Nienna searches her memory for the clothing she had been wearing so long ago at Mt. Taniquetil. "Let the Maiar see you as you always have been," Eonwe had said. Yes, perhaps that was a good idea. Creating clothing out of thought -- she used to do that routinely. And yes, those memories are still there. With a frown of concentration, she replaces her clothes with a white gown and cloak. She continues to walk, silently, with Eonwe down the empty corridor of the Halls of Mandos.
He watches her, the Maia Eonwe, his head down a little, but his blue eyes taking in the shimmer as her form shifts, and fabric melts and reforms until before him is once again the Vala of Compassion as she has always been. The cool and still air seems now to be a little warmer. Their steps resound down the hall, the even blocks lighter in color that the rough hewn bowels of earth below them. Silence makes the fall of their steps overloud, bouncing from the walls and floor without the soft caress of carpet to muffle the sharp clack of boots, and the softer steps of slippered feet. Raising his head, he breaks the silence, his voice measured and low, calming. "My lady looks radiant." He pauses and takes a breath. "My Lord does not blame thee, my Lady. He knows it is not your fault, these things that have transpired. His wisdom will gentle the repercussions of all that transpired."
Yavanna crosses the foyer of the Halls of Mandos, the soft leather of her sandals silent upon the hard marble floor. As always she moves with a slow and easy grace, a grace that belies her inner turmoil. For each step she takes since speaking those fateful words "I wash my hands of you both" takes her another step away from Aulë. Had she really done that? Had she really turned and walked away, washing her hands of the one who had been her husband, her lover and friend for all these Ages? Yavanna has never known life without Aulë. Yet here she was choosing such a life now. But what choice does she have? Images flashed through her mind of her husband standing with an arm around Nienna. Nienna, standing there, her face gloating and triumphant as she bragged that Aulë had chosen her over Yavanna. Aulë! Her Aulë! But hers no more.
Yavanna shakes her head to clear it. Now she stands here alone awaiting the arrival of Manwë from below. Queen of the Earth she is sometimes called, Yavanna Kementari, but today her bearing and expression is like that of a lost and bewildered child.
Nienna looks up sharply at Eonwe's words. "He does not blame me? Then he must be the only one in all of Aman who does not!" Her face burns with hurt and anger, for many cruel words have battered her today. Her footsteps, a quiet scuffing of slippers on the stone floor, continue steadily.
With sure steps, Eonwe guides the Vala of Compassion to the first of the wooden stairs leading up, up to the world of souls, some lost as Nienna seems to feeling, some filled with regret, remorse...again, things he thinks he hears in her voice. But emotions are not things he know, things he understands, like sword and shield, arrow and bow, like the list of the Vala and all the Maiar and who serves which Vala. These are things Eonwe knows. He knows the light that comes into Manwe's eyes when he is well pleased. He knows the gentle laugh of Lady Varda when Eonwe, unintentionally, amuses her. He knows the toss of the head that Ilmare gives when she waxes on about the birth of a star. But emotions, they have caught him green and unprepared for his own and for others.
He pauses at the steps and looks at Nienna, raising his gaze to meet hers. "Why, " he blurts out. "Why..." he stops, uncertain how to ask the question he can barely understand himself. "Why did you?" and he flushes, embarrassment, too, new and raw to him.
Yavanna pauses and looks around her. Her feet have carried her to the center of the foyer. Now she stands under the magnificent dome that graces the ceiling. Overhead stars swirl and move as they have done in the night sky since first Eru created it. Standing there now, watching them as they make their way across their small universe, Yavanna feels very small and insignificant. What use now all those Ages spent tending the living things, bring into being all that is beautiful and good when inside her heart felt as cold and colorless as the morning ashes of last night's fire? What use all her strivings, all her work? Now as she watches the slow dance of the stars overhead in the dome, she wonders how she ever thought that anything she did matters at all.
Yavanna has served Eru faithfully. She has been a devoted and loving wife. But none of it mattered. She has lost Aulë. Nothing matters. Turning on her heel she walks to one of the chairs that lined the foyer to wait for Manwë.
