Henneth Annûn Story Archive

Chapter 16 Ilmarë hurried through the clouds obscuring the peak of Taniquetil. She broke through their layer of white stillness and paused to smile as she breathed in the clear blue air known as Ilwë – the air that flowed between the stars and surrounded the summit of Taniquetil in endless night. The snow beneath Ilmarë’s feet now glowed with the reflected lights of Varda. The stars hung so close here, it seemed if she reached out far enough she could capture one in her hand. The blanketing peace she found there in the blue of Ilwë was far removed…far from the destruction she had just witnessed. For a moment the thoughts of battle fled Ilmarë’s mind, chased away by the comfort of home. Home…Ilmarë shook her head at the thought. This had not been home for so many years, this massive house of blue and white marble sheltered beneath the roof of Ilwë. She walked up the path of silver sand and scattered jewels but she did not follow it to the tall glittering front doors. Ilmarë left the path before it reached the house. Her feet took her toward the tall watchtower next to the mansion and after passing the threshold, they took her up the blue marble stairs leading to the topmost room. She hastened up those stairs and when she reached the doorway at the top she halted, resting her hand against the white marble wall as she studied the room’s lone occupant. A great throne rose before a wide, doorless opening and upon the throne sat a great man in robes of sapphire blue. He raised his head toward the opening in the wall and stared off into the distance with eyes gray as a rising storm… “It is over then.” A wearied sadness overshadowed the power in his voice and Ilmarë knew he grieved. His decision of war had not been an easy one and her spirit grieved with him. “Yes, Manwë, it is over,” she said. “And your avoidance of me…” he said, still looking out into the endless night, “…that has ended as well?” “It has,” she said, her voice echoing in the vast stillness of the room. Ilmarë saw his head lower slightly and to know she had given him some comfort offered her some as well. “Sit with me, Erinti,” he said, holding out his hand, “I want you near. You have been away for too long.” The thought of entering that room frightened Ilmarë, such that she almost fled. But she could not. She walked noiselessly across the marble floor and a silver chair appeared on the steps beneath his high throne. When she took her seat, her head sat level with his knees and she felt the urge to rest her head upon them as she had before in years long past. He seemed to expect her to do just that and Ilmarë sensed his disappointment when she did not. “Where is Eönwë? Why have you returned before him?” he asked, studying her closely as though searching for something. “Sorontur brought me… I wished to return before the others. Eönwë follows with Tulkas and Oromë. They bring Morgoth that he may stand before the Council for his final judgment.” “You know what will be done with him and those who followed him?” Manwë asked. “I know,” Ilmarë said in a voice as grave as her mood. “There will be some offered pardon…those whose spirits are not fully corrupted, yet they must sit in judgment that the Council may decide.” Ilmarë did not answer. She searched for a way to tell him why she had come. “Will you show me what happened, Erinti?” his said suddenly. “I could not see through the distance and the Shadow of Morgoth, not without Varda beside me. She and Eönwë will show me when they return, but I would like to see it first through you.” His question startled her; she forgot her fear and looked up at him. When last she looked into his eyes, condemnation filled them and the gray was darkened with anger. Now she saw only patience and understanding…and the slightest trace of fear. Manwë worried she would deny him and Ilmarë was shocked. She nodded and bowed her head, closing her eyes as she did. Manwë hesitated a moment before resting his mighty hand upon Ilmarë’s head. A soft smile appeared and he ran his hand along her hair, which he noted with pride was as black as his own. He brought his hand back up and rested it gently on her head again as he closed his own eyes. He frowned when Ilmarë’s memories showed themselves. He saw what remained of the lands of Beleriand - he had not imagined the destruction would be so great. Death hung like a pall over the ruined lands and everywhere bodies and debris layered the ground. The host of Valinor had claimed their victory over Morgoth, but at what price, Manwë thought…at what terrible price. The