AelKennyr Rhiano
Manwë Súlimo! It is the Lord of
Arda, its Breath, its constant and gracious King, the Vala who most
knows the mind of Eru. His loving Lord, a radiance of white, too
bright to behold with mortal eyes. Eönwë the dreamer rises to his
feet, pulled by the presence of his sovereign and the need to be at
Manwë's side.
No semblance of the Children does the
Breath of Arda wear now, but the sheer and pure light of the Flame
Everlasting; his raiment is the Will and Thought of Ilúvatar, who is
the first beginning and the eternal everlasting. Eönwë stares into
the radiance of Manwë, the expression on his face both one of
childlike joy and trust and shame and fear. All about them, the Song
swells and fills the garden of Lorien; every animal, every tree,
every creature, even the waterfall, all joining the music that rises
like incense, even unto Mount Taniquetil, the sacred mountain. Once
more, Eönwë, the dreamer, opens his mouth, and once more, his voice
is silence.
Mute, he drops his gaze and hangs his
head, his arms hanging uselessly by his side. He, mightiest in Arms
of all the Maiar, undone and unable, unwillingly silent. A sob rises
up from deep inside, and he lifts his arms up, not to raise sword or
shield, but to hug himself as a great and bleak despair rises up
within him.
"Stay and find yourself..."
"You are yours to find."
The disembodied voice floats and weaves
in and out of the Song. Eönwë sinks to his knees and hunches over,
holding himself as a great and terrible ache wells up from somewhere
deep. Shaking, the Maia clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Am I lost?" he had asked the
voice. Now, now he knows the answer. I don't know who I am, he
thinks, and his body shudders as a raw and empty hunger surges
through him. Just beyond him bathed in radiance and floating upon the
breath of the world, the Lord of the Breath of Arda floats and gives
throat to a Song in which all creation joyfully enjoins.
All but Eönwë.
Eönwë. Banner-Bearer, Herald, Chief
of the Maiar, Greatest of Arms in Arda. Eönwë, who first greeted
Eärendil when he reached the shores of Aman. Eönwë whom the Lord
of the West sent to Middle-Earth to lead the Vanyar, the elves most
beloved of his Lord, in the War of Wrath. Eönwë who, after the
dread and twisted Vala Melkor was defeated, took the Silmarils into
safekeeping. Eönwë, who refused to slay the two remaining Sons of
Fëanor who stole them and fled.
Is that who I am? Eönwë the dreamer
asks himself. Am I the Maia who came amongst the three faithful
houses of the Atani, the children of Men, and, with patience, taught
them many things, such as it was the Will of the Lord of the West I
may be allowed to do? Or am I the Maia who refused Sauron's
obeisance. rejected Sauron's attempt to stir in me vanity?
"You are yours to find,"
cooes the voice, rustling the trees, delivering a counterpoint to the
Song that fills Eönwë's ears.
I am the Herald of the Breath of Arda,
Eonwe thinks back.
"You are yours to find,"
sings the voice, and around him twirls the ethereal forms of his
beloved sibling and his beloved Lord.
I am the Banner-Bear for the Lord of
the West, he thinks at the voice.
"You are yours to find,"
persists the voice, and the cool, sweet tone caresses his cheek, wet
with tears.
I am...I am....
"I AM!" The dreamer
screams, tossing his head back as his back stiffens, and his scream
of frustration, of pain, of loss, of need breaks from him like a
harsh winter storm. He open his mouth, and from it comes a roar
pain. "I AM!" He leans back upon his heels and his head
flops forward, chin resting against his chest as he sucks in a
lungful of air. "That is all I know. I am!"
"That is all you need to know,"
answers the voice, filled with love, filled with hope, gentle as a
summer rain. Then Eönwë feels himself pulled to his feet and
wrapped in the arms of the Lord of the West. Clinging, like a child,
Eönwë leans his cheek against the shoulder of his Lord and weeps.
And lightly he feels ghostlike fingers cradle his head.
"You are yours to find, Eönwë,
Herald, Banner-Bearer, Servant of the Lord of Arda, Spirit borne from
Eru himself. You have always been so. You will always be. You are
part of the Mind of the Eternal, but you are always also yourself. If
you belong to your Lord, then he, too, belongs to you. "
The voice- gently, kindly-continues, a
whispered counterpoint to the song that fills the Garden. "You
are yours to find, Eönwë, as are your brothers and sisters. As are
the Valar themselves. Each separate, but each whole in and of
themselves, yes, but also, as part of the bigger whole.
"It is no perchance that the Host
of the Ainur created the music that created the whole of the
material world. It is not perchance that you are both singer and now
part of the Song It is not perchance that you were brought to the
chamber, which imprisoned one who forgot himself and all he is. It
was not perchance that you are here, now. What is happenstance,
Beloved Spirit, is part and parcel of all that is and all that was,
as is you. As is the Lord of the West. As is the Smith of Arda.
"Who are you, Eönwë? You are
singer and song. Brother and Helpmate and spirit and essence. You,
Eönwë, are you, and being you...you are everything."
Gently the Maia pulls away from the
Lord of the West. Shyly, eyes shining with tears, and open, trusting
as a child's, Eonwe opens his mouth...
and sings...
He sings the songs of the crickets. He
sings the song of the birds. He sings the songs of the squirrels, the
rabbits, the trees, the blades of grass, the waterfall. He sings, and
as he sings, he feels the pain and hurt fall away from him. I am I,
Eonwe sings with a sweet abandonment, and hard upon that, another
Song wells up within him.
I am I. I am my Lord, I am my brothers
and sisters. I am all the Valar....
Even Aule the Smith.
Aule. The Maker. The Smith. Even he
is part of the Song.
And so am I.
And then, in the quiet of Lorien, with
only the babbling of the brook and the singing of the trees as they
rustle their leaves against the wind, Eönwë awakes...
and knows who he is.