The Song of Eonwë

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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.

Adelstienn and Fafnir -- Part II

Played by:
Aelkennyr Rhiano
Shawn Daysleeper


 "I was securing Gamilfûn's official belongings, specifically some of the official records and histories of the settlement, so that it's memory would not fade from the decedents of our clan. I also secured coin from the city's coffers to pay for accommodation and supplies while we wait for Olwë to arrive." As he talks he looks away from Fafnir and does not notice him marveling the strange fruit. He is been striding on ahead towards the inn as he speaks, which is now very close.

((Adelstienn has moved on...))

Fafnir nods absently, as he hears Adelsteinn, but his eyes are on the hearty yellow vegetable in his hand.  In Gamilfun, they were able to raise vegetables in raised beds of soil that the farmers worked hard to amend, but none of the produce, which came from their efforts were the size as these.  He looks up to comment to Adelsteinn and is startled to find Adelsteinn has moved on, closer to the tavern just ahead.  Shaking his head a little, he starts walking toward Adelsteinn, quickening his pace to catch up.  "Elder, wait, please, "He calls.

(("Elder, wait, please."))

 Adelsteinn turns around at the call and sees Fafnir running up from behind. He notices he is still carrying the fruit, which the elven merchant did not seem to notice is in his possession. Adelstein holds up his hand towards Fafnir. "Hold on, you see all these displays. These goods are not all owned by the community like it is in Gamilfûn... errr I mean, was. If you intend to eat or take something, you have to purchase it with coin or some other service here." He reaches in his bag and hands him a silver coin. "I suggest you go back and pay that merchant, or we may find some trouble in in the back of the pub later tonight."

(("I suggest you go back and pay that merchant.."))

Fafnir pulls up short, looking down at the fruit he still holds in his hand, and then looks back up at Adelsteinn. A bright red flush rises up his neck and creeps across his face, his lips thinning into a tight, thin line.  As the Elder extends a coin to him, Fafnir reaches out and curls the Master Brewer's fingers back over the coin offered.  His reply comes in clipped, short words, furious with himself. "I ....I did mean.." he stops, his eyes narrowing as he dips into his own pouch. "I can pay for my error, Lord Elder," He continues stiffly.  "I would not embarrass our clan so to take a thing that is not mine to own." He turns around, lifting cold eyes to rest upon the elven merchant. Stepping up, he pulls out a silver coin, and in disjointed common, he says,"Will this be coin enough for this?" He lifts his hand and shows the merchant the fruit he holds in his other hand.

(("Will this be coin enough for this?"))

Adelsteinn watches the elf accept the silver coin and give a few copper coins back in change. He then tugs on Fafnir's sleeve to follow. "Lets move over to the tavern, where we can secure our accommodations, and we can discuss the habits of elves further."

(("Let's move over to the tavern..."))

((Fafnir gazes at the merchant a moment longer..))

Fafnir gazes at the merchant a moment longer, taking in the pointed tips of the long elven ears poking from a mass of dark, hair, the open gaze returned by the merchant as he stares down at Fafnir.  His gaze lingers a moment longer upon the elf. Then he allows the insistent tug on his sleeve to pull his attention to the Master Brewer beside him.  Mutely he nods, and follows Adelsteinn, dogging the Elder's heels.

((He..follows..dogging the Elder's heels.))

Adelsteinn walks further along the street, this time making sure Fafnir is close by. The elder still looks around, taking in all the sights. The ocean washes nearby, just across the street and along the stone piers to their left. There is certainly no shortage of supplies or food in the city. They reach another market stall near the tavern, this one covered with fish and strange fruit. Elven shoppers converse while shopping the wares available for sale.

((Adelstienn walks past without hesitation...))

Fafnir keeps close on Adelsteinn's heels, his face slowly losing the flush of embarrassment and shame of a few moments before.  Out, across the street as he swivels his head and gawks, is the sea; endless it seems, and the sound of the water lapping against the pier was at the same time both reassuring and foreign to his ears.  The noisy squawking of seagulls cat-calling to each other mingles with the voices of two other elves, one female and one male, as the dwarves walk past them. Their words are musical and lilting to Fafnir's ears, though he understands not a word that passes between them.  Adelsteinn walks past without hesitation, or even a second glance, Fafnir notices.  But the young dwarf turns and looks at them, open curiosity at the two, at the goods offered; some he recognizes, some strange and exotic.  He peeks back down at the fruit in his hand. It, too, is something he has never seen in the dwarven settlement, and he has no idea how it is consumed or how it should be prepared for consumption. Nor, now, will he ask, for his ignorance of this much bigger world swallows him whole, and it feels as if the city is too big, too wide, too crowded.  His breath comes in short pants, and he steps even closer to Adelstein.

