"She'll be right enough"

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano



Slowly she straightened up and put a hand against the small of her back, pressing in as her vertebra popped, and she felt a moment's relief.  Sighing, Arianna closed here eyes a moment and tilted her head up, like a flower turning to the watery warmth of the autumn sunlight.  The damp smell of leaves, fallen to ground to compost into thick rich dirt mingled with the smells of wood burning, and she opened bird bright eyes to watch the smoke rise lazily from her chimney, a thick black mass against the grey sky.  Rain, soon. She can smell.  Rain again, and as she lowers her gaze back to her vegetable before her, she bends down slowly to her basket and feels her bad hip catch.  Her finger splay and then curl into claws as the pain laces through her body, and she grits her teeth so hard her jaw aches.

Moments that feel like eternities pass, and she gasps and pants as the pain finally eases.  Her fingers uncurl, and a hand goes to rest protectively over the hip.  "That be a bad one," she whispers to herself.  Breathing nosily through her nose, she shuffles about in a half circle until she is able to walk with some balance, and the light headedness that comes with the pain fades.  Then she comes back to her basket and with great care, reaches down for the handles, picking it up.  She runs her gaze across the last of her vegetables and a soft groan escapes her.  

In the basket is a pathetic harvest. She picked all the tomatoes, even the green ones for those that are red are shrivelled  aged with the cold nights and harsh wind.  She would lay the green ones out in the window, in hopes they would turn, thankful that her wise man had long ago taught her the value of this fruit where so many in the town shunned it as poison.  The onions were fair enough to eat, she suspected, but their pungant smell warned well how they would flavor food, and given her small bounty, she may well be driven to eat them whole and uncooked before the winter was done.  The potatoes are half rotted and soft, and the corn that did not rot from rains is wormy and hard.  The beans, zucchini, and rhubarb were all dead, black, slimy to the touch.  There is no more to be gleamed from the plants here now,  the old woman knows.  If she is lucky, and there is no rain over the next few days, she may be able to lay in a winter garden of cabbage, cardoons,  lamb's lettuce,  endive, garlic, and peas. Turning away with a heavy sigh, she walked slowly and painfully to the house.  

Behind her, in the barn, the cow lows its complaint for fresh hay. "You git hay, bossy old thing when I gets to it, " She calls over her shoulder. The cow  snorts and stamps a hoof against the floor before dipping her head down to nose among the lose straw.  As she reaches her cottage, Arianna shoves the basket onto the work table, by the bucket of used soapy water, and the urn  of clear water that Yavanna had drawn this morning.  Pausing there, the crone draws in a heavy breath before continuing on into the house.  The wind rose as she opens the door, whispering of cold winter and promising more rain, the damp leaves on the ground making a feeble attempt to rise and dance once more.  The warmth of the fire rushes up to kiss her aged face as the door shut.  Crossing the room, her sharp eyes rest upon the worktable that long ago her man built for her. There, turned upside down on a kitchen towel are a collection of crockery, jars in which she had preserved jams, jellies and pickled vegetables the summer past, before the strange young woman appeared upon her door.  This morning after the young woman left to take the wash down, Arianna went to check her stores, and  was greeted with the overripe smell of spoilt food.   The crockery seems sound, but the wax had collapsed upon itself, mottled yellow and brown. 

Clucking to herself, the old woman crossed the room and dropped into her rocker, her bones creaking in tandem with the old wood.  "I must done something wrong," she says aloud.  "That paraffin I always made it the same way, from my vegetable oil." She shook her head. She tried to recall her methods, the steps she took, but the memory slips and slides around the corners of her thoughts and escapes her. The end result is the same, she grimly  realizes. 

She sighs and rocks, closing her eyes. Immediately, the image of the other, much younger woman rises before her.  How odd she is, Arianna thinks, and odder still how her appearance has changed during her time with the old woman.  She looks, now, as wilted and as sucked of life, as some of the plants in the vegetable garden.  Her skin is now dusky, and her hair dull and lifeless, and in the younger woman's eyes, to Arianna, is a sadness that is as cold and as lonely as the winter wind on a moonless night. For some time now, as the old woman has watched the younger, she has asked herself if some god or other laid  a curse upon her, and that was the cause for the change in the girl, for the way green things seem to wilt at her touch.  At night, in bed, when her hip seizes up or in the early morning, when her arthritic joints refuse to move, she has felt more than once an anger and jealousy shake her: anger and fear that somehow, she is wilting from being in close quarters with the girl. Jealousy  at the younger woman's health, vigor, vim, life.  She has yet to live years that I already have, Arianna thought in those hard and mean moments. I want my years back!

