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No Greater Love, Part Two: Repercussions  by MJ

X

The Court of the Ainur Begins

Although the mansion of Manwë and Varda in Valmar had largely been constructed to reflect their halls upon Taniquetil, they were not precisely the same, as Frodo soon discovered.  There was a small parlor joining his room and Bilbo's, where Olórin and Ványalos saw to having a sumptuous Shire breakfast set out for the two hobbits after they had used the privy, freshened themselves a bit, and donned the warm, thick house robes that had been provided for them.  Full preparation for the day would come after they had bathed, but the little parlor was as warm and cosy as the dining nook in Bag End, complete with a fire cheerily burning on the hearth.  The two Maiar served them and shared the meal with them, then left them to the baths that had been readied for them.

After he had finished his own, Frodo was relieved to find that the clothes he'd worn on Eruhantalë had been readied for him, cleaned and pressed and as spotless as the day he'd been given them.  As he dressed, he smiled to himself, thinking how fortunate he was that Lady Vairë had taken the advice of her lord husband, for he felt the raiment he already had was quite princely enough.

When he was clean and dressed, however, he looked at his reflection in a glass while he brushed his curly hair to put some order to it, and suddenly wondered if he would in fact be appropriately attired for the court he was about to attend.  He knew that none of the Valar and certainly few of the Maiar would even consider criticizing his appearance, but their own natural beauty often took his breath away.  Given how splendidly they had dressed for the celebration of thanksgiving with the Elves, how much more magnificent might their own private court be?

He was still contemplating this when he left the dressing room, and found a Maia waiting for him in his bedchamber.  She was small and slender, dressed in a gown as purple as asters in the autumn, her long silvery hair plaited with golden cords that were a curious match for her amber eyes.  She bowed to him in greeting, her smile gentle and pleasant.  "Good morning to you, Master Frodo.  I am Samindalia, a member of Lady Vairë's household.  She asked me to beg your pardon for not bringing her gift in person, but as I helped fashion it, I was more than happy to deliver it in her stead."

"It" was a cloak, which she had carried draped over one slim arm, and which she now unfolded and held out for him to see before she helped him into it.  It was not made to be proof against inclement weather, but was ceremonial in design, meant to be worn over his other clothing.  Its fabric was lush velvet of a deep and lustrous green, the very color of a grassy hillside of the Shire, sparkling with morning dew.  The full, wide sleeves reached to the middle of his forearm, allowing a part of his white silk shirt sleeves and cuffs to be seen.  It was unbelted and unbuttoned; its open front was held in place just above the breast by a wide decorative band, leaving a broad gap between the two edges that showed off the collar of his shirt and his formal waistcoat to their best advantage, but did not allow the cloak itself to shift or slip from his shoulders.  

The body of it was long, so long that it brushed the floor behind him.  All its hems and edges were exquisitely embellished with a garland of leaves and vines and flowers of the Shire, the hues subtle but so realistic, the embroidered petals and leaves looked as if he could pluck them from the cloth and inhale their fragrance.  The closure was similarly adorned, with the addition of four round buttons, two on each end, all fashioned like tiny gilt vines that cradled a gleaming emerald carved into the shape of a small acorn.  It would have been considered outlandish dress in the Shire, but here in Aman, it was undeniably elegant, and enough to allay any concerns Frodo might have had about fitting in among an assembly of the Ainur.  He thanked the Maia most graciously, and she smiled as she bowed in acceptance before taking him to join Bilbo.

Frodo was particularly relieved by Vairë's thoughtfulness when he met the elder hobbit in the little parlor, and found that Bilbo had been given the same gift.  "Perhaps it's vanity," Bilbo told his ersatz nephew after Samindalia had departed.  "But I must confess, after so many years of living among the Elves and even traveling with Dwarves who aren't at all chary about showing off their wealth, I sometimes feel... well, just a wee bit shabby by comparison!  Not that hobbit clothing isn't attractive and well-made, but it's always been done with an eye for practicality, will it wear well and last for several seasons and such.  I shouldn't want to dress like this every day, but once in a while, it's quite nice, don't you think?"

Frodo couldn't help but laugh.  "Oh, and the finery Lady Celebrían gave you only a few days ago wasn't princely enough?"  A gesture indicated the clothing Bilbo had worn for the thanksgiving celebration, which he was also wearing today.  When Bilbo blushed and made flustered sounds, he relented his teasing.  "But I know exactly how you feel, dear Bilbo.  We hobbits all enjoy a good party, but all these formal courts and high feasts find us quite out of our element!"