images came rapid and blurred in Ilmarë’s haste to be done with them. The scent of charred flesh heralding the death of the Balrogs…braying in agony as Aulë’s powerful flame combined with their own and charred Morgoth’s servants alive. Tears streamed down Aulë’s face as they died …they had been his servants once…they had been Ainur…his brethren…Manwë’s brethren… Eärendil leapt from his ship of bright stars and onto a large black dragon, cleaving the beast with mighty blows until it fell dead. Manwë saw the surprise of the Ainur when the dragons were unleashed, an army kept hidden by Morgoth until the very last. Some flew, some crawled along the ground, some breathed fire and some did not, but all met the same fate in the end…pain and death. Makar and Meássë on the battlefield… her arms and hands stained red with blood and his sword ringing as he hewed any who stood before him. Manwë had not known the reclusive Valar to leave their Iron Fortress in the Outer Lands of Valinor since Morgoth’s first defeat. He was glad to see they had joined their brethren to defeat Morgoth a final time. Leading the host was Eönwë, the winds he commanded leveling what few enemies were quick enough to escape the stroke of his great sword. Above the battlefield, Tulkas and Oromë tore apart the mountain of Thangorodrim with their bare hands and rent Angband asunder, at last pulling Morgoth’s dark form from the bowels of the mountain fortress. A final image flashed – a woman flying in the guise of a bat, slashing with claws and fanged teeth, then screaming in long wails as bolts of lightning struck her, leaving nothing but ash and a feeling of grim satisfaction… Manwë removed his hand and opened his eyes as he said, “Explain what I have seen, Erinti.” Ilmarë heard a touch of the anger she remembered and it was easier to steel herself against than his sorrow. “The creature was called Thuringwethil,” she said, now sitting straight and squaring her shoulders, “a servant of Morgoth. I destroyed her and Námo collected her spirit, as he did all the others.” “You know that is not the explanation I desired. One does not kill for enjoyment. It is wrong,” he said and his words were laced with the lecturing tone she knew so well. “I killed out of necessity but I will not lie and say I did not find some enjoyment in it. The creature tried to attack me and I was glad to see it destroyed. I was glad it was destroyed by my own hands,” Ilmarë said. She would never admit her anger toward the creature had been fueled by the years the thing had spent with Rušurayan, even if only as a servant. They were still years Ilmarë had been separated from him and the thought of the beast having accompanied him during those years enraged her. Though disappointed in her answer, Manwë did not press the matter. Instead he said, “Tell me what it is you have come for, Erinti. I thought you had come to see me but it is now clear that there are other reasons.” Ilmarë now realized how selfish her reasons were in comparison to Manwë’s pain. She looked away as she said, “I came to request something of you, although now… to be near you again gives me cause to realize how sorely missed your presence has been.” “And what is your request?” His face remained calm and impassive, like a mountain towering over the plains. Ilmarë turned her face up to Manwë and said, “I come to ask for pardon. You are the only one who can grant it.” He looked into her eyes and his impassive countenance softened, as the gentle flow of the stream patiently carving its way down the granite of the mountain. “There is no need of this. I forgave you long ago and have awaited your forgiveness in return.” “I do not ask pardon for myself - I ask it for another.” Manwë’ s features hardened and grew stern; the water’s flow diverted and swallowed up by the impassive mountain once more. “You dare to come here and request pardon for him? I had hoped your years alone would teach you wisdom.” “My years alone are why I ask. Will you not hear the request before you pass judgment?” Ilmarë laid her hand on his knee and as she waited. Manwë examined her and frowned, but said, “Speak.” Ilmarë told him all she had done: her journey to see Rušurayan, the chance she had offered him, and what Rušurayan had done and said. She excluded the more intimate details and that Sorontur had been the one to take her. When she finished Manwë turned his impassive gaze to the star-dusted night once more, time creeping slowly by as he pondered her words. When Ilmarë could wait no more, she said, “We have all made mistakes…he has…I have…you