The Dread Fall of the Shadow

Wrapped in the winds of the world, shed of all but the illusion of flesh, the Herald of the Breath of Arda would sigh, if he could.  Invisible to the World of Elves and men, he trails behind the most unusual pair who walk --Blessed Eru! Oh so painfully slow.  Covered in his airy blanket, Eonwe is surrounded by all that rides the wind, smells and sounds, and most especially, the voice of a most petulant Istari.

 "I am hungry, too, Oromë," Alatar speaks, and turns his head to address a tiny creature nestled in the folds of his voluminous cloak. "But you know what Eonwe said, and we all know how late a start we got.  And if only that cat was not awake when I flew in through the window to open your cage."

A mouth Eonwe has not, given up all but the sheerest of material form, but still the ghost of the sensation of doing just that comes automatic.  Nerves that do not exist create a tic just as nonexistent.  Eonwe pulls at the energies about him, clothing himself in flesh just...just enough to affect the physical if he so chooses, and understands, now, with perfect clarity, why mortals grind teeth and clench jaws.  Frustration, yes, frustration. This is truly what the Children of Eru feel, at times...with willful younglings.

Frustration, yes, frustration.

Alatar was speaking again. “I don’t miss Eonwe’s …” Alatar pauses…”fussiness. Yes, fussiness. It was all, ‘And my Lord, the Breath of Arda this’ and ‘The Lord of the West that.’ Well, we are Istari, you know. We can move at the speed of the wind if we put our minds to it..."

Then, DO IT! thinks Eonwe, and with a low growl, Eonwe wraps the wind tighter around him and then sends it rushing up behind the slender, dark haired wizard.  He whispers to the wind, low, weaving it about the twists and turns of the air itself.  "Then, oh, mighty Istari, be light as the air and fleet of feet, as OUR Lord commands."  

He whispers to the wind...

Alatar whips his head around at the wind's approach and says, "We’re going, we’re going.  No proper lunch, I’ll thank you… EONWE,” he frowns and pouts, “but we’re going.” He turns back around and hurries to catch up with Pallando, huffing.  

The Herald feels the ghost, for that is all it could be in this form, of a smile play about his lips as he folds his arms across his chest, and is surprised to feel a small satisfaction as both Istari hasten on their way.  Eonwe stops and watches as the two move much quicker toward the forest ahead of them.  Then, he turns and lifts himself up to the sky to speed quickly back to his Lord's side.   

But then he feels it. A wrongness in Moire Taure. A disturbance, a pressure, a darkness that seems to swallow the forest from its very center out.  There, There, where the sylvan elves have settled, far, deep in the woods....

 “Orcs,” says Pallando, the other wizard, standing there on the trail beside Alatar. “Orcs. In the forest.”

Eonwe floats there, a moment of indecision. Instinct screams to the wizards' side, and the warrior in him near does so. There are Orcs, here, where none should be, and as he hears the anguished screams of the First born below, feels the souls, torn violently from their bodies as the Orcs reveled in fire and slaughter, he clenches ethereal hands in rage.  He reaches out  to feel the mind of the two below. Wizards, Maiar in the flesh, and he feels the anger rise like a long sleeping beast in Alatar. The Ithryn Luin can do without his interference.  Turning now, a growl rising like gorge in his throat, Eonwe speeds home, to Mount Taniquetil in Valinor, the most sacred of places. Home of Manwe, Lord of the West.  Already in his mind,  he is forming the words which he will lay before the feet of the Breath of Arda.

"Now, my Lord, comes the dread fall of the shadow of Evil, once more upon the world of the Children of Eru. There are Orcs where none should be."

"There are Orcs where none should be."

Remembrance

Alatar looks about him, with a deadened haunted look. "Avenged," he repeats, his voice hollow, thin.  He looks down at the wisps of smoke snaking about his body.  The forest seems cold, dead, no sounds of birds, no rustling of leaves.  "What flavor is 'avenged' in the Halls of Mandos, you think?"  His hair hangs slack about his face, and the paleness of his skin shows the dark circle under the eyes as he slowly lifts his gaze.  There is no trace of the Orcs now: only the violence they visited upon these graceful Children of Eru remains.

Pallando looks around the charred settlement and replies. "I am referring to the Children, but... those that have been corrupted by the dark powers, we know not their fate." He then remembers their mission. "If there is danger in the woods, they may be patrolling the coast. Olwe may already be in danger." Pallando says to his friend. "It seems that Eonwe is correct in urging us. But the bodies of the Children, what should we do?"

Alatar looks up at his friend and stumbles to his feet, reaching out to Pallando for support as he lurches unsteadily.  Raising a hand up to his face he rubs his brow. "I," he swallows and reaches for reserves of energy. He is hungry and thirsty, and his skins feel stretched taut across his bones. He looks about him and takes in a shallow breath. "The very air tastes of their ashes, " he says, and manages enough moisture in his mouth to turn his head and spit.  "We..." he pauses and looks back at Pallando. "Do you feel their presence, the Orcs? Do you sense more anywhere close?"

Pallando helps his friend to his feet, then bows his head and closes his eyes, linking his mind with the life force of the world. "No, no one close. Everyone around us... dead," he says. He had left his traveling gear at the forest edge in their frenzy at discovering the fires. "I can retrieve our gear if you want."

Alatar grips his friend's arm as he rocks a little, growing more steady by the moment. "I...I left little Orome on the road. In my cloak. I like that cloak," he says. "And I haven't finished the little jacket for him. He gets cold at night, you know." He pauses.  "They need a proper resting place, these beloved Firstborn of Eru. We can't leave their bodies..out..not this way."  He slowly lets go of his friend, more alert, more calm. He looks down at his hands, and murmurs under his breath.  "With your help, we can cover this whole settlement, make a cairn, like some of the Children of Men do.  Remember..when we were in the arid places? They erected caves of stone. We can create a hill, of rock and stone, and then you...you can urge the flowers and grass, the trees and other green things to claim the rock and dirt. Turn it into a beautiful place once more. Not....not ..." He pauses and looks about him..."Not this."

Pallando agrees to his friend. Together they erect stone and rock over the bodies of the elves and set it as a cairn. In their physical forms this task was laborious, but it is the most consoling to the ways of the elves. Urging his friend to rest, Pallando then sets a young sapling in the center of the cairn. Calling upon the powers of Yavanna, he urges the sapling to grow into a mighty oak that will stand the test of time as remembrance to the atrocity that happened here. The task completed, Pallando then returns to his friend. "Let us go to little Orome and our camp, and plan out how best we should interact with Olwe and his companion."

Ashes.....ashes

"Pallando? Where are you?"  The words come out of a throat hoarse from invoking the energy and power that resides within the Istari...Wizards...Maiar. Though restricted by flesh, the evidence of that power is all about Alatar, one of the Ithryn Luin.  He sits in the charred, still smoking ruins of a woodland elven settlement deep in the heart of Moire Taure, and rocks himself softly.

He sits in the charred, still smoking ruins....

