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Lúthien's Gift  by Fiondil

IV: Message

“You should return to Middle-earth unclad,” instructed Manwë as Melian prepared to leave. “until you are ready to meet with the person to whom you will give Eru’s message. The Enemy is alerted by the heightened activity of other Maiar in Middle-earth. It is possible that you will encounter interference. To that end, I will send with you two of my warriors who have had previous dealings with the Enemy.”

He nodded to Námo who went to the door and ushered in two mail-clad Maiar with swords strapped to their backs. One was raven-haired and the other had auburn locks, both had steel-grey eyes, but otherwise they might as well have been twins. They bowed to Manwë, then straightened to attention.

Manwë nodded to them. “This is the Lady Melian. You will see that she encounters no interference from mortal, elf or Maia in the execution of her task.”

The raven-haired warrior bowed. “It shall be as you command, lord.”

Manwë smiled at Melian. “Their presence may be unnecessary but I will take no chances. This is Manveru,” Manwë indicated the raven-haired warrior who bowed, “and his brother, Erunáro.” The auburn-haired warrior bowed, then gave Melian a brief, friendly smile, which she returned. “Next to my herald, Eönwë, they are the fiercest of my warriors.”

“Who is the Enemy now, lord?” Melian asked, for she had not paid much attention to the affairs of Middle-earth lately. “Helcaran was destroyed lo these many millennia ago. Who now takes his place?”

Manwë grimaced. “Melkor did his job too well, for all of Arda was marred by him, as you know. Evil will always rise. This one claims to be the Prince of Arda” — Manwë nodded when Melian gasped at the audaciousness of the title — “and was one of Helcaran’s lesser servants, but no less dangerous. Certainly no mortal could contend against him and win. Not even the Eldar have the strength to do so. We have been instructed not to interfere with this ‘prince’ for now. Apparently Ilúvatar has other plans.” He gave Melian a wry look that was not at all comforting, but she managed an equally wry smile in return.

“Good,” Manwë said as if he saw something in her in which he approved. “May Ilúvatar speed you on your way.”

Varda embraced Melian. “The blessings of the Valar go with you.”

Melian returned the embrace. “Thank you, my lady.”

Námo approached her last, his face impassive as always, but then his eyes suddenly became alive and piercing, and in her mind Melian heard, *Remember this, Melian: Beren chancing upon your daughter in Neldoreth was no accident.* Then he bowed over her hand and kissed it before turning away. Melian struggled to remain calm as she curtsied to the three Valar and numbly allowed the two warrior Maiar to escort her out before she had a chance to respond to Námo’s words.

****

Middle-earth had changed. The lands she once knew were gone or altered to the point of being almost unrecognizable. Here in this place that Manveru called Palestine — such a strange sounding name to her — there was little that was green. Desert claimed this part of the world, though oases dotted the sere landscape. To one such oasis the three Maiar went, Melian leading, for only she knew where she was going, or rather, only she heard the inner voice that led her on. The two warriors kept their swords sheathed but Melian could see that they were constantly alert and ever on guard.

“Here,” she said as they reached the outskirts of a small but prosperous looking village. “It is here that I will find the one to whom I am to speak.” Melian turned to the other Maiar. “Do you know where we are?”

The two other Maiar glanced around as if getting their bearings. Manveru finally spoke. “I have been to this part of Endor many times lately. Ilúvatar seems to have a special fondness for the people who now live in this land, though,” and here he smiled wryly, “I have yet to figure out what He sees in these stubborn, rock-headed fools.”

Melian raised her eyebrows in surprise but Erunáro just laughed. “What he means of course is that he’s rather fond of them himself, which is why he’s constantly asking Manwë to assign him here so he can protect them from the Enemy.”

Manveru gave his brother a pained look, but then blushed. “They do rather grow on you after awhile,” he said to Melian apologetically and Erunáro only laughed harder. Melian smiled and placing a hand on his arm said gently, “I know what you mean. I felt the same way about my Lord Elu’s people.”