have, and we all hope to be offered forgiveness. Is it not right, then, to give it as well when the chance has been earned? Ossë served Morgoth for a time, yet he was forgiven and allowed to return.” “Ossë’s crimes do not compare to Rušurayan’s…Sauron’s, for that is what they call him. The Cruel, the Destroyer, The Sorcerer, The Lord of the Gloaming…” Manwë’s voice shook the columns of the windowless wall as the mountain of his countenance collapsed in the explosion of anger he could not longer contain. “Please, stop…” Ilmarë said, her voice rising above the roar, “…he was deceived, misled. He regrets his wrongs and now wishes to return and repent.” Manwë fell silent again and Ilmarë’s tears ran in clear streams, wetting her cheeks and filling her with shame and self-disgust, yet Manwë’s face softened to see her tears. Ilmarë then realized she would not gain his agreement by arguing with him. As much as she disliked doing so, other avenues would have to be taken. “I have lived in pain and loneliness since his departure. I do not show it to others because I do not want their pity, but I suffer without him. You know I can take no other among the Ainur as spouse. I will remain alone. You have the power to set things aright.” Ilmarë said, letting the tears roll down her face and resting her head upon his knees. “Will you not end my suffering…Father?” Manwë allowed his tears to flow freely as well to see the show of affection he had missed so dearly, to hear her speak openly of her pain…and to hear her at last acknowledge him… “It is cruel of you to use that name to sway me in my decision,” Manwë said at last, though despite the words, his voice bore no sign of its former disapproval, “ yet it also shows how desperately you want this, that you would overcome your anger with me and call me that. Is it so hard then, to forgive me? Rušurayan has committed worse wrongs and you ask me to forgive him.” “No, I ask for pardon, to allow him the chance to earn forgiveness,” Ilmarë said, quick to deny the idea but her tone lessened when Manwë ran his hand along her hair again. “And to earn your forgiveness I must pardon the one you love, against my wishes.” “You said those whose spirits had not been corrupted would be offered pardons,” Ilmarë replied. “There is still good in him – ask Mother if my word is not enough. She will see it. You and Eönwë seek to punish him for what he has done to me. Yet if you exile him, you will bring me even greater hurt.” Manwë looked thoughtfully at Ilmarë’s dark head resting on his knees, her face turned to study the sky beyond the doorway. Though she did not choose it intentionally, her form resembled his - a reflection of her spirit, as was his. Just as Eönwë’s chosen forms ever bore a resemblance to Varda’s, whether by his doing or no. A connection existed between Ilmarë’s spirit and his; Manwë had felt her pain these many years and he felt it now. Though she rarely allowed her unhappiness to be known by the others in Valinor, Manwë knew of it…he knew she suffered. “You were untruthful when you said you would not be parted from me again. If I deny this pardon to Rušurayan you will leave Valinor and go to him… you will share his exile,” he said softly and Ilmarë shifted her face against his knee, but did not deny his words. Manwë made his decision, though it rested heavy on his heart. “In order for him to return, you must leave Eressëa and return to live here with us. Rušurayan will be brought before the Council and if some good remains in him, he will be granted pardon.” Ilmarë raised her head and looked at him with doubt. “But Eönwë and Tulkas, they…” “It will not be their decision,” Manwë said firmly, “it will be mine and I give my word it will be a fair decision. If you are correct about him, he will be given pardon and allowed to return. Yet there will be punishment for him and the Council will set that. When he returns he will stay here as well, with us. I want him under my watch until I am assured he is no threat.” Ilmarë took Manwë’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you…I am right about Rušurayan, you will see. Thank you for your wisdom and your just decision. I will leave immediately to find him and bring him before you.” Manwë smiled at her gushing thanks, but when Ilmarë spoke of leaving he frowned and shook his head. “No, Erinti, you will not go. Eönwë will go to him and offer this pardon. I will speak to Eönwë and he will be fair,” Manwë added, seeing her distress at the idea. “You know your brother will not disobey me. I will not risk you being alone with Rušurayan