Where the Sun Sails by sian22

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‘You left the East Wind to me,’ said Gimli, ‘but I will say naught of it.’

‘That is as it should be,’ said Aragorn. ‘In Minas Tirith they endure the East Wind, but they do not ask it for tidings.

J.RR. Tolkien, The Two Towers, Chapter 1: The departure of Boromir.

 

“May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Annotated Hobbit: The Hobbit, Or, There and Back Again

 

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 Manwë, lord of Air, first and greatest of Blessed Eru’s thoughts, sat his throne of pearl and adamant and surveyed the young Ainu before him with a puzzled frown.

It was not often in this first blushing Spring of Arda that he was met with tears.

“Daughter-of-my-thought, why do you weep? Why bring this music to disturb the light of Oiolossë that is so fair?”                              

His voice, bold as the peal of silver trumpets, strong as a gale, fair as the gentlest breeze of sweet high summer, made the leaves of laurinquë tremble.

Amrûn, the East Wind, knelt at the King of Arda’s feet and pressed her trembling knees to the stone of Taniquetil.  There had been the briefest flicker of blue fire in his gaze and a frown upon the noble brow where rode wisdom and patience ever.  The sight of her lord’s discomfort made her quail for but a moment and she bent her head in reverence. 

“Father… forgive me.”  

Manwë pursed his lips in thought.  He had no wish for any of his charges to know sadness or pain or want, particularly the spirited eastern wind of whom he was quite fond.  He gathered his deep blue robes and rose, lifting Amrûn with a gentle grasp.  In his hands were compassion and mercy limned his gaze.

“Come, be not afraid.   Why these tears little one?   Speak to me.”

The little Maia, disheveled as ever from her haste, felt a little ragged at his touch.  She clutched her cloak of gauzy poppy more tightly about her breast and tucked a twining, golden curl behind her ear, The gesture gave her courageHer small but supple fingers dashed the last shining tear from off her cheek and with a deeper breath Amrûn raised her chin.

“My Lord,  Arien and Tilion have found their heart’s desire.  My sister, the South Wind has many suitors.  My brothers have their loves:  North delights in Snow and West he plays ever with the Sea.  I am all alone.  I have none to dance with me.”  

The Vala sat back surprised and laid his sceptre of pearl and sapphire down upon his lap. 

About the hall kestrels and eagles, herons and wrens alike winged and dove, their songs of devotion and delight aloft on the halcyon air.  Were not all his creatures beautiful?  Amrûn stood before him; golden as the first rays of morning sun, gossamer as the lightest silkweed, delicate as the wings of a dragon fly.  Slowly Manwë shook his silver head.    

“Are you not fair?  You are the first warm breath of spring before your sister wakes.  Your laugh brings forth the gilt and glittering dew that chases the night’s shadows with the dawn.  In your joyful dance runs all the majesty and mystery of my air”

Amrûn plucked disconsolately at her rumpled skirts, tangled and torn with as she had dipped and twirled about the lands. Gossamer was her robe, too much so perhaps for the swiftness of her dance. 

 “But Lord, my Love does not notice me.  My sister and my brothers are sleek and sure and clad in fairer raiment.  I thought perhaps you might fashion me a new dress, one that would not get caught as I rustle through the trees.”  

A low chuckle rumbled and below upon the Everlasting Snows a flock of longspurs suddenly took to wing.  The King of Arda smiled. The East Wind was mischievous, naughty, strong and to his great delight, brought change where ever she alit. The gossamer of her clothes had been of her own doing. 

Were you not away when I gave your siblings raiment?  Were you not off playing with the Moon, stirring the singing lights to dance?”

A mute nod was all his answer.  It was true and all she deserved for not listening to his call and yet, the little one looked so forlorn.  It tugged at his heart.

“Whom do you love, my child…?”

“Helcar, the great sea of the north, where stands Illuin to light the north.”  Oh he was wonder. Vast and cool and so welcome in the lands sere and gold and green about.   She loved the sting of his salt as it dried sharp upon her face, the swell and power of his flood.  She had played about Cuiviénen  so many times, she knew him well, but still he did not wave or splash or call to her.    

The wise eyes grew sad. “I do not command the sea, little one. That is my friend and shield-brother Ulmo.  He and I we make the rain together but he has is desmesne, as I mine.”   

The little golden head drooped in resignation at the rightness of his words.  They were true.  Amrûn sighed and turned to leave.

Wait.” 

The King of Arda beheld his daughter-spirit and pondered how, if he could not grant her wish, at least he could help her heart.  Loathe was he to change her raiment for he found it fair and she was wayward child, capricious, not always doing as she was bid.  Perhaps here was a chance for a loving lord and father to teach.

