Chapter Twelve

Vanimelda wasn't sure when she found that her vision had come into focus again, but she realised that she was in the centre of a room.

Well, room could never be the right word to describe it. The place was so large, the Great Hall of her father's palace would be dwarfed and that was saying something.

The top was so high, she wasn't even sure if there was a ceiling. The floor upon which she stood on… It felt solid and smooth beneath her feet, but something wasn't right.

Vanimelda looked down. She would have jumped if she could. The floor was entirely made of clouds, air, and far below, lands and sea. And not painted, sculpted or carved, but it appeared…. Her eyes widened. Real.

Then she looked at and she suddenly understood what Gríma meant when she complained about an impending heart attack.

She tried not to quake. This was not the time for weakness.

The worst was far behind her. Or was it?

She looked up and if she had been in her normal state, she was sure her heart would have stopped.

There were several mighty and indescribable figures, seated upon massive thrones that reached very far high up. They were in giant form. But no, even giants would be shadowed by them.

The walls between the thrones- which were arranged in a ring around the floor on which she stood- were covered with shining, bright light. The beings themselves who sat upon the thrones… She felt an awe striking her, and a powerful feeling sweep her from her head to her toes.

The Valar. She stood before the Máhanaxar.

The Ring of Doom.

Inwardly, she swallowed.

Directly to her right, was a Vala. Although he was the same size, somehow he seemed smaller, slighter in build than the others. His skin was fair, but with a warm, hazy glow about him that seemed cosy and warm. Looking at him made her feel warm, almost drowsy. Or dreamy. There appeared to be other dreamy colours dancing about though her eyes never managed to pinpoint them whenever she tried to focus. His form shimmered and became misty or cloudy, like she was getting sleepy, like a mirage, even. His face was gentle, but it also seemed to shift whilst remaining the same. Soft golden clouds appeared in her eyes with spots of pastel colour- pale purples and greens, pinks and blues. Like dreams.

Irmo, Lord of Dreams Master of Lórien. He smiled encouragingly at her?

At her other side, Námo Lord of Mandos had seated himself. Once again, his face was hidden in shadow. Well, she could see his strong features, and his pale skin, his hair blacker than night, as dark as his halls, and yet they were shadowed. As were his black, black eyes. She couldn't describe it, except it was hidden and yet it was not.

Yet even he seemed less intimidating and frightening, than reassuring. Soothing, even. She blinked.

Her eyes fell upon a Valië next to Irmo. She had the dreamiest blue eyes Vanimelda had ever seen. Her fair skin glowed the same hazy, slightly golden glow as her husband's and her hair shimmered and glowed as the rest of her- like a mirage, a dream or a hallucination. Like her husband there appeared to be numerous shimmering colours all about her, but was hard to pinpoint because they vanished and always seemed to be induced at the corner of one's eyes. In fact, it was hard to separate her hair from the light that surrounded her, making her almost too bright to look at, and eyelids grow heavy. Her softly glowing aura was as golden as light itself. She was like her husband in the fact that she looked more like a dream, and the hazy light, with the numerous shimmering, almost-undetectable colours did cause Vanimelda feel warm and drowsy. This was Estë, Lady of Rest, wife of Irmo.

Next to Námo, was a Valië, no less beautiful than the others, but with a quiet aura that made Vanimelda think of hands folded neatly upon laps at rest, or slender, graceful fingers dancing, cleverly bringing to life a pattern of indescribable beauty. Of calm quietness, of peace and reasoning, of clever skill and clever usefulness of talent. Her skin was also fair, and her gentle smile was sad, knowing, yet kind and understanding and sweet. This was someone who had seen many things- good and ill, sorrowful and joyful, and remembered and recorded all. Her eyes, greyish-violet or silvery-violet, told all. Her pale gold hair came in gentle waves and curls or maybe crimped waves in some areas and in some angles, it was touched with red. Her cheeks were rosy and she smiled at Vanimelda. Her fingers were long, slender and tapered. Vairë the Weaver, wife of Námo whose tapestries she had seen.