again until I have seen for myself what his spirit holds.” The idea did not sit well with Ilmarë, but she would not argue with Manwë when he had been so kind. She rested her head on his knees again and sighed. “If you think it best, I will bow to your wisdom…Father.” Ilmarë smiled to say the name and Manwë smiled to hear it. He resumed stroking her hair, hoping to give her comfort as they waited for Oromë and Tulkas to return with Morgoth. Then Manwë would do what must be done. And so he did. Morgoth’s form was executed and his spirit and the corrupted spirits of those who served him were cast into the Void. The ruined lands of Beleriand sank beneath the sea and the western coasts of Middle-earth were reshaped. Eönwë followed Manwë’s orders, although grudgingly and under protest, and took the offer of pardon to Sauron. Eönwë stayed long in Middle-earth. He carried pardons for many, as well as choices for some. The day came at last when Sorontur and his eagles left for Middle-earth to bring Eönwë and his helpers back to Valinor. Outside the home on the summit of Taniquetil Varda sat upon a large bench of smooth marble; she watched Ilmarë’s form move easily back and forth across the snow as she paced, stopping every so often to check the sky. “Ilmarë, come and sit,” Varda said, patting the bench next to her. “I promise you, their arrival will not be delayed if you sit and talk with me.” With a last look at the sky, Ilmarë walked to the bench and sat. “Will the Council convene immediately to judge him? What if Father decides against a pardon?” Varda rested a long, graceful arm around Ilmarë’s shoulders and the ease with which Ilmarë now used Manwë’s name pleased her. “Your father will be fair and I have no doubt a pardon will be offered to Rušurayan. If good did not remain in him, you would not love him. I trust your judgment.” She kissed the top of Ilmarë’s head and looked toward the sky, pointing as she said, “Ilmarë…they are here.” They both stood and watched the eagles fly toward the mountaintop. Sorontur landed on the plain next to the house and Eönwë slid from his back and onto the ground. Ilmarë watched with confusion as the other eagles continued flying toward Valmar and their homes. She moved away from Varda and ran to Eönwë. “Where is Rušurayan?” Ilmarë asked him, frowning. “Why does the eagle carrying him not stop here? They cannot take him to stand before the Council alone.” Dread ran through Ilmarë’s spirit when Eönwë would not meet her eyes. A dark, pained frown marred his face; he looked toward Manwë’s watchtower, he looked to Varda with wide, worried eyes, but he would not look toward Ilmarë. She moved around him, thinking perhaps Rušurayan had ridden on Sorontur also and still waited, but Sorontur stood alone. The eagle met her gaze, watching her closely with pity in his golden eyes. Ilmarë turned back to see Eönwë and Varda locked in a silent exchange. Varda’s breath caught and she broke away from Eönwë’s gaze to hurry toward Ilmarë. Ilmarë held up a hand, signaling Varda to stop, and her voice shook with fear and anger when she turned on Eönwë. “Tell me now what has happened. What have you done?” Ilmarë demanded, and when Eönwë did not answer immediately, she moved toward the eagle. “Sorontur will take me to Middle-earth. He will take me to Rušurayan and I will find out for myself.” “It will do you no good. Rušurayan is gone…disappeared.” Eönwë said, his weary voice stopping Ilmarë. “He would not accept the pardon. He did not have the courage to face what awaited him here in Valinor and he chose to stay in Middle-earth. He wanted me to deliver a message that you were not to follow him…” “No… you lie,” she said, scarcely able to breathe, yet even as she accused him, she knew Eönwë would not lie to her. “You caused this, Eönwë…you did not want him to return and you convinced him not to somehow. He would not do this…he would not abandon me again…” Her voice tapered off as she thought of her uncertainty about Rušurayan’s behavior. Now she knew why…he used her to escape the Void and now did not want her. “Ilmarë…” Eönwë was saying, “it is for the best. You will see…now you will be able to put him behind you and go on…” Ilmarë saw the pity in Varda’s eyes and the worried way she watched her daughter. And so she ran. She ran from Eönwë, Varda, Manwë, Valinor, the pity, the anger, the false hopes, and the pain…though the pain kept pace with her as she fled to Alqualondë. Linquendil had come to Valinor that morning and was making preparations to leave the harbor just as she arrived. Ilmarë was thankful for