The color that had risen in Bilbo's cheeks faded a bit as he smiled back.  "Yes, my lad, just so!  It was kind of Lady Vairë to provide for us, so that we shouldn't feel so dreadfully out of place today.  Why, it reminds me of one Yule I spent in the Great Smials when I was a tween.  The weather was dreadful and the driver was in such a rush to get to a dry and warm hole, no one noticed when the satchel with all my best clothes bounced off the back of the cart and into a mud puddle.  It wasn't found until the night before the feast.  Everything was ruined, of course, and I was heartbroken -- all of it was new, you see, and I hadn't had a chance to wear the things, not even once!  But my Aunt Rosa saw how upset I was, and how I dreaded the idea of coming to The Took's Yule Feast in my plain everyday clothes, so she sat up the entire night just to make me a new weskit that was even more beautiful than the one I'd lost.  It was so lovely, I didn't mind at all, wearing it with my ordinary shirt and trousers.  Such a kind soul she was, and I've never forgotten her generosity."

As he listened to Bilbo's timely anecdote, Frodo ran his fingertips over the raised stitches gracing the wide cuff of one of his cloak's sleeves.  He marveled at how the embroidered flower petals felt as soft as those of violets or roses, the stems of the twining vines thick and firm but pliable, like those of the ivy that grew over the windows at Bag End, the glossy leaves as smooth and sleek to the touch as those of the beech trees that shaded the west banks of the Bywater Pool.  The skill that had gone into their crafting was truly wondrous, for some threads had been made of soft shimmering silks, others of gleaming metals drawn into fine strands, and still others of what appeared to be spun gems, glistening with every shift of the firelight from the parlor's hearth.  

The care that had clearly been taken in fashioning this robe touched his very heart, as did Bilbo's tale.  His thoughts were drawn to how he also had been blessed by such kindness after he'd survived the quest to destroy the Ring, given lovingly made things to replace those that had been lost or ruined during his arduous journeys -- and how at the time he had been dreadfully unsettled by the finery, believing he did not deserve it.  He had learned so much since then, some things just this morning.  He wished that he could go back to those long-gone days, to let all the people who had made such efforts to honor him know that he was not an ingrate, that both their efforts and their kindness had been very much appreciated.  

He couldn't, of course, but instead, he could show his gratitude to those who had extended him the same courtesy today.   "I do hope we have a chance to thank the Lady and any who assisted her properly, after the day's business is done.  Everyone in Aman has done so much to make us welcome here, I don't think I shall ever be able to say 'thank you' often enough."

"Nonsense!" a familiar voice contradicted, causing both halflings to look toward the open archway that led from the parlor to a corridor beyond.  For a moment, Frodo expected to see Olórin, but it was Ványalos who stood beneath the arch, smiling broadly.  The tall Maia was dressed much as they were, in a flowing robe over his other clothing, but the differences were startling.  It wasn't so much the colors or the embellishment -- his cloak was of dusky blue over a long silver-gray tunic and breeches, adorned with subtle designs that bespoke his affiliation with both Irmo and Estë -- but a certain ethereal quality to the garments themselves, as if they had been spun and woven of dreams and mist and the calm of a still lake, deep in a cool woodland.  His long red hair fell down his back in its customary four-strand braid, but today, it shimmered brightly, like a line of living flame against the darker blue of his cloak.

Both hobbits gasped softly, though Bilbo was first to find his voice.  "Good gracious, I don't think we can thank Lady Vairë enough for her thoughtfulness!  Is this customary dress for your people's courts?"

"For formal ones, yes," the Maia answered with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.  "Many of us enjoy showing off for the occasions, so be prepared to see others far more magnificent than I!  But truly, we are all well thanked when what we do brings you pleasure or comfort.  That is worth more than mere words, although you may be sure the Weaver and her helpers will delight to hear them."

"Then we must be sure to seek her out when the court is over."  Frodo craned his neck a bit, to see if Ványalos was alone.  "Won't Olórin be coming with us?"

The redhead's grin widened.  "Oh, yes, he was very insistent that he and I be the ones to escort you into the Great Hall.  Certain folk, however, were also insistent about other matters, and it took a bit longer for that... ah... discussion to be settled.  I hadn’t yet heard the end of it when it was time for me to make myself ready.”