At the very front stood two figures. One Vala and one Valië who exuded real authority, even amongst the other Valar. She was not easily cowed but even not in her physical form, her knees felt seriously weak. She marvelled that she had not fainted yet.

Manwë, King of the Valar was arrayed in deep blue, the edge of his robe embroidered with oval sapphires at the border. His hair was golden the exact colour of the sun's rays, his eyes bluer than the skies in which he reigned, which had a piercing eagle gaze. Yet they seemed to soften, much like his queen's.

The stories had been right about Varda. The true measurement and depth of her beauty could not be imagined. Her flowing hair was the shade of midnight sky, with silver lights woven through. Her eyes were amber stars-, no supernovas themselves- and they seemed to shine, piercing yet soft at Vanimelda. She wore a circlet of mithril with what looked like a literal solitary star upon her graceful brow. Her robe was truly the most amazing thing. Whole glowing and shimmering constellations, nebulae of so many gleaming colours, floating amidst the blue-black of her fabric. Stars of countless galaxies, all of it in her fabric- and not embroidered ones. She smiled at Vanimelda and the girl was almost blinded.

Vanimelda tried not to quake, yet despite her brave attempt, she failed.

It was not every day that she found herself standing face to face with the Guardians of Arda whom the All-Father had assigned.

She knelt. "My lord, my ladies," she spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

"Rise," Manwë's voice was gentle, yet powerful and mighty, it reminded her of high winds and strong storms across wide open areas, like mountains overlooking valleys. She did so, her knees somehow still managing not to shake.

"Dearest child," Varda's voice was gentle and whispery, like what she imagined stars would sound like twinkling and washing over her, like warm, gentle waves. "Long have we awaited this moment. But longer still, must we wait."

Suddenly, Vanimelda found her voice again. "Wait for what?"

Varda smiled sadly. "The Father has planned a great destiny for you, child."

She stared at them. It was probably rude but… "A destiny?" She asked incredulously. "But what purpose do I serve in the history of Arda?"

"Not a small one," Vairë said, her voice soft. "But you will not be alone."

She stared helplessly at all the Valar.

Fearfully, she looked at them. There was one who was truly terrifying to behold but radiated cheerfulness and gentle humour. His skin was blue-green, and there might have been minuscule, barely-seen scales upon the surface of his muscled form. Ray fins protruded from his flesh, at his elbows, and shoulders, Bivalve shells covered his ears and at the top of his head was a crest like a ribbed murex shell. His beard was long and wild, the colour of sea-foam and reminded her of a riptide. His eyes were a silver-blue and they shone fiercely, but warmly, as if a parent looking with pride upon their child. Ulmo, Lord of Waters.

Opposite Ulmo, on the other side, was a Valië with clear grey eyes and long, silky taupe-coloured tresses, who wore a plain grey gown without any form of adornment. Her skin was pale, and she had gentle, sweet smile, but sad. But what truly astounded her was that this Valië was crying at an enormous rate- waterfalls of tears- a clear, pale grey- ran down in streams down her face before seemingly disappearing to nowhere she was able to see. Nienna the Weeper, Lady of Mercy.

Oromë was easily detected. Proud and stern, the Vala was lean and fit, healthy and strong, and the Master Woodsman had golden-brown hair and eyes like the forests he was so fond of. His hair was perfectly windswept, as if he had just been riding, and leaves and vines adorned his riding vest and tooled leather boots. His arms were lean and muscled.

Nearby Tulkas the Champion of the Valar was even bigger than Orome, and more muscular. He grinned enormously and encouragingly, as if this whole event cheered him and his teeth were brilliantly white.