The Orcs are nothing but piles of ashes, and a rogue wind snakes through the trees and smoldering ruins and dives into each pile, scattering ashes.  Alatar's eyes were red-rimmed from weeping and bloodshot, dry as he tries to blink away the scattered remains of these twisted creatures of Melkor's design.  "Pallando," he whispers again, and a shudder takes him. He is cold, empty, drained here in the aftermath. He had not thought but instead acted to neutralize the foul creatures. "But I did not act fast enough," he croaks in a whisper.

Pallando looks over the elven female...

 Pallando looks over the elven female he rescued and sighs with a relief: she is still unconscious. The last thing he wants is to violate the mandate sent along with Eonwe, that they are not to interfere with the First-born. The settlement ahead seems active, and the immediate vicinity looks safe. Thinking it best to go back to his friend, he returns to the ether and drifts back to the clearing in the forest. Alatar is there: the settlement is all but destroyed now. Piles of ash scatter in the light breeze. He slowly approaches his friend, obviously in distress.

He closes his eyes...

Alatar's words are carried away in the wake of the ashes-laden wind.  He closes his eyes. Unlike those who need words to carry power, who must labor and train to gain mastery of such abilities that Men, and even Elves sometimes label magic, Alatar IS  Magic...magic such as the Children of Eru  are considered to be so....he is spirit, as old as the Valar, older than Middle Earth itself. His voice, and that of Pallando's rose and blended with all the other voices of the Ainur, and through them the world of mortals came into being.  But here, encased in flesh, he is trapped by mortal limitations. A weariness not only of flesh seeps into his spirit, and it is then, as he fights to not submit to the feeling of desolation, he senses his friend's return.  "Pallando," he croaks out. Then in a louder voice, he says, "Pallando, friend, oh, Blessed Eru, Pallando!"  He rocks himself as the warm presence that is his friend draws ever nearer.

The area is covered by a grey-blue mix of mist and ash.

The area is covered by a gray-blue mix of mist and ash. Pallando walks through it to his friend. He senses his loss and hopelessness. "I am here. I believe I did save one of the First born. She lies unconscious near a settlement, safe." He looks around at the burned elven homes and destruction. "There is nothing we could have done to save them all, not and observe our role as Emissaries of the West," he says reassuringly, "They have been avenged."

Forest Encounter

Sunrise, and in the chill of the newborn day, as the world was shaking off the mantle of night, Tauronfaron was buckling his belt and reaching for his elven bow where it hung upon felted hooks on the wall.  He takes up his quiver and gives a long yawn and stretch, hearing the vertebrae along his back pop and settle.  "I am an old elf, " he says aloud, in his lonely house close by the lush green forest.  He stamps one foot a few times on the floor to push his left foot completely down into the boot, bits of dried mud and leaves falling off in the act.  He starts to walk to the door. stop, turn back around, and with a fluid motion, with one hand he sweeps the dirt into the other. Holding it cupped, he carries it out with him to the small front porch and dumps it there.  Habit, long developed, unnoticed now.  Breathing in the still cold air, he turns brown eyes to his destination today. There are herbs to be gathered, and wild mushrooms and some traps for small animals to check. The rabbits have overpopulated this summer, and it is kinder to catch them and cure them against winter for his food than to let them continue to breed and stare when winter comes.  "There is no grace in waste," he repeats to himself in a low voice as he makes for the forest's edge.

"There is no grace in waste...."

 

 

Duvaineth sits on the log watching her cauldron bubble and make other sounds as the liquid within 'cooks', noting that the color of the steam changed at times, giving just a nod to no one while her mind plays over other thoughts in the slightly brisk air.

 

 

 

Duvaineth sits on the log watching.....

 

Arien's vessel, the sun, begins her journey across the sky, unchanging, and there at the edge of the forest, Tauronfaron raises his gaze to the sky,  where the indigo of night still rests.  The seasons have turned, and turned again, and there is no morning star.  He shivers, and shakes his head.  Silently, he enters the woods, the soft morning calls of birds filling the air, the grass rustling in the wake of the passage of a squirrel. In the tree another chides his partner on the ground, and with a wry smile, Tauronfaron himself chides back, earning himself the reward of both creatures turning and pausing to chit and chatter at his poor imitation.  Laughing, he moves on toward the tree where the mushrooms are sure to be after the recent rains.

 

 



Silently, he enters the woods....

 

The morning has been like any other morning in her last few days here..... quiet and peaceful. The birds sing their morning songs to the forest, and the only other sounds that could be heard was the occasional branch falling out of a tree, and the sound of the fire crackling under the bubbling cauldron, the colors changing  yet again.

 

 

the bubbling cauldron

 

 

 

As he nears the great tree, his favorite spot to collect mushrooms, and lichen, moss, a few other ferns that can be crushed to powder and use as healing herbs and flavoring for stews in the winter, the sudden loud crack and pop a few feet away catches his immediate attention. Looking up he watches as a dying branch is shed, and detached from the ancient trees, slides from one living branch to another in a matter of seconds to fall to the ground.  Then he bends down and collects his natural bounty.   After this, the traps, for he would see no creature suffer if the trap set did not snap their neck cleanly.  And he would not take no animal for his table that he had to dispatch with a mercy killing stroke of his dagger.

 

Duvaineth stands up from the log as she pulls something from the pouch she wears, and drops it into the foul smelling brew within the cauldron, the steam swiftly changing to another color. She holds her hand over the rising steam while uttering a few words of power.

 

Duvaineth....drops it into the foul smelling brew....

 

 

Moving swiftly and silently, the chill of the morning burns off and he enters deeper and deeper into the woods, Here, he finds the wild greens that will be good tonight for upper. In one clearing, he flushes out a duck, but lets it good when he sees her young.  And finally, as he moves deep into the center and retrieves a fine brace of rabbits, a scent foreign to these his woods, and even to his vast experience. He stands and looks off to where a clearing is not far away, and spies dark roils of smoke, an unearthly mixture of yellow and soot.  Quickly he moves towards it, unthinking, his hand close to his dagger, the rabbits tucked into a sack and left behind for later retrieval. 

 

Duvanieth steps away from the cauldron to her tent, reaching in to pick up a piece of dried meat that would become her breakfast. Turning back to the cauldron she notes the color has changed again, that her brew is nearly done.

 

 

Turning back to the cauldron she notes the color .....

 

 

Tauronfaron edges closer to the clearing and sees a cauldron bubbling away, the steam that rises...not steam...a  roiling cloud of garish colors and thick black smoke.  There are logs rolled around this camp's fire, pots, a hastily constructed tent, it appears, and there...inside, a elven woman.. He slows his steps and walks boldly, warily into the camp's perimeter.  He stretches his arms out to each side to show he means no threat, those the stench from the noxious fumes stick in his throat.  He stares at her long, watching her movements, gaging her with caution.

 

 Duvaineth walks over to look into the boiling mixture, breaking off a piece of the meat and flicking it into the water. Then she moves back to her log to sit down in a very unladylike posture.

Watching, he tilts his head, observing her movements.  His brow furrows as he steps closer, and coughs at the smell carried on the smoke from the pot.  "What you do in yonder pot ?" he says in common, his eyes narrowing as he studies her face. "And more of importance to me, what do you in these woods?"

