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Rhûn Darkmoon
The souls of the dead seldom come so far below Mandos. Perhaps it was because it too closely resembles the tombs in which the remains of their corporeal bodies now lie. Always they seemed to prefer the upper floors where there was light and some semblance of the life they had once held. It seemed to comfort them somehow. The silence in the dim, deep corridors was profound.
Even as he walks Aulë barely disturbs this silence. The bare soles of his feet make no sound on the rock beneath them. His kilt gives a hushed rustle now and then as he moves. His breath is silent as his powerful body breathes. He moves with an easy yet powerful stride. Yet although his body carries him down the corridor his movements seem to lack the purpose and certainty one would expect to see as Aulë Talka Marda walks the world.
For as he walks, the Maker is deeply troubled, his thoughts in chaos. He lifts a hand almost the size of a dinner plate and rubs at his brow as though this might clear his head. It had all seemed so clear, so certain. He belonged there. It was home. Images flick through his mind. The sweet curves of Nienna as she lay, her body curled seductively upon their bed, her skin gilded by the flickering flames of the firelight. The delicate line of her cheek where it curved to meet lips that had surely been sculpted by Eru in person, so perfectly were they formed. Again his ears heard her throaty, triumphant laughter as he swept her up in his powerful arms when he could no longer resist her allure. For a moment as he walks, a small smile begins to curve his lips.
But then they came. First that sly puppy Eonwë had tricked his way into his presence and dared to stand defiant and accusatory before him. Then, just as Aulë had thought the Herald would commit the ultimate insult and strike a Valar, there standing behind him, had been Manwë himself. As he turns a corner of the corridor and ascends yet another set of stairs, he remembers how his heart had skipped a beat as his eyes fell upon the form of Manwë Súlimo, the very Breath of Arda. How was it that he stood there, at the threshold of the very Chamber itself? How had he known to come?
Nienna fades from his mind as memories flash. In his mind as though only yesterday he could see the radiance that had emanated from the face of the Lord of the West as together they and the others had sung into being all of creation with the Great Song. He remembered well the compassion in those eyes that seemed to be the colour of a thousand different skies all in one when he had stood before him contrite, and together they had spoken of the creation of the dwarves. Together they had worked through the Ages. Sometimes there had been shared joy with Manwë's deep laughter seeming to boom from the very peak of Taniquetil itself. At other times they had shared great sorrow, as when side by side they had bound the form of Melkor in that very chamber where he had known such joy.
As he nears the end of yet another long corridor he pauses and looks back the way he had come, blinking uncertainly. He had felt that it was there that he had found the only true joy he had ever known and yet.. and yet memories now flood through him. As he stands here his nostrils catch the lingering scent of spring flowers, of pine forests warmed by the sun and soft grasses that spring underfoot. Yavanna! That perfume of her passing was unmistakable. He turns and follows it unthinkingly as he has followed it a thousand times before and his thoughts turn to the one who has is known as Kementari, Queen of the Earth. His Queen of the Earth, and for as far as memory can recall, she had been Queen of his heart also.
As he walks his hand twitches unconsciously at his side as he remembers gently taking her face in his hand, his thumb tenderly caressing her cheek. She had stared up at him, her eyes the deep green of forest depths, and he had bent his head to capture the softness of her lips, her mouth far sweeter than the nectar of any flower. Now as he walks, his feet move faster, as though remembering, too, the sound of her lilting laughter as she had fled though the woods with him in playful pursuit. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he remembers the feel of her body, the skin soft and the body supple against his, as he captured her in his arms, and there on the sweet-smelling grasses in a waterfall glade they had made love.
And now she had come to him. She and Manwë had come to him at Mandos. She was here. His heart quickens as he takes the last staircase two steps at a time. His feet are eager as they tread the last step, and he stands at last in the corridor to the side of the Grand Foyer of Mandos. He moves as though to hurry forward to the foyer, but his stride is arrested as a soft voice carries to him. "..thank you, Eonwe, you are most kind."
Nienna! For a moment he feels the quick stir of his loins that the very thought of her provokes and then it registers in his mind the name of the one to whom she spoke. Eonwë! He pauses uncertainly. His Nienna is there with that cur! Before he can think or act further other voices carry to him. Ilmare and Eonwë are talking together, although he cannot catch the words beyond her first greeting.
As he pauses, a soft breeze from the open door of the foyer brushes across his bare chest and for the first time since leaving the chamber Aulë becomes fully aware of his surroundings, of himself. He glances down at the minimal kilt he is wearing, and with a thought forms his usual clothing until at last he stands fully dressed, booted and yet still uncertain in the side corridor. He looks to the door of the foyer and then back down the stairs he has only just ascended. For the first time in his long life, Aulë Tulka Marda stands unsure of what he should do.
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