Meanwhile, Aulë the Smith, in his powerfully built form, no less strong and mighty, no less intimidating, but it was as if he was not someone to destroy, but rather build something great. She could already see him pounding, hammering away amidst the flames of his forge. Building great monumental things that could forge the world's history as everyone knew it. His skin was tan, his hair a reddish brown touched with gold flecks.

Beside him, the Lady Yavanna. She was gowned in green, like velvet, moss or grass, and her hair was a rich brown, like the richest earthen colours, mingled with the gold of wheat and corn, weaving together, flowing down her back. Branches, vines, leaves, wheat and other ears of grain and flowers wove together to create a circlet, weaving into Yavanna's hair, the flowers and vine-stems seemingly growing out of the circlet and spilling themselves over the crown of her head, down the strands and over her gown. It covered nearly her whole hair. The gown itself was embroidered by what looked like gold and silver stars, but on closer inspection was niphredil and elanor flowers. Her girdle was made of golden flowers, her the front of her skirt looked like a giant leaf. Her eyes were a foggy leaf-green yet clear lighter green, as if there were two colours mixing and mingling with one another, the irises clear as glass and larger than normal.

Yavanna's younger sister was lovelier than anyone's imagination. Her hair was as the richest golden, not merely blonde, shining and cascading, softer than down and her dress was pale pink lace and white silk so smooth and with numerous folds, it looked like liquid. Flowers bloomed from them, and her face was eternally youthful, in a way not even an immortal elf's could be- fresh, sweet, young, exuberant and eternal. Her blue eyes sparkled and shone. And so many rich flowers- of the creamiest pastel colours, or the richest, deepest shades, were in the largest, loveliest garland Vanimelda had ever seen, that mingled with the gold of her hair.

And Nessa's hair was rich brown, waving. Her smile was bright and her dress a creamy-green but short. Her brown eyes sparkled, and even in stillness, she was fluid. Her light form was obviously that of a dancer's slender, curving in some movements, lithe and graceful. Her eyes were a lovely amber colour.

So much power in one place? What did these enormously powerful beings want with Vanimelda? She was just… her.

Alright, so maybe she was more than that? But that wasn't her. She was did not unify the elves of Middle-Earth. She did not create the Silmarils, the Rings of Power, the Palantiri, or any script of Middle-Earth. She did not conduct missions or lead armies into battle for centuries the way both her parents did. And as far as Middle-Earth was concerned, she had disappeared entirely- she might even be dead to them for all she knew.

Sensing her thoughts, Manwë smiled sadly. "My dear child, you are more important than you think, precisely because you are not your ancestors- even your greatest ones. Although they have given you gifts that cannot be denied, the greatest gift your mother gave you apart from life, is the ability to live uncrushed beneath anyone's shadow. Even her own. Not even she had that gift- she gave everything up, sacrificing for all."

Vanimelda winced, remembering the suffering and painful life her mother had lead. And the awful, horrible end.

The Valar all looked upon her with pity. "Yes," Manwë said softly. "It is hard, is it not? It is hard enough to sacrifice one's life, but harder still to sacrifice loved ones- even for their own good and the good of all. We asked your mother to make one last sacrifice- for her offspring. But now, instead of her, we ask it of you. Will you accept this destiny that the All-Father, Eru Ilúvatar has written for you?"

Her throat dry, Vanimelda replied, "What is my destiny?"

Then the floor changed.

Suddenly it was smooth, solid black marble gleaming in the suddenly-dimmed light. Several lines like rays parted the circular floor into sections which lead to a single globe in the middle. But it was not a globe like the one Lord Elrond had showed to her father in his study at Imladris. This appeared real. With swirling clouds, softly floating, and breezes icy to the touch- currents of air that emanated from the globe. Mist covered the forms of the Valar upon their thrones and now Vanimelda could no longer see them.

Unsure of what to do, she stepped forwards.

Her vision swam before her eyes yet again.

Once again she found herself in a place that she just knew was part of Mandos' Halls.