 

Duvaineth jumps up at the sound of the voice calling out, eyes looking around swiftly, but a bit wildly as her hand fell to the handle of her dagger. "Who goes there? Its not safe to sneak up on people like that. Show yourself!"

 

"Sneak?" Tauronfaron.  "I stood at the edge of your camp, child, arms spread like a duck about to fuss at her younglings." He steps in further at he speaks.  "Perhaps your mind was on else than your surroundings. A dangerous thing, even in these woods." He studies her face, his gaze intense. "You...you look familiar. If you be from these parts. then declare yourself."  He pauses.  "As I would do surely in return."

 

 

"Sneak?...You...you look familiar..."

 

 



Duvaineth keeps her hand on her dagger as the other elf comes closer, noting the bow upon his back and the woodsman attire he wears. Slowly inhaling the smell from the cauldron, she sighs softly. "Yes, I am from these parts. I call this little spot home now."

 

The movement of her hand toward her dagger stays his advance as the wind shifts, and the smokes blows in another direction; mercifully away. "With that smell, you may well, render the woodland creatures unconscious," he says, nodding in the direction of the pot, his tone not unkindly. "Home, " he echoes.  "Well, with the weather changing, I should not find this will provide much shelter for you." He catches a clear view of her eyes, and stops, still. " I am Tauronfaron," he says. "You seem familiar, yet I cannot recall meeting one with eyes such as yours."

 

 

"I cannot recall meeting one with eyes such as yours."

 

 

" I used to live in these parts until that damned war. The appearance of my eyes are a result of it. As for my tent... with a little work it will see me through the coming winter."

 

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Stepping closer to her, he stares hard at her, his mouth dropping open as he blurts out, "Varda, perserve me.  That voice. The war. Why did not I know you before. Child, do you not know me. You are Luthel, sure as I stand before you."  He stretches out his arms as though to embrace her.

 

 

Duvaineth steps back out of instinct...

 

 

Duvaineth steps back out of instinct as he attempts to hug her. "Correction, sir. I WAS Luthel back then.  I am Duvaineth now, and forever more."

 

 





The Coming of the Ithryn Luin - Pallando

Grinning, Pallando looks at the little ferret as his friend Alatar explains why he made it a hat and scarf. “I suppose he is used to the warmth of that house,” he says but he is thinking, ‘"t’s a ferret: he has fur."  But he says, "It looks very cute, though. I am glad you brought him.”

Ever since they received Eonwe’s message they have been trudging for  what has seemed nonstop westwards towards the coast of Eryn Vorn. The forest of Moire Taure lies there along the coast. An ancient forest, they have avoided it over the many years of their mission. Actually they rarely visited western Middle Earth at all, for their mission has lain far to the East, beyond the great inland Sea of Rhun and the tossing plains beyond. Hearing his companion’s stomach jostles his mind from his thoughts. “I am hungry too,” he says in answer, and giggles at the mention of the cat. “That cat was all fluffy and cute. What would you expect when a bird flies in the window? You should not need Radagast to explain what would happen next.”



“I am hungry too,” he says in answer....

He listens to his friend’s rambling on about Eonwe and the Breath of Arda’s bidding. “Quite honestly, I think we have had the easier part of the Istari mission, my friend.” He looks into the bag and says disappointedly, “No cheese, unless our little ferret can find us a bit somewhere,” he says grinning.

Despite being smaller, Pallando walks a little faster than his friend. Alatar has to frequently catch up to him He hears his friend yell “EONWE!” and shortly afterwards hears his footsteps right behind him. He is getting tired: his mortal body is usually not this hard pressed in his mission. With a sigh he says, “This Olwe has better be worth it, whatever he is doing.”

They now stood at the edge of the forest, and Pallando, too, remembers a night with Arien rapidly defending over the edge of the world that they had decided to camp under the eaves of a different forest.

“I do not regret coming with you...."

It was the night Alatar tried to apologize for way they both had been commanded to stay in the mortal world. Pallando listened to his friend speak of their friendship. “I do not regret coming with you. It has been far more interesting here, now that I have been to the mortal world. Watching Irmo take, what would be one of our weeks, to water one plant was just… well no offense, just not as fun.” He looks up at Alatar and laughs a little. "There are other reasons too, but I think now let's rest. Who knows what lies in there” -- he nods to the forest-- “something enough to spook Eonwe, perhaps,  so let’s rest.”

Suddenly Pallando pulls up short and lifts a slender hand. He notices something is not right. “Wait,” he says. “Something is not… as it should be.”  Turning again into the wood, he bends his mind and sees many things, the natural cycle of the seasons that  will bring winter, the speech of plants speaking to stone, the constellation Menelmacar with his shining belt overhead, and then he feels it..... the fires, fires burning within the wood. “Orcs. Orcs in the forest!”

and then he feels it..... the fires...the fires burning...

The two dash within the forest: full night has coated the woods in darkness. The silver light of Tilion has not risen yet, for he was late in his cycle. Even so, the woods are thick, old craggy trees leaning against one another and there is probably not much light here even by day. Quick as the wind they brush past the pines and reach a clearing deep within; the source of the fires. Orcs, indeed: a settlement of the Eldar lies burning, and many of the firstborn lay on the ground, their spirits already speeding away to the Halls of Mandos to await the Dagor Dagorath. Looking at his friend, he sees him reeling at the scene, and turning back he sees an elf maiden, the only survivor with life force. All of the others are dead, and the Orcs continue to beat on their dead bodies. Assuming a new form of blue light, he flies to the seemingly unconscious maiden, hoping she does not see his blue light. He picks her up and whisks her away from the settlement.

Taking to the skies, he looks around, seeing another settlement close by. He speeds away towards it. Flying how, he begins to assume his blonde haired slim form as his feet touch the ground in a dark area near the outer edge of the settlement. Setting her down gently, he questions the consequence of his actions. He sits beside her, bending his mind back into the woods to his friend. He stands there in the clearing, the dark trees ringing the clearing coated now in blood, the Orcs’ blood.

He stands there, in the clearing....

He waits, wondering what should he do now?

The coming of the Ithryn Luin - Alatar

"I had to make him a little hat," says Alatar. "He was chilled, Pallando. You know how utterly hot that woman's house was. And he was in that little cage all by himself.“ He turns his head toward his companion and gives his companion a soulful, reproachful look.  "Without his hat and scarf, little Oromë would catch a frightful cold."

His companion on this road answers, as he always does, but Alatar turns his head to gaze upon the little ferret on his shoulder, sporting a knitted cap and scarf. Bright beady eyes return the look, and the creature gives a soft chitter before burying its furry white head into the folds of Alatar's cloak.  "I am hungry, too, Oromë, " he says to the ferret, "But you know what Eonwe said, and we all know how late a start we got.  And if only that cat was not awake when I flew in through the window to open your cage." He pauses and flashes a look over at his companion.  “Well,” he says defensively and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “you heard as I did what she wanted to do to him...monstrous. Why, to rob him of his manhood, erm…ferret-hood…” he shudders, and gives another soulful look. “How was I know the cat was that fast. A round ball of fur that one.”



“How was I know the cat was that fast...."