And as she sits, wrapping her thin arms around her thick waist, she draws in a breath and admits to herself she does not want those years back.  She does not want the stretch of decades of life.  Her arms ache for the child she lost. Her heart aches for the man she loved.  

The old woman opens her eyes and looks over at the spot where she bathed Yavanna that night, and her heart squeezes tight. The memory of how Yavanna sat in the bath water, so trusting, so innocent, so lovely and fresh catches her up.  Her arms ache to hold a person who does not exist, the adult her own child never became.  

But this daft woman is not her child, the woman tells herself, and I've not enough to feed two through this year's end.  The pedlars who normally traded with the old woman have not come as expected, and while her wax did not hold true for her spoiled food, it was good enough to produce her scented candles, for which she would have traded items needed for the harsh season ahead.  "That girl must have someone looking for her, " She said aloud, and her voice was sandy, rusty with emotions she refuses to vent.   I cannot feed her, she admits to herself silently.  I cannot feed us both this winter. Sitting now in the silence of her house, she can wrap herself in memories of times past, of love past.  Sitting now, she can admit that she moves slower, does less, sits more....and dreams of the laughter and smiles that once filled her life. 

She stops rocking and sighs. "I have to tell that child tonight," she whispers, and the fire beside her answers with pops and crackles. "I can send her down to the village with some warm clothes, a coin or two, and there they will find her people.  I give her my old fancy clothes, do up her hair, paint her cheeks. She look like a lady, and they will fall over themselves finding her people. We make think they be getting gold, and they will fall over themselves serving her."  

Outside the wind whips up again, and Arianna painfully pushes herself up from her rocking chair and turns to the fire, flexing stiff fingers.  "She be right enough," she whispers.  "She be right enough."

A Sleepless Night

Played by:
Belenos Rhiano
Rhun Rhiano


Tilion's vessel hangs low in the western sky as it nears the end of its nightly journey, clothing the land below in the small clearing in the forest where sits the crone's cottage in a gentle silver light.  The forest around breathes the quiet rustlings of creatures seeking their dens after a night foraging.  From the old stable there comes the light rasping of tongue upon empty manger as the cow, its black and white hide gleaming softly in the moonlight, licks hopefully for remains of last night's supper.  Dissatisfied the beast swishes its tail across a flank and settles down to wait impatiently for the dawn and a renewal of its food, shifting a little on its feet to relieve the ache of an increasingly full udder. 

Tilion's vessel hangs low in the western sky...

The beast is not the only wakeful one this night.  In the tiny space that is the upper floor of the old cottage another stirs.  Sighing, she turns onto her back, moving carefully on the thin camp bed upon which she lies.  Despite her care the old dry wood of the frame creaks a loud protest and she freezes to listen, waiting for a reprimand, but the snores of the old woman below continue unabated.  Breathing a sigh of relief, Yavanna Kementari, Queen of the Earth, carefully folds her arms behind her head upon the coarse but clean fabric of her pillow.  

...another stirs.

Her gaze is drawn to the one small window of her room.  Beyond the thick, rough glass panes she can make out the restless shifting of the forest, as leaves flutter and rustle, clinging desperately to their branches, as though in defiance of their coming death. The cold season of snow seems bound and determined to push through to an early arrival, barely allowing time for the completion of harvest and laying in of stores. Despite the unseasonal warmth of this night, before long the trees would lie naked, clothed only in snow and ice. 

A long silver beam of light from Tilion's vessel inches its way across the floor as she watches, falling upon the empty cradle, unused but unable to be thrown away, that rests upon the far wall, a silent memento of times long past.  Yavanna has heard the love in the old woman's voice as she has spoken of her husband and child.  What hope and joy must have once been in her life and yet.. and yet she is alone now, struggling with age against every passing year.  How much longer would she be able to go on?  Who would know the moment when she failed at last?  Perhaps a fall, or a long slow death one winter when not enough stores had been laid in.  But who would know? Who would care?  Perhaps in the town where the crone went from time to time to trade and barter, her absence may be noticed and some may come to look for her. 