((..it feels as if the city is too big, too wide, too crowded..))

 Adelsteinn's role seems to have changed since the fall of the settlement. He has become a leader, looking out for the other dwarves. He is slightly worried about them, their finances, and their future with Olwe, but he tries to not be overly worried. He walks past outdoor seating and under a large overhanging tree to the path leading up to the Green Leaf Inn. Nodding towards it, he says "Here we are."

(("Here we are.."))

Repairs and Regrets

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Shawn Daysleeper


"Noooooo!  Nooo!  Comet!  COOMMMMEETTT!!"

In the predawn, fitful doze that Olwe, Lord of  Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, King of the missing Teleri, slips into, he again watches helplessly as the coastline of Sylvhara grows smaller and smaller. Again, a giant hand of water lifts the graceful swanship and tosses her, like a child flinging a toy across a room in a fit of anger. The mast again is smashed, hanging off the size of the swanship, the sail in tatters, the wind a malicious fury as it fondles and then snaps the head of the swan off the masthead.

In his dreams he is again kneeling among the shredded folds of the sail, heart thudding in his chest painfully as he gasps for breath, shaken. He has angered a Vala; not just any Vala but the Lord Ulmo himself.

((He has angered.. Lord Ulmo himself.))

When the stormed died away, and the black clouds receded, a night filled with stars shone down upon the damaged swanship, the air turning brisk and cool.  There was no possible way to sleep down below, in the wreckage of broken casks, spilled trunks, broken pottery. The smell, too, which rose up from below the decks, from where the disguised Lord of Dreams and Visions, rendered the thought of sleeping down below impossible.  So, tapestries and bedrolls were hauled up to the deck and laid across it as best as they could manage. Teeth chattering, spirits as damp as the deck, they tumbled into their makeshift beds.  But Olwe laid there long into the night, blue eyes staring up at the stars that stared back, cold.

((The crippled vessel on a sandbar))

As the stars began to wink out in the coming dawn, Nole, who did not sleep at all, managed to guide the crippled vessel to a sandbar offshore of a mysterious land. He hopes the soft sand will stabilize the ship enough to foot the mast and work on repairs. With a slight anxious glimpse to the unknown land, he rubs the port side of his swanship in the sandy isle; then he looks over the ship. His sight of Olwe, though leads him to reflect on the events of the night. "How could he have set out on this journey and not told me that Ulmo had forbidden it? And he HAD to defy Osse!"

(("How could he have.. not told me?"))

 He knows that Queen Comet, his cousin, is important to Olwe, and there is still some mysterious concern regarding her, but it is foolhardy to defy a Vala's wishes. Watching the waves a moment, he sees they have arrived here at low tide. The appearance of the sands seems to indicate that high tide would not be far off. "My king," Nole says in a slightly annoyed voice, "we'd best make repairs before the tide comes in."

((He looks around the wounded ship))

Olwe turns his head, blue eyes, red rimmed, meeting Nole's. He gives a soft nod, noting the tone of Nole's voice. He has a right to be angry, Olwe thinks to himself. He looks around the wounded ship. Nole's ship, the one he had designed and built himself.  Shame at the cost of his foolish actions makes the Teleri Lord shy as he moves to join the sea merchant.  He lifts his gaze, once, over the calm blue water, seeing nothing but a grey morning fog, blurring the lines of a coast nearby. "Yes, my friend," Olwe answers, and then reaches out and grabs the younger elf's arm. "Nole..." he starts, his voice trailing off, uncertain.

((He is between anger and forgiveness))

 Nole lets his king take his arm a moment. He is between anger and forgiveness. As he looks over everything that needs to be repaired and sighs in despair, the anger seems to build. Long ago he built a model of this ship and showed it to his king as a child. He remembers Olwe's face then: he was so kind. Nole  went on to build this ship: he knows everything about it. He has sailed his ship a long time, and in many places along the western shores of Middle Earth and the eastern shores of the Blessed lands, From the icy hazards of the Cape of Forochel in the north to the green shores of Belfalas in the south. He has called in dozens of ports and witnessed severe storms of the natural world with naught but a scratch on his beautiful swanship, but the anger of a Vala was more than his ship could sustain. Pulling his arm away, he set about repairing the ship. Trying to dismiss his anger, he asks, "That land," he nods to the misty shore beyond the isle, "I suppose we would not find a place there to repair my ship?"