"Why?" Nienna falters on a step, as the memories wash over her, filling all her awareness. How could she possibly put so much into words? "Aule treated me with kindness," she says slowly. "Aule cared about … about my happiness. Not about the service I could give, but about me. For all the ages of the world, I have heard the cries, felt the pain of the living and the dead. And the living and the dead drew strength out of me, out of my grief." She finishes almost in a whisper, "This is the first time anyone, even myself, ever gave thought to my own happiness."
Eonwe reaches out without a thought and cups his hand under Nienna's elbow, lending her his support as she falters. He watches her face as she gives him his answers, his blue eyes dark but unfathomable. As she finishes, he continues to help her, guiding gently as they continue, up, and up, the top of the steps visible ahead. "Did the Maker truly care about the happiness of a Vala not his wife, my Lady, or did he care more about giving you unhappiness." He takes a breath this body needs, and feels his stomach lurch as he continues on. "For I must wonder if you were unhappy, easing the souls of the Children, providing succor, lifting an anxious and torn heart. Were you unhappy, Mistress of soothing words, in your ability to bring to Eru's Children a bit of your own light?" He turns his head to regard the few steps to the top. "For Lady, how can it be that joy is lacking in bringing comfort and compassion to those who are in need?"
Yavanna settles herself on the chair, tucking her feet up and wrapping her arms around her legs, in the age old protective gesture of the hurt and lost. She leans her chin on her knees and stares at nothing, her green eyes large and luminous in the dim lighting of the foyer. A single tear trembles for a moment on her lashes before tumbling to track its way unnoticed down the curve of her cheek. Other unshed tears spill as she blinks at their sudden sting in her eyes. An unbearable aching grips her chest and a sob bursts forth from her lips, followed swiftly by another. Unstoppable the sobs rack her body, each one seeming to tear a piece from her heart as it bursts from her.
Nienna frowns thoughtfully, concentrating on the awkward task of navigating the steps of the stairs. In the secluded chamber where she and Aule made their home, she had no occasion to practice climbing stairs. "Hearing the pain of the Children was my part in the Song. You may win a battle, and call it well done, and so it is. But healing and comforting the Children continues without end. New woes spring up as fast as the old are healed, or faster. My tears did not bring back the beauty of the Trees. Did you know that the King of the Teleri grieves still for his people who were slain, three Ages past? … No, my happiness mattered not in that task."
Eonwe stops at the last step and hands her up onto the top floor of Mandos' Hall. He tilts his head as he gives serious consideration to the Vala's words. Then he joins her on the top step. "Healing and comfort," he repeats. "Battles are won, or lost. Wars the same. Each warrior, each battle-hardened commander prays to Eru, whispers to Tulkas or even to me, 'Let this be last.' But there is always the next war. There is always the next battle. If there is peace, there is also strife. There is no surcease for the warrior unless it be this: 'Today I did no battle. I did no war. I rested my sword and my shield.' You speak of unending duty, and unfolding disappointment. Can it be any less for any Vala or Maia, each in their own measure?" He bows his head. "I am not drawn in the light of Eru as you are, Lady. I am but a humble helpmeet, and my mind is clouded, now, with many things. There are thoughts I have never had before, now, and they crowd my mind and lay upon this heart that beats in this body."
He looks about the hall, but it is clear, and he continues. "But, Lady Nienna, if you can still feel the unease and heart soreness of another, then perhaps you feel that of the Maia, both my brothers and sisters so ill treated by the Maker and.." he pauses and dips his head, blue eyes growing troubled as his voice grows husky," and my own. For I tell you, my Lady, before I first ever set eyes upon the chambers down below, there was seldom thought of Eonwe, the 'I" of Eonwe. I was Eonwe, the Herald, Eonwe, the Chief of the Maiar, Eonwe, the ever glad servant of the Lord of the West. " He shakes his head. "Now...now 'I' am Eonwe, and 'I" no longer am sure that 'I' know Eonwe anymore."
Lost in her pain, Yavanna has not heard the approaching footsteps on the stairs and is startled to hear voices as someone approaches. Shamed that she might be seen thus, she hastily drops her head forward and turns her face to the side so her hair falls forward, shielding her face from the gaze of those about to enter the room. She lifts a hand trying ineffectually to wipe the tears from her cheeks and sniffles a little, but she cannot hide the pain in her eyes as at last she lifts her head and turns to face the newcomers.