Pallando answers him, but the reply was not nearly as loud as the rumble in Alatar's stomach.  Centuries spent wandering amongst mortal beings in Middle Earth has taught the two much about the coils of mortality, but curbing the loud complaints of an empty stomach still escapes him.  Above them the Maia Arien navigates the sun across its well-worn path in the sky, and although the clouds are white and fluffy, still the air bore the chill promise of winter rushing to claim the land before the passage of the year.  As they grind the crumbling brown leaves beneath their booted feet, the two travelers share between themselves nuts and day-old hard bread and wizened, shriveled apples.  As he swallows the last bite of apple and tosses the core over his shoulder into the patch of still green grass, Alatar's eyes narrow a moment, and his smooth brow furrows.  Then his expression clears, and he turns his attention back to the road ahead of them.

“I don’t miss Eonwe’s …” Alatar pauses and searches for the correct word in the speech of Men…”fussiness. Yes, fussiness. It was all, ‘And my Lord, the Breath of Arda this’ and ‘The Lord of the West that.’ Well, we are Istari, you know. We can move at the speed of the wind if we put our minds to it.  Although,” he pauses and places a long pale slender hand atop his stomach, “although I do get terrible hunger afterwards.”  He looks with longing at the pack Pallando carries. Studying his friend’s young face, he says wistfully, " I don’t suppose there is a spot of cheese still left?”

Pallando answers, and Alatar gives a sigh, resigning himself to the complaints of his physical body, and the moans of his stomach.  On his shoulder the little ferret, shifts a little, and rocked by the motion of the wizards’ stride, he presently falls asleep.  Alatar – called Morinehtar by the tribes of Men to whom he and his companion are nothing more in these times than “sleight-of-hand” magicians – is immortal. He is Ainu, one of the Blue Wizards, or the Ithryn Luin.  The last of the original three Maiar chosen to become Istarin, or wizard, in the common tongue, he remembers the summoning of the Valar to Council, lo, these ages ago.  Three emissaries were to go to Middle Earth, but only two stepped forward: Alatar, and Curumo, who became the leader of the Istari, and over time, known as Saruman the White.  For love of a friend came Pallando, who, like Alatar were Maia unto the Vala Oromë, the mighty Huntsman. 

They fall into a companionable silence, each in their own thoughts, the day clear, the wind promising the changing of the season ere long, the path before them winding amongst the beauty of the Vala’s Yavanna’s  creations.  At first, in the Second Age of Middle Earth, they were sent to the east of Arda, to countries in far eastern Middle-earth such as Rhûn and Khand, where they were sent to stir up rebellions against those serving Sauron, to support the Second-born, the children of Men, who refused to worship Melkor.  And after the first fall of the Deceiver, they sought out his hiding place, and caused division and disruption among those who served his darkness.  They returned to the Undying Lands and took their place among their brethren with full honor.

But they were not allowed to stay.  The world of mortals dances ever between shadow and light, and the Third Age dawned both beautiful and terrible. And in that world was the one true Ring of power and Sauron rose and sought terrible destruction and evil, and so Curumo, Alatar and Pallando were sent back to Middle Earth, joined by two more.  This time, Alatar and Pallando did not return to the Land of the West. “Stay,” commanded the Lord of the West, the Breath of Arda. “Stay among the Children of Eru. Stay amongst the Second-born, stay and watch. Watch and record. Keep the Flame Imperishable in your aspect and your words, for the children will begin to forget themselves. And when they do, evil again will rise, like a serpent.” So stay they did, and all through the long turning of the years, the changing of the seasons, sheathed in flesh, knowing the need of mortality and the diminishment of their powers, they traveled through the whole of Middle Earth, to the farthest corners, both east and south. And now, here, to Moire Taure.

The wind rushes up behind them and Alatar turns his head to it to whisper, “We’re going, we’re going.  No proper lunch, I’ll thank you… EONWE,” he frowns and pouts, “but we’re going.” He turns back around and hurries to catch up with Pallando, huffing.  But they both quicken their steps.
Once, soon after they were commanded to remain in Middle Earth, as they sat around a campfire and watched the flames dance along the wood, twisting and turning, a song filled with pops and crackles guiding its measure, Alatar had turned to his friend. His own face, in those days, was sallow and furrowed with mortal worries and mortal cares, the wrinkles stretched across his brown and around his mouth. He rested hands spotted and calloused with split and torn nails upon his knees as he leaned forward and asked, in a voice worn thin, “Pallando, it was for love of friendship you came with me. Love of friendship that has been repaid with this …exile.” he dropped his gaze and reached out to pick up a stick that he twirled between his fingers. “Do….do you regret, now, the friendship that brought you hither?” 

His friend had answered, as he always had and does, and his voice sought to soothe Alatar, to reassure him  into a gentle sleep, but long after his companion snuggled into his bedroll and drifted off to dreams and gentle snores, Alatar sat staring into the fire. And the next day, gone was the wizened features. Instead Alatar took on the form of a young man, pale of skin, dark of hair, smooth browed, and upon his face he bore a tattoo he never explained to his friend, or himself.  Many forms the two have taken, and even today Pallando looks for all the world as a young boy, on the cusp of manhood, care-free and light of heart, but never when they take the form of Men has Alatar again donned the visage of a wise, old man.

Suddenly Pallando pulls up short and lifts a slender hand. “Wait,” he says softly, and his face becomes slack as he purses his lips and frowns in concentration.  “Something ahead is not…” he pauses…”as it should be.  He turns a troubled look to Alatar.

Alatar stops and grows still.  The wind behind them drops away, and there settles in its wake an stillness deep and troubling. Cocking his head and closing their eyes, both wizards bend their head and stretch forth their awareness all about them. Upon his shoulder the little ferret wakes and sniffs the air before burying itself deeper into the folds of Alatar’s cloak. Lifting his head, the wizard follows the ferret’s example and breathes in the smells all around him… Trees, earth, the promise of cold…the musk of woodland animals, the smell of cookfires and …..no…those are not cookfires.  His eyes fly open and he whirls around to lock gazes with Pallando.  “Orcs,” says his friend simply, “Orcs. In the forest.”

...he whirls around to lock gazes with Pallando. "Orcs...."

“In Moire Taure,” finishes Alatar, and in a rush, he shucks the cloak, letting it drop gently to the ground, the ferret burrowing deeper in the folds. “Stay here,” he tells the tiny creature.  And with one more glance at his friend, both wizards rush to the forest, moving faster than any mortal is able, than any mortal could dare. 

The trees rush by in a blur, and all about them now, instead of stillness, they hear the heartbeat of all the woodland creatures. The smell of blood rises upon the crush of leaves, the smell of pine, the scent of late blooming flowers and a thousand other natural smells that should have been welcoming, reassuring, calming.  The smell of blood rises even as the melodious voices of First-born rise in alarm, call to defense, and screams of panic and pain. One of the two Istari scream out a wordless cry in response, of warning too late, of shock, of recognition too late.  For the Orcs have descended upon their victims, and as fleet as the two Istari are, limited by mortal senses, the clear danger came too late to warn, too late to save those bleeding out, those dying.  As Alatar and Pallando enter the elven settlement deep in the Moire Taure,  the smell of blood, the screams of dying elves and triumphant murderers deafen the two wizards to all else.  As Alatar looks about him, his eyes lock upon an Orc lifting the still dying form of an elf maid and throwing her body into a common cook fire pit in the center of the settlement.  The smell of cooking flesh rises, and for a moment, Alatar is trapped by the body’s response to the sight, and worse, his stomach rumbles at the smell, not much different than the smell of cooking meat roasting on a spit in any tavern. He feels the bile rise up to his throat at the physical response and swallows it down.  He looks about him and sees Pallando a blur of motion, heading straight for a slender elven maid.