((He watches Nole pull away..))

Olwe watches Nole pull away and drops his hand. Lifting his other hand up to push his wind tossed, salt laden hair from his eyes, he turns his gaze to the grey mist covered mass just beyond them. He peers intently through the fog, and his voice when he answers is not the confident tone of a king but the soft, hesitant tone that a much younger Olwe once had. "I know not," he says softly. "The coastline is hard to make out from here. I cannot see rocks, but I cannot tell much about the shoreline, if we will find soft beach."

((He peers intently through the fog..))

Nole nods to his king. "It is an unknown land, and it is not wise to trust a strange land and strange people to repair my ship. We must make what repairs we can here." Constraining his anger, he conceives a plan to foot a mast and attach a sail so that he has more efficient steering.  With a plan in mind, he looks at his king. "I have devised a way to get us moving again. I must go below deck and get supplies," he says bluntly and goes down into the hold.

Nole enters the cabin below deck and looks for the tools he needs to fit the mast and also o repair the starboard side where he noticed a deep notch that may take on water later if they encounter high swells. He also sees his chest of clothes and thinks he may feel better in dry clothes. With a sigh, he knows he should not be angry with his king and begins to think he should make amends with him. "He is only being concerned for his kin," he thinks as he makes for his chest and looks around.

He sees Estelin on the floor beside the chest that is part way open. He also sees spots of vomit around and... in the chest! "What!?" he exclaims glaring at the musician. "What did you..."

Estelin sighs, waits for Nole's next words. "My socks!" Nole cries "my dry socks.. ruined!" In anger he exclaims to Estelin, "You have to launder my clothes... no! Don't do that!" Nole says as he remembers anything Estelin touches seems to be ... ruined somehow. "Olwe got us into this. He will wash my clothes and... my socks!"

((Olwe bows his head))

Olwe bows his head as Nole moves back from him and below deck.  In his wake, Olwe glances up to see the set of Nole's shoulders. As Nole disappears below, Olwe rouses himself, and moves to leap upon the little islet there, this pile of sand, claimed by two trees, cradling the injured swanship as it bobs a little in the low tide.

((His eyes scan across the boat...))

His eyes scan across the boat, and he winces at the amount of  damage.  This boat is..was.. Nole's pride and joy, his youthful achievement.  Kneeling down, Olwe reaches down and scoops up a handfull of sand, the clothes on his body crusted so with salt, they crackle and crunch. "Lord Ulmo, forgive me. Forgive me for what I have done to this young elf." He bows his head. "My pride, my foolish, foolish pride."

(("My pride, my foolish, foolish pride."))

((Nole.. finally comes and sits with him.))

Leaving Estelin alone, Nole comes back to the deck and sees his king sitting on the sand. With a sigh he approaches him and lays out tools and supplies on the sand. He sees the same gentle Teleri he loves and cherishes. Trying to forget he angered the powers that be, and they wrecked his ship on the open waters, he finally comes and sits with him. "I am sorry, an anger took me," he says, still looking over the damage. "It also seems our.. sea ... elf musician vomited in my socks because he is seasick," he says slowly. After a moment he turns to look at Olwe blue eyes, the thought of someone vomiting in his socks actually causes him to suppress a grin.

(("I am sorry. An anger took me."))

Olwe stares at him, in open-mouthed surprise, his blue eyes widening as he listens. "Wait, " he says, "What? He-he actually.." He looks, instinctively toward the ship and then back to Nole. "He had the presence of mind to actually grab a sock. In the middle of a horrendous storm, and get sick in it?" He blinks several times, and then a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Blessed Eru!" Olwe rocks back, sitting down upon the sand, and breaks into laughter. "Oh-oh," he says, and leans against Nole, laughing helplessly. "My friend, my friend, I should wash those out, but let us instead offer them to the fishes in  hopes it may soothe Osse's ire, and in Grey Havens will I buy you new socks, and a sea chest with a stronger lock!"

He looks at Nole, straightening back up and looking seriously. "I violated your trust in me," he says, simply, his blue eyes meeting Nole's. "I have no excuse for it, other that it was foolish pride and pent up anguish, for long were we encapsuled by ice. In all this world, there is only you, I, and Comet who bear the blood of the Teleri such as we do. We, who were once as numerous as the stars. Kin we have in Middle Earth, descendants of those who made not the trek to the West. But their blood has mingled with others, and they are Teleri no longer but something else." He heaves a large sigh.  "Forgive me, Nole. Forgive an aged elf who let his wisdom be driven by need and anguish and pain. Please, can you do that?"

