Chapter Seventy-Two: Mending
Galadriel and Maglor came striding slowly across the huge, near-empty chessboard, both crying earnestly, with their heads bowed in shame. Their clothes visibly sported symbols of vivid scarlet, but as the white-clad watchers looked on, the black and red fabric slowly lightened to other hues. Soon both elven rulers wore plain off-white nightclothes, every bit as torn and blood-spattered as the robe and gown had been. As they came within a few feet of the Valar, the lord and lady fell reverently to their knees on the pale stone below then, daring to look up only when Mandos placed his hands kindly upon their shoulders.
"You mean to ask for forgiveness," he said, declaring what was truly in their hearts, "but you do not require it. Neither of you have committed any crime…" (Maglor shuddered at those words, but remained astutely soundless) "…and so you need not be responsible for another's sins. But I will give you that which you most desire and deserve: freedom from this shadow. Morgoth shall never again hold sway over you."
The two humble elves were silent, trembling visibly with sobs of relief. The Doomsman extended one hand to each, and pulled them gently to their feet, where they stood hushed and submissive before him. They anxiously wiped the tears from their faces, and nodded in unspoken thanks as Estë stepped forward to tend to their injuries. The Healer smiled in compassionate insight of their stillness as she carried out her tasks quickly and diligently.
Once the two elves were nursed to the best of Estë's ability, Elrond I and II came warily up to them, limping a little as they walked (for, alas, even Estë could not do a thing about that), and supporting Vairë between them. The elder of the two halves wrapped his arms cautiously around Maglor in a caring, brotherly embrace, but was most startled when his kinsman's body, which had until that point appeared to be completely solid, turned out to be intangible. Elrond I's arms passed straight through the other elf's suddenly-translucent chest, and left him bewildered and loosely hugging himself.
"What in the world…?" the half-elf frowned, lowering his arms and staring at them.
Concerned, Galadriel came forth to investigate this. But when the same odd phenomenon occurred again, no-one was any the wiser, except maybe Lórien. He gave them all smiles of reassurance, and explained this strangeness to them calmly and logically.
"Galadriel and Maglor are only here in spirit, you must understand, whereas you, Elrond, are here in body – or rather, bodies," he said, as if this was only the most obvious thing in the world. "The will of Morgoth must have given them corporeal bodies for as long as the battle would last. Now that his grip on them has been broken, they are insubstantial once again."
"That does make sense," Elrond I nodded. "But how are they going to get out of here, if it was Morgoth who brought them here in the first place?"
"I will return them safely to their bodies," the Dream-lord answered. "Being the Giver of Dreams as well as a Master of Spirits does come in handy. And when you are safe in your bodies again," he smiled benignly to the two incorporeal elves, "you will have only vague memories of this, as of a dream half-forgotten upon waking. To erase your reminiscences entirely would prove to be extremely dangerous. Also, I will have to take you back one at a time; even I can't be in two places at once," he laughed. The elves smiled rather feebly.
Fading to translucency as he slid effortlessly into the spirit world, Lórien politely offered Galadriel his hand, and she took it with a courteous nod. Together they totally faded from sight, and Maglor turned to face Elrond I and II, smiling wryly as he clapped his comrade on the shoulder.
"Is there something you haven't been telling me for six thousand years? Some long-kept secret, hmm?"
"Maybe it won't be once we all get back to Arda," Elrond II told him, just as Lórien came back into view, unaccompanied now. The lord of Mithlond gratefully grasped the Vala's hand, and called back to his friend before he, too, returned to his waiting body. "I'll hold you to your word, mark me."
"You may consider yourself marked," the elder half-elf replied, grinning for the first time in a long while. But the smile gradually faded from his lips as Maglor did from his vision. Heaving a sigh, he turned to his godson. "Frankly, I'm amazed he never asked about that in all this time."
"Yes, I wonder why?" came Lórien's laughing voice from beside them. The silver-haired Vala's eyes were twinkling with a cheeriness that blatantly denied the fact that a horrific battle had just occurred. But he soon sobered considerably when Mandos approached him from the rear and tapped his shoulder lightly.
The Doomsman nodded in the direction of the other Valar, who were all clustered before where the Gates of Night stood, shut and virtually invisible, were it not for Varda's glow. The small group slowly made their way toward the large one; they merged just as a ray of greyish half-light emerged from the widening gap between the slowly-opening doors. As they swung noiselessly inward, the crowd backed up slightly, then strode forward in lines two abreast. Scarcely a word was exchanged, out loud or otherwise. The world awaited.
