Manwë sauntered into the front courtyard of Ilmarin, the edifice on the top of Mount Taniquetil, flanked by two warrior Maiar under his command. He was glad that the meeting had been adjourned with satisfying results for both the Valar – to keep their peace – and the Elves – for their own moral benefit.

Truthfully, though, the fact that there would not be such a meeting until the next yén was more important to him than the results of the meeting. Well, if something dire or otherwise of great import happened before the customary time, the meeting would be held right then, but he sincerely hoped that such event would not happen for a long, long time.

He was not tired physically, unlike the Elves who had attended the meeting (kings Ingwë of the Vanyar, Arafinwë of the Noldor, and Olwë of the Teleri). However, his mind had screamed of both mental exhaustion and the need to be patient even before the first half of the meeting had gone by. Who knew that yén after yén the Elves would invent more intricate wordplays and arguments? Even now, while he was returning to his abode from the Vanyarin city of Vanyamar, he began to think about sending an ambassador in his stead for future annual meetings.

`You cannot do so, beloved. The Elves would think you insult them,` Varda, divining his mind, spoke, her reproving tone gentled by a mental smile.

Manwë sighed ruefully to her. `I know, but the notion is so tempting.`

Varda laughed in the same manner. `Come, beloved. Come join me,` she beckoned, then presented him with the image of a room. Manwë smiled, both physically and mentally, and thanked her. He had thought to relax somewhere; now she had provided him with a place to do so. He dismissed the guards, who had come to the meeting and back only because they had insisted, and made a beeline to the kitchen. There, in spite of the protests of the two Maiar in charge of the area, he insisted on preparing snacks and tea himself to be carried to where his spouse awaited him. Before he left, though, he placated the slightly-mutinous Maiar by assigning the two of them with tasks of fetching two bottles of miruvor from the cellar and a wicker basket plus some tubes of uniquely-coloured paints and brushes, which he had prepared earlier, from the storeroom. Neither Valar nor Maiar actually needed to eat or drink, especially in their true forms, yet eating and drinking felt good  when they were self-incarnated, and besides, the smell and taste of the mortal sustenance could be quite addicting, just as much as breathing, feeling with skin or walking.

The tactic proved successful. The Maiar returned with faces smiling, although the Lord of the Winds still detected some unhappiness about them. `Well, I cannot please everyone at once, can I?` he complained to Varda, sending her the images of the less-than-satisfied Maiar to her, while stooping down to arrange the teapot and boxes of little cakes and cookies in the basket beside the wine bottles, paints and brushes.

`They just wish to please you, my love. Do not be hard on them.`

`Sometimes I wish I could care for myself and do things in like manner.`

`You are whining, my lord. It is quite unbecoming of you,` Varda chuckled.

Manwë tried to sniff haughtily to her but failed spectacularly. Instead he fell into a fit of snickering alongside her. Outwardly, he struggled to maintain an impassive countenance before the two mother-hen servants of his.

“Thank you,” he said to them, followed by a – hopefully – convincing nod of contented approval. His deep blue eyes flickered from one face to the other, gauging their feelings, before he was truly satisfied and left the kitchen to his original destination.

The room he was striding to was in a part of his home which was an extention of the abode, located on the western slope of the mountain a little higher than Vanyamar. Unlike the road from Vanyamar to the main part of the abode, however, the way to and from this part, which he, Varda and the one Maia who lived there favoured, was longer but with gentler slope. From afar, it would look just like a small hill on the mountainside, formed of rocks, littered with greeneries and dotted with holes, but in fact the ‘holes’ were windows and doors, and the seemingly-untended patches of trees, flowers, grass and shrubs were actually well-cared-for. The five rooms and halls there were airy and gave no sign that they were built beneath a hill.

Without breaking his pace, he navigated the twisted paths along the gardens and came to the south of the unique building, full of anticipation as though a father about to give his child  a long-hoped-for or surprise gift.

Well, actually the truth was not far from the impression.

`I am coming, Lúnwë. What are you doing, child?` he greeted the Maia that was in the room with his spouse. He did not need the answer, since Varda had supplied him with it some time ago, yet nonetheless the announcement of his arrival was necessary in order not to startle the heavily-damaged Maia into a state of raw fright and panic. Thinking about it again, he sometimes wondered why he loved to visit the room, Lúnwë’s tiny dwelling, and even lingered long there. But then again, the room’s atmosphere had an excellent mixture of calmness and eagerness. And somehow, it was made more inviting when the Maia was there in spite of Lúnwë’s own brittle, fragile appearance.