Memories continue to flood through Nienna. She studies Eonwe, striding confidently beside her. "You, I think, have had much practice with a physical body. Irmo and I went to the mortal world, to live among the Teleri. But we knew so little about living in physical bodies. We ate the food, but we did not know how to taste it. We breathed the air, but we did not perceive the scents. Not the coldness of the water nor the heat of fire. Not the softness of fur nor the roughness of stone. Aule showed me all this -- how to truly experience physical life, and he delighted in each new thing I learned. When I scratched my hand, he washed it." She smiles mistily now, remembering the coolness of the water, the texture of the cloth. "How could I have ever lived for all these ages, and not known? How did I ever presume to teach the Children, when I knew nothing of their world?"
Eonwe hears her words even as he obeys the Will of Manwe and guides her to the main entrance hall of Mandos. His eyes lift to see the blue marble flooring, and his cheeks feel the brush of slightly warmer air, like the caress of a hand. He does not see the sole occupant of the room yet, and so he turns to Nienna, his eyes intense as he stares boldly into hers. "Yet you did, my Lady, yet you did. But what I have learned in this time spent in this form, day following night following day, is that there is more than the senses...there is more than the feel of skin or the brush of silk. Do you know the Children cry as easily from joy as they do from sorrow. Lady, I tell you, I would give much to be my Lord's Herald again, to be Eonwe, and not 'I.' But I should like to feel tears of joy." He lifts a hand and indicates there room. "Here, then, is where we should await the pleasure of the Lord of the West." He lifts his head and masks his own feelings behind eyes that have seen battle and peace, that have cried tears of sorrow but none of joy. He sets himself a placid face, though his heart thumps mightily in his chest, and his hands clench at his side, when he drops his arm.
Yavanna's lips attempt a smile as she sees Manwë's gentle Herald enter the room, but the smile falters and dies as Nienna follows on his heels. Seeing the other Valar, she cannot suppress the pain that flashes across her face before she composes it to a mask of indifference, the mouth a tight straight line, ears deaf to the words they speak, the eyes dull and flat as she turns her head resolutely away and stares again at nothing. Nothing. Anything. Anything rather than look upon Nienna.
Nienna watches emotion flicker over Eonwe's face, an intensity, a longing, flickers of something much more than his words express. As he composes his expression to a forced-looking calm, Nienna's glance falls on a figure huddled on a seat by the wall. Recognizing that figure, Nienna's eyes grow cold, and her lips set into a tight line.
Yavanna glances down at herself as she listens to the approaching footsteps. Here she sits like a child of men as they do when frightened of the monsters of myth or scared of the dark. Her glance flicks to the Vala of Compassion, and her jaw tightens. Hurt. Yes, she was hurt beyond measure but she had no fear of this one. The path ahead of her may look bleak and empty, but she was not afraid of it. With a hiss of disgust at herself, she slips her feet to the floor and stands, her shoulders square, her chin up, and her arms folded. Let Nienna stare at her as hard as she pleases. She would not see Yavanna cower in defeat or fear. Not ever again.
Ilmarë sees the wide stone walls of the upper levels of Mandos drawing closer, and slows her mad flight. Quickly she forms her Elvish shape again. If her hair is blown by unseen winds or her clothing not quite proper, she does not notice.
She finds the wide steps to the front doors and works to make her feet take them only two at a time. She looks for a Maia to guide her, as these are not her own halls. There does not seem to be anyone on the gates, and an expectant hush seems to have fallen all about her. She lays her hands on the great doors. Where is her lord? Where is her brother?
Lady Yavanna! Eonwe feels his cheeks flush as the Maia beholds her across the expanse of the room. In his duty to convey Nienna upstairs, he has not given thought to the fact she, too, awaits the Lord of the West. As he stares at her, he is struck by the wetness of her cheeks, the overbright shininess of her eyes that bespeaks shed tears. In an unguarded moment, his eyes betray the twisting of his heart. To his left is the Vala of Compassion, and now in her heart, the perfidy of the Maker is as a worm in an oversoft apple. Before him, with half of the length of the great hall between, stands She who called rook and root, tree and dove, snake and leaf into being. The emptiness in her eyes, the slight parting of the mouth, like that of a warrior whose destiny has been woven and recorded by Vaire herself, it all makes his breath catch in his throat, and his stomach to tighten in a hard fist.