But this was a smaller room- though 'small' wouldn't be the right word for it. There was a something in the other end that attracted a great deal of light. To her shock, it was a loom. A massive one, bigger than any she had ever seen. A tapestry was there. Pulled by the helpless eagerness and excitement to inspect the weavings and artistry of patterned threads and colours and what dyes used here, Vanimelda moved forwards, eyes shining.

She noticed that swathes of fabric hung everywhere. So this was where the tapestries in Mandos' walls came from. No, it was one long tapestry, the weaving of time and history of the world, and as sections were finished, they were pulled out of the loom and hanging places and moved forwards. She heard all the stories her mother told her- the lessons from when she was small. Mandos' Halls forever grew, though it appeared the same on the outside.

The swathes were hung all over the ceiling in large drapes, resembling yet rivalling the banners of a great King's hall. And as she moved closer, she studied them carefully.

These were not the scenes of which she was familiar with from her mother's lessons. Or her father's. Or Vorondo's. Or Almarië's.

She gasped.

It was her.

One picture showed her mother holding a baby with hair so black it could only be her. Violet eyes, brighter than twin gems, peeked up through the blanket. Her mother lay in a bed. Her face was flushed only slightly and her eyes were radiant. She looked more beautiful than ever. Her father held them both close.

Vanimelda took a shaky deep breath.

Her eyes moved to the next picture. There she was learning how to speak, taking her first steps, learning how to read and write in different languages, the history of her people and family, of the races of Middle-Earth in general. She learned how to spin and weave, she was given a doll, and taught how to pray when she was young, by her mother. The tapestry also showed her mother hanging ornaments, new necklaces, bracelets and bangles, chokers and brooches, armlets, circlets, diadems and tiaras on her dressing table that she would one day inherit.

It never happened.

She saw the Last Alliance. It struck her just how sheltered she was kept by her parents, from all of this.

Then her parents' death. She could not bear to see it.

And her disappearance.

So her mother did order Vorondo to sneak her out of her nursery, she marvelled. But why?

Was she not safe in Lindon? Lindon had one of the Three Rings of Power- Narya- the Ring of Fire. And even if not, she would have been safe in the Grey Havens when Círdan, her father's trusted advisor, friend and mentor, lived. No one could attack there. Or to Lothlórien, maybe. She would be safest there, and in Imladris. Two other Rings of Power- Nenya ring of Water and Vilya, Ring o Air, respectively, were present.

But what if her mother couldn't risk word of her getting out? Even amongst their own people?

Vanimelda was expressionless when she saw the next scenes. There was no more King of the Noldor. After her father's death, with no apparent, present heir- she was also too young as well as disappeared- the Kingdom of the Noldor upon Middle-Earth was diminished. Lindon had already lost a fair amount of its lands during the waves that followed the Sinking of Númenor and the changing of the world. And with no leader…

The Noldor had left. Slowly left. They were a diminished people in Middle-Earth and now it was time for them to go home.

Strong, powerful and unbearable shame and overbearing guilt crashed onto her. It never occurred to her that she could have prevented all this. If she had been present, even with someone to be a regent to her (they weren't an absolute monarchy anyway), or if she had been older…. The Noldor could have remained. Her people could have stayed, they could have had a future in Middle-Earth.

She swallowed back her tears of guilt, shame and grief. She had let everyone down, and she didn't even realise it until now.

Pushing back her tears, she took a shaky breath and kept studying the tapestry.

It was all too familiar to her. The time with Vorondo. The treachery that ended in his death. The abuse and enslavement she suffered at the hands of that treacherous peasant couple. Her mother's fëa communing with her, giving her a doll who could speak to her, named Almarië, helping her to escape. Her time with Sapzôr. Her training.

Vanimelda went cold, however, when she saw the next stage.

She saw herself high in the branches of the ash tree, seemingly asleep, with her head resting on soft moss. Her hands shook.