`I am painting, my lord,` came the expected reply. Lúnwë’s voice, just like the other times after the fateful event which had damaged him beyond any repair, was subdued. His prior unquenchable brightness was muted by the horrors of that time and the lingering trauma. His voice, however, spurred Manwë onward instead of discouraging him. The Vala was used to the tone, and was wont to rue himself for what happened in the moments that had ripped the Maia’s joy and fire, almost literally, away; soon after the latter, a session of lecture from Varda against self-pity would always follow.

Remembering all, he smiled grimly. `Curse Melkor,` he muttered to himself. He still wondered what that fallen brother of his had wanted by capturing Lúnwë, while they were many more beside him who were much more knowledgeable of the secrets of the Valar at that time. Lúnwë had experienced working for each and every Vala and Valië before his captivity, true, but the Maia had never bothered to inquire about many things, less about any kind of secrets, and he had never stayed with one master or mistress for long anyway. The only thing Melkor had gained by capturing him had been to remove more than half of his life force to feed some of the fallen Vala’s weakened minions.

`And then chaos broke, with nine Maiar wanting to seek revenge and—`

`–And you are brooding again, Manwë,` Varda interjected sharply, managing to penetrate the barriers around his mind. `Cease those dark thoughts and pay attention to the present, if that is what you wish.`

`As you wish, my lady.` Manwë winced. He had not been caught brooding for a long time and his spouse had thought that he had gotten over it. His luck had run out, it seemed.

He took a deep breath and arranged his mind into a calm, composed state. Then he asked, letting his words be heard by the two people in the room, `What are you painting, child?` He needed to distract himself and Lúnwë, who seemed to detect his brooding despite his best efforts to shield his emotions and thoughts from the Maia. Furthermore, he needed to give evidence to Varda that he was no longer brooding; perhaps she would believe him now and would not interrogate him on it after they had been completely alone tonight.

Lúnwë did not need to answer him, for at that time Manwë stepped through the doorway from the porch and entered the sunlit chamber, his gaze fixed on the patch of taut canvas visible above the charcoal-grey crest of the Maia’s head. The painting was of a meadow littered with golden star-shaped Elanor in sunlight after a light rain. It was part of Vána’s dwelling, and the image was captured with detail and exquisiteness rivalling that of an Elf’s.

“Well done, son. Do you wish to go there, after a rain? I think my brother Ulmo has scheduled the meadow to be wetted three days from now,” he murmured, his praise, question and offer heartfelt.

Lúnwë ceased painting. Manwë could detect anguish warring with a sundry other emotions within him. The Lord of the Winds sighed and, after putting the basket on a nightstand, came behind the Maia and gently held the latter, resting his chin atop Lúnwë’s silk-smooth free locks. “I told him that it is all right if he wishes so,” Varda informed him with her own sigh. This was news to Manwë, for his spouse had not forewarned him.

Lúnwë, now that it was hard for him to travel due to his severe disability, trauma and paranoia, was wont to express places he would like to go, sometimes in specific times, through pieces of painting. His triplet brothers, older sister, or even his lord and lady would discover his wishes despite his best efforts to hide them; they, in turn, would manage a trip with him to the desired places and in the desired times without making him suspicious. There were times, like this, nevertheless, when he was asked directly, and the  answer was always the same: silence pregnant with suppressed feelings and emotions.

“We can discuss this at another time.” Manwë relented at last. “Now finish the painting and then I would like to look at the image you have wrought in its fullest beauty.” He made it like a command, but Lúnwë did not look to be upset; perhaps because of how often the Maia’s lord had ordered him so.

Still, he obeyed.

“Good,” Manwë grunted. He retreated to the bed and seated himself on it by the armchair in which Varda was settled, intent with her bead-sewing. After some intakes of breath, he began to relax. Only then he took in the interior of the chamber in full and appreciated his being there – at last.

The space within the tiny abode of the Maia could not be called small, actually. It looked thus because of the many shelves, chests of drawers, tables, boxes and cupboards that lined the painted walls and stood on the cream marble floor farther from the walls. The arrangement of items there reflected an organised chaos, but Manwë loved the chamber because of that. Everywhere he looked in other parts of the mansion, everything seemed so prim and proper; denoting his nature and rank, they said, but whatever. Here he could relax from his duties and drink in the rare view of a packed but liveable space and be content. The bed, able to contain two people without touching, with its head pressed to the western wall, was positioned thus so that it had a clear view of not only the room but also the window looking out down the slope to the green foot of Taniquetil and a patch of Vanyamar. A cool breeze, scented with flowers, leaves and grass, drifted in lazily and lingered on the bed before making its way around the chamber.

Manwë was so absorbed in his contemplation that it took Varda several moments to get him out of his impromptu meditative rest. `I know you are enjoying yourself, beloved, but my other love here has just finished his painting… as you ordered,` she told him with some fond exasperation. Not a minute later, Lúnwë himself rose from the stool he had been sitting on and came over to the bed.