that one small grace. When she asked him to take her to Eressëa, he did not question but instead left immediately. They were well out to sea before her tears overwhelmed her and that was another small grace to be thankful for. Linquendil remained in his cabin with Ilmarë for the journey and comforted her as she cried. The centuries came and went and Ilmarë kept to herself on Eressëa. Melian and Eönwë returned to the island as well and Varda resumed her frequent visits. Ilmarë spoke to no one of Rušurayan and after a time, they all ceased any attempt to make her. Though she tried to keep her pain hidden, those close to her saw the changes; her spirit seemed lessened and dimmed – even empty. She kept her word and returned to visit Manwë often. He worried and watched, but he did not speak of her suffering. Most times, they did not speak of anything at all, only sat among the stars in companionable silence, her head resting against his knee. More than four centuries passed in this manner until the day Melian went to Valinor and did not return for some time. Though Ilmarë missed her, she did not worry for she knew Melian would return. Upon an afternoon of no particular importance, Ilmarë lay in one of the beds of lissuin surrounding her home and thinking of happier times with Rušurayan. Memories were all she had and all she would ever have, and she had reached a certain acceptance of that. Unexpectedly, someone came between Ilmarë and the warming beams of Arien. Thinking it was Eönwë, Ilmarë turned to complain and was taken aback to see a silver-haired Elf of exceptional height towering over her flowerbed. “I was told flowers of remarkable beauty grew on Tol Eressëa, but still I am amazed to witness it for myself,” the Elf said and his smile more than compensated for the loss of the sun’s rays. “I thought you were my brother,” Ilmarë told him, “for your presence seemed more akin to that of a Maia. I did not expect to find a mere Elf standing over me.” “I assure you, my dear, I am no mere Elf,” he said and winked. When Ilmarë started to rise, he shook his head. “No, do not get up. If you have no objections, I would prefer to join you.” He lay down in the flowers, crushing some as he did and releasing their scent. Ilmarë turned to study him as he folded his hands across his chest. “There are times when introductions are unnecessary and I would count this to be among them, Ilmarë,” he said, his eyes wandering over the white clouds in the sky. “I agree with you, Thingol. From what I understand there are none who could be mistaken for you.” Ilmarë smiled and joined him in his inspection of the sky. “Nor you,” he said distractedly. She heard him sigh and say, “I did not see the sky for more than 400 years. Most would think that is not so long a time for one who will live to see the end of this world, but they would be wrong. Time crawls by in the Halls of Mandos when one has nothing to do but think and reflect upon losses and past wrongs.” He cleared his throat and added, “Thank you for keeping Melian with you during my absence. I am grateful to know she was not lonely.” “No thanks are needed, Thingol,” Ilmarë said, offering him a smile, “and I am comforted to know she has been with you while she was away all this time. Where is she now?” “Inside the house with a crowd of my kin, whom I can never seem to be shed of. They seem to think my return is some cause for celebration.” “Indeed,” Ilmarë said, once again studying the sky. “Yes…indeed,” Thingol returned in the same dry tone, but Ilmarë knew he smiled. Later that day an abundance of silver-haired Elves populated Ilmarë’s home – with some pale-haired and dark-haired Elves thrown into the mix for variation, Thingol said. Regardless of hair color, all were overjoyed at Thingol’s return and highly impressed with his newfound peace of mind, particularly considering the loss of his daughter. Although, they noted, he was still strongly opinionated. That had not changed nor had his outspokenness of those opinions. Many raised toasts on his behalf as his release from Mandos was celebrated with song and drink. It was late into the night before the guests began to take their leave. Last to leave were Thingol’s brothers, Olwë, Elmo and Belwë, and their families. After they had gone Ilmarë sat in the great room of the house, one with many windows and doors opening toward the sea. She smiled to see the devotion between Thingol and Melian as they sat together on a nearby sofa. All evening long they had not been separated and Ilmarë suddenly felt like an intruder. She prepared to say her