(("Forgive me, Nole... Can you do that?.."))

(("...but I will let you take care of my socks.."))

Nole looks at his king a while taking in all his words. He has not encountered many kings abroad that spoke in such humility. Olwe is kind and loving, and despite all that happened, Nole trusts him. "Yes, I forgive you," he says "but I will let you take care of my socks. I will complete these repairs shortly, and we will cast off from here with the high tide. The Grey havens are close," he says as he looks up studying the position of the sun. "The stars last night gave me an idea of where we are, and the trajectory we should pursue to the Grey Havens. There we will make complete repairs before pursuing our next task."

((Olwe smiles a little at Nole's words..))

Olwe smiles a little at Nole's words, spoke with care and with thought, it seemed to the Teleri Lord. He reaches out and gives one of Nole's arms a squeeze. "I thank you, friend Nole," Olwe says with grave humilty. Then he stops, his brow furrowing and looks over at Nole, saying slowly, "Take care of your socks?"  His eyes cast back to the ship, a faint noise rising from the bowels of the injured craft. "Oh, oh, he is not getting sick again, is he?"

(("Oh, oh, he is not getting sick again, is he?"))

Adelsteinn Walks with Fafnir

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by Shawn Daysleeper and AelKennyr Rhiano

At the start of this trek down the Blue Mountains, Fafnir could barely keep pace with Nasi, and at day's end, his legs were cramping and spasming, the unused muscles protesting the exercise. Now, however, here in Mithlond, on the evenly cobbled and wide, clean streets, he matched the pace set by the Master Brewer easily.  He hears the striking of his boots against the stones, and it is a steady clip-clop, clip-clop, but he also hears the voices of elves and humans selling their wares. The city is open and wide, clean and well kept. The smells are those of life, but the seedier smells that come with life crowded toe-to-toe; the smell of decaying meat or dyeing fabrics or the offal of animals are nowhere to be found.

He breathes in, expanding his chest and leans over to the Elder. "So, Elder, this tavern,  it will have beds for us all? Will they charge us to stable our horse?  I am so unfamiliar with this, Noble Elder.  Please, forgive my ignorance." His tone is warm, respectful, soothing as the visage of the ocean they are nearing as they come to an intersection. A main thoroughfare lies stretched before them. 

Adelsteinn walks with Fafnir, looking around at the way post signs, marking the streets and also looking at the buildings around them to make sure they are going in the correct direction to the Inn. As Fafnir asks him about beds and stable, he mentally calculates how much coin they brought from the treasury.

"There is a stable behind the inn, and the charge for the care of our pony is included in the price of the lodging. There are two types of beds here: there are cots and there are much better beds with storage chests. I will have to see what we can afford. I hope this Olwe comes as he plans, or we may have to resort to... entertainment.... for the inn somehow to provide the keeper with some coin for his ale so that we can stay longer."

Fafnir stops in mid-stride as they come up to the corner, his eyes widening at the last part of Adelsteinn's remark. "Entertainment?" he asks. "What, what sort of entertainment?"

"Entertainment," he explains, "to bring in customers. Keepers make more money on the ale they sell than the price of lodging. I suppose old Bavor could pluck a harp for us, if needed, and we could pitch in with the stable-work. But this is not an immediate worry, provided this Olwe comes soon."

Fafnir looks over at the other dwarf, looks at the careworn lines about his eyes, the downturn of his mouth.  Adelsteinn has led them to Mitholond, and in all the time on the road, he made sure they had food before he himself ate. They had a place to sleep and rolled out their bedrolls before he did. He was up earlier than most of them most mornings, and most nights was the last to go to bed.  He had not even bothered to change his clothing or trim his beard. Fafnir felt a shame creep into his heart for the anger that he felt when they left the settlement.

Reaching out, he places a hand on the other's arm. "Well, should it come to that, " He says, " I can sing a goodly tune, if someone can play, and if Nasi should take off his shirt, I am sure the coppers and gold coins will rain down upon us." He smiles and then turns the corner with the Elder, adding, "Adelsteinn, you remind me much of my father, Smith keep his axe sharp, and I brought some of my father's clothing with me. You are of a size with him, and I, "He ducks his head in a shy gesture. "Well, I would be honored to share his clothing with you.  I don't think anyone has looked after you as you have looked after all of us."