The way a corner of his mouthy quirked when he said discussion made both hobbits chuckle.  "Dear me!" Bilbo said.  "I remember some of the 'discussions' I had with Gandalf back in Middle-earth -- and I hope this doesn't mean he will be in a disagreeable mood for the rest of the day!" 

Frodo winced.  "It wasn't an actual argument, was it?" he asked, concerned.  Olórin had been in excellent spirits over the last few days, in spite of the less pleasant matters that had been brought to light; it would be a shame for something to have happened to spoil it.

Ványalos ruffled his hair in affectionate reassurance, somehow not mussing the halfling's dark curls in the process.  "Not really.  There was a difference of opinion between him and Eönwë over -- ah, here he is now." 

A very soft rustle of fabric could be heard in the corridor just before Olórin appeared in the archway.  As always, Ványalos was markedly taller than the Istar, but today, that gave him no advantage in sheer presence.  Olórin had also readied himself for Court, and though his garb was similar in style, it was considerably more striking.  The outer robe was of vivid blues, shading from the bright hue of a clear summer sky at the shoulders to the dark sapphire of night at the lower hems, which swept the floor even more than the hobbits' cloaks.  There were subtle patterns in the shimmering samite, like the whorls of clouds on the wind; the designs glimmered more brightly than the heavy silk, as they had been woven in fine threads of mithril.  

More prominent variations of those patterns graced all the hems, where tiny sapphires and precious opals had been cleverly worked into the embroidery.  Under the cloak, he wore a pure white ankle-length robe of lighter silk damask, cinched at the waist with the sapphire and mithril belt Frodo had given him.  His long fair hair fell smoothly down his back, the sides having being drawn away from his face and plaited with cords of mithril and gold, beset with gems matching those on his cloak.  On his head, he wore the brightly shining crystal circlet made by the hand of the One.  Where Ványalos seemed to be garbed in mist and dream, Olórin looked as if the very heavens, from dawn to midnight, had come down to clothe him, an effect that was undeniably regal.

The hobbits had never seen their friend dressed so magnificently, but though they were at a loss for words, Ványalos was not.  "So, you lost the argument with Eönwë?" he asked cheekily, the sweep of one hand indicating his friend's princely raiment.

Olórin lifted his chin with an expression that was smugly amused.  "Not at all.  He enlisted Lady Vairë's support in insisting that the brother of the Elder King should be appropriately attired for a formal Court, and I had other support in countering that the Herald of the Valar and 'son' of that same king should also be appropriately arrayed for said occasion."  An impish smile crept across his face.

The other Maia's eyes widened, then he laughed.  "He couldn't have taken that well!  Was it your idea?"

The Istar's smile widened as he shook his head.  "Actually, no.  I was telling Manwë and the other Valar of some interesting notions Frodo had mentioned to me before breakfast when Eönwë arrived.  As he'd heard most of what I had to say, he felt justified in declaring that now, I simply had to attend court in garb befitting a prince of the realm, which Vairë’s immediately seconded.  I was in the process of trying to come up with a reason to counter everything I'd just said to avoid it, when Lady Varda made her own suggestion concerning his attire.  It was such an elegant answer to Eönwë's teasing, I was delighted to be a part of it -- even if it meant enduring this."  He spread his arms, causing all he was wearing to shimmer and sparkle like moonlight on fine streams of snow carried by the night wind.

Bilbo gave his nephew a puzzled glance.  "Dear me, what did you say to cause such a fuss?"

Frodo coughed, but was spared the need to explain when Olórin chuckled.  "Nothing that should not have been said, Bilbo -- which you can hear in more detail later.  For now, come.  It's time for us to be on our way to the Great Hall."  He held out a hand to Frodo while Ványalos offered his to Bilbo, so that they could lead them to their destination.

Though Bilbo accepted the hand extended to him, Frodo hesitated for a moment.  He could see no sign of upset in the beautifully dressed Maia, but....  "Eönwë isn't angry, is he?"

Again, the fair head shook.  "No, not really.  He simply didn't expect to have his bluff called, and by the Elentari herself!  Come now, and you shall see all in good time."

