The Fledgling years

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Foreword.

Author’s notes:

The Hall of Ilmarin follows the description given in “The Book of Lost Tales 1”. Some of Manwë and Varda’s discussion is paraphrased from the “Unfinished Tales”. Those lines are quoted, not stolen. Just to set things straight in advance.

Chapter 01: The Emissaries

A hundred years have gone by in the Outer Lands since Sauron had been defeated and lost his corporeal form. According to the tidings that Elves who still kept coming to the West had brought, Middle-earth had begun to recover from the wounds suffered during the long war between the Elves and Sauron and in that last, horrible battle upon Dagorlad, where the power of the Dark Lord had finally been broken. It seemed that the Outer Lands would find peace, at last.

And yet the heart of Manwë Súlimo, King of the Valar, was heavy with dark foreboding. For the spirit of Sauron, his very essence, which could not be destroyed by the hands of Elves or Men, had not returned to Valinor. Not that he would have been allowed to take on a new fana and dwell in the Blessed Realm as if nothing had happened. But it had been expected that he would flee from the Outer Lands, shapeless, a naked spirit, and eventually end up in the Void, where his dark Master had been imprisoned behind the Door of Night, ever since the War of Wrath.

Yet the spirit of Sauron had not returned from Middle-earth, which could only mean one thing: that he was still hiding somewhere in the Outer Lands, sleeping in some dark place, gathering his strength and preparing to return, as he had done at the beginning of the Second Age. For though the walls and towers and bulwarks of Barad-dûr had been torn down, its foundations were still untouched and strong and could not be destroyed by all the efforts of Elves and Men – and that meant that a great part of Sauron’s powers was still intact.

Long had Manwë Súlimo listened to his heart about this, seeking out the will and the counsel of Ilúvatar, which only he was able to know. And he finally turned for advice to his spouse, the Lady Varda, Queen of the Valar and maker of the stars.

“Elentári,” he said, “my white Lady, crowned with stars, I require the light of your wisdom in this matter. For Ilúvatar’s counsel is unclear and my insight is not enough to decide rightly. Yet my heart tells me that we have neglected our guardianship of the Outer Lands for too long, and if we tarry any longer, it might be too late to act.”

“That is true,” answered the Lady of the Stars, “yet we must not repeat our errors of old; least that we had attempted to guard and seclude the Eldar by our own might and glory fully revealed and to rule their wills by open display of power. That had gone terribly wrong once, and it would go wrong again. In that, Ulmo and Yavanna were right.”

“What, then, would you advise to do?” asked Manwë. “For we should make our move, and soon.

“We should,” agreed Varda, “ and thus let us call a council to Máhanaxar and choose emissaries from the circle of the Maiar.”

Rarely did anything surprise Manwë Súlimo anymore, but the suggestion of his Lady left him completely bewildered.

“The Maiar?” he repeated. “What difference would that make? We had sent Eönwë to lead our host during the War of Wrath, and it broke the very bone of the Outer Lands, so that half of them sank under the Sea.”

“I know,” replied Varda dryly. “I was the one who sang the lament over their loss with Nienna and Yavanna, or have you forgotten? But when we send our emissaries now, it must be different. They must be forbidden to reveal themselves in forms of majesty. They must go in shapes weak and humble, for only thus can they rouse the trust of Elves and Men. Their work must be to advise and persuade both people to good, and to seek and unite in love and understanding all those whom Sauron, should he come again, would endeavour to dominate and corrupt.”

Manwë shook his head in concern. “I know not how we are supposed to do this, my Lady. We shall need emissaries whose spirit is strong enough to endure the hardships of a true incarnation; for they cannot wear a fana of illusion, staying who know how long in the Outer Lands. But if their bodies are to be real and not feigned, they will be subject to the fears and pains and weariness of earth. They will be able to feel hunger and thirst and to be slain, even though their spirits cannot die. It will be a hard labour, and it might take many long years – how are they supposed to endure a life not their own for unlimited time? Eönwë had only endured it for a few decades and yet he could barely hold his fana together upon his return. Still is he sitting in Námo’s halls, and there is no way to know when he will be able to return.”

