II

Once in a Far Green Country…

II

Gandalf leaned back in his chair and let his pipe rest thoughtfully on his lower lip. Elrond meanwhile gazed into the crimson dregs at the bottom of his wineglass, beginning to feel pleasantly warm, though the sensation that something was infinitely wrong with the world had not left him yet. It was as though a great piece of him had fallen away, like Beleriand crumbling into the sea, and left him whole in himself, yet with that lost shadow in his heart. Strangely, he saw the same glimmer in Gandalf’s eyes.

He did not know the Istar well enough to enquire what thoughts plagued Gandalf’s mind. Though they had been friends for many years, he had never heard Gandalf say where he came from or what he was. Elrond merely suspected the truth and had not yet been bold enough to test his theories by asking outright. Sitting before the Lord of Imladris, therefore, was an enigma, wrapped up in riddles and an old grey cloak.

"I never understood," Elrond began, watching his companion’s reaction, "why she chose to remain here. And she would never tell me when I asked her. She would merely laugh and squeeze my hand, as if I had asked the most foolish question in the world, the answer to which was right before me. I shall never forget that laughter, nor the light it brought to her eyes. Like her mother’s; though she had never seen the Light of the Trees as Galadriel had done. She was too great an elleth for the likes of me, and ought to have had another more worthy of her love."

"Yet she chose you," sighed Gandalf. "So you were worthy in her eyes. What else matters?"

"I remember how my heart once beat so fast that I thought I might die, simply from the thought of seeing her, or my path crossing hers, by chance that was not really chance."

"And yet when your paths do cross," said Gandalf, "you do not know what to say, or what to do, and the very sight of her can render you powerless, though you do not know why. Not at first. And then, very slowly, like the bright sun spreading over the hills on a cold morning, you realise that it is love for her that causes you to lose all dignity and wisdom in her presence. And then the true turmoil begins."

Elrond smiled, toying with the etched patterns on his glass. "What was her name?" he asked quietly. "You know the name of my love, yet you obviously talk from experience too."

Gandalf frowned momentarily, as if to say ‘I should never do such a thing’, but then his expression softened, and Elrond fancied that the wizard almost smiled; a little twitch came briefly to the corner of his lip, but was gone in moments.

"Her name," said Gandalf solemnly, "was Irimien."

~*~

Olórin, having taken physical shape once again, stood by the window in Ilmarin and stared out across the snows, watching the fine, pearl-white powder whip up in great swirls as the wind danced across the peak of Taniquetil. He paid no attention to the passing of time, nor to the conversations in the marble hall behind him. For a long time he had drifted about Manwë’s halls, carrying out any duties he was asked to perform with diligence but not with enthusiasm. His heart and his mind were elsewhere and no matter how hard he tried to fathom it, he could not draw them back.

He had spent a long time trying to discern what had happened to him and what it was that hindered his thoughts, wondering why his mind always returned to Finwë’s halls and in particular to that gleaming white room with the crib. For a while he thought it might be concern for the child. Perhaps that was what worried him. Yet whenever he tried to remember what he had seen there, his thoughts centred not on Fëanor, but on the elleth.

Now not only did he have the riddle of Miriel and Finwë to contemplate as he worked, but Olórin also found himself struggling to discern a new tempest, one contained entirely within his spirit. Why would his thoughts return constantly to one particular being? She was surely no more interesting than the other elves in Valinor and, unlike those he had observed for years, he had only seen her for a moment.

Moreover he could not understand the nature of the thoughts circling around his mind like treasures thrown into the sea. He could not focus on any particular idea, but rather found his mind full of vague recollections, remembered sensations and mingled feelings of regret, guilt and, incongruously, warm satisfaction.

It was only when he sensed another presence in the chamber with him that Olórin finally broke away from his vigil, and from watching the subtle change of the seasons on the mountaintop. Eonwë stood behind him, clothed in the form of a tall male figure in blue robes, with a large roll of parchment in his hand.

"I might have asked your help in tending to King Sorontur while he was here," remarked the other Maia, with just the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Is he still here?" asked Olórin.

"No," said Eonwë with a sigh. "He and the other eagles have left and Manwë is settled in his tower. I do not know what he is doing, but he has no need of our service for now. Have you been here all this time? The world grows old, Olórin, while you sit around and think."

"I prefer the sound of thoughts to the sound of voices," muttered Olórin, throwing his colleague a sideways glance. Then he straightened, realising with a start that he had indeed been lingering in that chamber for some time, and it was not unknown for one of his kind to spend centuries in contemplation without knowing it, until they turned again to the outside world and saw that all had changed.

"How long have I been here?" he said aloud.