The sights, the sounds, the smells rush over Alatar, and a rage boils up from deep inside him. The skies above are red, and Alatar notes with cool detachment that somewhere  along the parameter of the settlement, more Orcs are moving among the woods, setting fire.  Birds take to the skies in a flurry of wings, and animals rush away in wild panic.  Taken by surprise, outnumbered are the elves, and the orcs, driven by blood lust are savage.  Alatar raises his head to the red skies, and begins to stretch out his arms.  His being swells, his energy surges, and he feels all awareness of his body fall away as he opens his mouth and a terrible yell spills forth in the language that existed before all languages, the one formed in the swell and afterthought of the Great Song.  “YOU SHALL NOT,” he cries out in that first tongue, and all about him the trees bend mighty ancient limbs to the ground as if in homage to the syllables and consonants. 

 

His hands take on a bluish cast as he lifts them up....

Possessed by the power, shaking with rage, the blood of innocents rising like a perverse incense to the skies above, the air around him whirls in a fury, his dark hair whipping about his face as though possessed of a will of its own.  Slowly he raises his hand and in a terrible, dread voice, he calls out, and the skies turn an unnatural indigo. His hands take on a blue cast, and as he lifts them up to the skies, the orcs stop their terrible rampage and stare at this slender being, their piggish eyes locking on the screaming, fury of wind that twists and turns about him.  A few turn to run. Others stand in mute terror. Still other roars their challenge. But nothing can save them. Nothing.  Alatar surrenders the fury within him to the power about him, and in a single moment, the wind breaks upon itself and like a demon in its fury reaches out with tentacles of air and rip each Orc apart.  Tossing his head back, Alatar closes his eyes and opens his mouth, feeling the release of pent up power surge through the mortal form, find its victims and execute his justice.

 

...as the Istari crashes to his knees....



Then, as the Istari crashes to his knees, his breath hard, ragged, his body trembling and weak, his eyes blurred with tears, the wind dispels and is no more.  Wrapping his arms about his slender form, Alatar rocks back and forth, wordless sobs rack him and he weeps for the ones they came too late to save and wonders in a far corner of his mind…..
Where is Pallando?

Seeking hope, Seeking answers

"....Doubt not, mine own grandfather, you are, indeed, the Hope of the Valar, and the echo of the One True Flame....."

Her granddaughter's voice chases him up from dreams of fire, dreams of elven voices lifted in terror, lifted in defiance, warning.....and suddenly silenced.

Olwe, Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, fights his way out of the dream, the smell of burnt flesh and wood choking him, his throat raw, his eyes flying open.  His mind certain to find devastation and blood all about him, he finds instead the cabin given for his use aboard Miro's ship.

Gulping lungfuls of salty air, he rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands,  sitting up in the bed. Night has covered the sky with a velvet of stars, and a small shiver of the moon, nearly started on his nightly voyage across the sky, finds it way into the cabin window close by. 

Slowly the hammering of his heart slows down to its normal beat, and drawing in yet another deep breath, the Teleri king flops back onto the bed. Folding his arms behind his head, he looks out the cabin window, watching the sky. The stars, faithful still but for the loss of the one star most important to all of the Firstborn, the morning star, shining, bright, silent, as the sea itself rocks the ship in a gentle, comforting motion.  Where, wonders Olwe, is the morning star, and where is his niece, Elwing the White?  For the sudden disappearance of the morning star also meant the disappearance of her beloved husband, and was but one of the alarming portent of evil yet to come.

 ...he looks out the cabin window....

Slowly, the Lord of the Swanhaven closes his eyes, and allows the lull of the motion of the ship to comfort him. The kiss of the water against the wooden hull soothing, is reassuring to the Mariner King.  The great Vala Ulmo, Lord of the Waters of the World, has dealt gently with the ship, and as Miro the Teleri shipwright promised, the ship was sure and fleet upon the sea, and easily manned by the two elves.  

Their course would take them to Southwestern Eriador, in Minhiriath. The woods named by the Númenóreans as Eryn Vorn, but known to the Teleri sailors in Tol Eressea as Moire Taure, the Black woods, all that is left of an ancient woods that covered most of northwestern Middle Earth.  Woods that existed when a shy and young Olwe took on the mantle of leadership and led his people West to Aman. 

"So long ago," Olwe whispers. "So long ago." Slowly he rises from the bed and stands up, stretching long limbs and placing a hand in the small of his back to rub at muscles that seem to never un-knot now.  "I was young, and the world was young. Before the Númenóreans grew in their greed." 

He crosses his cabin and pulls out the sturdy wooden chair, sitting at the desk so cunningly built into the wall of the cabin itself.  Reaching into a drawer, he pulls out a well worn book with a cracked spine and yellowed pages, and lays it down upon the desk.  Above him, the globe of the elven lantern casts enough soft light for him to make out the pages as he opens the book and flips the pages to the section he seeks. 

 

... he pulls out a well worn book with a cracked spine...

There in those pages, Olwe reads again how the forest was decimated by the Númenóreans in their quest for wood suitable for the building of ships. There in those pages, he again reads how that same forest was nearly completely destroyed by Sauron during the war in Eriador.  Natives of Minhiriath either fled to Bree or fled deeper into Moire Taure for many years after that brutal war.  Perhaps they were still there during the recent war of the Ring.

Perhaps, as whispered by the Telerin sailors, elven kin settled into the forest after the One Ring was destroyed. Slowly, reverently, Olwe closes  the book. No book in the Master Library in Alqualonde, nor the smaller one in Tol Eressea can tell them that for certain. Not even his granddaughter, Nerwen, could shed light on that.  Slowly Olwe rises from the desk, and touches the hanging lamp, its light responding to his touch and softening to a dull glow.  There is only one sure way to find out.

Olwe turns on seaworthy legs and with the grace of his race, crosses the cabin to the doorway. As it disappears at his touch, he walks through the area where crew would bunk and into the door way of the galley. Leaning against it, he crosses his arms and closes his eyes a moment.  "I do not know if you hear me, Great Manwe, Mighty King of the West, Breath of Arda," he offers in a silent supplication. "The dreams have started back, as bad as before, and I am without the guidance of the Lord of Dreams. I do not question nor challenge the task set to me. But I ask, Lord Manwe, guide me, lead me, grant me wisdom. Make me strong for what is to be.  Let me serve the Valar well." 

Leaning against the doorway of the galley....

