A Dream

Played by:
Rhun Darkmoon

Tall and beautiful she stands, her emerald eyes mirroring the green of the forest around her.  The muted light that filters through the foliage casts silver highlights in her fair hair - hair that moves with the gentle stirring of the air around her, lifting in small tresses to float and settle about her shoulders.  She seems to merge as one with the delicate ferns that carpet the ground at her feet; the leaves and buds drawn by his very hand upon her skin taking on a life of their own as her body flexes and turns with her movement.

"Yavanna!" The word is but a whisper of breath upon Aulë's lips, for his throat tightens painfully at the sight of her.  Even so she turns to look at him, her eyes round and luminous in the soft light.  The tight knot in his chest seems to writhe and tighten more for there are deep shadows of pain in those glistening eyes.  Her face, the planes and curves of it once so perfectly chiseled, is gaunt, the soft lips pulled into a tight line and dark shadows like bruises underscore her eyes.  The soft lashes sweep her cheeks as she blinks uncertainly and then turns away to stare again at something just out of Aulë's sight.  As she stands there staring, the world around her seems to grow dark, and she begins to fade into that darkness before his eyes.

"Yavanna!"he croaks again, taking a step forward, his hand reaching out to touch her.  Again her head turns to look at him.  Her brow furrows with uncertainty, and her eyes blink in confusion before her chin drops, and she stares down at where her hands fidget uncertainly with the edge of her cloak.  Never has Aulë seen her thus; uncertain, confused.. hurting.  Not even when so very long ago now, they had clashed over the dwarves, when he had so arrogantly told her they would kill and take her beloved trees for their forges, and she had pleaded tearfully with Manwë for it not to be so.  Ahh, then there had been fire and determination flashing in those shining eyes.  Never, never before had he seen them carry such desolation.

Watching her now, standing before him so dejected, the hard knot in his chest tightens more until it seems he can no longer draw breath. "Yavanna! Forgive me!" he manages to gasp and takes another step towards her.

At his words, she raises her head and stares at him, her lips quivering, her whole body seeming to tremble where she stands.  She turns her head again and gazes at that something he cannot see.  She glances back at him, and he can see a single tear shimmer and fall upon her cheek.  With a sorrowful shake of her head she turns from him and walks away, towards that something, and disappears utterly into the darkness around her.

"No!" Aulë gasps. "NO!" This time his voice rings out with all his yearning and regret.  He lunges after her and falls painfully.   He lies there a moment in the dark, dazed, his breath rasping between his lips.  He places his palms upon the ground to push himself upright, but it is not a soft, leafy forest floor he feels beneath them but cold hard stone.  Confused he wills a small ball of light into existence and pushes himself up to look about him.

He blinks as familiar shapes take form about him, and with their emergence memory comes flooding back.  How long has it been that he has searched for her?  Desperate to find her he has roamed the very length and breadth of Aman.  From the Woods of Orome, to his own Mansions, and further, he had searched.  North almost to the grinding ice of Helcaraxe, to the far western shores and through Tirion he had searched.  But he has found no sign of her. Nothing.  Finally he had returned to her deserted palace, his body utterly exhausted and collapsed fully clothed upon her bed.
A dream. It had been a dream then.  He fingers the soft linen sheet that had entangled his legs, causing him to fall to the floor as he had lunged for her.  Wistfully he raises it to his face and rubs his cheek against it, the bristles from a face long unshaved rasping against the soft fabric.  Her body had lain against this sheet. It had enfolded her along the length of her being, felt her form, held her.  Balling it in both his fists he buries his face in it hoping to catch a lingering breath of her perfume, but there is nothing but the slightly musty smell of linen left unused, and sweat and leather from where he had fallen, unwashed from his journey, onto the bed.

"Yavanna." His whisper is hoarse and broken, redolent of the tears he had not known were being shed.  "Yavanna." And the tears become sobs as brokenly, Aulë Tulka Marda, the great Smith of Arda, calls for the wife he has lost.