All things that flew in the light were his to command, they went ever to and from his halls, bringing news from all of Arda, save the darkest places in the ocean deeps or the impenetrable shadows loved by his brother Melkor.  Though he Saw farther than all other eyes, it came to Manwë’s thought that Amrûn could be his servant in those darker hidden spaces, that she of the airs could twine about the very pinnacles and crags of the lands of shadow and hear much that was hidden to him yet.  Though the world was young, he foresaw that it should darken and such a time would come.  He knew best the music of the One, knew how it should go, feared it could be marred.      

Amrûn I will grant a boon to you, a necklace to make you fairer still, one that will sparkle like the sun on breaking waves and be the envy of all you meet.   It shall be of finest true and pure silver and on it shall hang ten perfect drops of rain.”

At these words the little Maia clapped for joy, threads of gossamer swirling in her gusts.  The King of Arda nodded and about her slender neck there appeared a fine twisted chain, light as the air, adorned with a single drop.  It was the water of Ulmo perfected.  As elegant as the crystal beads of dew that graced the morning.  As intricate as the pellucid stars of snow that graced the Holy Mountain.

The East Wind stilled and flushed, abashed at her thoughtlessness for her Lord’s generosity. 

“Sire, I thank you…”

Eyes that were the deepest blue of the sky’s great vault flashed once.  Yea she was grateful but he knew her attention was a fleeting thing.  Manwë raised his hand.    

“Come to me at the Turning of each Age and each half therein and I shall gift you a new raindrop.  In return you shall bring news of the world, from all the places that I may not see, even unto the deeper shadows.  By this you shall earn your gift and learn to focus on your task”

“I am your servant, Lord.” replied Amrûn, bowing deeply, humbled by his wisdom.  

“Do now your office with my blessing.”

As the East Wind turned and flew down the slopes of Taniquetil, past its lofty halls, past the fair trees and birds and all that had been wrought by the Music of the One, the King smiled sadly and shook his head.  She was the East wind.  Would that she would not stray.  

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Though Amrûn wished with all her heart to show her love her beauteous new treasure she did not stop or dance about his blue-green waves.   She turned away, soaring north and east over lands new-made below the light of the Lamps unquenched.  Her path was straight and true.  It led her beyond the Great Greenwood to where her brother’s arms stirred the gelid air and saw-toothed mountains rose up, hard and pitiless as iron.  

She searched.  Below their fastness she found the deep nebulous crevices of the world. 

Diaphanous, insubstantial as a sigh, Amrûn twined carefully about great pillared halls hushed but for the tinkling chime of water, a gift of life suborned to rest in dark and knowing pools. 

There in spaces that knew not the gentle brush of open air she heard a whisper.  One of black hot wings and barbs and fiercer fire.   

Afeared but resolute she gathered courage to her like a cloak and drifted deeper still. 

As a river of pure need she flowed.  Past dank and groaning spaces filled with writhing fume, past still and brooding stalactites dark-veined with yellow canker.  In the foetid deeps she heard a darker song.  One of tenebrous shadow and clawing jealousy.  Of hurt and rage and blacker lust that sent fright to spill, heavy and venomous, through her veins.    

In dismay she fled and flew at once to Taniquetil.   With faltering speech she told her Father-Lord of all that she had heard: of the song and its evil heart, of the rustling of great wings unseen. 

My Lord, He is gathering.” She cried, twisting the cloak of gossamer in anxious hands.   

With a sigh that set the clouds to scudding Manwë lifted the little chin and held her close within his narrowed gaze.  He saw her distress, saw her heart quaver and knew of whom she feared to speak but believed it not.   Melkor had been banished, bided far beyond the Walls of Night, beyond the Encircling Sea and could not trouble Arda in its Spring. 

A hand cool with the fresh scent of morning was laid upon her brow. 

“Fear not little one.  It could not be He, but yet I ask you to be vigilant.  Verily I would know of this dark song and if it grows. Some lesser Ainu seeks to emulate its Master.   Listen well but take courage and be not afraid.  When the time is right we shall act if the need is great.”

Surprised and well pleased with her constancy he gifted her then a second shining drop of rain.  It fell, perfect and lightest blue of the most rare and precious sapphire, to hang beside the first. 

The little Maia shivered with delight.  It was so very pretty. The fairest and finest jewel that she could wish.  Pushing aside her fear she looked up in gratitude to her Lord.

"Thank you and bless you Father, but please may I now take your leave?" she asked shyly.  "I wish to show it to another."  The faintest rosy blush painted a cheek that quivered with excitement.  

The King of Arda smiled.  He knew well whither she was bound.    