...unused but unable to be thrown away.

Does anyone look for me? Do I have a child who cries for its mother?  Is there a husband whose heart breaks for missing me, as Arianna's does for the loss of her husband?  She shifts a little and stares up at the thick thatch of the roof.  What was my life like?  What did I do?  As always her mind skitters away from those questions, leaving behind only a sense of aching sadness and despair.  

Does anyone look for me?

Yavanna lifts a hand and trails her fingertips over the delicate artwork upon her face.  "He" had done that, she knew.  She had seen it, in her shimmering reflection at the stream where she went to wash.  Delicate curve of leaf and vine trailed across her forehead and cheek, down her body, even to the most intimate of places.  Kneeling at the stream she had closed her eyes and could almost feel his touch as he marked her with his love.  Why then, when she opened her eyes again did tears fall, shattering the image in the stream?  Why now did her heart feel as though it was being torn from her chest even by thinking of him?  He had loved her.  He had LOVED her!  And she had loved him.  Is he looking for her?  

She presses her eyes closed again and shakes her head impatiently.  One thing she had learned in her time here with the old woman was that she, Yavanna, was not .. normal.  She would have to be blind not to have noticed the steady decline and death of all living things she touched.  Even the mossy path to the stream, once green and springy beneath her feet was now nothing but dry, brown and crumbling.  The crone had forbidden her to work in the garden after that first day.  The merest touch of her fingers had turned the leaves of one plant yellow and shrivelled   "Even I am turning brown and dead." The whisper is a harsh acknowledgement of what she knows to be so.  The last time she had looked into the stream her skin had been even more dark: her hair, once like spun silver was lank and the color of old straw.  

She returns her hand to behind her head and opens her eyes again and they stare, large, luminous and unseeing up at the thatch.  Is that why I was alone in the forest?  Did he abandon me because I am cursed somehow?  Maybe she truly was addled as the crone had implied.  Maybe she had become lost and he was looking for her.  Again the overwhelming sense of sorrow and heartbreak washes through her and she catches her breath at the intensity of it.  "I am here," she whispers into the silence of the night. "I am here!"

"I am here!"

Far away, beyond the Great Sea, beyond the Enchanted Isles, upon the distant high slopes of Mount Taniquetil, Aule Tulka Marda stumbles as he follows the Herald, Eonwe, to his lodgings.  He pauses and turns, looking around.  He had heard her voice!  As clear as though she had walked by his side, he had heard her call him, "I am here!"  Yet there is no one but the Herald, walking on ahead of him.  Yavanna!  By Eru's beard, it had been Yavanna!  But where? Where?

Irmo Searches for Yavanna

Played by:
Shawn Daysleeper


The Lord of Dreams settles down on a stone bench beside a pool of water under a great mallorn tree. He then prepares to search and explore the many complex dimensions of Lorien. He needs a quiet place to begin his task, for unlike a seafaring elf on the sea or a man of the wild, he explores the dimensions with his mind. He is quite anxious at how huge this task, yet he is determined to find Aule's wife if she is here. 

The dimensions are varied, and just as no two people are similar, no two dimensions are the same. For they are wrought by the individual to whom it belongs. Some spiral with chaos in psychedelic colors and light, while others are filled with bizarre sights, such as falling snow on a midsummer's eve. Still others are filled with the unreal and the grotesque. These dimensions, created to fit the need of the one to who it belongs, are only to be seen by the one that dreamed it. But Irmo, Lord of Dreams, can pierce them all.

These dimensions are not static either, for they shift to fill the needs of the dreamer. Like flitting rifts, they shift between light and dark, heat and cold, and good and evil. This further complicates his task as the Vala of illusions searches for the missing Yavanna.

Irmo's body relaxes against the tree and breathes in the sweet air. With each breath he goes deeper and deeper with his quest. He catches glimpses of many things. The joy of a mother reunited in her dreams with a lost child. The rapture as one meets the one whom he would have as lover in his life but as yet such a thing is only a dream. Dark memories of times past and dark yearnings of the sick and twisted mind. Shuddering, Irmo backs away, and keeping to his task of finding the Lady of Fruits.