Frodo put aside his misgivings to take Olórin's hand and follow, mindful, as was Bilbo, not to step or trip over the long ceremonial robes.  Fortunately, their pace was sedate, as they were in no hurry, and the halls were well-lit by sconces and overhead lamps which gave clear light, but with no apparent flame.

"Are those Fëanorean lamps?" Bilbo asked after they had gone down the long straight corridor and had entered another that gently curved and sloped upward.

"It would be more accurate to say that Fëanor's lamps were inspired by these," Olórin replied as they continued along at the same calm pace.  "Aulë fashioned these, and Varda filled them with light, long before any of the Eldar arrived on these shores.  After the Two Lamps were destroyed by the Enemy, they made these in their memory, to light their halls before the Two Trees were brought forth.  If you should visit other mansions of the Valar, you will find that they also have such lamps to light them."

Frodo listened to the explanation with quiet interest, occasionally looking down to make sure he did not step on the hem of his robe, or Olórin's.  The blue and white marble tiles of the floor were cool beneath his unshod feet, but not cold -- and on one downward glance, he noticed that the Istar's feet were bare as well.  He looked up at him, surprised that he would continue this recent habit even today; he was about to mention it when he decided against it.  If others were scandalized by the revelation that he and Manwë were brothers in Ilúvatar's thought, then the fact that he would come to court arrayed as a prince but with bare feet would probably seem a very minor issue, by comparison.  Instead, he turned his attention to their surroundings.

They continued on along the same wide corridor, and as the curve and slope of it took them ever upward, Frodo knew he had seen no similar place in the Elder King's mansion in Valmar.  It was beautiful, from the carvings above door lintels and at the edges of both floor and ceiling, to the niches with small sculptures and the tapestries gracing the walls.  But as they drew closer and closer to their destination, the hobbit became aware of more than mere air moving through the hall.  Other Maiar, exquisitely garbed in their own ceremonial robes, joined the procession, while still others, unclad, moved along with them.  For the most part, Frodo could not see them as more than occasional glimmers of pale light, but he could feel their passing as tingles of wind brushing against his skin, some briskly cool, others soothingly warm.  

Briefly, he felt as if he might be overwhelmed by the sensations, but the warmer clasp of Olórin's fingers around his own calmed him.  It was then that he became aware of many voices singing, a soft and simple chorus that became louder and more intricate in its harmonies as they drew nearer to the Great Hall.  Ványalos joined in, his clear tenor as pleasing as a  mellow voiced flute, and in time, Olórin added his strong baritone to the song.  The words were in Valarin and mostly unfamiliar to Frodo, but here and there, he caught a word he knew, and soon he  recognized it as a song of joy and love for the One, their Father.  Bilbo listened raptly, a smile of pleasure wreathing his face; before long, Frodo found himself humming along, quietly, enjoying the thrill he always experienced when he was graced by a chance to share music with any of the Ainur.

The corridor broadened as it at last grew level again.  A short distance beyond the final curve stood three immense arched doorways, their exquisitely filigreed doors of mithril and gold thrown wide to permit access to what lay beyond.  As they and their companions and the myriad Maiar who followed stepped into the Great Hall, Frodo saw that it was indeed unlike any chamber he had seen in Valmar.  Great was an insufficient word to describe it, for it was an immense place, seemingly without walls or roof, a plateau of white marble shot with veins of gold and sapphire and silver, cut into the very fabric of the holy mountain.  

When Olórin led them farther into the hall, where the incarnate Maiar were gathering with others of their own peoples, the hobbit was able to see that they were under a vast dome of crystal, so perfect and clear that he could only perceive its presence when rays of sunlight caused a brief rainbow gleam that accentuated its high curves.

As they made their way to the place appointed them, Frodo saw that there was an inner circle to the wide hall, along which fourteen pillars of crystal were evenly spaced.  They were tall, but not so tall as to support the high dome; rather, they reminded him of places he had seen in the countryside of the Shire, where standing stones had been set as a memorial or a marker of some notable site.  Here, they clearly indicated where each Vala's people were to gather, for those who were in fána went to the place where others in similar, if not identical, garb were assembling.