good-nights when Thingol spoke. “Why do you not find another among the Ainur, Ilmarë?” he asked and she looked up to find him regarding her with concern. “It is not good for you to be alone this way.” Melian frowned at Thingol but Ilmarë shrugged and said, “I have been alone for years and am accustomed to it. Once two Ainur have shared their spirits, they cannot take another - it is not allowed.” “But you were not married,” Thingol said with a shrug, “that leaves you free to choose a spouse from among the Elves. You would be breaking no laws or customs.” “No, but it is not something undertaken without permission from the Valar,” Ilmarë said. “That does not mean it cannot be done. You have good reason for your petition,” Thingol said, clearly pleased with himself for solving the problem. “There is more to it than just receiving permission,” Melian said and looked at Thingol as though he were daft. “Ilmarë must find someone she loves. She cannot just choose an Elf at random simply because she does not wish to be alone.” “I did not suggest choosing an Elf at random, my dear. On the contrary, he would have to be chosen very carefully. Preferably one bearing relation to me.” Thingol stopped and thought on it for a moment, then said, “I have no family here who are not already wed. The only ones still remain in Middle-earth. Círdan is a likely choice and Belwë would be most pleased to have his son come to Aman at last. Elrond is another, and from what I understand he has grown to be a fine young man. Still, it is a pity there are no kings.” Thingol grinned at Ilmarë and said, “I am certain Melian will tell you there is something to be said for the company of Elven kings.” “There is Orodreth’s son, Gil-galad. He is the High Elven King now,” Melian said. Thingol grimaced. “He is Noldor. I see it on your face, Melian, you will say he is half Sindarin, yet the Noldor half is the one he has chosen.” Melian let out an aggravated groan and said, “I had hoped your stay in Mandos would have rid you of your prejudices, but now I see not even several hundred years in the pits of Angband could overcome your hard-headedness. Celeborn’s wife is Noldor and you had no difficulty trusting her.” “Galadriel’s blood may be more Noldor, but she has chosen her Sindarin blood. She lives as a Sinda and I consider her to be a Sinda. Although to be honest, I never fully trusted her. Celeborn, on the other hand, I would trust with my life.” While many people off-handedly gave that statement at times, when Thingol spoke it one could not doubt he did not offer that trust lightly. “Thingol, dear, you met Gil-galad once and you had no complaints about him,” Melian reminded her husband. “I met him, did I?” he said, pondering this for a moment and then nodded. “Yes…so I did. He came to us for help, he and his guards – when Nargothrond was destroyed – and we sent him to Círdan. He did not have much of a Noldor look about him. Vanyar, perhaps, with that blond hair. Did he remain with Círdan?” “To the best of my knowledge,” Melian said. “Well, then…he might be well suited after all,” Thingol mused. “Of course, if he is king it could be several hundred years before he left Middle-earth, but would that time not pass quickly for a Maia?” “Time passes the same for a Maia as it does for any other being,” Ilmarë said, her quiet voice interrupting their matchmaking conversation. They turned to find her looking out toward the sea again with a sad expression. “The days pass quickly when we are happy, but when we are sad the minutes stretch out into years and the days into centuries. Time always passes slowly for those who are unhappy.” She shook her head and softly said, “There will be no other for me, be they Elven kings or Elven stable hands. I will remain alone and that you must accept, as I have.” Ilmarë stood and walked over to the sofa. “Thank you both for your concern, but I must retire for the evening now. I am weary and would allow the two of you some time alone,” she said, giving Melian and Thingol each a kiss on the forehead before wishing them goodnight and leaving the room. When Ilmarë was gone, Thingol turned to Melian and asked, “Has she seen this in a vision – that she will remain alone? Is that how she knows?” “No, Ilmarë closed herself off to visions long ago. She does not have them now. She is speaking out of hurt and loneliness,” Melian said and the thought of her friend’s loneliness saddened her greatly. Thingol studied his wife’s face and took her hand in his. “And what have you seen, my love? Have you been given any visions on the matter?” Melian