He bows his head and closes his eyes but a moment. The voice. He must be as he was. He reaches inside himself for the Voice of the Herald and finds it. "My Lady Yavanna," he says, and his voice rolls like a gentle breeze. "The Lord of the West bids us both come unto this room. Please, my ladies, I can ask that my fellow Maiar find refreshments, light wines and cheese for you both, should you desire. Would it please you to sit and wait upon his pleasure?"
He speaks so, despite the tremor in his limbs, and heaviness in his legs.
Yavanna's eyes take in the quick compassion in the Maia's eyes before it is swiftly masked and is nearly undone by it. One gentle word spoken may have breached the still new and fragile wall she was building around her pain. Instead he speaks dutifully of their physical comfort. Again her eyes flick to Nienna and away before she gives a small nod of acknowledgment to Eonwë, "Thank you for your consideration." Her voice is still husky and resonant of her recent tears. "However I doubt there is anything that will refresh me this day." Regretting the pain she knows her next action will cause him, nonetheless she resolutely turns her back upon him and the one by his side.
Nienna does not take her eyes off Yavanna's back. Her words are brittle, "I await the Lord of the West. Thank you, Eonwe, you are most kind."
Ilmare sets her hand to the carved doors of Mandos and gives a great shove. They open soundlessly on oiled hinges, and she steps into a vast open entrance hall. Her feet echo on the marble floors, and she casts about for sight of anyone, anyone at all in this great place. She feels the weight of history about her and wonders if this is what it must be like to visit the halls of the Maker's children.
Across the chamber she sees small figures. She sends out her thought towards them, and leaps forward eagerly. Eonwë! And Yavanna. And...the lady Nienna? Ilmarë wrinkles her brow in confusion. She moves towards the group as quickly as she may decorously do. "Eonwë!" she calls. "Have you found the Lord of the W--oh." She stops, suddenly, caught between the Lady Nienna's sharp stare and the cold lines of Yavanna's turned shoulder. Ilmarë stumbles to a halt. This does not seem like a good time to have arrived.
The sharpest of his blade could not have sliced his heart near so completely, the Maia thinks, at the sight of Yavanna turning away, and giving him her back. He swallows a metallic taste and tries to remain standing still and dispassionate. His tongue cleaves to the roof of a too dry mouth as the Vala Nienna speaks, her words a bitter salt to this open wounding of his heart. It should not matter, he tells himself fiercely, after all, what I am but a presence, a servant and not even that. He turns his head to the sudden swirl of wind, and sees the door to the Hall of Mandos closing back.
"Eonwë!" His name is called, and by a voice that he would know , a voice dear and familiar, so that his heart squeezes. His eyes drink in the white of her gown as it seems to float toward him, the midnight hue of the room drinking in her star bedecked skin. But it cannot steal from the Maia her warmth or her voice. He turns to it, and suddenly his vision is blurred. He blinks and feels something warm and wet roll down his cheek. Reaching up with a trembling hand, he dabs at the corner of his eye with two fingers, and pulls them back to see both are moist. Startled, he raises his blues eyes to look over into the eyes of the other Maia. "I-Ilmare?" he says, in a whisper, all pretense of composure gone. He reaches out and touches her hair with a reverence he cannot explain. "Ilmare."
"Eonwë," Ilmarë breathes. He is here, and not harmed, and his eyes are brighter than she has seen them in far too long. She goes to him, and without a word wraps her arms around his tall form. She will care later what has befallen. Her brother has returned to her.
Nienna turns to see the new arrival. In that moment, Ilmare and Eonwe have eyes only for each other. Nienna's breath catches at the sincerity of their greeting. The obvious joy they have in each other's company is a sharp contrast to this day of hostilities. Ilmare and Nienna's seldom see each other, for their duties lie in very different spheres. But Ilmare has always been friendly, open guileless. Nienna's mouth lifts cautiously in a small smile.
Yavanna blinks at the sudden shaft of bright light as the doors swing open, her eyes still tender from the tears and used now to the gloom of Mandos. A small figure approaches rapidly across the floor before stopping, appearing hesitant and uncertain. Her mind already awhirl, and with the light behind and face in shadow Yavanna is at first uncertain who it is that has arrived. It is Eonwe's whispered word that tells her who it is that has entered.