“I-I have finished it, my lord, the painting,” he stammered, looking uncertain and embarrassed. Manwë pretended not to notice him. A beautiful yellow-and-pink butterfly had just flown in from the window.

“My lord?” The nervous Maia touched his knee timidly. The butterfly made its way around Manwë’s head then winged towards Lúnwë.

“Oh yes,” Manwë replied at last, stifling a pained hiss when Varda subtly pricked his robed skin with her sewing needle. `What was that for?` he protested petulantly.

`You are torturing him, my lord. He is anguished already; you need not add to his worries.`

`There is no need to be anguished over a perfect painting. Besides, I think his favourite dishes there in the basket will make up for it.`

Varda refused to argue more. In fact, she shut him out of her mind and pretended that he was not there at all. Manwë harrumphed with petulant exasperation to her and at last acknowledged Lúnwë. “I shall look at it. Meanwhile, I advise you to take repast from the basket I have brought for you on the nightstand over there. It contained some gifts for you as well.”

Lúnwë, with the butterfly perched atop his head, fleeted to the appointed nightstand while Manwë was examining his current artwork. When the Vala turned around, however, he found that the Maia had not touched anything from the basket. Lúnwë had only seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked down at the paint tubes and the small open boxes containing the cookies and little cakes with unreadable countenance.

“Do you not like them, child? Those snacks are your favourite, are they not? And you have been thinking of attaining some more colours for your future paintings,” Manwë, seating himself beside his ward, asked gently. He wound an arm around Lúnwë’s torso and held the latter close. “You could save the wine for yourself. I would not refuse the tea if you offered, though.”

`Mission accomplished, eh?` Varda remarked not two hours later, acknowledging her spouse’s presence at last. Manwë snorted. He leant back over a big pillow to the wooden headboard and stretched carefully to the full length of his physical form. Lúnwë lay quiescent beside him, snuggled among the rest of the pillows and covered by some sheets, breathing quietly with his eyes open but unseeing in the manner of the Elves.

This time, it was Manwë who refused to acknowledge her. But now it was more because he was resting his mind himself than because of a need to retaliate. The moment was so perfect in his mind that he was reluctant to let it go. Here he sat, in a well-lived, ordinary room, with his spouse and someone that he had considered his son eons ago – literally. He wished Lúnwë had actively been engaged in something instead of sleeping like a true incarnate being, but he had learnt a long time ago to appreciate what his Father had given him and cherish all. Besides, no one could harm any of them in this part of their home. He and Varda had made sure of that by imbuing all the rooms and halls, and even the grassy and rocky roof, with notes of protection from both mental and physical harm during its construction.

Varda seemed to feel the same quiet contentment, for she ceased her sewing and leant back on the fluffy armchair, also stretching – in quite an unladylike manner. Her bright silver eyes roamed the chamber idly, resting at length on the drying piece of painting which Lúnwë had worked on. The room, of all part of the small extention, was indeed their favourite place for relaxation when they had been burdened by formalities and other mentally-tiring businesses.

And soon she found herself snuggled in Manwë’s arms. They cuddled to each other, confident that Lúnwë would not wake up within at least the next two hours and that no one would search for them there, in the most private area of Ilmarin, their special haunt.

“Does Arien trouble you, my love?” Varda chuckled, noting how Manwë had been furiously swiping running sweat from his skin with a small towel upon returning from his day-full sojourn among the Elves of Vanyamar. He had taken a form not unlike the Firstborn in all measures and now paid the cost.

 “It is her nature,” he grunted, his tone a half-hearted complaint.

 “What news from the city?” Varda queried, steering the conversation away from the delicate subject. “You blocked your mind.”

 “I wanted to know how to be an Elf,” Manwë said evasively. “True incarnate beings have limited mental abilities; you know that.”

 Varda raised an elegant eyebrow.

 “Let us not speak of it now, shall we? I am still tired.”

 The second eyebrow joined the first, creating a perfect line on Varda’s fair face.

 In short, they were ensconced in an open courtyard located in the northern part of their abode in Ilmarin. There, in the middle of the flagstone yard carved with vine patterns, sat a fountain. Water sprouted from a hole on its midst, creating a shape of cool geyser akin to a blooming rose which was visible even from a horizontal view. Bushes of white, yellow, orange, pink, red, green and indigo roses lined its inner edges, forever watered by the soft spray that landed on them. The bushes, put in pots, were placed on the wall of arranged black river stones which formed a step lower than the outer edge. Visitors, those who would not mind their clothes snagged by a few thorns, usually sat on the outer edge, enjoying the cool breeze that resulted from the proximity to the fountain.

 Manwë had another plan, though.

 He lifted a few pots then lined them on the ‘visitors’ bench’. Afterwards, he changed his clothing with a single thought into a light sleeveless tunic and breeches. When Varda asked why he had done so, his immediate answer was a secretive smile.