As he searches he ponders why she has vanished. If he knows the reason then it may make it easier to find her. He wonders if her disappearance is connected to her husband's infidelity with his sister Nienna, or maybe it is connected to the dark magic that had poisoned Mandos? Shaking his head, the Lord of Dreams resolves that whatever the cause, he will search as long as it takes to either find her, or ensure she is not in the World of Dreams.

"I Cannot Find Her!"

Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
Rhun Rhiano
Shawn Daysleeper


Aule's feet carry him rapidly across the polished marble floor of the throne room, his heart leaping with hope at Manwe's words.  Surely, surely the Lord of the West will be able to help.  He MUST be able to help.  His strides carry him past the eternal flame until he stands beside the bowed form of the Maiar. He stands then respectfully at the base of the stairs to the throne and lifts his dark, troubled eyes to those of the Lord of the Breath of Arda.  "I.. I cannot find her!" He blurts out, unable to think of a diplomatic way to express his concerns. "I have searched the length and breadth of our lands and I cannot find her!"

'...I cannot find her!'

Gracefully the Mightiest in Arms rises to his feet, the soft creak of leather, the smell a comforting one to his nostrils, mingles with the soft swish of his voluminous robes.  His blue eyes, ever sharp, rise to rest upon the face of the Lord of the West, the coolness of the throne room of Manwe cooling his cheek in a soft kiss, the air filled with all the soft sounds and smells from across the face of the world of the Children of Eru.  Behind the Breath of  Arda, the flat round palantir is affixed to Manwe's mighty throne, and the quiet universe revealed in it moves in an orderly, tranquil, endless progress. He takes a step forward, towards the Lord Manwe, and instead contents himself with a side step closer to the Smith of Arda.   He turns his head sightly toward the Smith of Arda, and cocks his head as he listens to the words.  Quietly he closes his eyes briefly, and stills his inner turmoil.  All the brilliant essences of all the Valar, all the Ainur, all are there just within his ethereal reach, all but one. Where, where was the Giver of Fruits?  Where was Yavanna?

Where was Yavanna?

Manwe looks upon the Smith in genuine attention. He had resolved to assist the troubled Vala, but this request puzzles him. "Cannot find her?" Manwe asks in a perplexed tone. He looks at Eonwe, seeking any sigh of confirmation as to who specifically he is seeking. He wishes not to reveal to the Maker or his trusted Herald his slow decay of foresight, or the weariness of the ages. "Who, what do you mean? How can I help?"

"Cannot find her?"

Aule strides forward unbidden, in his agitation. and takes Manwe's forearm.  "Yavanna!" The name is painful upon his tongue. "Surely you have noticed her absence.  Or is it only I that she hides her presence from?  I cannot find Yavanna anywhere, nor.. " his voice breaks slightly at this confession and he pauses and takes a breath, the next works coming out gustily as he exhales, "nor can I sense her.  She is gone."

'...She is gone.'

A soft gasp escapes the Herald, and the face, normally placid, devoid of personal emotions, betrays the inner turmoil the words of the Lord of the West cause within him.  "Who?" asks Manwe.  His blue eyes grow round, as he watches the Smith ascend the stairs and face Manwe. Quickly, with the fluid strides of a warrior, Eonwe follows the Maker and comes up to his side.  He reaches out a hand and stops just short of touching his Lord. He watches as Aule takes  Manwe's arm, and without thought, the Herald reaches out and lays his hand atop the Smith's forearm, his blue eyes seeking out the gaze of the Smith, and he gives a barely discernible shake of his head. Turning back to Lord Manwe, he bows his head, "I cannot sense her either, my Lord? Please, Lord Manwe, your wise and far-seeing guidance is needed."

Manwe feels a rush within him. He is taken aback by showing his weakness. Swiftly he lifts his hand before Eonwe with a slight facial glance. He predicted his Herald's reaction before it came, as Eonwe is, indeed, very wise of change. He has served the Breath of Arda for many of the long years of the existence of Ea. "Nothing is amiss," he whispers back, in a way conveying that this discussion is now finished. "Yavanna," he says much louder so that Aule can hear. He closes his eyes in thought a moment. "I do not sense her presence," he then says. "This is, indeed, concerning. I must commune further on this matter."