"I would not know," replied Eonwë with little interest. "I have had my tasks to perform. I have not had time to keep track of you and your meanderings. What has captivated your interest now? Something to do with the Quendi, I suppose. You spend so many days drifting amongst them, trying to master every element of their lives, that soon you will be one of them, Olórin. I would not be surprised if you were more Quendi than Maia these days."

"Would that be so awful a thing?" muttered Olórin to himself as he left the hall.

"What shall I say if Manwë calls for you and you are gone from the hall?" Eonwë called after him.

"If Manwë calls me, I shall go," replied Olórin. "If you should call me on his behalf, I shall go. But since at this moment neither of you has summoned me, I am free to wander where I will. Voices can still reach me, even on Tirion."

"Amongst the elves again then," sighed Eonwë, watching the other Maia disappear from the room.

Olórin grumbled slightly as he travelled, since he had, to his knowledge, never neglected his duties to the House of Manwë and Varda to indulge his love of the Eldar. Everything had to be in balance, he thought, and he was able to weigh those things he found fascinating against those things he was bound to do. However he was forced to admit that he was drawn more to the green hill and Tirion that day than he had ever been before. That day he felt more than just a gentle urge to go and sit amongst the Quendi, since he had nothing better to do – that day he felt compelled to go, as if some great and weighty thing depended on his being amongst them again. He only hoped he had not lingered too long in his contemplations.

Perhaps if he spent just a little more time there, he might discover why his thoughts could not leave this place.

He followed the glittered beam from the Mindon Lamp as the light stretched outwards across the skies. He picked a random spot amongst the garden terraces on the slopes of the lush green hill and moved silently around, rustling the leaves like a fading winter breeze as he passed by. He listened to the songs of the birds and the sighs of the wind until he could judge the atmosphere, and soon sensed that the feeling of sorrow had abated somewhat. Though there was still an echo of the sadness Olórin saw in Finwë’s heart whenever the king visited Lórien’s gardens, that echo was now faint beneath the carefree and hopeful ambience.

Time had never mattered much to Olórin before. It had been easy to catch up with the events in the elves’ lives, for nothing much ever happened. Yet now he wanted to know what had become of the child and hoped he had not let too many years slip by unnoticed.

Then as he moved through the gardens he heard laughter, and paused so that he could approach unheard as well as unseen. He followed the sound through the trees and flowers until he found a small, secluded grove, hemmed in by honey-scented roses, where two elves sat together on a marble bench. Olórin felt he knew the ellon, who seemed barely of age and full of the fire of youth, with long black hair about his shoulders and a deeply serious expression that did not fade even when he laughed. The redheaded elleth with him also seemed young but had an air of maturity of her, echoing the stern manner of her companion.

It was only when he spotted Fereniel, sitting a few yards away in another part of the garden, out of sight of the young couple yet still able to observe them discretely, that Olórin realised he was looking at the baby prince. Only Prince Fëanor was no longer so small and helpless.

Olórin’s heart leapt, and not only because Fëanor seemed strong and healthy despite the hardship of his birth, but because a thought then struck his mind like a shard of ice. If Fereniel was still in the service of King Finwë and still guarded the royal child, then would Irimien not also be there? Though again, Olórin could not fathom why so small a detail should concern him.

And if Irimien was there, what would that mean to him? he wondered. What exactly would he do, except watch her as he watched the others, without ever being noticed? What would that achieve? What, when it came down to it, did he want to achieve?

For a moment he paused, a sensation close to holding one’s breath consuming his form, then he moved through the trees to where Fereniel sat reading, and looked around. The garden path snaked on through the ornamental trees and blossoming flower bushes, and around one of its turns, Olórin could see snatches of movement. Drawn like a bee to a bright petal, he passed barely inches from Fereniel’s lap, though she did not look up from her book and her sombre features did not twitch.

A wave of disappointment hit Olórin as he came around the corner and saw that it was not Irimien, yet the sensation soon faded when he recognised the woman stooped over the flowers. One porcelain hand held the head of a rose like a goblet of wine, bringing it to her face as if to kiss it, but stopping just short so that she could breathe in its fragrance. Though she was not the elleth Olórin desired to see, she was so infinitely beautiful, flawless in every aspect, that he could not help but stop and admire her for a while. As she straightened and looked at him, seeing him despite his formlessness, she smiled. Olórin recoiled as instinct, seeing the light in her eyes, the light that shone forth brighter even than the stars she wrought for the skies. For in the face of Varda the Star Kindler he saw the light of Eru.

"So Eonwë speaks the truth," mused the Vala. "This is where you spend your days."

Olórin bowed, throwing his gaze to the ground.

"What brings you here so often, Olórin?" asked Varda, her voice striking his being like the laughter of waterfalls. "Still concerned about the King and his loss? Your compassion for the Children is commendable."

"My Lady," said Olórin.

