Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!

A/N: Good morning everyone! So we're taking a tiny detour here—don't worry, you haven't accidentally clicked on the wrong story! If it seems random, just hang in there; I promise all will be revealed in the end.

Thanks to Eruwaedhiel95, Celebrisilweth, Cassandrala, and miller330 for their awesome reviews! You guys keep me writing even when the guacamole hits the fan! Also, a special shout-out to summerald for her review and awesome beta skills!

Enjoy!


Year 3319, Second Age

Estë, called the Gentle Vala, Mother of Healing, walked in her gardens in the ancient and beautiful city of Valinor. Her home had been rather busy of late, as the many souls of Men (and some of the Eldar and Eiri as well) that had perished in the Destruction of Numenor made the Crossing and came to Aman to rest after their mortal lives were over. So many of them were hurting and grieving, Estë and her husband Irmo had had their hands full over the past days; the assistance of their Servants, most notably Olórin, who was possessed of a heart soft as hers and mind sharp as Irmo's, had been invaluable.

The entire situation was a shame, though.

The Race of Men had long been, among the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, the most susceptible to the temptations of evil. The Valar often wondered at the fact, for they and the Eldar were the only races of Arda to have been created by Eru Himself, and it seemed to many of the Ainur that they should have possessed the kind of strength that protected them from such temptation. But alas, it was not so, Estë reflected. Instead, they had demonstrated themselves capable—indeed, predisposed, it seemed—to such crimes as jealousy, rage, murder, thievery, and most recently, an attack on Aman itself based upon nothing but greed.

The Numenoreans, for all their might, had stood no chance, of course, against the Valar themselves. Numenor had been swallowed up and much of the race of Man destroyed as they led each other in a rebellion against Eru and his Servants.

She shook her head as she walked, blessing and comforting the souls in her house. Eldar, Men, her own Children, the Eiri, even the Children of Mahal; all pure spirits made their way here eventually, though they often arrived damaged, grieved, and once in a while, twisted.

One such soul wept nearby. It was a new arrival, Estë realized as she crossed the Lily Gate. This garden was amongst the most peaceful, usually inhabited by the most pained of spirits, those who required her personal attention to heal and truly be at rest.

The woman the Gentle Vala made her way toward was tall, golden-haired and fair, despite the state of her tired and shattered soul. A simple silver circlet rested in her thick gold strands, sapphires and diamonds arranged in an intricate weave that the Vala recognized. Estë's heart ached for the woman, and she placed a soft hand upon that golden head.

"Miríel, my beloved, why do you weep?"

"I weep for everything," the Woman responded, shoulders bowed in grief. "For my forced marriage to my cousin, who killed my only beloved so that he could be King; for my kingdom which he destroyed the moment he brought that monster Sauron into Numenor; for my people who are now scattered and few; for myself, for even as I struggled to the summit of the Mountain to pray for mercy on behalf of my people, I was overtaken by the sea and brought here where I can no longer help them in any way." The end of this bitter speech was met with more tears, though Miríel leaned into Estë's touch, as souls often did. The Vala pulled the Woman into an embrace and let her weep undisturbed.

Many hours later the Gentle Vala strode into her home, through stone halls adorned with ivy and climbing vines. After a time she came upon a richly carved wood door, which she opened and bestowed a smile upon her husband who waited for her beside the hearth.

"My beloved," Irmo nodded, motioning to her to join him. "Come, the fire is a comfort."

She sat beside him, leaning into his strong arms and radiant warmth. She often felt cold in her wanderings, though she never seemed to notice until she was beside Irmo again, saw his small smile directed at her, his gray eyes alive with compassion.

"You are troubled," he stated as she settled. It wasn't a question, and Estë was not at all surprised he noticed. They often sensed each other's thoughts and moods with nary a word spoken.

"I am," she admitted.

"What is it?"

"I spent the afternoon with the Lady Miríel."

"The Queen of Numenor?"

"In name only, yes. Her husband, in addition to his wickedness regarding the attack on Aman, was exceedingly cruel to her in life. He forced her in many things, hurt her in many ways, such that her soul is marked with it. It will take much time for her to heal."

Irmo squeezed his wife against his side in a gesture of comfort. "I am sorry, my Love, I know how such pain grieves you."

Estë nodded, but there was more. "She said something to me that was even more troubling than her pain, Husband."

Irmo waited for her to continue, so she did. "She said the Fall of Numenor began the moment Sauron was captured and brought to the city for trial." Her brow furrowed. "He was brought there to be tried for his crimes, Irmo, and instead he ended up the King's Chief Advisor and instigated the attack that resulted in the fall of an entire civilization."

"Melkor's Lieutenant has certainly earned his reputation," Irmo said, and there was a hardness to his voice that made Estë cold all over again.

"Yes, and I fear he is not finished with Arda yet," she answered. Irmo jolted a little at that, looking down at her.

"What do you mean?"

"He'll not rest until he sees the utter destruction of all that our Father created and we have worked so hard to preserve," she blinked at the tears of despair that stung her eyes. "He has power and charisma and, somehow, a talent for tempting Iluvatar's children into rebellion. Irmo, how do we stand before such evil?"

"My Love, there is nothing we can do to change the choices of the Men and the Eldar save encourage them toward the right path. We cannot force them."

"But he can!" Estë swiped at the tears on her cheeks. "He can, and he does, and what are we to do?"

"You have your Eiri," Irmo said. "The Healers of the Hurts of Arda, remember? They have never yet yielded to the Dark One or his servants."

But Estë shook her head. "They are powerless against injuries inflicted by Dark Magic. They are powerful, but not powerful enough." Irmo's eyebrows raised, and Estë knew she was headed quickly for a rare fight with her husband if she didn't explain herself. "I do not mean to say they ought all be entirely invincible, lest they prove to handle it worse than even the Men do. But is there nothing we can do, nothing we can create that could match Melkor himself?"

"Like a weapon?"

Este paused, thinking. "Perhaps. Or a gift. No, two gifts. One from you, one from me, that when used by two souls in unity of purpose, could match even the power of the Darkness. Could we do it?"

Irmo's dark eyes glazed over as he consulted his Ability. She watched his face go from skeptical to accepting to inspired in mere moments.

"Yes," he breathed. "We can."