Vanimelda took a deep breath, and willed herself to go on.

These were the images of her future.

Her forewritten destiny.

Much of it was blank. She understood that. Plain and empty white like paper, and it was because of the decisions she had yet to come to, the choices she had yet to make. The smaller details in her journey that would make the pattern of the tapestry complete.

After all, the future isn't set in stone.

But there were images, alright. She wasn't one of the race of Men. She didn't have their gift- their luxury of choice of destiny, tempered only by short life and an eternal sleep.

So she looked on.

There were people. Chained and enslaved, many of them whipped into submission. There were countless women. In fact there were people of all races- humans, elves and dwarves. The dwarves were forced to labour, mining, but not as contentedly as they must have done in their homes and freedom. The humans were forced to do back-breaking farm labour. Tending vegetables, watering gardens, harvesting grain. There were females of every race, forced to dress the hair of wealthier-looking women, painting their faces (only humans did that) mending and weaving their clothes, polishing shoes and sandals. And being horrifically abused by men in unspeakable ways.

She saw elves too. They built and crafted items for them- the slave owners, she thought. The dwarves made weapons of war, jewellery and metal items of practical use, but some elves did so as well. Wood elves did not work metals and gems the way the Noldor did. But there were some Noldor too, building piping water systems, weaving and spinning cloths, crafting metalwork and gems. Vanimelda's eyes widened.

They were slaves. There was no doubt about that. She saw them whipped and flogged. Violated and covered in filth. A large number were starved, barely nourished.

And they were kept separate. Normally they would have risen in revolt, but- Vanimelda's mind went on overdrive- they were kept in various different places, subdued very heavily, weakened and broken down. They had no idea where they were, where they would go if they escaped, and what would be waiting for them. By the looks of the nasty-looking whips with spiked barbs and thorns on the end, and the other weapons, Vanimelda had no doubt that they were seriously discouraged.

It appeared they lived somewhere in the northern areas of Middle-Earth. Judging from their captors' clothing…

There was a hint of Easterling in their clothing and designs, but nothing that suggested they had Easterling blood in their features. Their culture or their designs might have been influenced by Easterlings, perhaps the Nomadic tribes, or the great civilisations that few in the west had ever seen, but not so much. Her eyes widened.

Dark Númenórean. Descendants of the King's Men.

It could only be.

No, they were in decline. How could they possibly still be here?

But they were.

Well, actually they did look like they had a touch of Easterling blood. Vanimelda searched the tapestry for more details. These people were a radical religious, cultural and ethnic minority group who were pushed westwards, and considered outcasts and barbarians by the more sophisticated and advanced civilisations of the east. They had lived on the outskirts of the great eastern civilisations and at first, there rested a fragile peace between them. But they were undisputedly different, and differences, especially amongst humans, were always a source of conflict. They practiced shamanism, and many shamans were prominent in their culture and religion. But they were too ambitious. They delved too darkly and too greedily. And they lived in the harshest terrain in the central-north of Middle-Earth. There were lands unlike the ones their neighbours lived in their great cities, which was lush and fertile used for feeding countless millions. East of the Rhovanion, these areas were called the Eastlands or the Rhûn in general, but in fact, there were many territories and even more diverse ethnic and cultural groups. The lands these people had originally came from were similar to Khand, where they were fallow and fit for only grass from which cattle and horses could graze. The winters were terribly harsh. These people had been feared and ostracised by their neighbours because of their shamanic practices which bordered close in witchcraft, according to their enemies. But it didn't- at least until someone came along.

At this, Vanimelda frowned deeply. Someone did come, alright. Someone dark and powerful like Morgoth or…

Sauron.

Her heart chilled. He had corrupted them.