 After all, not a moment later she saw the answer for herself.

 The Lord of the Winds climbed onto the outer edge, then descended to sit on the inner one, letting his lower legs dangle in the churning and bubbling cool water. Spray from the fountain created a cool mist which wafted around him and soothed his hröa and fëa at once.

 But it was not enough, apparently, for then he made a gentle breeze blow from opposite him, bringing the larger water drops to him… and to Varda who was standing behind his back. `Ah… The joy of the wind and the water…` he said to no one, trying to ignore his disbelieving, fuming spouse behind him. He heard Varda growl and Ulmo chuckle playfully.

 `You are treading the edge of a knife, brother,` the Lord of the Waters commented only to his best friend. `You realise that you are going to face her wrath later, do you not?`

 `I shall take the risk. I need the respite.` Manwë flicked the concern away. Indeed, in times like this, the rose fountain, as the Maiar in his service called it, was the best place to relax… and to cool himself down – literally and figuratively.

“Are you still mad at me?” Manwë asked needlessly. The sudden meeting of the Valar had gone roughly, as he had predicted. However, in his prediction, he had thought that his beloved spouse would back him up, not turn on him like this.

 Varda was standing with her back turned to him. She did not acknowledge him with any gestures. If she were actually a statue, he would not know, he thought sourly.

 “Father forbids us to take a direct hand on the unrest among all those factions of Elves,” he protested, irritated. “You know that. Why did you turn your back on me during the meeting?”

 The ‘statue’ moved. But Varda walked away instead of coming up to him.

 Manwë was more than vexed at this point. “Varda!” he snapped, employing his most commanding tone. “Turn around and look at me.” He feared what he would see in his spouse’s eyes or face, but he was too disappointed and angry to care about it.

 Said spouse heeded not his demand, anyway.

 The Queen of Stars glided swiftly along the last corridor and turned to the left passage in the intersection between several hallways. Manwë pursued her; but, intent on melting the ice in her, he failed to notice where they were going.

 He only did when it was too late.

 They were in a dead end. A tapestry decorated the wall denoting the end of the corridor, covering it from floor to ceiling. Crystal chandeliers the fruit of the Ñoldor’s workmanship lit it, revealing the sharp, vivid colours – as if it were a painted relief, not a tapestry. All Valar and Maiar were shown there, all in play in the newly-established Almaren.

 Looking at it and absorbing the view, anger dissipated from his soul.

 “We were more carefree back then, even with Melkor and his minions actively seeking our ruin,” Varda whispered, echoed unwittingly by Manwë. For a time, uncomfortable silence enveloped them as their eyes roamed the piece of Vairë’s work and drank in its details. Slowly, the peace and playfulness depicted in the picture worked their way into their tired hearts and minds and soothed them.

 “Look over there. Lúnwë was wrestling with his brothers in the mud puddle and Tulkas was throwing more mud at them,” Manwë whispered in a slightly-tremulous voice after a time, pointing at a spot in the tapestry.

 “They looked like they were newly-created by Father that way. Eönwë and Fiönwë are too deep in their duties lately and Lúnwë rarely goes out of his chamber anymore. Could we coax them to play again, do you think?” Varda murmured, her voice the soft tone of a concerned mother.

 “I do not know, beloved. We have other matters to attend to now… matters that are more pressing,” Manwë pointed out with great reluctance. And thus their wandering minds returned to the freshly-adjourned meeting.

 Varda sighed ruefully. “I apologise for my harsh words and my treatment of you, beloved,” she said with all sincerity. Her eyes, though, were fixed at the tapestry, at another spot of it.

 “Why did you oppose me so?” Manwë asked, this time purely curious… well, and a little disappointed.

 “You proposed to take no action, beloved.” Varda shrugged and shook her head. “Father forbids us to take a direct action against the unrest, but he does not forbid us to… tweak the situation here and there, I believe. Irmo was right in proposing to send peaceful dreams of the unity of all Elves to them.”

 “But in that way we would interfere with the Children’s free will,” Manwë protested, secretly dreading the chance that this mild discussion would turn out like the heated one in the meeting he had just escaped.

 “Would you listen now?”

 Varda’s question, spoken without rancor or admonishment, threw her spouse off.

 “Yes?” Manwë replied hesitantly, not knowing why Varda asked so.

 Divining his mind, Varda turned to face him fully and arched a sad smile. “Did you not notice that we, in our frustration, fear and ego, competed with each other for our opinions and propositions to be heard and agreed? We did not consult one another. Did anyone ask why you chose to take no action upon this new danger or why Irmo wished to plant happy dreams in the Children’s minds?”