brightened a little and gave him a secretive glance. “Perhaps I have. But a wife is not required to share everything with her husband.” Thingol stood quickly and lifted Melian into his arms as he declared, “I have been gone far too long, it seems, and now I must remind my wife of what she is required to share with her husband.” Even from her rooms, Ilmarë could hear Melian and Thingol’s laughter as they went toward the opposite end of the house, toward Melian’s rooms. A set of doors in her bedroom faced the sea and Ilmarë opened them. She stepped out onto the grass and listened to the surf rushing to meet the nearby shore. Grief washed over her like the waters of the sea and the waves of loneliness crashing down upon Ilmarë threatened to overcome her. She struggled to keep her head above the tides of sorrow as she had done for the past centuries. Yet now she could find little reason for her efforts and longed to find some escape…but she knew there was none. Ilmarë sat up suddenly, the grief from her dream resting heavy upon her chest and the weight made it hard to breathe – not even her illness had rested so heavy. Elrond moved in his sleep and Ilmarë slipped quietly from the bed, careful not to wake him. He had asked her to stay in his room that night for he still worried for her health and had not left her side since she awakened earlier that afternoon. To watch over her this first night was all he wanted, he had said, but Ilmarë suspected he asked for his own benefit as well. The past weeks had worn on Elrond and he was weary enough to fall asleep before Ilmarë had. Now she put on her robe and left the room, making no noise as she closed the door behind her. ~*~ NOTES: Just to clarify, all chapters written in italics like this one are Ilmarë’s dreams, sent by Melian. The time frame of this dream is just after the War of Wrath up through the first 400-500 years of the Second Age. More details from the Book of Lost Tales: Ilwë: The middle air that flows among the stars. Manwë: The description of Manwë and his throne comes from a picture drawn by Tolkien entitled ‘Thought’. The description of his home comes from Book of Lost Tales. In Morgoth’s Ring it says that Manwe could not penetrate the shadows of Morgoth’s mind, and in the Silm it says that when Manwe and Varda sat together on their thrones in the watchtower she could hear further into Middle-earth and he could see further. But he wasn’t omniscient and couldn’t see everything, and by the end of the First Age the Valar’s powers of action had begun to diminish, according to Tolkien. Makar and Meássë: Two of the original Valar, left out by Tolkien in the later stories. They were brother and sister whose home was a great iron fortress in the Outer Lands of Valinor where they and their vassals constantly practiced battle. They seem to be based on the myths in Scandinavia of Unending Battle. Their home was close to Mandos and Tulkas visited it at times so ‘that he might not grow soft in his fair living’. Meássë is called an Amazon with bloody arms and Makar’s name means slaughter or battle. They disagreed often with Manwë, loved the unbridled turmoil’s Melkor had created in Arda, but did not seem to care for Melkor himself and helped defeat and chain him on his first capture. They’re among the things that were lost from the original tales. The War of Wrath: Eärendil did defeat the dragon Ancalagon, Morgoth did keep the dragon army hidden until the last, and Tulkas and Oromë pulled Morgoth from Angband, then his form was executed and he was exiled to the Void. Everything other than that is just from my abnormal mind. Valmar is the city of the Elves that sat on Taniquetil, and Manwë and Varda’s home was on the summit of the mountain, along with some of the other Valar. Eönwë did go to Middle-earth and offer the pardons for the exiled Elves so they could return to Aman, and he gave Elrond and Elros their choice. I guess he stayed there to kind of supervise the clean-up after the War of Wrath. Belwë is the name I’ve invented for Círdan’s father, just to give the guy some family, which would make him Thingol’s nephew in this story. It never says when or if Thingol was released from the Halls of Mandos, but he wouldn’t have a place in this story if he hadn’t been released, so there you have it. The part about the Ainur not being able to take another mate after they’ve been…ahem, intimate, is my invention, too. But as uptight as the Valar obviously were about that sort of thing, I figured it was reasonable. ~*~

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