Adelsteinn blushes a little. "I thank you and accept your offer of a change of clothes. I admit I was so busy securing Gamilfun's official belongings, I forgot about my own. For most of the journey I have managed alone, but a change of clothes would be handy as that would mean Eilif can then mend the ones I am wearing, which she has offered to do. I have had nothing to wear in the meantime."

Fafnir's ears prick as Adelsteinn speaks. "Securing Gamilfun's official belongings?" Isn't that what Fafnir himself did?  Were they both light of finger in the crumbled ruins of their homestead?  He stumbles a little, his toe catching on a rock that is beginning to work loose from the paved road and reaches  out a hand to steady himself, grabbing the ledge of a open market stall.  Elif mending his clothes. That was the act of a wife. His amber eyes regard the Master Brewer a little more shrewdly.  A young, strong and keen of wit wife would eliminate the need for a tall and lanky dwarf to act as aide. Fafnir feels a hard pit in his stomach, but then his eyes turn to the cart before him, filled with food of all sorts, colors, and shapes. With a sharp intake of breath, without thought, Fafnir stretches out his hand and grasps one of the yellow crooked neck vegetables, marveling at its size.  He turns his eyes back to Adelsteinn, never seeing the elven merchant close by or the lady who is a customer.

The Song

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by AelKennyr Rhiano

Standing in the garden of Lorien, surrounded by the quiet hush of green and growing things, only the waterfalls speaks in a babbling, constant clash of water against stone. Eonwe stands still, his feet touching the ground, crushing beneath his boots the soft grass, releasing its smell, a strong and fertile smell.

“Stay and find yourself.”

“Am I lost?”

“You are yours to find.”

He swivels his head to sweep his gaze across the water, where fish rise to the surface, leaving bubbles of air as evidence of their presence.  Silence. He looks to the trees on his left and his right, verdant green in the eternal twilight. They shake their leaves at him as though to wag green fingers when the breeze sweeps over them and rustles his hair.  Silence. He looks at the sky, looking for what he knows not, seeing nothing. And suddenly, quickly, this body he has worn throughout his exile from Manwe’s side is fatigued, leaden, exhausted. A thousand aches pull at his mind, draw his attention to their complaints. The muscles in his calves tighten and spasm. The muscles across his back throb. The muscles in his stomach roil and curl like some terrible hungry beast.  Four ages have passed, and never have the Maia felt such lethargy seize him, dragging him down.  He looks to his right, where stands a tree with drooping branches and sorrowful leaves, green and fertile and somehow still mournful, and drags his feet, wills his body to cross a narrow part of the lake where stones provide a dry walk way to the tree.  Sinking down with a sigh, he rests his back against the tree. Stretching and turning from side to side, he is rewarded with a popping sound as the vertebrae realign, and his back feels more comfortable.  A yawn rises up from somewhere inside him, and Eonwe covers his mouth instinctively, eyes a little wide for the experience of yawning is unknown to him before now.  Stretching out his legs, he leans forward to rub at cramped muscles, hissing as they protest his ministrations and pull taut before finally relaxing.

Silence. The world about him, save for the waterfall is smothered in silence.  Eonwe leans back, and slowly, slowly, slowly, his eyes begin to droop and close, fly open, droop and close….

Eonwe falls asleep. To say time passes…what means it to a Maia?  Should the yardstick be the mortal world of Middle Earth, and the length of time spent in which the once and future Herald of Manwe be measured by the passing of mealtimes in the Shire? The journey of Arien’s vessel or Tilion’s? The birth of a child of the Atani, his rise to puberty, adulthood, parenthood, old age, death? The long days and longer twilight of the Firstborn of Eru, the elves? No, that time means nothing in Aman. It means less here in Lorien. For time here, unwinds a thinner thread in Vaire’s tapestry, a finer weave that can be judged by nothing else save itself. Between Aman and Middle Earth lies the path that one must know to pass between the two. Between Aman and Lorien lies a parth that only Este knows, and her Irmo, and most certainly the Breath of Arda. But Eonwe knows it not. Insensible to aught else, he dreams. 

