AelKennyr Rhiano
He rises from the cold waters of the sea, the deep ocean blue of his skin glistening as the ocean’s waters drips from his body, and the heat of his skin sends curling tendrils of mist into the chill air. Eyes deep blue, ancient with old wisdom and older remembrances, takes in the kneeling form of the King of the Teleri, and those eyes are neither warm nor cold, but waiting, measuring. For several moments, the Eldar elf remains knelling before the Lord of all the Waters of the World, as Ulmo studies him. Thoughts, musings, questions have floated within the mind of the Vala….such things as he has never bothered himself with before. Among those things is his own disobedience of Manwe’s instruction to not interfere in the affairs of the Children of Eru. As he looks down upon the elf before him, wrapped in a fur lined cloak, his eyes soften. How could he not? How could he have stood by and watched the Hope of the Valar be destroyed in a wash of dragon fire, his long life ended, snuffed out? The answer is startlingly simple: he could not, would not. So he had saved Olwe, and Alqualonde and even went as far in his defiance as to take the island Swanhaven under his protection.
“Rise, Olwe, King of the Teleri,” he says, and his voice, deep as the bottom of the seas rolls about the kneeling Lord of Alqualonde, sounding to elven ears a bit distant, a bit restrained.
With the grace of his race, Olwe rises to his feet and lifts his eyes, blue as the sky to meet UImo’s, blue as the sea. Olwe watches the misty steam fall away from the Vala’s body, as it cool and drips sea water. There is a silence, then, heavy, leaden, between Vala and elf until Olwe shifts his body weight from one foot to the other and speaks to break it. “It is good to be in the presence of the Lord of the Waters of the World.” His voice is placid, like the waters of a still lake, Ulmo thinks.
The Vala juts his chin in the direction of Nole’s swanship, and his eyes takes in how low the hull sat upon the water. “The ship stands ready for a voyage,” he says.
Olwe nods and casts a look back over his shoulder to the ship. “Indeed, my lord,” he answers, turning back around to face Ulmo. “We hope to sail as soon as the weather allows, Nole and I.” Olwe reaches up and pulls the cloak closer about his body. The air feels heavy with the promise of icy rain, and he shivers as the wind finds a way past the fur lining inside the folds of cloth. “Since Alqualonde is under your protection, my Lord, I can leave, knowing she will be safe.” He pauses and adds, “And it is past time I go, my Lord. I cannot find my kin, sitting here and waiting.”
Ulmo gives the barest of nods, his own blue eyes never leaving the face of the Child of Eru before him. There is wisdom in Olwe’s words, yes, and resolution, too. As the Vala studies the face of the elf before, he sees fine lines at the corners of Olwe’s eyes, and lines again on his brow and around his mouth. Were they there always, he wonders idly. The Children of Eru who live in Middle Earth do not weather the passage of time but are affected by the turning of the years; to be sure, the children of Men feel the passage sooner and more keenly than the elves. However, even the Firstborn eventually seem to feel the weight of the turning of the seasons, the passage of long years. Ulmo has watched with a fascination he could not explain to himself nor to his brothers and sisters…watched as human sailors once young and eager with faces shining and bright over the passage of time walk stooped over, faces folding in upon themselves, noses growing wider, eyes more sunken and dimmer, hair thinner, flesh saggy and spotted. Elves, the firstborn, wear the passage of years lightly upon their bodies, but in their hearts and souls eventually a weariness, a heaviness seems to set in, and the lines that appear upon their visage seem to him to be traces of that burden, etched there for the world to see and puzzle over, as he has.
A soft cough from Olwe alerts UImo that the elf awaits a response, and the Lord of the Seas gives a brief nod. “No, Olwe, you cannot remain here,” he answers, his voice rich and deep as his beloved waters.
Olwe cocks his head to one side. Inside his left boot, his toes have gone numb, and he wiggles them as he waits for the Lord of the Waters to say more, but there is silence again. A brief frown crosses the face of the Lord of Alqualonde, and he bows his head, thinking. “I will go to Sylvhara first, to see about my Cousin, Comet,” he says, to break the silence. “I have sent two swans with missives to her, but I have received no word back.” He lifts his head, and in his eyes, his concern for the Sylvan Queen is all too evident.