 Slowly he opens eyes the color of the blue skies, of the great waters of the world and pushes himself away from the doorway.  With sure strides he crosses to the ladder and climbs up topside to relieve the sea merchant, his boon companion, Nole at the wheel of the ship.  Ae he watches the retreating back of the loyal Nole, seeking his well-deserved rest, Olwe lifts his gaze to the lightening sky. Soon dawn would come, and another day upon the waters of the world, seeking hope...seeking answers.

...seeking hope, seeking answers

Summoning the Blue Wizards

Not a wind blows across the face of Middle Earth that does not flow through the halls of Mighty Manwe, Lord of the West, Greatest of all the Valar. And with each breeze is carried a million sighs, a million cries, a million laughs, a million hopes and prayers. Eonwe breathes in, though the action is more reflex than need, and the smoke of a fire in a place called the Shire fills his nostrils with the aroma of seasoned tobacco and half green wood. He turns his head as his boot strikes the ancient marble, leaving not a sound, and instead his ears can pick out the gentle notes of an elven love song, far, far to the east, the words tender, aching.  He casts his gaze ahead of up and then up, and for a moment, his eyes watch the twinkling of all the lanterns spread like jewels across the twilight sky, and an idle thought strikes him: where is Ilmare? Which star has drawn her fancy? Then he lowers his gaze from the canopy of the heavens, and instead his thoughts fill of  the one he serves, who has summoned him to this his Hall. 

The sweet scent of the incense as he enters...

 

The sweet scent of the incense as he enters, choosing by custom the right curving hallway, has the effect of filling the Maiar's heart with a sense of peace.  Before he has reached the hall's end, his blue eyes scan the open, spacious room for the figure of the Lord of the West, and his greeting is already upon his lips as he crosses quickly to his Lord's side and drops to a knee. "My Lord Manwe, " He says, his voice rich and full. "I am here at your call.  Tell me how I shall serve."

Eonwe...drops to a knee. "My Lord Manwe..."

"My Herald." Manwe beckons to Eonwe. Manwe rises and steps down to his herald Maia. His thoughts go back to when Eonwe was sent from his side, to be cleansed of the foul black magic of the Chambers below Mandos. That incident nearly cost Manwe his Herald, he whom had been loyal for many ages of Ea, all that is. The Eonwe that is here now is not clouded by the decay of Melkor.  He is whole and dependable and loyal. "Rise," Manwe says and extends his hand. "There is a matter that needs tending to in the mortal world. Something, I know you will do without error."

"There is a matter that needs tending..."

 

The Herald of the Lord of the West lifts his gaze to the hand extended to him, and at the gentle words spoken, his heart gives a leap. Created he was, for when the world was formless, to serve and be ever near the Breath of Arda, and in his heart burns a love deep and abiding, different than any mortal being could encompass. His own hand reaches up and clasps that of his Lord as he rises to his feet, his  eyes resting upon the face of the Lord of the West. "I shall endeavor to serve  My Lord, such as befits him," he responds, the winds of the world swirling about them: sounds, smells upon each tendril.  "What is this matter, My Lord Manwe?"

...his mind drifts back....

Manwe straightens up and his mind drifts back, many years ago to a distant point in time. To the day when five of the greatest Maiar stood in this very hall. The Maiar that shed back their power, diminished their might and knowledge and brought upon them flesh. Those that would then feel fear, care, and weariness. They were the emissaries; the Istari they would come to be called. One clothed himself in grey; Olorin, called by the free folk, Gandalf. His task completed, he returned with the ring-bearer, Frodo, and the Noldor queen, Galadriel. One clothed in white. Curumo, Saruman the fallen, he who deceived and traitored the free peoples and fought for power, cast out of the order, and his spirit departed from Ea. Radagast Awendil the Brown, the friend of birds and animals. He keeps watch over the lands and wanders throughout them. Two others came to his call. They both clothed in Blue colour: Pallando and Alatar. "My herald, do you remember the day when the five emissaries were gathered here, clothed in grey, white, brown  and blue? They that went to Middle-earth to unite the free people against the darkness that rose in the East? The servant of Melkor, Sauron?"

"My herald, do you remember the day....?"

 

Eonwe watches as his Lord's face grows thoughtful for a time, silently waiting his Lord's silence.  Then, the Lord of the West speaks.  Listening, Eonwe nods in answer. "Well, I remember, my Lord.  For Olorin is again amongst my brethren, though Awendil, Pallendro, and Alatar dwell yet in Middle Earth. As for Sauron." Eonwe pauses, and his gaze grows cold at remembrance of the traitor, "Better his name be wiped from all memory for his monstrous acts." He pauses again, and his voice is one more rich and warm as he looks toward his Lord. "I remember the day they all went forth, my Lord, well."

 

His gaze grows cold at remembrance of the traitor.

 

"I had commanded Pallando and Alatar into the East of Middle-earth. I did this as I foresaw a time they will be needed. After the War, there would be remnants of the dark forces remaining in the mortal world. These forces would seek to destroy the elves for their part in the War. Already, the elves are in danger, I fear. It is time for the Blue Wizards to begin their task. It is my request of you, my Herald, to go to these wizards with my command to act. Through the language of the winds, I know the Teleri King, Olwe is sailing now with his companion for the coast of old Cardolan. There along the rocky coast lays the forest of Moire Taure, a remnant of the vast primeval forest that once covered Middle-earth. I fear they will be in great danger."

Manwe pauses a moment in thought before continuing. "Pallando and Alatar must continue to honour the stipulation by which they accepted their task. They must not directly interfere with Olwe or Nole's tasks and can not directly interact with them. They are to protect them and render assistance. They must not," he remembers the downfall of the Maia Curumo, "dominate them or subject them to their power." Looking up at Eonwe, he says, "I know you can find Alatar and Pallando and hasten them to the Moire Taure with all speed."

"I know you can find Alatar and Pallando..."

Eonwe bows his head and says, "Some among the Maiar, who know not the mind of my Lord or the Will of Eru in this mock Pallando and Alatar, saying they failed you and the Vala the Lord Oroome. That they allowed the evil that fell across Middle Earth to flourish and grow." He lifts his head, and glances at Lord Manwe.  "Yet obedient they have remained," he add softly before he adds. "Yes, My Lord, I can speedily deliver your command to them. Shall I, too, assist them to Moire Taure, as well?"

"Eonwe, I can trust your decision on the matter. If you feel their need of assistance, help them as you can. It is imperative they arrive there ahead of Olwe. As I said, I fear dark forces at work in the Moire Taure." Manwe bows his head in thought and then nods. "Yes, that is all."

Eonwe kneels before the Lord of the West.... 

Eonwe kneels before the Lord of the West, and bows his head.  "As my Lord wishes, so it shall be. The Will of the Valar be done." He rises to his feet and takes a step back from his Lord. "I shall ensure the two are there in Moire Taure, my Lord, before the Hope of the Valar and his boon companion arrive. And I shall be speedily, for," he pauses for a moment, and the love and reverence for his Lord enfuses his face and gives his words a deep warmth they never had before he entered the dread chambers of Melkor's bespelled prison below the Halls of Mandos, "For, my Lord, I crave nothing so much as to be at your side, serving you." Then, like the winds surrounding  them, he is gone, quick as thought.