“Eönwë is a warrior,” said Varda thoughtfully. “The ones we shall send have to be builders and planters. Let us send messages to our brethren now and ask them to send the ones of their people whom they see fit for such a mission to our council. When we have seen their choices, we might find the right ones easier.”

With that Manwë agreed, and thus the Eagles were sent out to Valmar of the many bells, the city of the Aratar midst of the plain of Valinor, with the messages that Varda had proposed. And the great birds flew swiftly to the many-storeyed home of Tulkas, with its court for fight lessons and tournaments; and to Oromë’s low halls, which were strewn with skins and the roof of which was supported by a tree; and to Aulë’s great court, which held some of each of the trees of earth.

And beyond Valmar they flew to the pastures of Yavanna and to Nienna’s lodgings, west of West on the borders of Aman; and to the Gardens of Lórien, although they needed not to bring tidings there, as the pale Estë saw in her dreams everything that happened in Valinor and beyond. Neither did they fly to the dark abodes of Námo and Vairë, for those two were not concerned with the future; only with the past and the present.

And while they were waiting for the answers, Manwë sat brooding on his high seat, listening to his heart and hoping to understand the will of Ilúvatar better. But Varda walked over to Ingwë’s halls, to talk to the High King of all Elves in Valinor about the matter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ingwë and his Queen, Erinti, were among the first Quendi whose eyes had opened to the newborn stars at the dark waters of Cuiviénen, long before Arien and Tilion would sail their ships, the Sun and the Moon, upon the skies. Thus their bond to the Lady Varda had always been stronger than that of the Elves of later generations, even the noblest of the Eldar. There were few, even in Valinor, of their age, though most of their people followed them from Tirion to the slopes of Taniquetil, to dwell in the neighbourhood of the Elder King, for the Vanyar were the most faithful to the teachings and leadership of the Valar.

Yet only the King and the Queen had been invited to dwell in the Hall of Ilmarin, the house of Manwë and Varda, the most wondrous dwelling that even Valinor had seen. For it was built of white and blue marble and lay high among the fields of everlasting snow upon the pinnacle of Taniquetil. The watchtower of those wide and airy halls was domed by a sparkling web of the blue upper air called ilwë that lies above the grey and the white, woven by Aulë and Yavanna and sparkled with stars by Varda herself. Through this sparkling web of airs Manwë and Varda could view all Arda, even the Gates of Dawn beyond the Eastern Sea. The other halls, including those of Ingwë and Erinti and their children, had roofs of marble or stone like any ordinary – though beautiful – house.

The King and the Queen were sitting in the inner courtyard by the fountain. As it was near sunset in Valinor, the last rays of Arien’s ship shone slanted through the leaves of the immortal, fragrant trees standing around in the court, painting the water of the fountain in the most wondrous hues of red and gold. High up the water of the fountain sprang from the wide open beak of some fantastic marble bird, and it fell back into the upper bowl with a soft splash, spilled over its rim, into the lower, wider bowl, and finally flowed down into a round marble basin and vanished through a leak in the bottom of it, returning to the subterranean spring where it had come from.

Ingwë and Erinti often sat in this court, listening to the never-ending song of running water and falling water, as it reminded them of the innocence of their awakening at Cuiviénen, the starlit days and dark trees, the first joys and the first fears. They were the eldest of the Children of Ilúvatar, and though they willingly accepted the leadership and the protection of the Valar, their hearts could never forget the Waters of their Awakening, no more than any-one can forget the womb of which they were born.

When they saw the Lady of the Stars walk out of one of the passages encircling the court, they rose in respect, as they would do to greet anyone who would visit them. For such was the custom of Elves, even if they were mighty Kings; and they bowed to her.

“Lady Varda,” Ingwë said in his deep, melodious voice, “your presence honours us. What unexpected event do we have to thank for the pleasure?”

Varda smiled. She was very fond of the Vanyar, tall, golden, valiant and faithful as they were; she could understand all too well why Oromë had been so enchanted by the Quendi when he had first found them under the starlit skies of the Outer Lands. They were stunningly radiant, even in the eyes of the Valar, as if they had been born from the light of Laurelin, the Golden Tree.