Sauron had taken advantage of their weakness. He had started by attempting to conquer east of Middle-Earth. But the lush lands of the great civilisations were untrusting of him. So he turned to the poorer, more destitute and desperate nomads, eager to win glory, riches and gain knowledge of the supernatural. He taught them dark magic. He introduced Dark Númenórean followers of his who interbred and influenced their culture again, hence their physical and cultural characteristics. And their actual dark magic. He convinced them to invade- well, at first, raid, and cause chaos amongst their southern neighbours. The great cities and countries suffered greatly and barely held back the invading raiders. Vanimelda sensed her mother's fingerprints in their defences. She was right.

So they were heavily defeated and forced to move westwards. At this point in time, the suffering, destitute peoples, no wandering, with no settled place to go- not that they had a tradition of permanent settlements- they were nomadic horsemen- lived under the time of the War of Wrath. Sauron was under Morgoth's control by this time. They proved useful when making the Dúnedain suffer- like Húrin's family, including Túrin Turambar. These were the people that invaded their lands.

Vanimelda swallowed. These people were warriors. There was no doubt about that. They were expert horsemen. Her mother had taught her stories about Easterling nomads who were trained to ride before they could even walk. They lived on the saddle, they fought, negotiated in politics and business on the saddle. They ate their own horses, even, as well as cattle, for lack of other food, in the harsh landscapes and winters of their home. They could shoot arrows on horseback, as well as fight with traditional swords and spears. This gave them a cutting edge and they were even better than the Éothéod themselves at riding and warfare on horseback. Furthermore, although it was different for their former neighbours, many peoples, especially humans in smaller settlements, survived on grain-based diets, with little or no meat to strengthen muscle and bone. While the eating of vegetables and fruit were highly encouraged, these peoples did not always clean and cook their crops carefully, so things like weevils and other small insects, fungi or tiny stones often got caught in their daily diet, and made them ill, as well as wearing down teeth and stunting their children's growth. Furthermore, famine was another reason why they could be vulnerable.

So these nomads had grown strong indeed. Though they were pushed back, eventually by Gondor and sometimes by Arnor.

And they had intermingled further with Dark Numenoreans and been further influenced by them. They now lived in the north-west, of Middle-Earth, of that she was sure.

She had to find them. Set the slaves free.

Vanimelda saw herself freeing slaves and training them to fight, leading them and… Cities. Like that in the early stages of her trance.

And like a miracle, she saw great cities to rival those of Gondolin and Doriath, rising in front of her, covered in light.

She knew what to do.

Éothéod, as I've mentioned, like Ceorl and Gríma were ancestors of the Rohirrim before they officially settled in Rohan.

Dark Númenóreans (called Black Númenóreans by Tolkien's writings, but that term could be considered offensive by modern audiences and readers), are descendants of the King's Men of Númenor who were corrupted by Sauron, and turned against the Valar and the All-Father. These had invaded and established colonies in Middle-Earth so some settlers had descendants and survived the sinking of Númenor.

Easterlings are not greatly featured in Tolkien's stories- save for being corrupted by Sauron. Now, I definitely do not believe Tolkien was racist- definitely not! But there has to be their side of the story, their history and culture were unknown. Gondor kept invading their lands and the lands of the Haradrim, so it can't have been easy for these peoples. So maybe they grew resentful and bitter, destitute and desperate. After all, Khand in the East was fit for only fallow grasslands for horses and cattle to graze. Harad was mostly barren desert that could barely sustain scrub, let alone people. Things were tough. But there were those that persisted, those that became great civilisations like China, Korea and Japan, and those who became fierce nomadic warriors, and the best at horse riding, like the Mongols and the Huns of the Central Asian steppes. The stories and films only ever portrayed them as men corrupted and deceived by Sauron, invaded by the Men of the west, or invading their lands and peoples, or else, at the very end, being sent peace agreements and treaties by King Elessar and King Éomer and I want to include their side of the story as well.

To SarahWeasley : Thank you! And remember folks, I own nothing, actually! Only my OCs, and certain events and extra details I went in depth with, and even that was based on my research in canon. Nothing else!