 “Go thou my daughter and tarry not long beside the Sea.  Go forth and remember to follow the darker song for I would know its source.”  

“As you wish My Lord.”    The golden head bowed and with a rush that set the startled songbirds to wing in indignation she swept away.   

In her haste Amrûn did not notice the guttering of the lamps as she swept past nor the flickering shadow cast upon a brow that grew thoughtful once again,

 

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Amrûn tried to follow her Lord’s command, indeed she did, but though she left Helcar’s green and verdant shores time and again, seeking the dark recesses whose very stillness made her shudder,  the splash of bright Illuin on the deep sea-blue drew her ever back. 

Helcar had noticed her had he not?   She fancied that his ripples upon the strand were just for her.  They were so fleeting; each a gift that vanished as she chased and dove, flitting wildly with the curlews in her dance.    

She played  merrily in his waves and though she sang to him and told him of her love, Helcar did not speak, being one, like his own Lord, always slow to rouse.

 

Above in the glorious high reaches of the world Manwë pondered long on what he had learned.

Even as he sent forth his servant he could not accept Melkor’s hand in these dark designs. A lesser spirit must lie behind the fear, some minion that strove to mar the Music in emulation of a greater Power.  Pure and ever merciful, Manwë could not truly comprehend the evil of his elder brother.   Thus there came a day when weary from his labours, the King of Arda, certain of his judgement, bid the Valar rejoice and rest.  For a time he slept.

It was then that the Dread One struck.     

The East Wind, lingering still by the sea and listening not, looked out that eve beyond the far cold North toward the Walls of Night.  What she saw struck terror in her heart.   A great host, a fell and endless ribbon of destruction, marched to the world’s high ridges of ice and fire.   At its head rode the mighty and terrible Melkor and beside, upon his right, his servant Mairon, mightiest of the Maia with Aule’s skill.   

“Oh why, oh why have I tarried?” wailed the little Maia, thinking first in her dismay it was too late to raise a cry.  But then, as the silver-beeches of the Wildwood trembled in her bitter gust  she thought again.  She could but try.     

Gathering the edges of her ragged cloak she blew a last kiss to her silent love and swept forth, wild as a gale, to the slopes of Oiolossë.

“My Lord, my Lord come quickly! “ she cried, “The Eldest One has breached the Walls.” 

Manwë aroused and a voice of rolling thunder shook the very bones of Taniquetil.  “My child how can this be?! How has it that no word came ere this? ”

The East Wind hung her head in shame and in that moment the King of Arda knew.  Disappointment lanced his breast. 

She had forsaken her watch to tarry with her love.

Manwë raised up, stern and grave, high as a thundercloud, his sceptre a spike of sapphire winding the winds and all his servants to his need.  Ere the Valar and the Ainur rode forth to bind their quarry he paused.  Blue fire was in his gaze but a great heaviness lay on his heart.  He should have kenned the restlessness of his daughter-spirit.   

My child before this Age is out I fear that you will have cause to rue this day.  Go back and hold yourself dearer to your task.  Come not in my sight until my brother lies in chains and his lieutenant is no more.”

The East Wind, in shame and misery, fled. 

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Then came long years of strife and toil for her Lord and all the Valar and their kin.   The Two Lamps were cast down by Melkor in his fury and the Spring of Arda passed.   Though the world was marred Yavanna wrought fair Telperion and Laurelin to bring new light.   Beyond the Sea, by the shores of Cuiviénen, the Firstborn at last awakened. 

Amrûn, sorrowful but ever vigilant, came always in those days walking about the hills and watching o'er the deep and quiet vales, speaking only to the leaves.  She forsook the waves and the inland sea.  

A tear, heavy with remorse, slid down to join the drops upon her chain when the Evil One laid low the Two Trees in Valinor. 

Another came to join it when a fair hidden city fell.   

When at last after many battles Melkor was held fast in chains and his iron crown was beaten to be his shameful collar, the little Maia’s joy was but short-lived.  While she and her siblings sent wild buffets to scatter the fearsome fire-drakes, the Lords of the Valar destroyed Utumno and quenched its deep infernal fires, let the waters of Sirion and Helcar rush in to drown the evil there.  Her love was forever marred.  Only a small part of his former glory still remained.  

Bitter tears rolled down a pale wan face.  They came to rest so full and weighty upon the little silver chain that ever after, when the East Wind blew strong, she brought with her mist and rain. 

Heartsick and stricken, she noticed not.