 Manwë shuddered. His argument was lost before it could reach his lips. “That reminded me of the discord Melkor created when Father asked us to play that Theme…”

 “Indeed.”

 Varda’s serene admission made Manwë cringe.

 “Do you recognize this, beloved?” She pointed to the spot she had been contemplating before he could utter a word.

 The place she indicated in the picture was that of Ulmo, Estë, Nienna and Irmo grouped with the Maiar Ossë, Uinen, Tilion, Arien, and Olórin. Arien was standing a little outside the circle of the group , her hands on her hips, looking rather petulant and rueful. Ossë was curled in his perch in Ulmo’s arms like a scared youngling, while the other four Maiar were crowding around him with various expressions of hope, eagerness and sadness. Irmo, Estë and Nienna appeared to be talking and gesturing, yet neither Ulmo nor the five Maiar appeared to be listening to them.

 “It was not long after Ossë was nearly turned fully into Melkor’s slave,” Manwë supplied, his posture tensing. “If my fallen brother had had his way, that poor child would have been a creature of flame and shadow now…”

 “What cost Ulmo and Ossë in the rescue?” Varda continued as if quizzing him further… which she might be doing in truth with a purpose of her own.

 “Ulmo cleansed and freed him at the same time, but he unwittingly did just what Melkor had intended to do; he enslaved Ossë.”

 “And what happened next?”

 Manwë grimaced. “The discord rivaled that of what we have just experienced, but back then our people were also involved in it.”

 “Now the scale is smaller, and yet you already despair of ever finding a solution for it?”

 “Your way of thinking is strange this time, my lady. Besides, I did not intend to say…”

 “That you did not know what to do both about your brothers and sisters and the Firstborn anymore?”

 Manwë refused to respond to that. He inched away from her and veered his gaze from the tapestry. Varda was as stubborn as ever, nevertheless, and he could not escape from her when her mind had been set like this.

 “We are going to find a way, beloved. There is yet time to ponder about everything. Let us stay before this tapestry for a while and recall happier times.”

 And they did just that. Slowly but surely, they retraced the details in the picture and let their minds wander back to the time depicted in the tapestry. Laughter filled their ears, accompanied by cool breeze scented with life and the light drizzle courtesy of Salmar and a few other Maiar under Ulmo. Mock shouts and half-hearted imprecations turned the edges of their lips upwards and put twinkles in their eyes…

 “Remind me to thank Vairë for this, beloved,” Manwë sighed with contentment.

 Varda chuckled, replying, “You have thanked her countless times before, my lord. I am afraid this time she would be irritated with you if you repeated it again.”

 Varda was humning idly to herself. Her mind was not intent on her singing. She was busy fitting the three small stars she had just created into a constellation of several other stars from the last batch. Afterwards, when she and her Maiar were not otherwise engaged in other activities, she would transport the new stars to their designated places somewhere in the universe with help from her faithful people. There the stars would be encouraged to grow into their proportional size, thus enlarging her collection in the vast regions of Eä.

 She was in her favourite ‘nook’ in her and Manwë’s mansion, Ilmarin; her workshop, her star seedbed. The space there was created to match that in Eä, empty of any substance. This little airless chamber was more secure than out there, though, befitting the general concept of a seedbed. There were no asteroids hurtling around or irritating gas clouds, for instance. Another advantage of this place was its close proximity to her other duties, which included working together with her fellow Valar and their Maiar to chaperone the younger Children of their Father

 Here she came when her days were idle or when she needed a break from the latter duties. Sometimes simply drinking in the view of her slowly-spinning-and-pulsating fist-sized, colourful young stars could balm her soul. Here she sang new stars into existence and gave them light. Here she was content with what she did, even though this tiny seedbed was pathetic compared to the much-larger one in the galaxy where Arda was located.

 There was no door leading inside the seedbed. For safety reason, the incarnate beings, Eru’s other Children, must not be tempted to enter. When she or her servants and helpers wished to come in, they simply thought themselves inside while in their true forms. It was the same when they were transporting the ‘ripe’ stars out to the ranges of Eä to be placed among their older brethren.

 The privacy of this place often attracted her, as did its silence and the simple beauty in it in the form of the little balls of light amidst the total darkness. Her Maiar seemed to think similarly. She never forbade any of the Ainur to enter, save when in dire situations or when she needed a time to be alone.

 There were times, too, when the seedbed became a place of family gathering…

 …Like now.

 `My lady, Lord Manwë and my triplet brothers are coming.` Ilmarë appeared suddenly beside her, bowing while she was announcing the news.

 Varda, her peace and contemplation disturbed, was miffed. But she instructed the chief Maia of hers to bid the four Ainur into the room anyway.