Dreaming, he is sleeping, with the chattering of the waterfall following him into his dreams. The grass soft grows up around him, a cushion and a blanket, as the blades stretch across his body and weave a covering.  Branches of the tree stretch down and brush dark hair from the closed eyes of the Maia, and woodland creatures—squirrels, rabbits, birds cautiously creep near and gaze upon him with eyes curious and round.  The body, so heavy before he fell into his sleep, now feels light, renewed, relaxed.  It is so good to rest, Eonwe the dreamer thinks in his dream.  I should stay, he continues. Here I should stay.

Here there is no disappointment. Here there is no pain of mind or body or heart. Here is all silent, all peace, all stillness. Except for the splashing, tumbling discourse of the waterfall. He listens to the water’s discourse. Slowly, over time, the sound changes for him, and what was the plopping, cascade of water becomes sounds, a song…

Music!

Eonwe the dreamer knits his brow and purses his lips as in his dream within a dream, the sound of the waterfall becomes a voice, a voice giving rise to a song, a song without speech, without words. The Song. His eyes open slowly, blinking as he, in the dream, looks out over at the waterfall, his ears filling, like a vessel filled to overflowing, with the One Song.  The song. The Song that brought all into being.  He leans forward, and blades of grass unclasp their grasp about him, and part like a great cocoon. He looks down, and as he watches, a myriad of colors explode as blooms of every conceivable flower known to Middle Earth, releasing a perfume that is heady to the Maia. He rises slowly, as if drunk on the smell of the blooms, of the feel of the grass, pulling back from his body, of the sound of the Great Music.

Standing up, Eonwe turns blue eyes up to the top of the waterfall and traces the path of the water down, down, down, back into the lake, swaying a little as he does so, in time to the timeless music. He staggers toward the edge of the lake, kneeling, and hears suddenly behind him a soft swish of fabric. Turning quickly, he stands back up, his eyes widening, mouth smiling. Before him, clothed in a cloak of white, floating above the grass, face luminous, so bright features cannot be seen, he sees the one Maia who knows him above all others, who has seen into his heart, so it seems to Eonwe, who knows him without hesitation or judgement. 

“Ilmare,” he breathes, and his face breaks into a radiant smile, the eyes alight and shining. He stretches out his hands to her, sees the cloak rise, but as he looks down, there are no hands in his. Looking back up at the radiance of the face, he sees the ethereal form back away, slowly, and a fold of the cloak rises, as it would if an arm was raised to beckon him forward. He tilts his head, a smile still upon his face, and takes a step forward toward this shining form. This Ilmare.  The fold drops as though an arm has dropped back down to one side, and now there is not just the voice of the waterfall. There are two voices, clear, clean, sweet, indescribably perfect. Eonwe opens his mouth to join the song…

But no sound comes out.

Startled, he lifts a hand to his throat and tries again, but there is no music from Eonwe the Maia. Slowly, this Ilmare turns around and around, the fabric of the cloak, swaying and flapping softly as the ghostly figure sings in harmony with the waterfall. Try as he might, no sound emerges from Eonwe. Hot tears spring to his eyes and roll down his cheeks as he stands, transfixed by his silence, shattered by his inability to join the song.

The Music swells, and all about him, bit by bit, more and more join the Great Song. The birds tilt their heads, stretch their winds and their beaks open as they give throat to the music. Squirrels drop their nuts, and puffing out their cheeks, chitter and chirp along.  Rabbits, noses twitching, join in, and beneath his feet, the grass rubs their blades together to make their contribution. Finally, the tree which had offered him respite shakes its leaves to add its music to the Song. 

But Eonwe remains silent.  Unable to bear this separation, this inability to be part of the whole, he turns his back upon the Maia before him, the creatures of the garden of Lorien, the tree and the grass and stumbles to the water’s edge, dropping to his knees. 

“You are yours to find.”

The voice is a sigh. The voice is a challenge. The voice is part of the song he cannot join, and his arms wrap around him in his despair. Alone, Eonwe the dreamer thinks. I am alone. I don’t want to be alone.

“You are yours to find.”

What does that mean? Eonwe cries out in his mind. What does that mean? I belong to nothing and no one, not even myself. I do not know who I am, what I am.  The tears roll down his face and spill into the Lake, and the song comes to a crescendo and pauses.  Startled by the silence, Eonwe watches the last tear spill from his cheek, and drop into the lake. Circle upon circle ripples out from where the tear fell, and as they roll back into the water, the reflection clears, and Eonwe sees no only  himself, but where there was one other Maia, there is now the other Maia and a white radiance Eonwe knows with his heart and soul.

Manwe!

