nyarnyaro made a decision. No more groveling. No more cringing. He was a Maia, and had fought with the other in battle. He was a Maia and served what was right above all else. He squares his shoulders and his hand is firm as he resolutely pushes open the door.
Nienna's eyes flick up momentarily toward the door as it opens. She sniffs impatiently, seeing the Maiar bringing supper. Their interruption has broken her concentration, and she stares disconsolately at the looking glass, as the changes to her appearance melt away. She mutters petulantly under her breath, "Why must these physical forms be so difficult to arrange?" Yet it no longer enters her mind to return to spirit form.
Beside him, Eonwe waits and watches. Watches as Nyarnyaro pauses, watches as the other Maia's hand raises, hesitantly toward the door, watches as this Devoted Maia gives a small nod and then stands a little straighter, a little taller. He watches as Nyarnyaro reaches for the door, and a small brief smile crosses the lips of Eonwe. He shifts his weight and feels the reassuring pressure of the hilt of a dagger against a hip, feels the leather straps about his upper thigh, securing it in place. It was tucked away, beneath the folds of his outer tunic, but yet readily available. Blue eyes drop down to the hot soup he carries and back up to watch as the other Maia enters the room. Anxiously, he peers past the other's shoulder, eager to finally know what is dared not spoken of, above.Nyarnyaro can feel Aulë's eyes upon him as soon as he steps into the chamber. Still holding his shoulders square, nonetheless he is careful to keep his eyes upon the tray of food he carried. The heavy scent of the perfumes she now wears alerted him easily enough to the Lady Nienna's whereabouts in the room so he takes care that he does not even glance in that direction. "Your meal, my Lord," he murmurs respectfully and risks a glance at the Smith as he does so. His audacity goes unnoticed this time, for now Aulë's gaze is no longer upon him, but fixed firmly on his companion. As Nyarnyaro stares, he watches those eyes narrow and grow flinty hard.
Eonwe follows the other Maia in. The cavernous chamber had been hollowed out even more since the days Melkor were imprisoned here beneath the bowels of Mandos' Hall. Blue eyes with frank curiosity and battle trained apprisal sweeps about the room, spying the trappings of a comfortable living in this stony hollow of earth. There a table sits, waiting for the meal he and Nyarmyaro bring. Close by it, a reclining couch such as found in the halls of his Lord Manwe. Seeing it here, his gut clenches in anger, and his eyes grow sharp and bright. Looking further, his eyes widen as he sees a bed across the room, silky satin sheets and a mound of pillows, and bile rises to his throat, and then...then...THERE...her skin a bronze, her eyes appraising her form in a mirror....there is the Valle of Compassion, the Lady Nienna. Not duty bound, as when she once summoned him to bequeath to one of the Children who call upon her a sword for protection's sake. No, there is no duty in the gaze with which Nienna favors her reflection. Her face, to him, looks pouting and self-indulgent, and even across the room, the cloying scent of a perfume so sweet he near chokes upon it assails him.
He should look down. He knows. He should bow his head, meek and mild and obedient. He should scurry to the table, quickly set down the soup and leave immediately. But he does not. Instead, with the gait of a warrior, with the stride of one taking the battlefield, with head held high, and eyes ablazing, he crosses the room, places the tureen upon the table. Slowly he turns and brings blue eyes, alight with a burning fierce gaze, to rest upon the face of the Maker. Tilting his chin slightly, he speaks. "Greetings, Lord Maker. Or should I name you better by calling you 'traitor?'"
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