`Be ready, Ilmarë,` she said as an afterthought. `Many stars are to be transported to their proper places soon. When you hear my summons, come quickly. I would not like to linger on this particular task.` She paused, her aura shimmering in amusement, then added, `Or would you rather be here with your siblings?`

 `I have already promised Arien to see her before her vessel leaves the vicinity of this half of Arda, my lady.` The Maia, similarly amused, replied. But then she added, a little ruefully, `I trust the three of them to behave properly. If not, I would not think to go. They would not appreciate my presence here, anyway, since they are always complaining about my acting like a mother hen trailing after them all the time. Now, if you would excuse me, my lady? Evening is only some hours away and Arien would not speak to me for the next decade if I only spent a short while with her.`

 Varda nodded, chuckling. `Do not be too hard on your siblings, child,` she said gently. `And I suppose Arien would understand and accept the reason of your tardiness if you explained it to her. This feeling might stem from her loneliness only, not her own nature.`

 Shaking her head with the same rueful expression on her face, Ilmarë bowed again before departing. Varda was alone once more for the next some minutes.

 Then Manwë, being cheerful and rather excited as he had been in his youth in the Timeless Halls, came into the room, three Maiar trailing after him. Varda greeted her spouse by blending herself with him. The mixture of their auri was pleasing to the eyes.

`What do you wish to do here?` she asked afterwards, addressing him, although her attention was with the three Maiar.

 `A small holiday for me, Eönwë, Fiönwë and Lúnwë. Could we not hold it here?` Manwë asked back. A cheeky note was hinted in his light, loud voice which the Children usually associated with the winds.

 Varda snorted, but she accepted the obeisance offered by the three brothers with sincerity and grace. `What do you wish to do while you are here?` she queried. `What kind of holiday is it, in a small space full of darkness and young stars?`

 None of the triplets answered. The task fell to Manwë once again. `We would like to see you sing new stars and string them. It has been a long time since any of us witnessed your… performance.`

 `You are going to pay for your boldness, my lord,` the Queen of Stars growled in mock anger. Manwë’s aura brightened and turned into an indigo hue with amusement and playful challenge.

Out of the three Maiar, Lúnwë was the only one that seemed to take the false threat seriously. His aura dimmed with anguish and a slight fear.

 Sighing, Varda plucked said Maia from the safety of his place between his brothers and began to sing before anyone could remark on her unladylike gesture. Lúnwë was secure in her hold, unable to flee.

Gradually, the damaged Maia relaxed and grew more interested in the new star forming before him and his mistress. He even suggested timidly new colours for the other stars and what patterns they could be stringed into. Afterwards, all five of the Valar and Maiar happily put the three hundred new living balls of light into the suggested constellations, and all prior discontentment or uncertainty left their souls.

Varda ambled along the small paths of the vast gardens in her corporeal form. Her mind was idly filled with the shapes of the constellations visible from naked mortal eyes and the idea of adding some more stars to them.

 Today was one of the few days in the recent ages in which the Valar and Maiar could be at peace. There was no trouble regarding the Firstborn or the distant matters from Middle Earth concerning the Secondborn, the exiled Elves, and the Ainur’s fallen brethren. During times such as this, she would relinquish her duties and even her regular hobbies for a rest. But, as the Children said, too much of anything make the thing worth less.

 She had indulged herself in all sorts of relaxing occupations all day, including plotting with Yavanna to prank Aulë, who had been rather annoying as of late according to the latter Valië, and strolling down the corner of the Halls of Mandos that had been specially set for the fëar of the Elven children, frolicking with them for a while. The day was coming to an end; Arien and her bright vessel had descended low on the western horizon. Tomorrow, she believed, trouble would find her and her brethren again, and she would not be bothered with finding another job to occupy herself.

 A brown butterfly fleeted close to the side of her head; it had come from the direction of a corner of the gardens. The Queen of the Stars hummed with interest, suddenly remembering. Sure that no one was around – either the Ainur or Firstborn –, a bright grin broke on her face and she skipped lightly to the direction whence the beautiful, fragile little creature had come, feeling suddenly youthful like those countless ages ago in the Timeless Halls in the presence of her Father.

 Laughter sounded in her ears, gentle, rich and melodious.

 `Father….` she half-whined, embarrassed, but neither her demeanour nor her gait faltered or changed.

 `You forgot that I always watch you, my child,` a voice spoke, the last of the laughter evident in his tone. Varda blushed into a deeper shade, almost red.

 `I am sorry, Father,` she said, sincerely contrite. `I cannot promise that I will always remember, though. You are so far away…`

 The voice did not answer. Instead, she felt like being hugged warmly and kissed on her brow.

 Thus she arrived in the corner she had aimed for in a state of beatific bliss – and ignorant of her surroundings.