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Where the Path Leads

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Belenos

The earth beneath her feet seems to almost hum with joyous new life.  There is little of winter's chill left in the depths of the forest.  New growth abounds, and bright buds array the branches of trees and shrubs alike.  Tiny blue flowers adorn the forest floor, nodding their heads in the light breeze that somehow manages to find its way among the trees. Yavanna's eyes soften in something close to a smile as she passes by, finding the sight lifts her heart a little but not understanding why.

Her pleasure is short-lived, however, as her stomach twinges and grumbles noisily.  She has yet to find any homes or farms and has found but a few windfall apples, shriveled and hard after the winter, to ease her hunger.  "Well, you won't find any food standing here gawking at pretty flowers, my girl," she admonishes herself under her breath and again resumes her journey. 

As she walks beneath the leafy canopy, her eyes scour the ground ahead for signs of either fallen fruit or civilization, but her mind casts back again to the dream of the night before.  She had dreamed of a lover, tall and well-muscled, dark of skin, with long dark wavy hair, although his face, whenever she tried to look upon it directly always seemed just a blur.  They had played lovers' games through the forest, with her pretending to flee, her laughter floating behind her in the wake of her long fair hair, and he pursuing her, although careful not to catch her too soon.

His arms had wrapped around her, hard and strong, easily lifting her off her feet, although she herself is tall and well built for a woman.  He had scooped her into his arms and laid her gently among the ferns as his full, firm lips claimed hers.  Walking now, her cheeks flushed at the memory of what happened next.  Was it a dream or a memory?  Was he a true lover or a wisp of imagination thrown up by her lonely mind?

She recalls a sense of urgency, as though their time together was short or limited.  He had held her in his arms and whispered to her in a deep melodious voice, "But for now I am here, wife. I am here." Wife he had called her.  Wrinkling her brow as she walked. she puzzled over this.  His voice in her ear had seemed so real, as though she lay in his arms as she slept and he whispered into her dreams. 

Who was he?  If he was real, where was he?  How was it that they could share such love yet she wandered now alone?  She looks down at the beautiful designs on her skin.  Did he do them as she had dreamed?  If not he, then who? How did she come to have such marks upon her?  Sighing, the questions chased each other around in her mind like leaves in a summer whirlwind.  Despite the discomfort of her bed of leaves on the forest floor with only her thin cloak for cover, she had finally fallen deeply asleep, her lips curled in a small smile at being held by such a lover. 

It was his call that woke her.  Her name, he had called her name.  She knew it was her name for it pulled at her, although she could not hear it clearly.  Yohanna?  Ivana?  It had sounded something like those, but what had struck her most was the urgency of that call. It had brought her wide awake, bolt upright where she lay.  "I am here!" he had called.  Not in the soft reassuring tones of her dream, but with an urgency and edge of panic to his voice, yet when she gazed around the forest, no one was there.  She had been quite alone.

"I am here too," she whispers softly in answer now as she walks and pauses to look about her, "Wherever here is, I am here."  Unbidden, tears spring to her eyes as a wave of utter desolation sweeps over her.   Impatiently she dashes them from her cheeks, "That will teach you to eat last season's apples for supper. No wonder you had strange dreams, and you'll dream no better tonight unless you find something decent to eat soon!"  Determinedly she strides out down the path.  It must lead somewhere surely, for it is a path.  She was not just wandering aimlessly. It had to lead somewhere!  But where it led was deeper and deeper into the wild forests.

I Am Here

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 by Rhun Darkmoon

Aulë strides through the Garden of Lorien, oblivious to the beauty that surrounds him.  Unnoticed is the delicate scent of the tiny plants that carpet the ground and rises at each footstep he takes.  Unnoticed is the elegant curve and sweep of the trees he walks beneath.  Unnoticed too, Ulmo fades into the distance behind bush and flowering shrub as Aulë walks on alone.

As he walks, he lifts his hand to rub his brow in that gesture that had become so much a part of him in recent times. Go to Lorien, he has been told by Manwë and to Lorien he has come.  "I am here," he mutters to himself, kicking at the ground with a booted foot in a gesture that would not be out of place on a chastened child of Middle Earth.  "I am here!" he calls louder, his voice reverberating around the surrounding forest, an unnaturally loud intrusion upon the tranquility of the Garden.   He waits as though listening, but there is no answer. 