To Frodo's eyes, made keen by his ordeals with the Ring, there was an otherworldly quality to the place that was an effect of both the presence of many unclad Maiar and the unusual raiment of those who were incarnate.  While there was a general standard to the shape of the ceremonial robes, many looked to be made of more than even the finest fabrics and other materials available.  On some of the people of Ulmo, for instance, the cloaks looked to be made of water, held in the required shape by their wills alone.  Several of Varda's folk wove light into shining cloth, while a number of Vána's Maiar had fashioned garb of still living and budding blossoms that swayed as flowers will in a soft spring breeze.  Their attire was less overtly majestic than what Olórin had been persuaded to wear as the Elder King's brother, but it was nonetheless fascinating in how it blended aspects of the everyday physical world with the extraordinary world of what some folk called magic.

While he took in the sight of all the wonderfully arrayed Maiar, still singing as they proceeded with joyful dignity to their places, Frodo looked to see if he could spot any of the dissidents, but there were simply too many faces to study, even with only a portion of the throng in visible form.  Moreover, none of the Maiar that he could see were anything but beautiful -- which struck him as something of a relief.  He knew that those who were corrupt in their hearts became less able to take on forms that were truly fair.  Sauron had been able to assume forms that were outwardly pleasing, until he made and lost his Ring, but even before then, not all eyes had been fooled by his comely appearance.  

Frodo had talked of this at some length with Galadriel, who of all the Elves in Middle-earth had not been deceived by "Annatar" when he came offering gifts of knowledge and power, asking nothing in return.  He could not be certain, but Frodo was reasonably sure that now, he also would not have been tricked by a fair-seeming face.  Before he'd taken on the burden of the Ring, he would certainly have been duped, until Sauron's actions proved his true intent, but now, with his awareness of more subtle things vastly increased, he would have been suspicious from the start.  Were any of the beautiful folk around him now truly black of heart, corrupted by evil desires and designs, Frodo would have sensed it as a shadow upon them -- but as he did not, he believed that none of those he could perceive honestly intended to do evil.  He hoped that he was correct in this belief, and in his heart whispered a prayer to Eru Ilúvatar that it would be proven so.

As they proceed outside the inner circle, the incarnate Maiar gathering near each pillar came to stand in rank after rank, before rows of elegant crystal benches, each tinted a pale color associated with the Vala they served.  The floor on which they were set sloped up toward the edge of the hall, so that whatever happened at the center could be seen by all.  Frodo quickly lost count of how many rows there were, for the room seemed to stretch on almost to infinity -- a physical impossibility, he knew, though perhaps this was his mingled perceptions of the material world and the world of the unseen.  It was a dizzying sensation, trying to find the actual boundaries of the hall, so he returned his attention to things nearer at hand, and less perplexing to his senses.

Olórin and Ványalos led their Mortal guests to the innermost row near the pillar opposite the great entrance doors, where the benches were a faint sky blue, a more pallid version of the vivid hue worn by the Maiar who were moving to stand before them.  The first bench had no one before it, and it was here that they finally came to a halt, with the two hobbits standing between their friends.  They remained standing, as did all the others, and at length, the joyous song reached a final crescendo, then ended.

The last of the incarnate Maiar took their places as the echoes of the song faded.   The stillness that followed held in it a frisson of anticipation that was broken by a sudden fanfare of trumpets and bells.  If gold and silver had had voices to be heard, they would have sounded thus, full and deep, sharp and clear, bright as the mingled lights of sun and moon and stars, warm as the blaze of fire.  Both hobbits listened in unabashed wonder, aware that they were privileged to hear what no Mortal ears had ever heard so clearly.

As the trumpets continued to sound, the doors to the two outer arches closed, and a striking figure entered through the third.  It was Eönwë, in full armor, seated astride a great war horse of purest white.  His mount was in full barding, plates and lames fitted to protect the beast in battle, fashioned of silver washed steel etched with gold.  A deep blue caparison draped over part of the metal armor; the heavy cloth was embroidered with all the emblems of the Valar, wrought in rich threads of many metals.  There were no reins nor bit nor saddle, but the edges of both the headstall and the pad on which Eönwë sat were decorated with a heavy twisted cord fringe and tiny silver bells that made a pleasant silvery sound as they moved across the hall.  

Over his own beautifully etched armor, the Herald wore a simple surcoat of blue silk lined with gold tissue, with the emblem of the Valar on the breast, with a long cape of heavy white velvet spilling back from his broad shoulders.  In his right hand, he carried a tall staff bearing the standard of the Valar; his left hand rested upon the pommel of an unsheathed greatsword laid across his knees.  He sat tall and straight astride his proud steed, and together, they moved to the very center of the hall, where a large star of fourteen points was blazoned on the stone floor, each point wrought of a different gemstone, inlaid upon the marble.