"...I must commune further on this matter."

Aule glances at Eonwe as he feels his hand atop his, noting the slight shake of the head, and he looks down at where he has hold of Manwe's arm, his long, strong fingers clutching the fabric of his garment tightly. He had not even been aware he had laid hands upon the Lord of the West such was his agitation.  He begins to uncurl his fingers, but then the movement is arrested as he hears Manwe's words.  "Concerning?  My wife, one of the Aratar has utterly disappeared and you want to 'commune?"  His voice is rising as he speaks, driven by his worry.  Rather than releasing his hold, he now shakes Manwe's arm. "Is THIS what your promise is worth?  Milksop words and no action? Something must be done.  You MUST do something!"

A frown crosses the face of the Maia, and he turns his body  to face the Smith and takes a step  that puts his Lord behind him. His hand tightens upon the forearm of Aule, and blue eyes turn steely as he lifts his chin and speaks in a voice deadly calm to the Vala, forgetting all else but that his Lord had been seized upon so. "My Lord Aule," he says, "Remember thyself. It is your Lord you have lain hands upon.  No wisdom can be had from rising temper.  Desist, Maker, and let the words of Manwe flow, that we may better understand."

He takes another step, butting his hip against the arm of the Maker. His eyes remain steady, but his voice drops, and the deep richness of his voice becomes warmer and more urgent. "You called me friend but moments past, outside these walls when first I brought unto our Lord. If I am friend now, remember yourself. If your wife, the Beloved Yavanna matters, remember yourself. "  He wills his gaze to penetrate the thickness and heat of the Maker's voice. "Desist, Lord Aule, desist, if naught else but for she whom you despair for."

"Desist, Lord Aule, desist.."

Manwe does not pull his arm back but says in a softer more gentle and emphatic tone to the Maker, "Listen to my explanation. Acting in haste and anger does not lead one on the wise path to solution. I must consult with Eru, Lord of All. Through this communion a path will present itself so that I can find your wife. This I make my priority. So may I suggest you accompany Eonwe for a time, and allow me to do this. I will summon you both before me once I derive our course of action. For finding your wife will involve you, dear Maker, foremost of all."

Aule shakes his head as though waking from a daze and stares into the steel blue eyes of the Maiar beside him.  There was another time, not so long ago where those eyes had looked at him with scorn and wrath. Now, though, he sees nothing there but a need to both protect his Lord, and something else.  Could it be the Herald of Manwe felt concern for him?  For Yavanna, definitely, but for he, Aule, too?  Aule takes a deep breath and releases his hold upon Manwe, letting his hand drop listlessly to his side, and with the gesture all fight seems to leave him.  His shoulders slump and his chin drops, fully expecting justified wrath from his Lord for his impetuous actions.   But wait, what was this?

Aule lifts his head and stares at Manwe as he takes in his gentle words.  His dark eyes flood with relief, and he bows his head humbly as he speaks. "I forgot myself, my Lord.  I humbly ask your forgiveness.  You asked me once to trust you just as you gave your trust unto me, and poorly this day have I returned it.  As you will, so shall it be.  I shall await upon your summons."

Slowly, Eonwe takes in a breath. The Maia needs no breath, but the physical body with which he has clothed himself does. As he draws in the breath, he feels how he had tensed his muscles, how prepared he was to wrestle with the Smith in defense of his Lord, and now he relaxes his stance, allowing a glint of relief that it had not come to that to flow into his gaze and in his rich voice as he steps aside. "I shall gladly do my Lord's bidding and take you where you may rest and refresh, my Lord. If you will grace the humble home of a Maia, I should serve you myself and be boon companion until my Lord should summon me  from your side or else call you to his."

He glances over to Lord Manwe and gives a small bow of his head, the earlier look given to the Herald by the Lord of the West not lost upon him, even as he moved to defend his sovereign Lord.  "Your wisdom is our guide, my Lord, "he says, his voice reverent. "I am ever thy Herald, my Lord, and thy word is my will."

He steps back and gestures to the Maker of Arda. "My Lord, pray lead, and I shall follow. We must leave the Breath of Arda to know the Mind of Eru."