Ilmare! For a moment her cheeks flame hotly. By Eru's Light, another to see her shame. But no! Not her shame. Aule's shame. Nienna's too, but no, not hers. Yet even amidst these clamoring selfish thoughts there is something in Eonwe's voice that draws her attention. Against her resolution she turns enough to look at him. What she sees there wrenches at her already raw emotions. She lifts a hand as though to reach out to him, but Ilmare moves and embraces him. Yavanna lets her hand fall, the words on her tongue remain unspoken. It is not her place. Unsure anymore just what her place is, she turns her back again and leaves brother and sister to their solace.
> Next
He watches her, the Maia Eonwe, his head down a little, but his blue eyes taking in the shimmer as her form shifts, and fabric melts and reforms until before him is once again the Vala of Compassion as she has always been. The cool and still air seems now to be a little warmer. Their steps resound down the hall, the even blocks lighter in color that the rough hewn bowels of earth below them. Silence makes the fall of their steps overloud, bouncing from the walls and floor without the soft caress of carpet to muffle the sharp clack of boots, and the softer steps of slippered feet. Raising his head, he breaks the silence, his voice measured and low, calming. "My lady looks radiant." He pauses and takes a breath. "My Lord does not blame thee, my Lady. He knows it is not your fault, these things that have transpired. His wisdom will gentle the repercussions of all that transpired."
Yavanna crosses the foyer of the Halls of Mandos, the soft leather of her sandals silent upon the hard marble floor. As always she moves with a slow and easy grace, a grace that belies her inner turmoil. For each step she takes since speaking those fateful words "I wash my hands of you both" takes her another step away from Aulë. Had she really done that? Had she really turned and walked away, washing her hands of the one who had been her husband, her lover and friend for all these Ages? Yavanna has never known life without Aulë. Yet here she was choosing such a life now. But what choice does she have? Images flashed through her mind of her husband standing with an arm around Nienna. Nienna, standing there, her face gloating and triumphant as she bragged that Aulë had chosen her over Yavanna. Aulë! Her Aulë! But hers no more.
Yavanna shakes her head to clear it. Now she stands here alone awaiting the arrival of Manwë from below. Queen of the Earth she is sometimes called, Yavanna Kementari, but today her bearing and expression is like that of a lost and bewildered child.Nienna looks up sharply at Eonwe's words. "He does not blame me? Then he must be the only one in all of Aman who does not!" Her face burns with hurt and anger, for many cruel words have battered her today. Her footsteps, a quiet scuffing of slippers on the stone floor, continue steadily.
With sure steps, Eonwe guides the Vala of Compassion to the first of the wooden stairs leading up, up to the world of souls, some lost as Nienna seems to feeling, some filled with regret, remorse...again, things he thinks he hears in her voice. But emotions are not things he know, things he understands, like sword and shield, arrow and bow, like the list of the Vala and all the Maiar and who serves which Vala. These are things Eonwe knows. He knows the light that comes into Manwe's eyes when he is well pleased. He knows the gentle laugh of Lady Varda when Eonwe, unintentionally, amuses her. He knows the toss of the head that Ilmare gives when she waxes on about the birth of a star. But emotions, they have caught him green and unprepared for his own and for others.
He pauses at the steps and looks at Nienna, raising his gaze to meet hers. "Why, " he blurts out. "Why..." he stops, uncertain how to ask the question he can barely understand himself. "Why did you?" and he flushes, embarrassment, too, new and raw to him.
Yavanna pauses and looks around her. Her feet have carried her to the center of the foyer. Now she stands under the magnificent dome that graces the ceiling. Overhead stars swirl and move as they have done in the night sky since first Eru created it. Standing there now, watching them as they make their way across their small universe, Yavanna feels very small and insignificant. What use now all those Ages spent tending the living things, bring into being all that is beautiful and good when inside her heart felt as cold and colorless as the morning ashes of last night's fire? What use all her strivings, all her work? Now as she watches the slow dance of the stars overhead in the dome, she wonders how she ever thought that anything she did matters at all.
Yavanna has served Eru faithfully. She has been a devoted and loving wife. But none of it mattered. She has lost Aulë. Nothing matters. Turning on her heel she walks to one of the chairs that lined the foyer to wait for Manwë.