----
"You know," said Maglor, shaking his head but smiling as he sipped at his mug of hot, steaming tea, "if I trusted you any less, I don't think I'd believe a word of that story. You two are the same person. Unbelievable."
"That's nearly exactly what Celebrían said when I first told her," Elrond II laughed. "And even I didn't believe it right away when Elrond the First told me."
"You needed to be told?" the lord of Mithlond smirked, leaning over to prod the faltering embers in the hearth back to life.
"Of course he did," Elrond I retorted. "He grew up thinking I was his godfather, until just after he turned sixteen. Now you're one of a handful of people, other than the Valar, who know my – our, rather – true identity. And don't get so bothered," he added warningly. "I was told specifically by Lord Mandos to tell these chosen few about me. But I should say, most of the chosen few. Mandos himself told my mother and father, and Galadriel found it out on her own. Elrond the Second told Celebrían."
"Who are the others?" Maglor inquired curiously.
Elrond II burrowed a bit deeper into the cushions of his overstuffed armchair and counted the aforesaid elves off on his fingers as he named them all aloud. "Celeborn, my daughter Arwen, Gil-galad, and now you."
"Well, I can understand you telling your family," Maglor nodded. "But why tell Gil-galad and not me? I've known you ever since you were four!"
"So had Gil-galad," Elrond I replied soberly. "But really, he was already fairly suspicious about me when he was finally told. What with the Valar waking all about the haven, right under his nose…"
"And everyone else's," the son of Fëanor added, a smirk making his lip twitch. "Besides that, now I come to think of it, we're relatives too! I'm Galadriel's cousin, and therefore Celebrían's cousin-once-removed, and you're Celebrían's husband; that would make you my…"
"…cousin-once-removed-in-law?" Elrond II sniggered. "There's a mouthful for you!"
"There must be a simpler expression for that," Elrond I smiled. "But you do have a point, Maglor. And now I come to think of it, there's really no point in arguing why I didn't tell you all of this before, because it hardly matters now. You know my darkest and best-kept secret, and that's that. End of story."
"Mm-hmm." Maglor grinned and drained his mug in one swallow. "Is there anything else you've been keeping from me? Seriously, now…"
----
Snow carpeted Imladris with a thin, icy layer of white, as winter said its last farewells and made way for spring to take its place. Budding flowers would soon yawn tiredly open and stretch out leafy arms to the sunlight. The river would flow again, laughing in gladness as it tumbled down to the sea. But for now, at least, the valley was quiet and asleep beneath an inky, star-dusted sky; and that included its inhabitants.
Elrond II turned over in a deep sleep, unconsciously pulling the bedspread up to his chin. His open eyes saw nothing, glazed over with slumber as they were. But they appeared to be looking right at a tiny figure who was stretched out on the pillow between Elrond and his also-sleeping wife; none other than the tiny replica of Lórien, who for years had been confined to a makeshift chessboard in a bedside table. Now that the worst of the war was over, the minute Dream-lord and all of his similarly-sized companions were free to roam around as they wished, as cautiously as possible. But the majority of them chose to linger loyally near Elrond I or II, or else with the Valar.
The miniature Dream-lord meandered idly around the pillow for a while, obviously quite bored, until an extremely-undersized Valië leapt gracefully down from her lofty perch on the bedpost. The diminutive figure of Estë greeted her husband with a warm hug, even as she perfumed the air around her with the fragrance of lavender, much like the real Healer would have, had she been present then. The tiny couple glanced sideways into the face of the still-sleeping Elrond II, and smiled to themselves.
Both of them looked up as an actual Vala now entered the room, his garments blending in with the thick gloom, and his pale skin seeming almost to glow in the moonlight. Mandos swept softly across the room to Elrond II's bedside, smiling lovingly down at the sleeping elf and reaching down to stroke his cheek gently. But a sad sigh passed the Doomsman's lips as his fingers halted half an inch away from Elrond's skin. Did he dare even to think of giving such a loving gesture? It was Irmo whom Elrond loved that much more deeply, not him… never him.
But I do love you, Mandos thought, staring down at his friend through tear-blurred eyes. I always have. Icy beads of saline water landed softly on the slumbering elf-lord's moonlit face. Elrond II did not stir, even when little Lórien clambered up onto his cheek and stood gazing into one wide, glassy blue eye. The tiny figure of Estë followed him, grasping her husband's microscopic hand gently in her own. Mandos sighed again, and wished with all his heart that the genuine Estë and Lórien were here.