The Straight Road

The sound of the water slapping against the wooden hull of the ship sounds strangely muted  here, on the Straight Road. The wind pushes against the sails in with a wisp of a disembodied whisper, and gazing upon a sky that bears no blanket of stars, they have only Nole's sure hand on the wheel to guide them through this veil between the West and Middle Earth.

It is the Straight Road, following the old trail across Belegaer, kept open to the Firstborn by the grace of the Valar.  Long ago the world was flat and the way was open. That was before  Númenor's downfall.   Now, only the elves and only a few others, like the hobbits Bilbo and Frodo, like the dwarf Gimli, are allowed to navigate these waters and find their way to Aman. 

Only they were heading East, to Middle Earth.  To Middle Earth where Alqualonde lay like a jewel in the crown of the world's seas.  To Middle Earth where Olwe's quest takes them to shores forgotten, shores unknown, and shores best left forgotten.   

The blue eyes of the Lord of Alqualonde and Tol Eressea, the king of the Teleri elves stares out over the waters, a muddle of blue and gray, and heaves a sigh.  Turning he lifts his gaze and sees his friend and sole companion, Nole, the sea merchant, now confidante of the king and co-adventurer on the voyage.  With sure strides, Olwe climbs the steps and crosses over to Nole's side.  He nods at the younger elf, his gaze resting on the horizon ahead. "How much longer before we are through and in Middle Earth?" he asks softly.



"How much longer...?"



Nole smiles a little as his king approaches. The passage of time has little meaning on the Straight Road, and Nole does not recall just how long it takes to sail from the Blessed Lands to the mortal world.

 

"Hmmm," he says thoughtfully, "perhaps by sunrise we will reach the mortal seas of Belegaer. After that we will need to decide which coastal region to approach."

 

It has been a while since he has sailed the Straight Road. In the times before the disappearance of the Teleri he sailed this routinely. But that seems many ages ago. Alqualonde now lays in the mortal waters of Middle earth. It took him awhile to get used to the new homeward routes from the mainland coasts of Middle earth, but now, it feels to him the Straight Road, that was once so familiar, is now the strange uneasy route.

 

The wind tugs at the silver hair of both elves, and Olwe reaches up absently to push his hair back out of his sea blue eyes. Nodding at Nole's words, he peers, squinting a little, but even the keen and far sight of his race avails him little here, in the misty grey path between worlds.  Belegaer, the Sundering Seas, west of Middle Earth, east of  Tol Eressea.  He breathes in the air, but the familiar salt of the sea lies not upon the breeze.  He turns back and regards the younger elf.  "Tell me, friend Nole, of these suggestions the sailors made to you."

 

Steering the ship is not difficult on this path, for it was linear and smooth. Nole often wondered what lay beyond the gray mists on either side on previous trips on the Straight Road, but never had the nerve to steer into the deep mists.

 

 "They spoke of some marginal coastal areas that are either difficult to approach or have not heard from the inhabitants for a while. One lays quite near to the Grey Havens, to the south of the mouths of the Brandywine. This is a rugged coastal area of rocky shores and thick forests that reach down almost into the sea. This is the Moire Taure, or the Blackwood as it is known to some. Little is known about it except that it is a remnant of the primeval woods that covered ancient Middle earth. It seemed a likely area where our kin may be hidden from the mortal races. Another area they spoke of lay far to the south, in the Mumakeem Jungles south of Harad. That is a far and long journey even in our... Miro's ship" he finishes, with a tone of longing as he remembers the attractive shipwright.

 

The slight pause and the tone of Nole's voice catches the Teleri king's attention. He studies the sea merchant's face a moment as he turns his back to the horizon and sits upon the sturdy, polished railing.  Resting his hands upon his legs, he looks over at the younger elf and says softly, "You miss him." 

"You miss him."

 

 

"Yes," Nole says without thinking, but then regrets it. He tries not to let his feelings intrude on the matter at hand. "We will, one day go back there to the Grey Havens," he says and looks at his king. "Perhaps we should investigate the Moire Taure first?" he says fairly quickly, hoping to get back to what needed to be done. "We could always continue south if we do not find anything of interest there."

"Yes," Nole says, without thinking.

 

 

Olwe's gaze upon him is steady, his blue eyes intense, though for a few moments, the king is silent.  Then, not far from the ship, he hears a splash and turns in time to see a dolphin leap out of the water, spin and dive back in. "It looks like we are entering the mortal waters of Belegaer," he says, his voice gentle.  He rests each hand on either side of him on the railing and pushes off to stand again.  Nodding as much to himself as to his companion, he says, " Moire Taure, the Black Woods. I know not much of it."  He steps upon the raised disc and rests a hand on one of the crescent moons of the ship's wheel. "I think you are right, Nole, about that being a starting place. Whether our kin be there or no, it is a reasonable stopping place." He gives the other elf a soft smile and removes his hand, turning away to look again toward the seas, and the lightening skies. "It's not wrong to miss him, " Olwe says. "It's not wrong at all. Our hearts have their own will, Nole. Sometimes they are foolish in their whims. " He stops a moment, and then adds, "But sometimes...sometimes they are very wise, indeed."  Then he takes a step away from the younger Telerin. And when he speaks next, his voice is that of a king. "Let us make for Moire Taure, and see what the Black Woods hold."

 

 

 

 



"No matter what befalls..."

Heavy was the sky, heavy with clouds, heavy with mist, heavy as Olwë's heart.  He lifts a hand as his eyes, the blue of the sea, watch the mist ahead of the ship, and he gently lays his hand where but a few hours before his daughter's hand had rested.  It is but a fancy, he knows, but he can still feel the gentle pressure of her delicate hand as she walked beside him in his palace in the Lonely Isle, Tol Eressëa.  He looks ahead, but his mind flies with his thoughts back to that time this morning, his leave-taking of his daughter and her daughter.

The marble, worked cunningly by elven craftsman, breathes coolness into the air. Close beside him, her long silver blue gown swirling about her like a gentle lap of the sea against shore, walks the Swan maiden, Eärwen Silverhair, daughter of Olwë,  the wife of Finarfin, and the mother of Nerwen, known in the mortal world as the Lady of the Golden Wood, Galadriel.  Nerwen, tall and regal, who but not so long ago returned to the Undying Lands, walks close beside.  A sea of fabric, the train of their gowns, flow over the marble floor with a soft swish in gentle rhythm to their graceful gait. 

 

Time has touched his daughter. Before she would lift her head in a defiant gesture, her eyes, so like her mother, a gemlike spark, fixing on his, and her voice, melodic even as it could be challenging, brooking no argument but seeking agreement even as she knows the point she seeks to win may be moot. But now the passage of time has settled patience in his daughter, though her eyes narrow and glitter like faceted jewels.  Her arm, heavy with disapproval, tucked into the crook of his arm, as she clears her voice and speaks.  "Papa,” she begins, her Telerin bearing the inflections of the Noldorin she speaks daily, now, her words sometimes sounding foreign and different.  "Papa," She pauses, and her face shows an internal struggle, the lips pursing, and the color rising to her ivory cheeks.

