Once in a Fair Green Country
IV
Olórin lingered with the rest of the Maiar on the outskirts of the Ring of Doom, where they all waited for their respective masters and mistresses to call them. Nearby he saw many of his kind, some he had not spoken to in centuries, some he had not seen in millennia, and others, like Eonwë, that he saw far too frequently for his liking.
They clustered in their natural, shapeless form, beyond the thrones of the Valar, watching and listening to the sombre proceedings. The debate within the Ring was just what Olórin needed, as for the first time since his meeting with Irimien, he had something other than the elleth to concentrate upon. Like the others jostling soundlessly beside him, he wanted to hear the outcome of the council. For many years they had followed the affairs of the Valar, and many of the Maia had gone to Valmar to see the newly freed Melkor, to report on his activities to their fellows in excited whispers. Now they watched with interest as Melkor became the subject of debate once more.
"For some time now," said Manwë, "we have gained from the counsel of Melkor and long now has he shown himself to be penitent. Though there are some among us who, as in the first calling of this discussion, remain silent as to whether he should have been freed at all, I believe the time has come to relax our vigil, and to allow him the freedom of Aman once more. For in the beginning of days, Illúvatar intended all of us to be a part of the Music of the World, and though some may have brought discord, they must have the chance to find the right note once again. We must allow Melkor the opportunity to do so."
Olórin listened thoughtfully, and watched the smile grace Melkor’s face as the judgement was pronounced, then he drifted off towards the Green Mound of Ezellohar, taking shape, as did a few of the other Maia around him.
"Well then, all things are well," said Eonwë, appearing suddenly behind Olórin, who had not sensed the other’s presence until the very last moment. Beside Eonwë was a female of their kind, in the form of a pale-skinned woman with hair the colour of the night before the stars were wrought.
"What?" asked Olórin.
"Olórin has his thoughts elsewhere," Eonwë whispered to his companion, loud enough for Olórin to hear. "Though I would think he would care what happens here, since now Melkor will walk amongst Olórin’s beloved elves."
"Why do you spend your time amongst the Quendi?" asked the female, Ilmarë, idly gazing towards the trees.
"He finds them fascinating," sighed Eonwë, wandering past Ilmarë, brushing a hand over her hair.
"You say that as though it is an evil thing," laughed Ilmarë, pulling out from his grasp and losing her solid shape for a fraction of a second as she stepped away, smiling. "They are fascinating. Melian thought so, at least."
"And now Melian lives in a hole in the ground," replied Eonwë, "hidden away, locked in her hroa."
"She abides with one whom she loves," said Ilmarë. "And not an idle love, like that you hold for the cold halls of Taniquetil, or I for the light of stars upon the clouds. Love that consumes, that almost has a fëa of its own, writhing within your being. That is what she has. Uncontrollable love for another creature, that made her leave this aimless, idle life of ours."
Olórin paid them little heed. He wandered around the Green Mound at a slow, dolorous pace, his mind empty. Ilmarë watched him, frowning slightly, then followed. Eonwë reached out to her for a second, then with a disgruntled sigh and a muttered, "I shall return to my duties then," he dissipated.
"What would ease this trouble in your heart, Olórin?" Ilmarë asked. "It is not right that you should ponder on sad things."
"They are not sad things," said Olórin. "Merely inexplicable ones."
"To one so wise as you? Then they must be riddles indeed."
"Even the wise can find folly," grumbled Olórin.
"What has happened?"
"I do not know myself of late. I think it must be some foul mood, that will no doubt pass. Think nothing of it, though I thank you for your concern."
Ilmarë watched him, straying very close to him. "Has she a name?"
"Who?"
"The one you are thinking of."
"What makes you think…"
"Because I saw that look in Melian’s eyes, just before she left us."
Olórin turned and stared at the other Maia for a while, but Ilmarë simply smiled, a look of faint triumph on her ethereal features, before she gave him a brief wave and disappeared from sight.
~*~
"Yes," sighed Gandalf, finally answering Elrond’s question properly, after his long trail of reminiscences. "I did love her. But how to understand love, when you have never experienced its like before? How to know what should be done, or what should be said? And how to tell someone so far apart from me, so distant from my world, who did not even know me and had never seen me as I truly am that she was my everything. That she was as dear to me as the trees were to Yavanna."
He exhaled wearily and considered the glowing embers in his pipe.
"I have always been a fool," he muttered beneath his breath. "Always."