"Why?" Nienna falters on a step, as the memories wash over her, filling all her awareness. How could she possibly put so much into words? "Aule treated me with kindness," she says slowly. "Aule cared about … about my happiness. Not about the service I could give, but about me. For all the ages of the world, I have heard the cries, felt the pain of the living and the dead. And the living and the dead drew strength out of me, out of my grief." She finishes almost in a whisper, "This is the first time anyone, even myself, ever gave thought to my own happiness."
Eonwe reaches out without a thought and cups his hand under Nienna's elbow, lending her his support as she falters. He watches her face as she gives him his answers, his blue eyes dark but unfathomable. As she finishes, he continues to help her, guiding gently as they continue, up, and up, the top of the steps visible ahead. "Did the Maker truly care about the happiness of a Vala not his wife, my Lady, or did he care more about giving you unhappiness." He takes a breath this body needs, and feels his stomach lurch as he continues on. "For I must wonder if you were unhappy, easing the souls of the Children, providing succor, lifting an anxious and torn heart. Were you unhappy, Mistress of soothing words, in your ability to bring to Eru's Children a bit of your own light?" He turns his head to regard the few steps to the top. "For Lady, how can it be that joy is lacking in bringing comfort and compassion to those who are in need?" 
Yavanna settles herself on the chair, tucking her feet up and wrapping her arms around her legs, in the age old protective gesture of the hurt and lost. She leans her chin on her knees and stares at nothing, her green eyes large and luminous in the dim lighting of the foyer. A single tear trembles for a moment on her lashes before tumbling to track its way unnoticed down the curve of her cheek. Other unshed tears spill as she blinks at their sudden sting in her eyes. An unbearable aching grips her chest and a sob bursts forth from her lips, followed swiftly by another. Unstoppable the sobs rack her body, each one seeming to tear a piece from her heart as it bursts from her.
Eonwe stops at the last step and hands her up onto the top floor of Mandos' Hall. He tilts his head as he gives serious consideration to the Vala's words. Then he joins her on the top step. "Healing and comfort," he repeats. "Battles are won, or lost. Wars the same. Each warrior, each battle-hardened commander prays to Eru, whispers to Tulkas or even to me, 'Let this be last.' But there is always the next war. There is always the next battle. If there is peace, there is also strife. There is no surcease for the warrior unless it be this: 'Today I did no battle. I did no war. I rested my sword and my shield.' You speak of unending duty, and unfolding disappointment. Can it be any less for any Vala or Maia, each in their own measure?" He bows his head. "I am not drawn in the light of Eru as you are, Lady. I am but a humble helpmeet, and my mind is clouded, now, with many things. There are thoughts I have never had before, now, and they crowd my mind and lay upon this heart that beats in this body."
He looks about the hall, but it is clear, and he continues. "But, Lady Nienna, if you can still feel the unease and heart soreness of another, then perhaps you feel that of the Maia, both my brothers and sisters so ill treated by the Maker and.." he pauses and dips his head, blue eyes growing troubled as his voice grows husky," and my own. For I tell you, my Lady, before I first ever set eyes upon the chambers down below, there was seldom thought of Eonwe, the 'I" of Eonwe. I was Eonwe, the Herald, Eonwe, the Chief of the Maiar, Eonwe, the ever glad servant of the Lord of the West. " He shakes his head. "Now...now 'I' am Eonwe, and 'I" no longer am sure that 'I' know Eonwe anymore."
Lost in her pain, Yavanna has not heard the approaching footsteps on the stairs and is startled to hear voices as someone approaches. Shamed that she might be seen thus, she hastily drops her head forward and turns her face to the side so her hair falls forward, shielding her face from the gaze of those about to enter the room. She lifts a hand trying ineffectually to wipe the tears from her cheeks and sniffles a little, but she cannot hide the pain in her eyes as at last she lifts her head and turns to face the newcomers.