"These roses are beautiful," sighed the Vala. "Yavanna must have wrought them with love, and Finwë’s gardeners take good care of them. What then are you searching for now, Olórin?"

The Maia hesitated, still looking towards the earth.

"Why does it trouble you to answer?"

"Because it would seem foolish, My Lady," Olórin admitted at last. Varda cocked her head to one side but her smile remained.

"Foolish? From the wisest of those who attend us?"

"I do not understand what brings me here, My Lady."

"Then describe it. It is no failing to find things beyond one’s comprehension. Only The One can know everything."

"I came here to try and discern it," Olórin explained. "I have tried to find meaning in my thoughts, yet I cannot, and so decided that if I wandered for a while amongst the Quendi, I might understand. I have always loved to come here and watch their lives play out, yet now I wish to find one thing in particular. One being in particular. My thoughts are full of her and yet I cannot think of anything specific. Nor do I know why."

Varda regarded him with a slightly more serious tint to her expression. "She is not Maia? She is one of the Quendi?"

"Yes."

"Not unheard of, I suppose, yet not the most convenient of arrangements."

"I do not understand."

"Perhaps it will come to nothing," mused the Vala. "Remember you have duties here, Olórin, and not just those quotidian tasks we appoint you at Dâhanigwištelgûn. Remember that it is our charge, Valar and Maiar both, to care for the Children, so that their lives here may be in bliss and peace."

"I wish nothing else," said Olórin, trying to fathom her meaning without success. Varda nodded and turned her attention back to the roses, then she slowly walked away, letting the garden fall into a hush once again. Olórin remained, feeling as though he had just been reprimanded, though he had no idea what for. But as he thought on it he felt the wind shift around him and looked up in time to see another figure headed his way.

The sight of Irimien took him by surprise and for a moment he was frozen, powerless to think or move. She could not see him and walked with her head slightly bowed, a faint smile on her lips. She seemed to be deep in thought, humming a song while she toyed idly with the sleeves of her dress. Olórin watched her pass him by, fighting the urge to make himself solid and to present himself before her. It would only disturb the elves to find a Maia suddenly amongst them, and above all, Olórin loved to watch them going naturally about their lives. Yet he followed Irimien and stayed close by her, wanting to watch her most of all.

She sat beside Fereniel and gave the young prince and his betrothed a quick glance and a smile.

"All seems well," she remarked plainly. Fereniel nodded, a slow and deliberate movement that gave the impression that she did not want to offer an opinion on the prince or his affairs.

"We must remain in these gardens as long as we are needed," Fereniel concluded, as if reciting some book of laws she adhered to in all things. "Did you deliver the message to Mahtan?"

"I did," replied Irimien, speaking in a hushed whisper that sounded, to Olórin, breathless and excited. She seemed genuinely thrilled by the prince’s situation and her eyes gleamed as she looked upon the young couple. She rejoices in love where she sees it, thought Olórin.

"I told him his daughter would be joining King Finwë and his son at dinner tonight, and that the king would arrange for her to be taken home when the feast was over. I also said that the King’s welcome extended to him also, if he desired to come, yet he said he would not, as yet. He said he would leave the night to his daughter, and allow her time to enjoy her troth and the exhilaration of that state, before he attended to the more formal arrangements." She giggled as she remembered her conversation, though Fereniel did not share the emotion.

"Very well," concluded the senior attendant. "I shall find the king and see if he needs me. I believe he is wandering around her somewhere. You remain here in case Fëantáro should require anything."

"The king is in the grove at the end of the path," Irimien told Fereniel, as the older elleth rose to leave. "I saw him there, talking to the Lady Indis…"

"Whom he talks to is none of my concern," snapped Fereniel. "Likewise it is none of yours. You would do well not to pay heed to rumours and whispers in the corridors, and to concentrate instead on your own duties."

"My apologies, Fereniel, I meant no disrespect," replied Irimien, bowing her head.

"Then let it be forgotten," said Fereniel. "Wait here until you are needed or until someone comes to fetch you."

Olórin waited until Fereniel was out of sight before he drifted nearer, slipping into a narrow space amongst the flowers. Though his presence ruffled the leaves and blooms, Irimien did not notice. He would have given anything to have spoken with her, to find out what fuelled the light and laughter in her eyes, or made her smile no matter what the world presented her. He wanted to know what she thought of anything and everything, and above all to see her look on him with the same kindness and understanding that she threw in that glance towards Fëanor.

Yet how could he reveal himself, and how would he explain his desire to talk with her? How would he tell her that one of the Maiar had seen her and had become entranced? How could he explain that, when he could not understand it yet himself?

Then, as he looked upon her, an idea washed over him like the sun on a stormy day. Olórin quickly left that part of the gardens, ready to return again later in another form.

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Notes

Dâhanigwištelgûn – Valarin name of Taniquetil