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.