 

With an impatient click of his tongue and another kick at the ground for good measure, he strides deeper into the Garden, uncaring where his feet lead him. Where they lead him though, is to the shores of the Lake.  Absorbed in his thoughts he looks up startled to find his way blocked by the body of water.  For a moment he contemplates it, looking around for a means to bypass it, but it stretches deep into the forests on either side.  With a sigh he sits against the base of a towering pine to wait, although he knows not what it is he must wait for. 

 

Although his body is now still, his mind is restless, picking up and toying with snatches of his conversation with Ulmo, turning the words over and looking at them before discarding them like a child who cannot work out where this piece goes in a puzzle and so picks up another.  Time and time again it is drawn to one piece. "I  used to think I knew who I was, and what I was doing." he had said to Ulmo.
"Well, I certainly don't know what I'm doing now," he mutters to himself and picks idly at the ground.  His hand pauses and reaches for a nearby bloom.  He plucks it by the stalk, and twirls it in his fingers, glancing up to see that the delicate blue flower in his hand is only one of a thick array that carpet the forest floor around him.  He lifts the bloom to his nose, inhaling deeply of its sweet summery perfume as he leans back more against the tree, stretching his legs out before him. He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes as he leans back against the tree. 

The scent of the tiny bloom is strong in his nostrils, and that restless mind now wings back through the Ages to another forest and the day this bloom first came into being.   He had cradled her in his arms among the forest ferns, her body warm and soft from their lovemaking, all ivory skin and shining fair hair, her lips curved into a soft smile as she looked up at him with those amazing emerald eyes of hers.  So many times their duties took them on separate paths, but always the ache was there, drawing them back to each other.  Wistfully, she had said she never wanted to forget that day, and so he had created upon her skin a delicate array of ferns and leaves so she would always remember it.  He remembers her sweet blushes as his hand had traced the curves of her body, from flank to bosom, up her long shapely neck and across her delicately curving cheek as he created his artwork upon her skin.

Tracing the outline of his lips with a long elegant finger, she in turn had said she wanted him always to remember her, wherever he roamed.  With a mere thought she had created the delicate blue blooms, imbued them with her scent and scattered them across the forest floor around them, bidding them spread throughout Aman and Middle Earth and carry always the message to "Forget Me Not" to her Aulë, wherever he may be.  His heart squeezing tightly in his chest with the force of his love for her, he had leaned down to whisper against her ear, "But for now I am here, wife. I am here." 

Passionately they had made love again among the ferns on the forest floor, the delicate blue blooms sending up their heady scent as they were crushed beneath their bodies.  Their love had swirled around them that day like a tangible thing, mixed forever now in his memory with the sweet scent of the tiny blue flowers.

"I am here," he had told her. "I am here," he had called today to no one in particular.  "I am here!" The words burst from his lips as his eyes flew open.  "By Eru's Light, I am here!" 

Around him the serenity of Lorien seems to shimmer and shatter, torn apart as a whirlwind of emotions and memories comes crashing down on him.  Clearly now he sees the doubt that has festered for so long inside, the doubt that Melkor's dark magic had taken and twisted into something more, something darker.  Images swirl through his mind;  the letter from Yavanna; meeting Nienna on the road to Taniquetil and-- Eru, forgive him -- returning with her to Mandos; the confrontation there with Eonwë. "Traitor!" he had called him and well he might.  Clearly now, so clearly now, he sees the compassion in Manwë's eyes as he had listened and believed in him - yes, BELIEVED in him-- putting lie to the doubt that had festered for so long like a poison seed in Aulë's heart.  Clearly too,  although by Eru he wishes it were not, he sees again the hurt and betrayal in Yavanna's eyes as she turned and walked away from him. 

"NO!" The swirling images shatter and fall from his mind leaving nothing but the image of those eyes, her beautiful emerald eyes so filled with pain.   Shaken, he looks around him and is surprised to see all as it was.  A swan and its mate float majestically past upon the lake.  A light breeze plays quietly among the leaves of the forest, lifting a tendril of his long dark hair and tickling it against his cheek.  His dark eyes are clear and bright in a way they have not been since first he stepped into that dread chamber.  His brow is clear, and his head no longer aches.  As the magic borne of Melkor's hate and jealousy had taken the darkness within him and twisted it, so now has the Garden of Lorien taken the deep abiding love within him and opened his eyes and his heart to the truth.

He looks about him desperately. "Yavanna!" Her name is a whisper upon his lips.  "I am here! Yavanna!" his voice is louder and more urgent as he springs to his feet, knowing in his heart what he must do.  "Please, Eru, do not let it be too late!  Yavanna!"

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