The fanfare ended when they reached the centerpoint.  There, Eönwë lowered the long staff of the standard he bore.  As he slowly turned his mount in a complete circle, he struck the floor with the foot of the staff fourteen times, once on each ray of the gleaming star.  Every strike rang through the hall like a clap of thunder; as it sounded, light flowed from the place he had struck and seared through the inlaid gemstone like lightning, making it glow from center to tip.  When he had come full circle and the star beneath him was shining brightly, the pillars that stood at the end of each ray suddenly transformed into fourteen thrones, carved of the gemstone on the floor before it.  A moment later, the Valar themselves appeared before them, their garb more regal and eerily magnificent than all of the Maiar combined.  

The hobbits' eyes were briefly dazzled by their arrival, but it soon passed.  Eönwë then lowered the standard and raised his sword even as he raised his voice.

"Now commences the court of the Valar," he declared in a clear and powerful voice, the voice that had greeted the Elves when they first came to Aman, that had hailed Eärendil when he landed upon the shores of the West, that had declared the coming of war upon Morgoth and his minions, that had welcomed the Ringbearers into the peace of the West only a handful of years ago.  "May the One above us all guide our minds and hearts on the paths of wisdom, understanding, and mercy."

"Nasië," the Valar said as one, as they made deep bows of respect to their ever-watching Creator.  The Maiar repeated both the word and the bow, as did Frodo and Bilbo, respecting the customs of their hosts as well as the Being who had made it possible for them to attend this court with neither harm nor fear.

The echoes of the word were fading as Eönwë lowered the sword and set the standard into its place at the center of the inlaid star.  The trumpets and bells sounded again as he moved to his place at Manwë's right, where he dismounted. While a servant of Oromë led the warhorse to a place prepared for its comfort, Eönwë sheathed the sword and removed his helm, revealing an intricate circlet of mithril and gold that gleamed upon his midnight black hair.  He set both sword and helm onto a low stool that appeared out of thin air, but when the Valar seated themselves upon their thrones, signaling that the others may also be seated, the Herald did not, for protocol demanded that he remain standing throughout the ceremony.  

As he took his own seat on the bench, Frodo understood why Eönwë might not have been pleased by Varda's insistence that he attend the court in full panoply.  Although the armor did not cover his entire body in metal plates and would not weigh upon him as it would a true incarnate, it was elaborate -- ostentatious, even, better suited to a herald riding at the forefront of the Hosts of the West as they marched into battle, not one acting in a mere court setting, where the velvet cape alone dragged heavily on the floor.  

Still, Eönwë showed no sign of resentment.  Indeed, when the halfling saw him glance Olórin's way, he caught the herald's smile and small nod, a good-natured admission that he had been bested in their little game.  Having seen that, Frodo was better able to relax, free of any concern that there might be friction between the two friends, who were his friends as well. 

When all were seated, the second fanfare ended. As its final notes faded, Frodo suddenly felt a shivery sensation, as if a draft from the coldest reaches of Arda had swept through the immense hall.  He recognized it as a brief ripple of osánwë, as all the Ainur present -- both clothed and unclothed -- shared a moment of communion in their thoughts.  Bilbo's hand touched his, and he knew his kinsman had felt it, too.  Frodo closed his fingers around the elder hobbit's and gave them a quick squeeze of reassurance.  He was far more used to this feeling than Bilbo, and he knew well by now that they had nothing to fear.

Then the moment of communion ended.  Manwë stood again, tall and majestic of both appearance and bearing, his raiment the winds and skies made manifest, his snowy white hair the flowing clouds of the heavens, his keen sapphire eyes as piercing and brilliant as lightning, but his expression as warm and gentle as the first warm breath of spring.  He was the very picture of the Eldest of all the kings of Eä, and as he looked out upon the assembly, the court of the Ainur truly began.

Next:

Plans Unfolding

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

Author’s Note:  The descriptions of the elaborate ceremonial robes and the procession to the Great Hall were in part inspired by the artwork of the illustrator Sulamith Wülfing, which often depicted a juxtaposition of intricately dressed living people with ethereal spirits.  She and Arthur Rackham are among my favorite illustrators, and if my descriptions sometimes wax poetic, you may often blame one of them. :)





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