After a brief pause Erunáro cleared his throat. “Yes, well, if I’m not mistaken this region is called Galilee. That body of water to the east is called the Sea of Galilee, though it’s really only a very large fresh-water lake. The real sea is to the west. They call it the Inner Sea.” He pointed first in one direction, then the other.

Melian nodded. She noticed the fishing boats sailing on the lake and then watched a many-oared galley ply the waters of the Inner Sea. Although neither body of water was actually visible to anyone in the village, for low-lying hills blocked the view in either direction, that was no impediment for the Maiar.

“This land is under foreign occupation,” Manveru added and nodded towards a group of armed men marching through the village. They wore red cloaks and carried short swords. Melian thought they had something of the Easterlings in their look, cold and cruel. “The people have been oppressed for some time,” Manveru continued, “and are longing for someone to rescue them, free them from their overlords.”

Melian only shrugged, for in truth she had no real interest in the fate of these frail creatures. She wished only to deliver the message, whatever it might be, and return to Aman where she belonged. This dry land and its people were too far from her beloved Doriath in both time and space to mean anything to her. “This way,” she pointed and the two warriors followed her through the village, unseen by any save for the occasional dog that seemingly barked at nothing, much to the distress of the mortals around it. The three Maiar ignored both mortals and dogs.

Melian finally stopped before a small two-story house, typical of the houses throughout the village. She could hear the familiar sound of a shuttle being passed back and forth across a loom and the tuneless humming of the weaver. She came into the house unseen. Manveru and Erunáro flanked the open doorway, remaining on guard. A young girl sat at a small loom at the back of the single room that appeared to be a workshop, with the loom in one corner and other implements of some kind unknown to the Maia scattered about. The girl and her family must live above, Melian surmised when she spied a ladder along one wall leading up through a square hole in the ceiling to the next level.

Melian stood for a moment looking at the mortal who was bent over the loom attempting to untangle some threads before resuming her work, her face hidden behind her hair. She could not have been much older than fourteen or fifteen, Melian thought. Indeed, the girl was probably younger than Elros and Esteliel, though Melian knew that mortals matured more rapidly than elves, for it was obvious that she was in the first bloom of womanhood, no longer a girl-child. As she finally sat up Melian saw the girl’s face and gasped.

Lúthien!

For a brief yet endless moment Melian’s mind froze at the sight, then reason began to take over. No. Not Lúthien. There were differences, subtle but there. The girl was clearly mortal, and yet...

Prompted by her inner voice she moved to where the girl could see her and then clad herself in visible form. “Shalom, Miriam,” Melian said softly, the girl’s name coming to her, as did the knowledge of the girl’s language, from the same inner voice that had led her here.

Miriam jumped, giving a cut-off squeal, when she saw Melian become visible. Her eyes widened and she tried to back away, stumbling over the chair and into the corner in fear.

“Don’t be afraid, child. I won’t hurt you,” Melian continued speaking softly.

For a moment Miriam merely stood there, shock holding her in place. Then, speaking barely above a whisper, she stammered, “Y-you are one of the malach’im, aren’t you?”

Melian smiled reassuringly, suddenly reminded of little Elros asking a similar question of Olórin. “We call ourselves Maiar, but malach’im is as good a name as any. Yes, I am one of the malach’im. I have come to give you a message.”

“M-message? Me?” Miriam remained where she was, half-crouched against the wall.

“Yes, you. But I’m not going to give you the message with you with your back against the wall. Come, let us sit together.” Melian motioned for Miriam to join her on a bench that stood to the left of the doorway. “Come, child,” when the girl hesitated. “Don’t you want to hear what I have to say?”

Miriam visibly swallowed and slowly made her way across the room to sit hesitantly next to Melian, not meeting the Maia’s eyes, out of fear or shyness, Melian was unsure. Smiling, Melian reached out and gently began stroking the girl’s hair, so like her daughter’s in shade, allowing the child time to get use to her presence. After a few moments Miriam’s heart, which had been beating rapidly, began to slow and her breathing became more even.