But those real Valar were elsewhere, tending to Vairë. Even weeks after that terrible war, the Weaver had never truly recovered; she ate little and rested often, and Aulë had kindly offered to take up her customary task of weaving Time, as the Valië was still unsettlingly weak. The Smith was aided as well by Mandos and Lórien; the Doomsman would tell of an event to be recorded, and the Dream-giver would then send Aulë a vision of just what he was to weave. In this way, they made up for the time Vairë would have lost otherwise.
Mandos sighed as he was brought gently back to the present. Giving one last, long look to the peacefully oblivious Elrond, whose face still glistened with the Vala's tears, he faded quietly into the shadows around him and was gone without a word. He had to visit Vairë.
Rematerializing in a chamber some distance down the corridor from Elrond II's bedroom, the Doomsman drew in a deep breath full of the scent of lavender. He could taste it when he breathed through his mouth. Glancing silently around the room while his eyes adjusted to the minor alteration in the amount of light present, Mandos cursed the sharp tapping of his boots on the stone floor as he walked forward. Across the room, two figures who had been bending over someone lying quite still in a bed between them glanced up hastily.
"Námo," sighed the figure to the left – Lórien. "You startled us."
"How are you?" the figure to the right – Estë – asked the Doomsman in obvious concern, as she beckoned him forward with a nod of her head.
"I have been better," Mandos replied softly, his eyes glimmering deep blue in his sorrow. He moved anxiously to Vairë's bedside in a whisper of silk, letting out his bated breath in a soft hiss as he gazed down into his wife's still face. The Weaver looked so unbelievably pale in the moonlight, so still and frozen. Her once-bright hair now lay lifeless and dull, strewn out across the pillows. It was as though she were something hewn of marble, not a living woman…
Her hands, which had once been so clever and agile as she worked her loom, now lay like large, lifeless white spiders on the coverlet, which was every bit as sallow as she. Mandos felt hot tears sear his eyes as he clasped one icy hand in his own, stroking it tenderly with his long fingers. Vairë's hands were never, never meant to be like this. Not like his.
But even in the deepest fathoms of Mandos' black despair, a single small spark fought to keep burning. He knew what would become of Vairë. He knew, somehow, that she would live. Wordlessly the Doomsman shut his eyes, thanking Eru for his gift of omniscience as he had not for too long a time. As he opened his eyes again, he saw that his wife had done the same.
Mandos' face at once relaxed into a smile, and his dark irises glimmered a blue-green hue of mingled happiness and relief when he saw Vairë's golden eyes meet his. Although her hand was still icy, the Doomsman was more concerned now with her reaction to him. He spoke to her in a gentle murmur. "I am sorry if I woke you."
"Not at all," the Weaver replied, in the meager whisper that was all she could manage. "It was so good of you to come…" She attempted to sit up, but her kinsfolk tenderly pushed her back down onto her pillows.
"Lie still," Estë told her soothingly. "You must not overexert yourself."
"You have been telling me little else for the past two months," Vairë responded wearily. But she submissively let her friends and kindred have their own way. Turning to Mandos, she told him softly and earnestly, "I wish to hear nothing more than the truth, Námo. Will I ever truly be well again?"
The Doomsman's eyes shone with a radiance of clear gladness. "You will indeed be well. By the time the first meril blooms, you will be able to walk again without aid; within the week, you shall go on with your task as the Weaver of Time, with the assistance of Aulë. And gradually you will become just as independent in that as you once were."
Vairë smiled gratefully up at her husband. "Thank you, Námo."
Now, the Weaver reasoned, the first logical thing to do was to follow her family's advice, and wait patiently for the blossoming of the first rose of spring.
----
Time paced on, as ever it had and would, and the sun broke the last of Winter's cold grip. The river sang, the grass and trees awoke, and the flowers poked up delicate green heads to a bright sky the color of forget-me-nots. Wounds healed, though far too slowly for the contentment of some. Vairë grew gradually stronger under the care of her kinfolk; she ate more and slept a little less, and was soon able to take her first few shaky steps, leaning on her husband's strong arm all the while. She never stopped hoping that the first rose would soon come to bloom.
And blossom the rose did, and that same day Mandos moved just beyond his wife's reach and left her standing – and walking – quite steadily on her own, precisely as he had long ago predicted. Five days later, a most self-conscious Vairë sat down before her loom and smiled as Aulë directed her hands gently across its mechanisms, praising her progress and ever-patiently correcting her errors. Everything, it seemed, was returning slowly to place. Life went on.