Varda herself wore the form of a tall, grave and beautiful woman, clad in shimmering white and with white gems adorning her brow like tiny, twinkling stars. She seemed to be made of mist and moonlight rather than of flesh and blood, and her long, shining black hair flowed around her slender frame like an ankle-long, black silk coat. Dark were her eyes, too, like the living night that had once been without fear, and yet there was a light in them, unlike any brightness they had ever seen.

“There is no need for formalities, my friend,” she said to the King of Elves. “There never was; you know that. Let us all sit together and have a talk, should we?”

They sat on the broad, semi-circular benches around the basin of the fountain. Ilmarë, Varda’s handmaid came with refreshments, then left again noiselessly. For a while, they sat in silence, listening to the splashes of the fountain. Then Erinti stirred, turning her azure eyes to the Lady of the Stars.

“You seem troubled, my Lady,” she said. Her voice, too, was deep for a woman, and her eyes hid a wisdom not even Varda could fully comprehend. For the Valar had no true understanding of evil, even if they had seen its work in the world. But in the hearts of Elves, even the noblest of them, that dark seed was present, albeit dormant, and their insights often proved to be great help for their benefactors.

“What happened?” continued Erinti. “Does it concern our people?”

“It may,” said Varda thoughtfully. “My heart – and that of my Lord – is concerned about the Outer Lands. The Elves who chose to remain there are without a King, without guidance. We fear that which might happen to them, should the Shadow stir again.”

“They are not entirely without guidance,” said Erinti. “They do still have Kings – or leaders that are Kings in all but a crown and a title. The kin of Elwë Singollo is still strong and wise. And there is still Elrond, the last of Melian’s blood.”

“There still is strength in the Outer Lands,” added Ingwë. “My son found greatness among the Moriquendi when he led our warriors to fight in the War of Wrath. And though many of them have fallen in the recent wars, Nówë⁽¹⁾ is still there, to offer strength, wisdom and guidance.”

“And yet the Moriquendi were decimated in the long war against Sauron,” Varda reminded him, “even though they had their Kings and warlords then, and quite a few of those who had seen the Light of the Trees. All they have now are a few scattered realms without a leader who could unite them.”

“There will never bee a true union again,” a new voice said and Eärendil, tall and dark and fair beyond measure with the Silmaril upon his brow, entered the court. He, too, dwelt under Manwë and Varda’s roof and boarded his ship from a high peak at sunset every day. “Too much has been lost. Not even Elrond, may he be the son of the evening star, though, could unite them again, and he has the blood of Maiar, Elves and Men in his veins. The innocence of our people was lost by the first sword-stroke that spilled the blood of our kin in Alqualondë; and what remained was shattered during the sack of Doriath and in Tol Sirion. Should the Shadow stir again, as you fear it, my Lady, the Elves cannot subdue it alone. And I know not how the hearts of Men would answer. Elrond is now the only true link between Elves and Men, but he cannot do this alone.”

“He is not alone,” said Ingwë. “He has Glorfindel at his side. And Glorfindel is more than just a rehoused Elf. He had been more already when he was released, for he had been re-made in a specific manner to make him able to aid Eönwë in the Outer Lands.”

“And since Eönwë has touched his spirit, he has grown even greater,” Erinti added. “He has much of the Maiar in him now. He has aided Elrond through an entire Age; and he aided him well.”

“That is true,” Eärendil admitted. “Yet in the previous Age Lindon was a strong realm, and so was Númenórë; yet now these are both gone. The Outer Lands are vulnerable. They need help.”

“We know that,” said Varda. In her present shape she seemed almost fragile amidst of these tall, strong, imposing Elves, yet her strength shone through her fana like a beacon. “And we are ready to do something about that.”

“What are you going to do, my Lady?” asked Ingwë with a frown. “The Outer Lands cannot bear the wrath of the Valar another time; or all that which is still there of them will break and sink under the Sea.”

“That is known to us as well,” replied Varda; then, with an amused glint in her dark eyes, she added. “We will try to be more… creative this time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later Manwë and Varda were sitting upon their thrones in Máhanaxar, the Ring of Doom, the councilplace of the Valar, near the golden gates of Valmar. This was the place where all important decisions were made. This was where Melkor had been sentenced and then freed. This was where Fëanáro had been sentenced to exile. This was where Mandos had spoken his curse above the Fëanorians and where Eärendil had held his plea on behalf of the Outer Lands. This was from where Arda was ruled, and all those which lived upon it.

