AelKennyr Rhiano
Running. Running. Running. Feet moving so quickly that they skimmed inches above the ground, flawless in execution, perfect in motion, the body flowing with the pumping of the legs, the long dark hair streaming out behind him. Running to obey the will of Manwe this time, not from the shame of being sent from his Lord’s side or in anticipation of confrontation with a threat to his Lord Manwe’s peaceful and wise rule of Aman.
Swift and sure, faster than mortal eye can track, speeds Eonwe, Maiar of the House of Manwe, Herald once and Herald to be. The speed with which he pushed his mortal husk causes so small a wind in its wake that the Children of Eru whom he pauses feel kissed by light breeze and raise elegant, tapering fingers to feel at their cheeks with wonderment. On and on, the passage of time meaning nothing to the Maiar. One moment he is at Mandos. The next he is running, and the next he is stopping, lifting eyes that glitter like sapphires to stare in awe at a tremendous cascade of water, running down rocks, tickling the moss and lichen, the water itself gurgling and splashing, sounding to the Maiar’s ears like the laughter of the children of the Children of Eru. Within his chest, the physical heart pounds loudly, protesting the strain Eonwe placed upon it. A muscle twinges across his left calf, and without a pause, Eonwe mentally reaches out and still the muscle, willing it to obey him.
He has been a long time in this body. His right hand flexes and curls into a loose fist, the calluses on his fingertips brushing across the palm of his hand. Above him the eternal twilight of Aman stretches seamlessly, the blanket of stars scattered across the sky protectively. He looks heavenward, and for a moment it is not the stars and sky he sees, but the inky, starred skin of Ilmare. Ilmare his sister. Ilmare who knows him deeper and better than any of his Maiar brothers and sisters.
But does she know this Eonwe? This Eonwe he is now? He lowers his gaze, his breath normal and slow, his body no longer trembling from fatigue. He has reaches his journey’s end. He is at Lorien. A soft wind winds through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle, a soft sighing. Among the grasses, crickets rubbed their legs and created their own music, the music as enthralling as the songs of the Wind, Aniome. Birds return to their nests and call to each other, the trills different and at the same time harmonious. The waterfall rose out of the lake, the splashing headlong rush of water from the peaks of the rocks back to the lake a chorus in its own right. Peace descends, and although Eonwe has never been to this spot in Lorien, he knew where he was. He felt the spirit of the garden like its own small song of Creation, stilling the troubled places in his soul.
On impulse, Eonwe moves closer to the edge of the lake. A short distance away, in the water, a fish leaps out of the water and returns to his home with a loud splash. Looking over at where the sound originates, the Maia watches the ripples growing larger and larger, radiating out before calming and rolling back into the lake, forever gone. Squatting down, Eonwe reaches out and trails his fingers of his right hand across the surface of the lake. Around him the wind picks up, catching up his hair and whirling it about his face. He lifts his left hand to catch at the strands in an attempt to tuck the hair back behind his ear, to no avail, and misses seeing a turtle, the same color as piece of log adrift upon the lake, stir himself and pushing itself off the log, plops back into the clear blue waters. Eonwe, instead, watches the face reflected upon the waters form and break apart as his fingers brush the surface of the waters and create their own ripples. Over and over the ripple send the reflection scattering, only for the image to reshape itself into familiar features as the ripples fall back into the waters.
“And so it is, with trial and tribulations, Eonwe, Maiar. That which disturbs our vision of ourselves only so long as to cause distortion. Then they melt away, and it is our perception only that holds the memory of their existence, for all else has returned to as it should be. But WE remember.” Thus speaks a voice, melodious, calm, tranquil, the voice of a woman, it sounds, with a wisdom that hangs lightly upon the words, but certain in its knowledge.
Eonwe rises to his feet, blue eyes look about. “Lady Este,” He says, and his voice is placid, measured, the calm sure voice of the Herald of Manwe. His voice sounds both familiar to his ears and yet at the same time like the voice of a friend who has been away for a long time, nearly returned.
“Welcome to Lorien, Eonwe. Maiar,” says the voice. “You have come, and we are glad.” The leaves flutter as though to give testimony to the words, but there is no breeze.
“I have come, as my Lord Manwe commands,” answers Eonwe, and he bows from the waist in respect to the invisible presence of She in whose garden he now walks.
“Yes, that is surely so,” answers the voice, “but now stay not for Manwe’s command, but for your own sake, Beloved Maiar. Stay and find yourself.”
Eonwe frowns, and his lips form a thin line for a few moments. High above him, riding the currents of the wind, an eagle makes a lazy circle three times before flying off. “Am I lost?” asks the Maiar, his brow furrowing in thought.
“If you must ask that, then you are surely not found.” There is a pause, and then the voice continues. “The gardens is yours to walk, Spirit born from the Will of Eru. Rest. Refresh, renew. Restore yourself. You are yours to find.” Then the wind sweeps through the trees, combing the grasses, shaking the leaves so that they flap and toss about, calling witness to the passing of the breeze that even now is dying away.