Memories continue to flood through Nienna. She studies Eonwe, striding confidently beside her. "You, I think, have had much practice with a physical body. Irmo and I went to the mortal world, to live among the Teleri. But we knew so little about living in physical bodies. We ate the food, but we did not know how to taste it. We breathed the air, but we did not perceive the scents. Not the coldness of the water nor the heat of fire. Not the softness of fur nor the roughness of stone. Aule showed me all this -- how to truly experience physical life, and he delighted in each new thing I learned. When I scratched my hand, he washed it." She smiles mistily now, remembering the coolness of the water, the texture of the cloth. "How could I have ever lived for all these ages, and not known? How did I ever presume to teach the Children, when I knew nothing of their world?"Eonwe hears her words even as he obeys the Will of Manwe and guides her to the main entrance hall of Mandos. His eyes lift to see the blue marble flooring, and his cheeks feel the brush of slightly warmer air, like the caress of a hand. He does not see the sole occupant of the room yet, and so he turns to Nienna, his eyes intense as he stares boldly into hers. "Yet you did, my Lady, yet you did. But what I have learned in this time spent in this form, day following night following day, is that there is more than the senses...there is more than the feel of skin or the brush of silk. Do you know the Children cry as easily from joy as they do from sorrow. Lady, I tell you, I would give much to be my Lord's Herald again, to be Eonwe, and not 'I.' But I should like to feel tears of joy." He lifts a hand and indicates there room. "Here, then, is where we should await the pleasure of the Lord of the West." He lifts his head and masks his own feelings behind eyes that have seen battle and peace, that have cried tears of sorrow but none of joy. He sets himself a placid face, though his heart thumps mightily in his chest, and his hands clench at his side, when he drops his arm.
Yavanna's lips attempt a smile as she sees Manwë's gentle Herald enter the room, but the smile falters and dies as Nienna follows on his heels. Seeing the other Valar, she cannot suppress the pain that flashes across her face before she composes it to a mask of indifference, the mouth a tight straight line, ears deaf to the words they speak, the eyes dull and flat as she turns her head resolutely away and stares again at nothing. Nothing. Anything. Anything rather than look upon Nienna.
Nienna watches emotion flicker over Eonwe's face, an intensity, a longing, flickers of something much more than his words express. As he composes his expression to a forced-looking calm, Nienna's glance falls on a figure huddled on a seat by the wall. Recognizing that figure, Nienna's eyes grow cold, and her lips set into a tight line.
Yavanna glances down at herself as she listens to the approaching footsteps. Here she sits like a child of men as they do when frightened of the monsters of myth or scared of the dark. Her glance flicks to the Vala of Compassion, and her jaw tightens. Hurt. Yes, she was hurt beyond measure but she had no fear of this one. The path ahead of her may look bleak and empty, but she was not afraid of it. With a hiss of disgust at herself, she slips her feet to the floor and stands, her shoulders square, her chin up, and her arms folded. Let Nienna stare at her as hard as she pleases. She would not see Yavanna cower in defeat or fear. Not ever again.Ilmarë sees the wide stone walls of the upper levels of Mandos drawing closer, and slows her mad flight. Quickly she forms her Elvish shape again. If her hair is blown by unseen winds or her clothing not quite proper, she does not notice.
She finds the wide steps to the front doors and works to make her feet take them only two at a time. She looks for a Maia to guide her, as these are not her own halls. There does not seem to be anyone on the gates, and an expectant hush seems to have fallen all about her. She lays her hands on the great doors. Where is her lord? Where is her brother?
Lady Yavanna! Eonwe feels his cheeks flush as the Maia beholds her across the expanse of the room. In his duty to convey Nienna upstairs, he has not given thought to the fact she, too, awaits the Lord of the West. As he stares at her, he is struck by the wetness of her cheeks, the overbright shininess of her eyes that bespeaks shed tears. In an unguarded moment, his eyes betray the twisting of his heart. To his left is the Vala of Compassion, and now in her heart, the perfidy of the Maker is as a worm in an oversoft apple. Before him, with half of the length of the great hall between, stands She who called rook and root, tree and dove, snake and leaf into being. The emptiness in her eyes, the slight parting of the mouth, like that of a warrior whose destiny has been woven and recorded by Vaire herself, it all makes his breath catch in his throat, and his stomach to tighten in a hard fist. He bows his head and closes his eyes but a moment. The voice. He must be as he was. He reaches inside himself for the Voice of the Herald and finds it. "My Lady Yavanna," he says, and his voice rolls like a gentle breeze. "The Lord of the West bids us both come unto this room. Please, my ladies, I can ask that my fellow Maiar find refreshments, light wines and cheese for you both, should you desire. Would it please you to sit and wait upon his pleasure?"
