Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Council of Manwë
Manwë sighed softly as Elrond lost consciousness, falling limply back against his blood-spattered pillows. The many winds that ceaselessly circled the Vala's body made the only noise as they whistled and howled through his sky-blue robe; even Lórien's sobs were hushed. He stared at his comrade in awed, pained silence.
Manwë waved a hand, and three white handkerchiefs appeared between his fingers. He bound two of them around the Dream-lord and Elrond's hands, then turned and used the last to wipe the blood and tears from Elrond's still face.
"What has happened here?" he asked softly.
"We were attacked, Manwë," Lórien replied in a shaky voice. "I fear that our efforts have been in vain."
Manwë's golden eyebrows, the same color as his shoulder-length hair, knitted together in confusion. "Explain yourself."
"It was Morgoth," Mandos informed him gravely. "He is attempting to extend his power beyond the confines of the Void."
Manwë fell silent for a moment, lost in deep thought. Morgoth trying to escape the Void? No-one could or desired to set him loose. An escape was impossible! How could this be so?
But his thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash as the door to the bedroom burst open. Elwing rushed inside, clutching a sobbing Elrond II to her chest. The child held a towel desperately to his face; the cloth served to muffle his anguished howls.
Elwing halted at the elf-lord's beside, oblivious to the Valar standing a few feet away.
"Oh, Elrond," she wept, "what happened to you?"
"He was attacked," Manwë answered. "We shall devise the means and motives of this as soon as possible."
Elwing gasped, lifting her wide eyes to gaze in awe at the Valar. She knelt and bowed as low as she could while holding her child, whispering reverently, "Forgive me, my lords, I did not realize…"
"You are forgiven," Manwë told her, smiling gently. "Get up, and please sit down."
Elwing rose to her feet, carefully holding the bedpost for support as her knees threatened to fold beneath her. She took a seat anxiously on the edge of the bed, soothing Elrond II as she waited for further instruction from the Vala.
"Call to all of the others," the Wind-lord ordered the Doomsman firmly. "Summon them here immediately. It is time for a council."
Mandos nodded once, sending the same message to each of his fellow Valar and Valier: Come to the dwelling of Elrond Peredhel in Mithlond. Darkness is upon us. Manwë has called for an immediate council.
Manwë nodded in approval. "Good. Now we wait."
They didn't wait long. A second later, ten forms like wisps of colored smoke swirled into the chamber, slowly taking shape. Soon seven tall women and three tall men stood behind the Fëanturi and the Wind-lord.
One of the women moved instantly to Manwë's side, laying an ivory-like hand upon his shoulder. Her curling hair was deepest black, with silver streaks like the paths of comets. Her silver eyes sparkled like diamonds, and her glittering raiment was an exact mirror of the night sky; every star to be found in the heavens was also somewhere on the dress of Varda, Queen of the Stars, wife of Manwë.
Beside Varda stood Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. The Valië was clad all in deep green, and her eyes shone the same emerald hue. Her long, wavy hair shimmered with the most vibrant colors of autumn, from the deep gold of sunflowers to vivid pumpkin orange, to deep chocolate brown and mahogany, as well as every tone between.
Nienna, the Weeper, wore a dress of deep indigo beneath a black, hooded cloak. Her hair fell down her back in ebony curls, and some dark locks framed her pale face. Her eyes, the same deep blue of her dress, were so dark that they almost seemed black. She was the sister of Lórien and Mandos.
Lórien's wife, Estë the Healer, stood next to her sister-in-law. Her silver locks had a pale mauve sheen, and her eyes were a lavender hue; the soothing perfume of that flower hung about her like a cloud. Her attire was a dress of simple, pale grey.
Vairë the Weaver, the wife of Mandos, appeared as she had in Elrond's dreams. The deep red fabric of her dress, embroidered with many shape-shifting golden runes, was the same as the elf-lord had seen it. The only difference was that her cinnamon-colored hair was no longer tied back with the white ribbon.
Vána the Youthful, the sister of Yavanna, had the look of a maid who was barely of age. She wore a dress of pale rose, and one of the same flowers was tucked delicately behind her ear. Her corn-gold curls tumbled past her shoulders in a bright cascade, and her eyes were nearly as blue as Manwë's.
Slightly behind Vána stood Nessa the Dancer, Oromë's sister. She was clothed in a white bodice and deep green skirt, with a belt of silver ribbon. Her straight brown hair was tied back in a similar fashion to how Vairë's had been, but with a green band instead of white.
The first of the male figures was the tallest by far, with hair and beard as white as the foamy crests of stormy ocean waves. His long robe shimmered with blue, grey and green when it was blown by Manwë's winds. He was Ulmo, Lord of the Waters.
At Ulmo's right stood Aulë the Smith, the husband of Yavanna. He was clothed in a dark grey tunic and breeches, and boots and gloves of brown leather. His hair glittered in the moonlight like burnished silver, and his deep eyes were like dormant coals, set to ignite at any moment. A belt wrought of gold and silver circled his waist.
Nessa's husband, Tulkas the Wrestler, had a very lithe, yet muscular physique. His gold hair fell to his shoulders, framing his ruddy face with its golden beard and laughing hazel eyes. He wore an ivory tunic, breeches of fawn-colored cloth, and no shoes or boots.
Manwë turned to face his kinsfolk, frowning as he silently counted them up. There should have been one more.
"Where is Oromë?" he asked.
The sound of a whinnying horse drifted in from outside, and the Vala in question arrived gracefully; at least, as gracefully as anyone can be when clad in armor from head to foot. A blood-red cloak of some silky fabric hung to his ankles, and a full quiver of arrows was slung over his shoulder. The bow was in his right hand, and a curved hunting horn was in the left.