 

Beside them, Nerwen lifts her head, her bright eyes shifting from her mother to her grandfather.  Then she turns her gaze ahead of them and bows her head slightly, her hands clasped before her.  Resting his hand atop his daughter's, Olwë speaks in a quiet hush, shaking his head softly, "I must do this, my pearl. I must go. I have delayed and been delayed, and I feel the soft pat of the sand in the hourglass."  He pauses and glances over at his granddaughter.  "As do you,” He says. Startled she looks up and over at him, her eyes widening. 

 

"I do not know,” replies Eärwen, and her bottom lip trembles a little. "I do not know but that I must watch you leave these shores and travel but with one other for places I know not, to dangers I know not. And if something should happen..."

 

Olwë stopped and turned to his daughter, lifting a hand to caress her cheek.  "If something should happen, daughter, then it will be as the Valar wills, and still the Teleri will endure, for you are my heir, and their pearl. You, Swan maiden, you will endure.  Queen once already by marriage, will be Queen again, by blood."  His blue eyes look down, searching her face. "Why does this take you so hard, daughter?  You have watched your own children depart from your side, to their destinies." He pauses to flash a look to the still form of his granddaughter. "And you have had them return to your side.  Why is this so different, now?"

 

"You are no warrior, my lord grandfather,” Nerwen says softly, her voice filling the empty cool space of the vast hall.  "King, yes, kind and compassionate, much loved, much cherished. Can you not feel the heaviness that lies upon the heart of the Teleri in the Lonely Isle? Their kin is gone, silenced, from the Swanhaven.  And now their king, who, by some sweet grace of Eru was yet saved, goes from them into the mists, into the Middle Earth that is as foreign to them as the loss that settles heavy as a stone."

 

Olwë is silent a moment, his hand curved against the cheek of his daughter, his eyes meeting Nerwen's steady gaze. "Truly, no warrior am I. No feat of arms can I claim," he says, finally, slowly, his gaze unwavering. “But King I have been, and am still and I will go wherever it takes to find my people and bring them home.  I..." he stops, feeling a warm wetness on his palm resting against his daughter's cheek. Turning his gaze back to her, Olwë sees her eyes, filling with tears which trail down her cheeks unbidden.

 

"But Papa, “she says, "There is more than that, in this trek you take. There is more than a seeking for your lost people."

 

“Our,” corrects the Lord of Alqualondë, of Tol Eressëa. “ OUR people,” he repeats firmly, and his jaw tightens as his eyes bore into hers.

 

“Mother has long been among the people of my father, my lord,” interjects Nerwen.  Her voice is both stern and respectful, and her eyes fix upon her grandfather as she draws herself up to her full height.

 

Her grandfather turns his steady gaze upon her, his jaw clenching a moment. “As should she, both queen and wife, but daughter of mine she is, and Teleri is her blood. And should the world turn upon itself, and down be up, and right be left, still it is that blood which fills her veins,” he replies. “MY blood. The same blood that imparts to you a Telerin birthright as well Noldorin.”  He turns back to his daughter and his voice softens. “Do not forget the sea. Do not forget the swanships. Do not forget the voices of our people raised up in song at day’s end.  Remember you duty, yes, for you are my daughter. Remember it to your husband. Remember it to your father.  It is upon two shores you walk, but never, daughter, forget upon which shores you took your first steps and where your birthright lies.”

 

Taken aback at the rebuke, Eärwen bows her head. “As my lord father commands, “ she says, and all the hurt in her heart at his words shapes each syllable of each word  as she stiffens her body and pulls away from the hand still pressed to her cheek. 

 

The heat drains from his words, from his face, and his hand drops back to his side as he feels her start to pull her hand away from the cradle of his arm. “No, sweet, no, sweet,” He murmurs in Quenya, and steps forward to wrap his arms around his daughter and draw her to him. “Oh, my daughter, my daughter,” he whispers and kisses the top of her head, lips pressed against the soft silver tresses, so much like his own. “Please,” he continues, resting his cheek against her hair a moment. “I should not bear to take leave of you this way.  I am ancient, daughter, and sometimes too stern.”

 

Her arms snake around him. Once more the years roll back, and she is his child once more, pressing a hot cheek, glistening with tears against his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm and the smell  comforting. “No, no, no, father,” she whispers hotly. “No, neither ancient or stern.  But you are my father, my only parent, as no mother have I  known.” He closes his eyes at her words and pulls her closer.  “I do not think my heart can bear the sorrow if I should lose you,” she says, and presses closer.

 

A sigh escapes the Teleri King as he turns his face to breath in the sweet scent of his daughter’s hair. “Never can you lose me, Eärwen, nor I you. Never can we lose each other, or the ones we love.” He turns his head and lifts it, his gaze meeting his granddaughter’s. “Bound more than by blood, we are,” He speaks, as much for their benefit as for his own.  “Never  can we be torn from each other, so long as we are held in the other’s heart.” 

 

He watches as Nerwen gives him a smile, the lips curving as the eyes light with a mischievous glint. “Even if we chase the swans of your beloved haven because we seek a soft white feather for our own?” she asks, her voice merry with memory of a time, long ago, when, her long blonde hair flying out behind her, she became the terror of the swans of Alqualondë, while on a visit there.

 

“I forgave you long since,” answers Olwë, “though I warrant Maisy may bear some ill will.”  And the smile he gives is bright, warm. 

 

Gliding gracefully, Nerwen moves to his side, and as she nears, Olwë opens his arms and gathers her into his embrace, holding both daughter and granddaughter to him, and bowing his head to say softly. “All the lamps in the sky, the stars which burn, are but half as bright as you shine in my heart.  Hold me in  yours, I beseech, until we next see each the other with joyful eyes. Give to me now, your blessings. For with each moment I delay my departure, I delay my return.” 

 

Giving them one more squeeze, he slowly releases them.  Stepping back, with a fluid, swift motion, the Lord of the Teleri, Olwë of Alqualondë and of the Lonely Isle, kneels before them and bows his silver head.  For a moment, a stillness lay upon them all, and then slowly, Eärwen takes a step forward and rests her delicate hands upon his hair lightly, followed a moment later by Nerwen, who speaks first even as her mother draws herself up to speak.

 

“Fare well from these shores, and speed you on your way. You travel, gentle King as the Light of Eru against the darkness of a deep and dread Shadow.  Doubt not, great King, your compassion is your shield. Doubt not, Lord of Swanhaven and of Lonely Isle, your sword is your honor, and your true bond is your steed.  Doubt not, mine own grandfather, you are, indeed, the Hope of the Valar, and the echo of the One True Flame,” she intones, and her voice swells and lifts to the very ceiling, sounding heavy and far away. 

 

“And doubt not,” adds the Swan maiden, Eärwen, her voice steady, her bearing regal. “Doubt not, my father, but you shall return to us, and that until that day, we left here, shall keep you in our hearts.”

“No matter what befalls,” adds Nerwen.

 

Stirring himself, called back to this moment, and the roll and pitch of the sea,  the Hope of the Valar lifts his gaze to stare out upon the midst that gives ghostly forms to the lands of Middle Earth as faithfully and surely the ship lent  to Nole and to him by Miro takes them from the Blessed Realm. 

 

“No matter what befalls," he whispers. “No matter what befalls.”