"Seek Manwe"

Played by:


AelKennyr Rhiano
Rhun Darkmoon

"Seek Manwe.  Seek Manwe." The words beat the rhythm of his feet as his long muscular legs carry him up the mountain, lungs pumping, arms swinging like pistons at his sides.  With a grunt he leaps a fallen trunk, his feet hitting the ground running on the other side. He had also said, "Be at ease."  But being at ease is impossible until Yavanna is found, for the one plunging headlong through the forests of Taniquetil is none other than Aule Tulka Marda, the Smith of Arda.  Scorning the easier winding path of the established road to Manwe's lofty mansions, Aule has chosen instead the steeper, direct route of straight assent.  Now, nostrils flare as his lungs work to gulp in enough oxygen from the high mountain air, long hair streaming behind him, waving and flicking as he jinks between trees, his dark eyes perceive a thinning of the forests ahead. Yes!  There, very close now, through the trunks he can see the walls of Manwe's palace.  Soon!  Soon he will have help.

Soon he will have help.

There is no sunlight in the Blessed Lands, nor midnight skies, but an eternal twilight bathes the Undying Lands, and every breeze that blows across the face of the earth begins and ends in Taniquetil, in the hall of Manwe, for he it is who is Lord of Air, first among the Valar, and he it is who knows better the mind of Blessed Eru.  And once again, the Maia, Eonwe, is Herald of the Lord of the West.  Once more he is at his Lord's command, and his heart swells with  sweet contentment, for the duty was bestowed upon him at the beginning of time, and now, after all that has happened as the mortal world sees the passage of seasons, all that has happened has instilled in the Spirit that is Eonwe a sense of his fulfilment, of his being...of his fea, as the Firstborn call it.

It is satisfying to take on flesh, to dress himself in mortal rainment, and as he does so, he pays more attention to the fabrication of skin and muscle, organs and tissue than ever he has before at any time.  Closing blue eyes, he concentrates until his form becomes solid, and his stomach gives a satisfying growl of hunger.  Ducking his head for a moment, a small smile crosses his lips.  Ah, hunger...that means...he pauses to think...food. He lifts his head and in the distance, a whirl of motion catches his gaze. Someone approaches...

The Maker! Aule!

...a whirl of motion catches his gaze.

Aule breaks through the treeline at last and stumbles to a sudden halt upon a paved road.  Vision blurred with the haze of fatigue, he stumbles to a standstill, bent over, hands upon his knees, as he pants to catch his breath. Sweat dripping from his brow, he stares down at the subtle beauty of the softly coloured stonework that seals the street around the palace, aware of nothing but the stone and the thundering of his blood in his ears. Finally, his pulse having slowed to a more reasonable rate, although the muscles of his legs quiver in protest he stands straight.  He pushes his thick hair back from where it had swung forward around his face and gasps in surprise for, standing nearby is none other than Eonwe, the Herald of Manwe.

Aule's throat tightens as he remembers their last encounter at Mandos, while both were still under the influence of Melkor's dark magic.  His face flushes with shame as he remembers his words and actions at that time, for they were not the true words and actions of the Maker of Arda, nor if he were honest, were Eonwe's words and actions true of the Herald of Manwe. So much had been done. So much had been said.  Was it all beyond repair?  No! The reply echoes in his mind instantly.  For if he cannot repair things between himself and this maiar, what hope has he of repairing things with Yavanna.  Humbly then, he ducks his head in greeting, forcing a small uncertain smile to his lips, as his deep voice rumbles, "Hail, my friend."

The Herald of Manwe slides his feet  shoulder width apart in a long kept habit of preparedness, and under his billowy cloak, which flaps in the gust of wind caused the Maker's arrival, his hands slide to either side of him, where rests a long dagger.  His blue eyes narrow as he watches the Vala, and his body tenses.  Long standing and honed battle training urges this physical body of his to tense, to prepare, but for what?  His mouth goes dry as he watches Aule bend over and rest hands upon his legs, gasp for breathe, such as mortals do.  Why is he here? Eonwe asks himself, and as his blue eyes rest upon the Maker; all too sharp are the memories of the recent past rise up, like bile in the back of his throat.

He remembers, too, his time in Lorien, the garden of the Vala Irmo, Lord of Dreams and Visions.  He remembers his healing, the sweet song of healing that restored him and broke the hold the dark magicks had, dark magicks left by Melkor himself.  The words ring out in his mind even as they were sung by 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."

It is his greatest truth. It is the base melody of the Great Song. It is what reunited him to his lord's side.  So, Eonwe asks himself as he hears the Maker greet him with greater kindness than ever he has shown, why is he caught up in tempest of feelings when he hears the Maker say, "Hail, my friend."