 It was Manwë, also in his corporeal form, who broke her reverie. “You are quite happy this afternoon, my lady,” he greeted her from the opposite side of the flower garden. Happy was such a pathetic word compared to what she was feeling, she thought with an annoyed snort, but she replied him with a cheery smile and decided to set aside her irritation for a good time well-spent in the garden. Her spouse was there, irksome though he might be at times; what more could she wish for?

 Manwë looked even more ethereal and, if she was truthful to herself, handsome, surrounded by butterflies of every size, shape and colour. Indeed, everything in that corner of the complex was wreathed by butterflies, but for now her attention was solely on him. He was beaming gaily at her, his deep-blue orbs twinkling like her stars. The formal, dignified air he put on in some occasions when dealing with the Elves or Ainur, or when he was conducting meetings of grave import, was absent from his demeanour. Here he was simply the Ainu she had espoused all those ages ago, the one that she loved beyond her creations… and sometimes even beyond herself.

 They were like lovestruck youths, twirling around on the patches of green grass among the clumps of various flower plants and bushes. The butterflies danced alongside them, celebrating the love and light-heartedness of two of their creators joyfully. The pair halted at various lengths of time to exchange fleeting kisses. They were quiet, except when one of them was whispering silly ideas or pulling up a trick on the other; the actions would elicit a fit of light, mischievous giggles from both of them.

 There, tucked in a corner of the mansion and obscured by swarms of butterflies, they could both express their feelings freely. The slightest disturbance in the clouds of colourful insects would inform them of newcomers. Problems would only occur if one – or more – of said newcomers had already been there, meditating or contemplating, as visitors were wont to do in the heaven-like silence.

 Varda halted gradually when the last thought crossed her mind. `Is there anyone else here?` she asked, a little too sharply from what she had intended. Manwë was unperturbed, nonetheless.

 `Our triplets were here with me. They were enjoying a day off, just like the rest of us,` he said. `The last time I checked, they were playing with some butterflies, encouraging these lovely creatures into patterns.` His head was resting on her shoulder, and she was embracing him lightly. Freeing one arm from hugging back his spouse, he extended a hand and let a few of the more curious butterflies land on it. As if to accentuate his point, he guided the little creatures gently with his thought into a formation of wheeling circular shapes. `As long as they are gentle and the butterflies agree, I see no objection.`

 Varda smiled at the shapes, but then her thoughts went back to his earlier concern. `I think I sense some people nearby,` she said. `I wonder why I did not sense them before. It could be fatal…`

 `Do not fret, beloved,` Manwë chid her, a fond smile on his face. `As I told you, those are only the triplets. Do you suspect them of wishing harm upon us? You should know better.`

 `Not that way, my lord.` Varda glowered at her spouse, although she could not hide her blush fully. Avoiding finishing her explanation, she instead pulled him towards where she suspected the other visitors to the garden were.

 Indeed, she found said triplets on the spot. Judging from the various shades of red on their faces, they had watched their lord and lady all along. It was just as well that they blushed too, because if not for the evidence of the differences in their personalities, it would have been impossible to set them apart from each other.

 Lúnwë, although he had been the boldest of the three, now was the most timid among them since his capture and the torments of Melkor and his minions. He blushed the deepest and was the swiftest to beg for pardon from the two Valar. His body shook with some measure of mortification when Varda’s silver orbs landed on him.

 Eönwë faired only slightly better. The eldest of the three brothers and the one with the most important position among them, he felt guilty of peeping on the Valar’s private time and dragging his younger brothers with him into the crime. Without a word, he knelt and bowed in supplication, shuddering slightly.

 Fiönwë, the middle brother and now the boldest, looked down with face a soft hue of pink and mumbled an excuse, hoping to save the triplets from trouble. “…We then decided to stay. We were charmed by your joy and intimacy and we could not think to go anywhere and so here we are…” In the end, he stuttered into a silence and blushed almost as deeply as his brothers. By then Lúnwë looked to be about to faint and Eönwë had practically prostrated himself before the feet of the Valar, groaning feebly in abject horror.

 Neither Manwë nor Varda spoke nor moved. The silence became palpable – and unbearable for the Maiar who had been caught red-handed. The bold Fiönwë was even on the verge of tears now.

 Then, suddenly, both Valar started to chuckle,

And they laughed out loud at the stunned look growing on Fiönwë’s face.

 “Well, you are honest enough,” Manwë commented with mock severity. He stooped down and gently scooped up Eönwë into his arms before gathering the dumbstruck Fiönwë as well. “If you promise us not to flaunt this experience to anyone, I suppose this case could now be considered closed,” he said when none of the Maiar looked appeased. He kissed Eönwë’s brow and cradled the Maia’s limp head in the crook of his right arm. “And you, my herald, must not always take all charges to yourself. Have I not told you so?”

 There was no answer coming. Said herald was weeping silently.