Ulmo folds his arms across his chest, his overlarge hands resting over his elbows. “The coming Darkness is stretching forth its hand, Olwe. Over Alqualonde, over Sylvhara, over all of Middle Earth.” Ulmo stops a moment, and the image of Manwe, sorrowful and distressed, comes to his mind. He thinks of Eonwe, the faithful Maia who has ever been the Herald for the Lord of the West. Now, herald no longer. He thinks of Irmo, his worry for his sister, the Vala of Compassion. He thinks of himself, his own unrest. “Now comes the falling of the Shadow across the whole of Eru’s creation, and you, Olwe, must put aside your wants and desires and seek the rest of Firstborn across the breadth of the lands. In you they must find hope and must learn to stand as one. Even the children of Men must be brought forth and readied. And all the beings who walk in Eru’s light, whether they do so knowingly or no.”
Olwe’s face grows still and solemn, and he gives an absent minded nod, as he thinks over the words of Ulmo. Then he lifts his chin a little and says, gently but firmly. “My own wants and desires matter not, this I know. But I must first go to Sylvhara, to make sure Comet is well and safe.”
“No,” answers Ulmo.
The word breaks upon the silence of the harbor and hovers upon the wind. Olwe blinks at the one word response, and waits several moments for more from the Lord of the Waters, but here is only the lapping of unfrozen waters against the docks, the slosh of small wavelets against the hull of Nole’s swanship. “No?” he repeats. He tightens his jaw and, reaching out, rests a gloved hand upon the pylon close beside him. Looking up, he watches the flame atop it dance and bob in the wind. “It never goes out, the flame,” Olwe says, and then he turns his gaze back to the Lord of the Seas. “Like my heartache for my people. Like my love for my Cousin. She is all I have left in this world, aside from the few, here, in Alqualonde. She is blood of my blood. She is part of my heart.”
He pauses and his voice rises a little sharply. “And all you tell me is ‘no.’ If something happens to me, it will be Comet who takes up the burden, and you tell me, ‘no.’” Olwe drops his hand and with the other pulls off the glove. The wind, long teasing the cloak, seizes the opportunity and pulls and tugs it apart, the fabric whipping about the elf’s body. With his bare hand, he reaches up and brushes across the wood of the pylon, against the grain, sucks in his breath sharply and then raises his hand, palm out, finger extended. “My ache to know Comet is safe is like this sliver in my finger. It may be small as you gaze upon it. It may be insignificant in your view. But it is there, and to me, it cannot be ignored. It is constant and cries out for attendance, no matter how small it seems to you, my Lord.”
He drops his hand again, and slips it back inside the glove. “And I mean to attend to that sliver of fear, my Lord, and put it aside by visiting my sweet Cousin.”
> Next
“Rise, Olwe, King of the Teleri,” he says, and his voice, deep as the bottom of the seas rolls about the kneeling Lord of Alqualonde, sounding to elven ears a bit distant, a bit restrained.
With the grace of his race, Olwe rises to his feet and lifts his eyes, blue as the sky to meet UImo’s, blue as the sea. Olwe watches the misty steam fall away from the Vala’s body, as it cool and drips sea water. There is a silence, then, heavy, leaden, between Vala and elf until Olwe shifts his body weight from one foot to the other and speaks to break it. “It is good to be in the presence of the Lord of the Waters of the World.” His voice is placid, like the waters of a still lake, Ulmo thinks.
The Vala juts his chin in the direction of Nole’s swanship, and his eyes takes in how low the hull sat upon the water. “The ship stands ready for a voyage,” he says.
Olwe nods and casts a look back over his shoulder to the ship. “Indeed, my lord,” he answers, turning back around to face Ulmo. “We hope to sail as soon as the weather allows, Nole and I.” Olwe reaches up and pulls the cloak closer about his body. The air feels heavy with the promise of icy rain, and he shivers as the wind finds a way past the fur lining inside the folds of cloth. “Since Alqualonde is under your protection, my Lord, I can leave, knowing she will be safe.” He pauses and adds, “And it is past time I go, my Lord. I cannot find my kin, sitting here and waiting.”