For a moment he stands transfixed, and then, shaking himself, like a dog coming out of a lake, he slides down to one knee, and bows his head. "Hail, Lord Aule, Maker, Smith of Arda. "

The forest behind him seems to breathe with a life of its own as one of the soft mountain breezes whiffles through it, while nearby a dear and fawn pick their way through the forest in search of tender shoots.  In the distance, one of the mighty eagles of Manwe soars upon the eddies of mountain air, seemingly unaware to the happenings far below it.  The whole world seems oblivious to that which unfolds between the two beings upon the otherwise deserted street at the side of the palace of the Breath of Arda.

The whole world seems oblivious to that which unfolds..

Aule's brow creases in a frown.  This one kneeling before him has served Manwe loyaly through the Ages, no less than Aule himself has wished to do.  The memory of those dark times in Mandos are still with him, but seen now with a mind clear of the influence of dark magicks.  No, this one should not kneel to him.  He steps forward the few paces between then and reaches out a hand. "Do not bow to me, noble Eonwe, for I am as flawed as any other, as you now well know.  Rise, please."

The Maker steps close and the worn boots come into Eonwe's view. He hears the words, but for a moment kneels there, transfixed by the tone as well as the message itself.  There is a gentleness in the Maker that Eonwe has never before experienced for himself, a kindness his children, the Khazad, the dwarves, speak of in their mountain homes. He knows. He has heard their reverence of Aule brought to the ear of Manwe upon the winds of the world.  They would call out to Mahal, the Maker, when one of them left their mortal existence, certain that their spirits would reside in halls set aside for them. They speak, to their children and children's children of how they will aid the Smith in the rebuilding of Arda after the final Battle, proud, so proud of their heritage as children of the Smith.

Looking up, Eonwe sees the hand stretched out to takes his, and the words that flow from his mouth surprise even him as his hand reaches out to clasp the Maker's, and smoothly, elegantly, with the grace of a warrior, Eonwe rises and blue eyes meet the eyes of the Smith of Aman. "I bow in reverence, my Lord. I rise as friend."

Aule's fingers clasp firmly around Eonwe's, and his eyes follow the graceful movements of the Maia before him as he rises to the full height of his physical form.  "You were there." His voice is husky as it is deep. "You saw the disgrace I brought upon us all, yet still you accept my hand and name me friend. It is beyond what I deserve."  He releases the other's hand gently and drops his gaze.  When he continues his voice is barely a whisper, filled with shame. "I.. I cannot find her, Eonwe. I have searched the entire length and breadth of Aman, but I cannot find her."

'...I cannot find her.'

Eonwe's eyes widen at the Maker's news, and he takes a step back, his surprise evident upon his face.  "You mean.." his voice trails off and softens.."You mean Lady Yavanna."

It is there in the tone of the Maker's voice, in the sweat drying upon his skin, in the very way he had rushed up to Eonwe. The Herald bows his head in thought, remembering the last time he saw the Giver of Fruits and all Things Alive and Growing. "She was in the great entrance of the halls of Mandos with us, " he says slowly. "I saw her turn away and leave when no one else was looking. But I..I thought she may have chosen to return to her palace."  His eyes search those of the Maker's.  "And you cannot feel her presence, nor touch her spirit?"  His tone is hushed, but there is a disquiet rising up in the Herald of Manwe.

His eyes search those of the Maker's.

Aule shakes his head and looks up at Eonwe, his dark eyes pleading. "I cannot feel her or reach her at all.  She is nowhere. Nowhere. I.. I need help. I need to speak with Manwe."

Eonwe nods once, his mind whirling as he instinctively reaches out in his mind for the bright essences that were the Valar, and his brother and sister Maiar.  He could feel Ulmo in his underwater palace. He could feel his sister Ilmare, singing a star to shine all the brighter.  He could feel the Lord of the West, still seated in his hall. But he could not feel the radiance that is the Valle Yavanna.  Reaching out, he dares to place a gloved hand on the back side of the Maker's forearm, shaken at her absence.  "The Lord Manwe is still in his hall," he says, his voice soothing, though this physical heart he has created quails at this revelation.  "I will bring you to him speedily." He takes a few steps towards the stairs leading up the great hall and pauses, turning to the Maker. "She must be somewhere, my Lord," he says, and fails to keep the uncertainty from his face. "Whatever has happened, Wherever she is, she will be found, and you will be reunited. "  He pauses again, unable to help himself, a wonderment in his voice. "You love her." It is a statement, not a question. He searches the Maker's face.

Aule's eyes drop to where the Maia's hand rests upon his arm, moved beyond words by the gesture.  He nods his head jerkily, and his eyes blur with unshed tears as he looks back up at Eonwe, and his voice is raspy with emotion as he murmurs. "One would be hard put to believe it in view of recent events, but yes, I love her. I always have." He swallows hard as he bites down hard on the outpouring of regret that threatens to spill out. Instead he states simply, "I need her, Eonwe.  She MUST be found.  I need Manwe's help." He pauses and his voice is low and humble as he continues,"And I need your help."

'... I need your help.'