“That’s better,” Melian said. “See? No harm has come to you. Are you ready to hear the message now?”

The girl glanced up shyly and nodded.

Melian began to speak, but while the voice was hers, the words were not. “You are favored above all of your kind, Miriam, for the One has chosen you to bear His Son, the one you call the Messiah. His name will be Yesh’ua, for he will be the saving of many.”

Struggling to keep her composure before the mortal, Melian felt herself blink at the words she had just spoken. One part of her was minding the girl’s reaction but another, smaller, part was floundering, wondering what she had truly said. A long-forgotten conversation with Finrod, shortly before his fatal meeting with Beren, surfaced, a conversation that spoke of a Hope half-believed by some of the mortals who had so recently found their way into Beleriand. She had dismissed Finrod’s talk of Eru entering into Arda, for she did not believe that Eru would deign to speak with the Secondborn, so easily swayed by Morgoth’s lies, nor could she fathom how it would happen.

Until now.

Miriam had been silent for a moment but then, blushing furiously, she dared to whisper, “How can this be, lady, for I’m still a...well...um.”

“Still a virgin?” Melian supplied gently with a smile. Miriam merely nodded and would not look up.

“I don’t know, child,” placing a comforting arm around the girl. “But nothing is impossible for Ilúvatar.”

“Who?”

Melian paused to consider her last words and realized she had inadvertently used the Quenya name for Eru. A moment’s thought supplied her with the word she needed. “Ah, I believe you would say Adonai.”

“Oh.” Miriam remained silent for another moment or two while Melian continued stroking the girl’s hair, marveling at how much like Lúthien the girl looked. Even her eyes were the same stormy grey-blue color, a testimony, no doubt, of the girl’s mixed heritage, for Melian suspected that this part of the world was a crossroads where different races of men met and fought and loved.

“W-will it hurt?” Miriam asked, interrupting Melian’s train of thought, a trace of fear shadowing her eyes and Melian realized just how very young the girl truly was. Her heart went out to the mortal maid and all her maternal feelings, which she had put aside when Lúthien was lost to her, suddenly began to surface. She gathered Miriam into her arms and rocked her softly, kissing her forehead lightly.

“I do not know, child, but I do not think it will. Does it hurt to love someone?”

“Sometimes,” came the answer, surprising from one so young.

Melian nodded in agreement. “Yes. Sometimes,” and there was a universe of sorrow in that admission.

For several moments Maia and mortal were quiet, Melian still rocking the girl as if she were an elfling in need of comfort. Then Miriam pulled away and Melian saw something in the girl’s expression as she straightened that nearly left her breathless. There was a strength of will emanating from her that few mortals would or could ever achieve and she wondered at that.

“I am the Handmaiden of Adonai,” she said quietly but with a sense of pride that was not at all arrogant. “Let it be done to me as He wishes.”

And suddenly, while staring in awe at this young mortal woman, who reminded her so much of Lúthien, Melian saw the long ages of Men stretching back into the dim mists of the past to one clarifying moment — the meeting of the mortal Beren with her daughter, there in the forests of Neldoreth, and Melian understood at last what Námo had meant: that meeting, seemingly by chance, was not. The union of mortal with one who was both Elda and Maia had always been Ilúvatar’s plan. For how many generations of Men had Ilúvatar patiently waited to bring her to this decisive moment when she would come face-to-face with the ultimate consequence of her daughter’s decision? It staggered one’s imagination, even that of a Maia.

Melian thought of her first meeting with Elu and the love she had felt for the silver-haired elf, and how that love had borne fruit in her beloved daughter, whose descendant now sat beside her. I’m glad I decided to stay in Middle-earth, then, she thought and started at the silent laughter that flooded her being from beyond the Walls of Eternity.