"I am here," he said, nodding to Manwë as he moved to stand beside his wife, Vána.
"Good," the Wind-lord replied. "Then let us begin."
He snapped his fingers sharply, and the furniture was rearranged instantly in a flash of blue light. The desk and chairs vanished, and the bed slid to the center of the room, with Elwing and Elrond still on it. Fourteen high-backed, throne-like chairs, one for each Vala or Valië, formed a ring around the elves.
The fourteen Valar took their places, standing before their chairs. The Lords occupied the left half of the circle, and their wives took up the right. Vairë stood a little way back from the others, to make room for her loom. Mandos and Lórien stood side-by-side between Oromë and Tulkas. The Dream-lord wrung his hands nervously, until his brother gently pried them apart.
Estë bowed her head in respect as she spoke to Manwë. "Would it not be better if Elrond were fully conscious, and perhaps fully healed?"
The Vala nodded. "Would you do the honors?"
The Valië complied, stepping over to the bed. She first turned to Elrond II, gently taking the towel from him.
"I can take care of that for you," she said softly, indicating the blood-smeared wounds on the boy's forehead and hand. "Hold still…" She placed her fingers against them, allowing a rush of healing power to flow from her. In mere seconds Elrond's skin was smooth and unmarred.
The child stared down at his hand, felt his forehead, and then smiled at the Valië. "Thank you."
"You are welcome," Estë replied kindly. She then reached out to Elrond I and shook his shoulder lightly to awaken him. Elwing looked on worriedly as her son came to, moaning softly.
The elf-lord's eyes fluttered, and he stared up at Estë in silent confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but she gently pressed a slender forefinger to his lips.
"Hush," she whispered soothingly. "Lie still a moment. You have endured a great trial."
Elrond nodded obediently, sending out a thought to her. Might I ask what is happening, my lady?
A council, she replied. All of my kin are here to discuss the nature of your attack.
An attack? the elf-lord frowned. Is that what it was?
Estë nodded grimly. You and Irmo were assailed by Morgoth. We have come to decide what is to be done about it.
Irmo? Do you mean Lord Lórien? Elrond asked.
Irmo is his true name, the Valië explained. But that is irrelevant. What matters now is this council. We are ready, she added, sending out the last sentence to Manwë as well as she returned to her place, between Nienna and Vairë.
The Wind-lord nodded. So be it.
He nodded to the others, and all of the Valar but Manwë took their seats at the same time, in an unnervingly fluid motion. The Council had begun.
Manwë stood before the company, his head held high despite the gravity of their purpose. The Valar were completely silent, all gazing directly at Elrond.
The elf-lord instinctively attempted to make his body as small as he could, while the child huddled against his mother, peeking fretfully out from behind his bloodstained towel. At last the Wind-lord's voice broke the thick silence.
"Valar and Eldar," he said, "we are gathered here this night to concern ourselves with the fates of one of our own, and a good friend of this one. For as you may know, just minutes ago, Irmo Lórien and Elrond Peredhel were attacked by Morgoth."
A visible shudder ran through the assembly as the hated name passed from mouth to ear, again and again. Elwing held Elrond II close to her with one arm, and gently put her other arm around Elrond I.
Manwë held up his hand for silence, continuing as a hush filled the room.
"Yes," he said gravely. "Morgoth is reaching out directly, extending his evil beyond the Void in a sure path. It is uncertain now what his purpose is, but what we can be certain of is that nothing good can come of it."
Nienna began to cry softly, her face in her hands. Estë placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, staring over at her husband as she did so. Lórien lifted his eyes to her face, and they shared a long, deep look. The Healer's eyes were distraught; the Dream-lord's were desolate.
Elrond I stared up at the Wind-lord in confusion, finally voicing his deepest concerns.
"My lord, when Morgoth attacked us… to me, it felt as if his power was deep inside me. If that is so, would that not make us…" He couldn't say the last word.
Manwë nodded solemnly, reading the elf's mind as it spoke of what his tongue would not utter.
"There is only one way to be sure of that," he said. "Where are the Silmarils?"
Lórien's face turned the hue of sour milk; Elrond's mouth went dry as old parchment. He knew exactly what this was; a test for the detection of evil. The elf forced saliva into his mouth so he could speak.
"Th- they're in a box… on the top shelf of my wardrobe…"
The Wind-lord waved a hand smoothly, and the aforementioned closet flew open; the box soared out, and Manwë caught it. He opened the container slowly, pulling out the worn cloth bundle and unwrapping it. A cool blaze of light flooded the room, and many of the Valar began to whisper among themselves.
Manwë took one jewel in each hand, stepping between Elrond and Lórien. He extended a hand to each, saying, "Take them."
The elf lifted his gaze to stare deep into the Dream-lord's eyes. The Vala looked every bit as frightened as he was. They moved as one, both holding their breath as they closed their fingers around the proffered Silmarils.
Elrond nearly sobbed in relief. The large jewel felt cool and heavy in his hand, and there was absolutely no stench of burning flesh or blood. They were safe.
Manwë nodded in satisfaction. "Very well."
He put the Silmarils away calmly, speaking to Lórien as he did so.
"Be this as it may, I fear we cannot risk Morgoth using you again to reach Elrond. Thus it is my sad duty to dismiss you. You must no longer guard Elrond as you have done; you are to make no mental or physical contact with him whatsoever, from this moment on."
Lórien stared at his kinsman in silence for a moment, his eyes brimming with tears; then he shut his eyes and nodded submissively. "As you wish."
Looking up at his friend, he sighed and whispered a final farewell. "Please remember me, Elrond."
The half-elf nodded, beginning to weep as well. "I will never forget."
The Dream-lord nodded once again, swirling silently and invisibly from the chamber, and leaving behind an empty chair and more than one aching heart.