And then all is quiet. The crickets cease their song, the birds finish their singing, and the only sound is the dancing of water upon the roughhewn rocks, tumbling back to the source.
Swift and sure, faster than mortal eye can track, speeds Eonwe, Maiar of the House of Manwe, Herald once and Herald to be. The speed with which he pushed his mortal husk causes so small a wind in its wake that the Children of Eru whom he pauses feel kissed by light breeze and raise elegant, tapering fingers to feel at their cheeks with wonderment. On and on, the passage of time meaning nothing to the Maiar. One moment he is at Mandos. The next he is running, and the next he is stopping, lifting eyes that glitter like sapphires to stare in awe at a tremendous cascade of water, running down rocks, tickling the moss and lichen, the water itself gurgling and splashing, sounding to the Maiar’s ears like the laughter of the children of the Children of Eru. Within his chest, the physical heart pounds loudly, protesting the strain Eonwe placed upon it. A muscle twinges across his left calf, and without a pause, Eonwe mentally reaches out and still the muscle, willing it to obey him.
He has been a long time in this body. His right hand flexes and curls into a loose fist, the calluses on his fingertips brushing across the palm of his hand. Above him the eternal twilight of Aman stretches seamlessly, the blanket of stars scattered across the sky protectively. He looks heavenward, and for a moment it is not the stars and sky he sees, but the inky, starred skin of Ilmare. Ilmare his sister. Ilmare who knows him deeper and better than any of his Maiar brothers and sisters.
But does she know this Eonwe? This Eonwe he is now? He lowers his gaze, his breath normal and slow, his body no longer trembling from fatigue. He has reaches his journey’s end. He is at Lorien. A soft wind winds through the trees, causing the leaves to rustle, a soft sighing. Among the grasses, crickets rubbed their legs and created their own music, the music as enthralling as the songs of the Wind, Aniome. Birds return to their nests and call to each other, the trills different and at the same time harmonious. The waterfall rose out of the lake, the splashing headlong rush of water from the peaks of the rocks back to the lake a chorus in its own right. Peace descends, and although Eonwe has never been to this spot in Lorien, he knew where he was. He felt the spirit of the garden like its own small song of Creation, stilling the troubled places in his soul.
On impulse, Eonwe moves closer to the edge of the lake. A short distance away, in the water, a fish leaps out of the water and returns to his home with a loud splash. Looking over at where the sound originates, the Maia watches the ripples growing larger and larger, radiating out before calming and rolling back into the lake, forever gone. Squatting down, Eonwe reaches out and trails his fingers of his right hand across the surface of the lake. Around him the wind picks up, catching up his hair and whirling it about his face. He lifts his left hand to catch at the strands in an attempt to tuck the hair back behind his ear, to no avail, and misses seeing a turtle, the same color as piece of log adrift upon the lake, stir himself and pushing itself off the log, plops back into the clear blue waters. Eonwe, instead, watches the face reflected upon the waters form and break apart as his fingers brush the surface of the waters and create their own ripples. Over and over the ripple send the reflection scattering, only for the image to reshape itself into familiar features as the ripples fall back into the waters.
“And so it is, with trial and tribulations, Eonwe, Maiar. That which disturbs our vision of ourselves only so long as to cause distortion. Then they melt away, and it is our perception only that holds the memory of their existence, for all else has returned to as it should be. But WE remember.” Thus speaks a voice, melodious, calm, tranquil, the voice of a woman, it sounds, with a wisdom that hangs lightly upon the words, but certain in its knowledge.
Eonwe rises to his feet, blue eyes look about. “Lady Este,” He says, and his voice is placid, measured, the calm sure voice of the Herald of Manwe. His voice sounds both familiar to his ears and yet at the same time like the voice of a friend who has been away for a long time, nearly returned.
“Welcome to Lorien, Eonwe. Maiar,” says the voice. “You have come, and we are glad.” The leaves flutter as though to give testimony to the words, but there is no breeze.
“I have come, as my Lord Manwe commands,” answers Eonwe, and he bows from the waist in respect to the invisible presence of She in whose garden he now walks.
“Yes, that is surely so,” answers the voice, “but now stay not for Manwe’s command, but for your own sake, Beloved Maiar. Stay and find yourself.”
Eonwe frowns, and his lips form a thin line for a few moments. High above him, riding the currents of the wind, an eagle makes a lazy circle three times before flying off. “Am I lost?” asks the Maiar, his brow furrowing in thought.
“If you must ask that, then you are surely not found.” There is a pause, and then the voice continues. “The gardens is yours to walk, Spirit born from the Will of Eru. Rest. Refresh, renew. Restore yourself. You are yours to find.” Then the wind sweeps through the trees, combing the grasses, shaking the leaves so that they flap and toss about, calling witness to the passing of the breeze that even now is dying away.
And then all is quiet. The crickets cease their song, the birds finish their singing, and the only sound is the dancing of water upon the roughhewn rocks, tumbling back to the source.