*Do you think, Daughter, that your remaining behind in Middle-earth rather than returning to Aman was all your own idea? Elu finding you dancing in Nan Elmoth was not mere happenstance, my child. I made sure of that.* And the laughter echoed through her and through all of Eä, so that even the two Maiar warriors still standing on guard looked about in wonder.

Miriam’s eyes widened, as if she, too, could hear the divine laughter. Then, ducking her head, she asked shyly, “What now?”

What now, indeed? Melian thought. Should she leave or stay? What more could she do for or say to this amazing creature sitting before her twisting her hands nervously in the folds of her gown. With a start Melian realized what Ilúvatar’s intent had been in asking her to return to Middle-earth. With the clarity of foresight she saw herself staying with Miriam, unseen but sensed, for the remainder of the girl’s days. She briefly regretted that she would be unable to keep her promise to visit Elrond and Celebrían’s elflings more often, but they would understand, and given the length of mortal years, she would be gone at most for only a few decades. Glancing around the dimly lit room for inspiration as to how to answer Miriam’s question, Melian spied a small harp sitting on a table near the ladder.

“Do you play?”

“What?” Miriam started, then glanced in the direction in which Melian pointed.

“Do you play the harp?”

Miriam turned back to Melian and nodded. “A little. Papa’s teaching me.”

Melian smiled in encouragement. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve learned.”

Miriam hesitated for a moment then stood and brought the harp back to the bench. She began tuning the strings and then, smiling shyly as she looked up at Melian, she asked, “W-what should I play?”

“Whatever your heart inspires you to play, child. Do you sing as well?”

Miriam nodded and then softly, almost hesitantly, she began to pluck the strings. At first the notes seemed random to Melian but as the girl became more confident, a simple melody began to sound on the strings, and then Miriam sang, high and sweet, like the nightingale to which Beren had compared Lúthien:

“T’romayn nefeesh et adonai...”

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord...

“v’tagal ruhee baylohay yeeshee...”

and my spirit rejoices in God my savior...

And as the girl sang her song of praise, Melian suddenly found herself standing and without thinking, slowly, but with long-remembered grace, she began to dance. And at that moment it seemed to the Maia, as she swirled softly around the room, that all of Arda — nay, all of Eä — went silent for the wonder of it, as the Flame Imperishable welled up from Eternity to gather them both into an embrace of never-ending love.

****

Malach’im (Hebrew): angels; the Hebrew malach and the Greek angelos both originally meant “messenger”.

Adonai (Hebrew): My Lord, used by Jews to avoid pronouncing God’s personal name.

A/N: Obviously this version of the Annunciation is nowhere like that of Luke’s, although I have attempted to remain true to the original gospel account. However, it is my confirmed opinion that Luke has given us only the — er — “Reader’s Digest” version of events. Hopefully, anyone reading this story will not take offense at whatever liberties they deem I may have taken in “filling in the gaps” of Sacred Scripture.

And why Melian as the angel of the Annunciation you may ask? Well, do you honestly think that Eru, in this or any other universe, would have been so callous or insensitive as to have sent a MALE angel to Mary on such a delicate mission? But, you say, Scripture says that the angel of the Annunciation was Gabriel, clearly a male name. True, but remember who was writing these stories — men. It would have been inconceivable for Jewish males to imagine a female angel and so all the angels in Scriptures are male in appearance. After all, even in today’s more enlightened milieu, can you really imagine invoking the name of the Archangel Michelle against the wiles of Satan?

As for the names of the two warrior Maiar, those who are conversant in Quenya may recognize these as Quenya versions of well-known Hebrew names — Manveru: contracted from _man ve Eru_ “Who is like God”, the actual meaning of the name Michael; and Erunáro: “Fire/flame of God”, the actual meaning of the name Uriel, who is the Archangel of the Sun in Milton’s Paradise Lost.

The opening lines of Mary’s Magnificat are given in transliterated Hebrew. The English translation is taken from the New Jerusalem Bible.

I hope you enjoyed this little tale, and welcome any comments you may have. My thanks to Alassiel for beta-reading the story.





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