This time, however, only Yavanna was present in person, aside from Manwë and Varda; for the Valar had learned from the mistakes made earlier and did not leave the farther parts of the Blessed Realm unwatched anymore. The others had sent their most trusted aides from the ranks of the Maiar to speak for them – and for themselves, as Varda’s message had made it clear that some of them would have to take this great task upon themselves.

They were eight in the number, sent by the Aratar, the greatest of the Valar, and though Manwë had hoped that more would come to choose from, he had no other choice than to open the council with as many as they were available, and to explain them what was needed to be done. It took him quite some time, and the others were listening intently.

“Three emissaries are the least that must be sent out to Middle-earth,” he finally said. “But who would go? For they must be mighty, peers of Sauron, but must forgo might, and clothe themselves in flesh so as to treat on equality and win the trust of Elves and Men. But this would imperil them, dimming their wisdom and knowledge, and confusing them with fears, cares and weakness coming from the flesh.⁽²⁾”

There was a long silence in the Ring of Doom, all the possible candidates pondering over that which they had heard. Finally, after a lengthy amount of time, two of them rose and came forth. One of these was Curumo, chosen by Aulë, the Smith, and the other one Alatariel, sent by Oromë, the Hunter.

“Send me, my Lord,” said Curumo, “for once, before he turned to the darkness, Sauron had been my brother, and we had worked side by side in the great smithies of our Lord, Aulë. I know how his mind works; and I have the skills to counter the work of his hands as well, should the need arise.”

“I shall go as well,” said Alatariel, her gold-flecked blue eyes turning hard and grey like steel. “Once, long before Arien or Tilion sailed the skies on their gleaming ships, before even the Elves opened their eyes at Cuiviénen, I had hunted Melkor’s creatures with my Lord, Oromë, under the dark trees of the Outer Lands. I am no huntress anymore, but my hands are skilled to at healing the wounds of Elves and Men and the earth itself. I will be needed.”

“If Alatariel goes, then so shall I,” said Pallando, the emissary of Mandos and Nienna. “Wisdom and support in their grief the peoples of the Outer Lands shall need – I can provide that. And with me, the number of emissaries that is needed would be full, it seems.”

“Nay, it would not!” protested Yavanna in dismay. “You only think of those which could speak for themselves. The number of the emissaries should include one with love and care and understanding for the Kevlar and Olvar. For they had been there long before Elves and Men, and without them, the incarnates could not live out heir lives at all. Do they not deserve to have a protector, just because they cannot send one of themselves over the Sea to make that plea in their names?”

“Your argument does have its merits,” Varda nodded, “and I do not see why we could not send more than three. Who would be your choice?”

“I chose Aiwendil,” Yavanna gestured towards her companion, “the lover of birds and trees and the wild beasts. For that, the Wood-Elves would trust him and listen to him, I deem.”

Manwë looked at the other volunteers, and he saw Alatariel and Pallando smile in agreement; they were both fond of Aiwendil. Only Curumo’s face showed a vague unwillingness, but that was not surprising. The Maiar of Aulë and those of Yavanna were often in disagreement – which was the main reason why the latter had chosen to dwell on Yavanna’s pastures, outside Valmar, instead of Aulë’s great court with their Lady.

Maybe it will be good for both sides to work together on such an important task, Manwë thought.

“So be it,” he said, granting Yavanna’s request. “But where is Olórin? I hoped to have him here today, as he is the one who has had the closest acquaintance with the Elves who remained in Valinor, in all these Ages. Why has he not come?”

“I have come, my Lord, albeit a little late,” a deep voice said, and turned towards the sound, they all could see the emissary of Irmo, clad in grey, seating himself at the edge of the council. “I apologise for my tardiness. A long journey to the Soundless Sea hindered me to be here on time. What would you have of me, my Lord?”

“I wanted to send you to the Outer Lands as our third emissary,” answered Manwë, “but as that place is taken already, I shall send you as the fifth and last.”