 Manwë loosed a long-suffering sigh. “Well, as those Secondborn like to say, all go downhill at a point.”

 Fiönwë chuckled weakly.

 They made their way to a bench set under an apple tree at one side of the garden close to the eastern wall, where the butterflies did not often visit. There they seated themselves with Fiönwë sandwiched between his lord and lady.

 Eönwë, for the first time in all the ages, did not protest or shy away when Manwë gathered him into the Vala’s lap like a young child. In fact, he was quiescent; perhaps the side effect of the earlier shocked mortification. The same happened to Lúnwë who was nestled in Varda’s embrace.

 A few hours later things changed a little – for the better, thankfully.

 The last rays of the sun shone brightly, stark against the darkness of the approaching night. Arien seemed to be in a merry mood in this particular parting, gauging from the way she and her vessel shone. In the garden below, a small spot in the complex of its kind, Manwë and Varda sauntered among the slowly-retreating butterflies. They halted behind a tall white rose bush opposite the bench at one point and spied the three Maiar who were still seated there. `This is our chance of retaliating, beloved,` Varda snickered when Manwë mentally asked why she proposed to peep on the Maiar like that.

 Indeed, those three charges of theirs were still in their places, but they were not silent at all, and nor did they seem to be resting.

 Fiönwë was teasing his younger triplet by tickling the latter’s face with a rope of vine, giggling all the while like a mischievous child. He cackled when Lúnwë uttered a short whine in protest; his attempts to catch the older triplet’s offending hand bearing the vine failed for the umpteenth time. Eönwë, on Fiönwë’s other side, for once pretended not to notice it. In fact, the eldest of the three was busy stuffing shreds of fallen leaves into the back of Fiönwë’s tunic while the latter was occupied.

 Lúnwë, exasperated, forsook his futile endeavour and changed to another approach. Apparently, Fiönwë did not expect him to do so. He yelped in surprise when the usually-timid-and-silent Lúnwë uttered a fierce battle cry and tackled him, pinning his body in a vise grip. They ended up wrestling on the bench. Seconds later, though, they moved the small impromptu contest to the ground when the half-annoyed Eönwë pushed them away.

 That was when Fiönwë noticed something wrong with the back of his tunic, as the shreds of leaves scraped against his skin.

 “Eönwë!” he roared. As an answer, the herald of Manwë, respected captain of the host of the Valar during the War of Wrath, laughed uproariously. He scooted away from his brother’s flailing arm and crouched on the farthest end of the bench. In his hands were a bunch of more leaves and a fistful of the shredded ones. The herald’s eyes, light-grayish-blue like his brothers, shone brilliantly with childlike playfulness and joy; it was a look that had been lost from his countenance a long time ago.

 “Does your back itch, brother?” he asked cheekily. He hopped aside nimbly when Fiönwë’s arm swept across the bench, freed momentarily from the tussle with the youngest of the set of triplets. Quick as lightning, Eönwë shredded the rest of the leaves and threw them in a quick succession at the two wrestlers on the grassy dirt.

 He was too focused on watching Fiönwë wipe the little bits from his face. He did not notice said Maia’s foot tripping him from his precarious perch on the edge of the bench. With a cry, he flew onto his two younger brothers and landed on top of them – or, more appropriately, three-quarters on top of Fiönwë and another one-quarter on Lúnwë’s middle – and was subsequently forced to participate in the wrestling match.

 He was thankful that it did not go on for long. Manwë and Varda chose that time to appear from behind the rose bush, as though they had just ended their stroll. For the first time after the length of the little episode, the Valar allowed themselves to laugh.

 The three Maiar, faces ruddy with sheepishness and eyes bright with mirth, scrambled into a – rather haphazard – sitting position and looked back up to where they had heard the mingled laughter of their lord and lady. The reddish hue of the last finger of light fell down upon their beautiful complexions, identical one to another, sharpening the lines on their faces and brightening their eyes. The Valar doubted that any of the younger children of their Father could look into those intense pairs of eyes for any length of time.

 “What do we have here?” Varda smiled. She raised a hand when Eönwë was about to answer and laughed softly. To the Maiar’s amazement, she took a seat on the ground beside them and plucked up the exhausted Lúnwë, gathering him into her lap and holding him in her arms. Said Maia stiffened, yet then he relaxed when the Valië hugged him tighter and did not seem to wish to release him soon.

 “Being mischievous, are we?” Manwë, chuckling, came around to behind the other Maiar, knelt down and held them in each of his arms.

 “You… saw us, lord?” Fiönwë squawked. He cringed at his own tone afterwards and spluttered an apology. But Manwë only fell into another bout of chuckles and held him all the tighter.

 “This evening is beautiful, is it not?” the Vala remarked instead. The two Maiar in his arms nodded. Lúnwë had fallen asleep.