Ulmo gives the barest of nods, his own blue eyes never leaving the face of the Child of Eru before him. There is wisdom in Olwe’s words, yes, and resolution, too. As the Vala studies the face of the elf before, he sees fine lines at the corners of Olwe’s eyes, and lines again on his brow and around his mouth. Were they there always, he wonders idly. The Children of Eru who live in Middle Earth do not weather the passage of time but are affected by the turning of the years; to be sure, the children of Men feel the passage sooner and more keenly than the elves. However, even the Firstborn eventually seem to feel the weight of the turning of the seasons, the passage of long years. Ulmo has watched with a fascination he could not explain to himself nor to his brothers and sisters…watched as human sailors once young and eager with faces shining and bright over the passage of time walk stooped over, faces folding in upon themselves, noses growing wider, eyes more sunken and dimmer, hair thinner, flesh saggy and spotted. Elves, the firstborn, wear the passage of years lightly upon their bodies, but in their hearts and souls eventually a weariness, a heaviness seems to set in, and the lines that appear upon their visage seem to him to be traces of that burden, etched there for the world to see and puzzle over, as he has.
A soft cough from Olwe alerts UImo that the elf awaits a response, and the Lord of the Seas gives a brief nod. “No, Olwe, you cannot remain here,” he answers, his voice rich and deep as his beloved waters.
Olwe cocks his head to one side. Inside his left boot, his toes have gone numb, and he wiggles them as he waits for the Lord of the Waters to say more, but there is silence again. A brief frown crosses the face of the Lord of Alqualonde, and he bows his head, thinking. “I will go to Sylvhara first, to see about my Cousin, Comet,” he says, to break the silence. “I have sent two swans with missives to her, but I have received no word back.” He lifts his head, and in his eyes, his concern for the Sylvan Queen is all too evident.
Ulmo folds his arms across his chest, his overlarge hands resting over his elbows. “The coming Darkness is stretching forth its hand, Olwe. Over Alqualonde, over Sylvhara, over all of Middle Earth.” Ulmo stops a moment, and the image of Manwe, sorrowful and distressed, comes to his mind. He thinks of Eonwe, the faithful Maia who has ever been the Herald for the Lord of the West. Now, herald no longer. He thinks of Irmo, his worry for his sister, the Vala of Compassion. He thinks of himself, his own unrest. “Now comes the falling of the Shadow across the whole of Eru’s creation, and you, Olwe, must put aside your wants and desires and seek the rest of Firstborn across the breadth of the lands. In you they must find hope and must learn to stand as one. Even the children of Men must be brought forth and readied. And all the beings who walk in Eru’s light, whether they do so knowingly or no.”
Olwe’s face grows still and solemn, and he gives an absent minded nod, as he thinks over the words of Ulmo. Then he lifts his chin a little and says, gently but firmly. “My own wants and desires matter not, this I know. But I must first go to Sylvhara, to make sure Comet is well and safe.”
“No,” answers Ulmo.
The word breaks upon the silence of the harbor and hovers upon the wind. Olwe blinks at the one word response, and waits several moments for more from the Lord of the Waters, but here is only the lapping of unfrozen waters against the docks, the slosh of small wavelets against the hull of Nole’s swanship. “No?” he repeats. He tightens his jaw and, reaching out, rests a gloved hand upon the pylon close beside him. Looking up, he watches the flame atop it dance and bob in the wind. “It never goes out, the flame,” Olwe says, and then he turns his gaze back to the Lord of the Seas. “Like my heartache for my people. Like my love for my Cousin. She is all I have left in this world, aside from the few, here, in Alqualonde. She is blood of my blood. She is part of my heart.”
He pauses and his voice rises a little sharply. “And all you tell me is ‘no.’ If something happens to me, it will be Comet who takes up the burden, and you tell me, ‘no.’” Olwe drops his hand and with the other pulls off the glove. The wind, long teasing the cloak, seizes the opportunity and pulls and tugs it apart, the fabric whipping about the elf’s body. With his bare hand, he reaches up and brushes across the wood of the pylon, against the grain, sucks in his breath sharply and then raises his hand, palm out, finger extended. “My ache to know Comet is safe is like this sliver in my finger. It may be small as you gaze upon it. It may be insignificant in your view. But it is there, and to me, it cannot be ignored. It is constant and cries out for attendance, no matter how small it seems to you, my Lord.”
He drops his hand again, and slips it back inside the glove. “And I mean to attend to that sliver of fear, my Lord, and put it aside by visiting my sweet Cousin.”
> Next