At that Varda, who had been deep in thought, looked up with her unfathomable eyes and said quietly, “Not as the last.”

So quietly she said this, that no-one but those who sat closest heard it in the first place; not even Olórin himself. But Curumo did hear it, and a shadow of displeasure flickered across his noble face, too quickly for anyone to notice.

Olórin, however, shook his head in apology.

“Nay, my Lord,” he said, “I am too week for such a task. I am not a warrior or a builder, and I willingly admit to fear the dark powers of our abhorrent brother. I am but a counsellor of Lord Irmo and a pupil of the Lady Nienna, and my only skill is to awake thoughts in the hearts of those who hearken to me – thoughts of things that have not been yet but might yet be made for the enrichment of Arda.”

“That,” said Manwë, “is all the more reason for you to go.”

“But I cannot be of much use there,” Olórin argued. “Why not send Salmar?⁽³⁾” he nodded towards the Maia sent by Ulmo. “He, at least, could heal the stained waters of Middle-earth and turn them into allies of Elves and Men again.”

Salmar shifted on his seat uncomfortably, apparently no more willing to go to Middle-earth than Olórin himself. Fortunately for him, Manwë had already made up his mind in this matter.

“You shall go, for I order you to go,” he said to Olórin sternly. “Your skills would be sorely needed among the peoples of shattered hope, and your weakness, as you call it, might prove to be the greatest strength possible in the fullness of time.”

Olórin bowed obediently. He did not wish to go, but when he was needed, he would go, for such was his nature. He could not deny his help from those who required it.

“Am I to go alone or am I to take a companion with me as the others do?” was all he asked.

Manwë looked at Varda for counsel, as the Lady of the Stars seemed to have some insight concerning Olórin; insight that Manwë himself had not.

“You will go alone,” said Varda to Olórin, “but not right away. I need to discuss your task with you in some length first. I say, we send Curumo first, and with him Aiwendil; the former to look out for any possible hiding places of Sauron and the latter to make an inventory of the destruction that the Outer Lands have suffered. Until now, we only had rumours and tales, told by Elves who had fled Middle-earth in terror. We need one of our own to survey it. Aiwendil can also send tidings by way of his friends, the birds to Mithlond, and from there we can receive them easily, with the help of Ossë and his people. I strongly suggest that we send those two first.”

All agreed, though Curumo could not fully hide his displeasure with this forced companionship. But he could do nothing against Varda’s wishes or Manwë’s orders.

“When we know more about what is going on in the Outer Lands, we shall send Alatariel and Pallando after you,” Varda continued, “the Healer and the Supporter. Olórin will follow them alone, when the time for the Counsellor is right.”

“And thus he will be the last, after all,” commented Curumo softly, his dark eyes glittering and a thin smile curving his lips. Varda gave him a long, hard look.

“The last to arrive,” she replied quietly. “The rest is up to you. Be careful, though, Curumo of the Aulendili, and do not allow your pride to mislead you. For pride was what caused the downfall of your brother; and clad in a body taken from the tainted matter of the Outer Lands would make you forget many things that you know now, and you shall have to re-learn these things, all of you, on the long and arduous way of other incarnates.”

Curumo was silent for a while, weighing this in his cunning mind.

“’Tis a great risk that we are taking here, my Lady,” he finally said. Varda nodded.

“Greater than you might think. Never has anyone of our Order worn a fana taken from that soil permanently, save Melian. Eönwë himself could barely endure it at the end, and he is the mightiest among your ranks. This is why you must become less, smaller for this mission; or else the fire of your spirit would tear those bodies apart. Your task is harder, more perilous than Eönwë’s has been – do not take it lightly.”

“I shall not,” replied Curumo solemnly; “nor shall I disappoint you, my Lady.”

“That is my hope,” said Varda. “You are our hope – you and the others who will go with you.”

Curumo bowed in acceptance, and with that, the council came to an end.

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) The actual name of Círdan, the Shipwright.

(2) Quoted directly from “The Unfinished Tales”, Part Four, II. The Istari, p. 410

(3) According to “The Book of Lost Tales 1”, Salmar, also called Noldorin or Lirillo, was one of the companions of Ulmo – not as well-known as Uinen or Ossë, but rather important nevertheless.