Written as a treat in a exchange. Each part is exactly 100 words, I'm pedantic like that.
Vast are the Gardens of Lórien, and none may reach their ends.
There is a mist ever in the air, translucent and sweet, and soft silvery light permeating the atmosphere, immersing it in ephemeral, eternal twilight; it may appear the mist itself is of light, droplets of liquid radiance suspended in the air, trickling down the leaves, settling on the hair. Flowers open wide, infusing the Gardens with sweet scents, graceful willows sway and whisper without wind, nightingales sing their euphonious melodies, soothing the minds of all who wander in here.
And all who wander in here may find rest.
.
The gray-clad form of Estë rests in the trees' shadow on the hidden isle on the lake of Lórellin.
When the Sun cruises through the sky and the Children live their daily lives, she sleeps in her isolated abode; when the Moon sails among the stars and the Children go to their rest, she wakes.
"I have dreamt," she speaks to Irmo her husband.
"I know," he answers. Yet the dreams of Este are not of his making; her dreams are of her part of the Music, resounding throughout the wide gardens.
Lightly, Estë touches the eyes of the dreaming.
.
"Walk with me," whispers Irmo to those who dream, too subtly to for them to hear; but they do follow.
For some there is rest and refuge, the soothing Music of Estë's dreams, mellow visions of the Gardens; this is where Irmo longs to lead them above all, to let them find peace. He would let them amble among the drowsy-scented greenery under the overhead of trees granted him by Yavanna, gaze into the deep dark pools in which stars are sunken by the grace of Varda.
He would let them drink from the refreshful fountains, and come away healed.
.
Yet not all may go into the Gardens, and it is not what all need the most.
For some there are dream-visions, speaking of things to come. They echo the Music as granted to Námo, the single note one is allowed to hear, spreading before their dream-eyes to warn and to guide.
For some there are fantasies, wild and daring, or memories, hazy mixtures of experiences and emotions, to remind and to process.
And for some there are nightmares, woven from recollections and fears: horrors one has not recovered from, anxieties one refuses to consciously face.
Irmo calls them all.
.
For others still Irmo opens the Path of Dreams.
The little ones walk it, the Younger Children's children; they are so unlike the denizens of Valinor and so close to them at once it is astounding. Irmo watches them wander under the overhanging ledges to the gate, along the winding paths to the lovelies gardens which no Eldar can find.
"Come, little ones."
He watches them play in the white cottage. Their time here before Olórë Mallë closes is a mere blink in the time of the Valar, but their Father wants them to have it, his beloved little Children.
.
Dreaming is akin to death, Irmo knows, walking through the Halls of Mandos, his brother's abode.
Dreaming is a prelude to death, a glimpse into it; dreaming brings one the insight of death without the loss of life, and so may grant wisdom to improve it.
Irmo would lead everyone into the Gardens, if he knew it could help them; yet at times what they need is pain, and insight, and even dread and horror, and so this is where he leads them, much as he pities them.
"Dream," he whispers.
"Heal," whispers Estë by his side, holding his hand.