~*~
Olórin found a great crowd gathered in the square beneath the Mindon lamp in Tirion, which made it difficult to find a quiet corner in which he could take on physical, elven form, but eventually he managed to transform, and stepped out amongst the others. He did not feel quite so self conscious that time, being distracted constantly by the other elves, in examining the mixture of emotions on their faces. He could not quite fathom it, but many seemed concerned, some seemed almost displeased, others afraid. Yet he did notice that they all seemed to focus their attention on the king’s halls. Although Olórin did not know what was happening, he could guess that something of import was taking place within Finwë’s palace.
Then just as he apologised to an ellon, whom he had just walked into as he looked around at the other Quendi, Olórin spotted Irimien on the far side of the square, looking up towards the sharp beam of the Mindon as it reached into the clouds.
Taking a deep breath, Olórin rehearsed his words again inside his mind, before he started off towards her. He had spent months watching others of her kin around Tirion or in the Swan Havens, secretly listening to their conversations, watching how their lovers interacted, until he felt confident enough to think of approaching her again.
He found her by the wall of one of the grand houses on the square, standing alone. After pacing around in a small spot for a while, wringing his hands, Olórin finally went up to her, taking it a few hesitant steps at a time. She did not notice him at first, then as he came to her side and his shadow fell upon her, she turned and looked directly at him. For a moment Olórin simply stood there, his mouth open and ready to speak.
"I know you," Irimien said, frowning as she fought to remember him.
"We met some time ago," said Olórin, though he could not fathom how many years or decades even might have passed since their last encounter. "Though only briefly. I did not have a chance to introduce myself, nor to speak with you, however much I wanted to."
He bowed, took her hand and kissed it.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"One who has waited a very long time to meet you," Olórin replied.
"Are you here at Finwë’s calling? Then you should go through – the council has already started."
"Council?"
"King Finwë has called his lords and advisors to him."
"Oh," said Olórin. "That is not why I am here."
He was about to say more and offer his rehearsed speech, when a murmur of voices from across the square made him turn. Irimien walked past him, her attention on the doors to Finwë’s hall. Soon a crowd had gathered all around the square and she pushed to get to the fore. Olórin went with her, for want of a better plan.
Soon though he saw what had drawn the elves’ attention. Fingolfin, the king’s son by his second wife, strode out of the hall, his features set into a mask that only just concealed a tempest of emotions. He remained utterly dignified, however, as he made to cross the square, trying not to pay heed to the dozens of eyes following his movements.
Yet moments later the door to the halls flew open, thrown so violently that it battered against the wall and all in the square fell silent, watching in awe as Fëanor thundered out, heading towards his half brother. As he moved, he reached beneath his robes, and something glinted. Before Olórin realised that the object in Fëanor’s hand was a sword, the tip of the blade was levelled at Fingolfin’s chest. Irimien reached out and clung to Olórin’s arm as an instinct, gasping quietly. Olórin froze for a second, feeling her touch, but he could not enjoy the moment.
"See, half-brother!" said Fëanor, eyes bright with desperate rage. "This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls."
Silence fell upon the square. Olórin stood wondering whether he should speak or intervene. What was his duty in such circumstance?
Finally Fingolfin stepped aside, keeping his gaze fixed on Fëanor’s eyes rather than the sword, then without a word he walked away, shouldering aside a few onlookers as he strode off across the square. Fëanor put his sword to his side and thrust back his shoulders, challenging the crowd to comment on the scene, though no one did. Only when Fëanor turned and went off into the halls again did the crowd start to disperse.
Irimien released Olórin’s arm slowly, her gaze fixed on the spot where that scene had just played out. Olórin stared at her hand sadly for a while, knowing there was no tenderness in her gesture. It was simply a reaction, he analysed. She would have grabbed onto a tree if it had happened to be beside her.
To confirm his assessment, Irimien then turned and hurried across the square to join a group of ellith, others from the palace, thought Olórin. They launched instantly into hushed whispers and Irimien did not spare him so much as a glance. With a deep sigh, Olórin walked away from the square.
However, although Irimien’s complete indifference weighed heavy in his heart, Olórin knew he had other matters to attend to. The image of that ellon, clutching his secretly-crafted sword, was branded upon Olórin’s mind. He knew he had no choice but to return to Taniquetil and report what he had seen and heard, even though he suspected the news would already have reached Manwë. It was his duty, and as Varda had told him, his duties would always take precedence.
Besides, he thought dully as he slipped out of sight and let his physical form dissipate, Irimien did not even know that he existed. Perhaps it was time to end that endeavour. Perhaps his duties should be his only concern.
Perhaps, he mused, they were all he would ever have.
~*~
Notes:
Fëanor’s little bit of dialogue is taken from The Silmarillion: Of the Simlarils and the Unrest of the Noldor.