He speaks so, despite the tremor in his limbs, and heaviness in his legs.
Yavanna's eyes take in the quick compassion in the Maia's eyes before it is swiftly masked and is nearly undone by it. One gentle word spoken may have breached the still new and fragile wall she was building around her pain. Instead he speaks dutifully of their physical comfort. Again her eyes flick to Nienna and away before she gives a small nod of acknowledgment to Eonwë, "Thank you for your consideration." Her voice is still husky and resonant of her recent tears. "However I doubt there is anything that will refresh me this day." Regretting the pain she knows her next action will cause him, nonetheless she resolutely turns her back upon him and the one by his side.Nienna does not take her eyes off Yavanna's back. Her words are brittle, "I await the Lord of the West. Thank you, Eonwe, you are most kind."
Ilmare sets her hand to the carved doors of Mandos and gives a great shove. They open soundlessly on oiled hinges, and she steps into a vast open entrance hall. Her feet echo on the marble floors, and she casts about for sight of anyone, anyone at all in this great place. She feels the weight of history about her and wonders if this is what it must be like to visit the halls of the Maker's children.
Across the chamber she sees small figures. She sends out her thought towards them, and leaps forward eagerly. Eonwë! And Yavanna. And...the lady Nienna? Ilmarë wrinkles her brow in confusion. She moves towards the group as quickly as she may decorously do. "Eonwë!" she calls. "Have you found the Lord of the W--oh." She stops, suddenly, caught between the Lady Nienna's sharp stare and the cold lines of Yavanna's turned shoulder. Ilmarë stumbles to a halt. This does not seem like a good time to have arrived.
The sharpest of his blade could not have sliced his heart near so completely, the Maia thinks, at the sight of Yavanna turning away, and giving him her back. He swallows a metallic taste and tries to remain standing still and dispassionate. His tongue cleaves to the roof of a too dry mouth as the Vala Nienna speaks, her words a bitter salt to this open wounding of his heart. It should not matter, he tells himself fiercely, after all, what I am but a presence, a servant and not even that. He turns his head to the sudden swirl of wind, and sees the door to the Hall of Mandos closing back.
"Eonwë!" His name is called, and by a voice that he would know , a voice dear and familiar, so that his heart squeezes. His eyes drink in the white of her gown as it seems to float toward him, the midnight hue of the room drinking in her star bedecked skin. But it cannot steal from the Maia her warmth or her voice. He turns to it, and suddenly his vision is blurred. He blinks and feels something warm and wet roll down his cheek. Reaching up with a trembling hand, he dabs at the corner of his eye with two fingers, and pulls them back to see both are moist. Startled, he raises his blues eyes to look over into the eyes of the other Maia. "I-Ilmare?" he says, in a whisper, all pretense of composure gone. He reaches out and touches her hair with a reverence he cannot explain. "Ilmare."
Nienna turns to see the new arrival. In that moment, Ilmare and Eonwe have eyes only for each other. Nienna's breath catches at the sincerity of their greeting. The obvious joy they have in each other's company is a sharp contrast to this day of hostilities. Ilmare and Nienna's seldom see each other, for their duties lie in very different spheres. But Ilmare has always been friendly, open guileless. Nienna's mouth lifts cautiously in a small smile.
Yavanna blinks at the sudden shaft of bright light as the doors swing open, her eyes still tender from the tears and used now to the gloom of Mandos. A small figure approaches rapidly across the floor before stopping, appearing hesitant and uncertain. Her mind already awhirl, and with the light behind and face in shadow Yavanna is at first uncertain who it is that has arrived. It is Eonwe's whispered word that tells her who it is that has entered.
Ilmare! For a moment her cheeks flame hotly. By Eru's Light, another to see her shame. But no! Not her shame. Aule's shame. Nienna's too, but no, not hers. Yet even amidst these clamoring selfish thoughts there is something in Eonwe's voice that draws her attention. Against her resolution she turns enough to look at him. What she sees there wrenches at her already raw emotions. She lifts a hand as though to reach out to him, but Ilmare moves and embraces him. Yavanna lets her hand fall, the words on her tongue remain unspoken. It is not her place. Unsure anymore just what her place is, she turns her back again and leaves brother and sister to their solace.