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The tapestry of time spun on and the Valar’s labours began anew for Melkor’s lieutenant now menaced Middle-Earth.   Amrûn became her father’s ardent servant, aching for her love but mindful always of her task.   She it was who sent word to Taniquetil of a dread new captain on a fell and wingèd beast and she who spoke of a mountain spewing fire once again.  Her touch drifted ash like snowflakes to cover the bodies of the slain upon the field of Dagorlad.  Her sigh waved the blood-streaked raven hair of Gil-galad’s herald as he watched a great but weakened man reach out and a take a prize.   

She durst not rest.  Only under Ithil’s soft and silver glow would she still and sway, let mist or dust or flying things lie down about her feet.    

So many places to be watched and so many sorrows to yet to come.  Ever she swept across dank, wasted lands that saw no Sun about the Land of the Shadow, so much that it seemed to the Edain and the Eldar that she was a creature of the Enemy.  All things that came from the East to them were fell:  wargs, Wainriders, nameless wraiths.  So too the troublesome East Wind.  

If she also at times rose high about the pinnacles of a City White to loft its flags, what of it?  To the people she flew from the sand hills to the jagged stones, moaning among the heights and carrying not the sweet sigh of a sparrow but the caw of the crebain. 

They did not see her touch the Sea of Rhûn in anguish and turn away.  It held no welcome as of old.  Men of the twilight gathered on his shores, armed and ready to answer the Dark One’s call.

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Though the endless years slipped quickly by her faithfulness did not go unremarked.   

Thorondor, greatest of Eagles, at last sought her out and by the brooding fence of Ephel Duath bade her traverse the Sundering Sea.  Her Lord called her back. 

She went and if Amrûn found the isles and lands of the West now unfamiliar, Arda now rounded by the hand of Illuvatar himself, at least the fair white halls above the Everlasting Snows were yet the same.  The peace of the outer airs still nestled in the stone.  A soft cool steadiness still settled her swiftly beating heart as she brushed against the walls.      

And at the centre, just as before, the King of Arda sat upon his throne of pearl and silver.

Approach,”  came the command when she would have stopped before the lowest step.  Her Lord’s voice shivered with the all the courses of the swirling winds.

Amrûn came closer, once more set trembling knees before her father’s feet and raised her palms in supplication. 

“Father I have done your bidding as best as I am able.” 

Eyes as blue as the vault of night above softened to the azure of the sea.   “Daughter-of-my-thought you have served me true and faithfully.  I am well pleased.  By your labours you are forgiven.”

But not beloved.  Thought her Lord’s forgiveness was a balm indeed her loss twisted for a longer moment.  Mindfully she bowed her head, her face set and blank as stone.  “My Lord I thank you.  You are wise and merciful and I obey.”

Manwë looked down upon his wayward child and what he saw moved his great heart to pity.  The little one’s skirts and cloak were shredded and dark with damp and soot.  Her hair was wild, grown ragged and unkempt as she sought the darker spaces.  Her golden skin was smeared with grime and ash.  Yet on her breast there shone still the two drops of Ulmo’s rain, bright amidst the duller tears. 

Perhaps by another gift he could lift a smile to her solemn face?  

The Lord of Air reached to touch a cloud heavy as the night.  A crystal drop of rain appeared.  It ran down to hang beside its fellows upon the chain and caught the light of Kementari’s stars, caught the silver dew that shone upon his brow and kissed his white-gold hair.

Accept this with my blessing little one.”

“Thank you my Lord. You are most generous.”  The words were genuine but if her father hoped to lift her spirit he was mistaken.  The smile he was rewarded with did not light the fawn-brown eyes. 

No gift could assuage the grief she felt.  Adrift on a tide of remorse and longing, Amrûn had not drowned but dissolved like so much salt. 

 

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With the turn of a new and oft dangerous Age the King of Arda had many cares to fill his mind yet oft his thoughts returned to the puzzle of his little one.  He thought of her when Thorondor rose high upon her breeze to seek his counsel and he thought of her when his servant Olorin sent cares and prayers for counsel aloft with her to blow toward Aman.  More than anything he missed the gay and joyous abandon of her dance.  

One winter’s eve an altogether unexpected gust set the torches to flickering in his hall.

Once more Manwë beheld a pinched and golden face streaked with tears,

“What grieves you my daughter?  What have you seen my fair one…?”  A sudden fear assailed him.  Had his brother’s servant done aught more of desperate ill?   Manwë stilled with a thought the night creatures’ song, the better to hear her words.

“Father a great Warrior has died. I reached out and brushed his fair proud face in blessing but found it cold.  Cold as the ice that once ringed Utumno round.”   

“Yea little one, that is so. Men die and their spirits come to Namo’s halls but their bodies cool and in time Yavanna makes new life of their earth.  This should not grieve you.  It is a Gift the One bestows.”  

But only to Men, he thought.  Looking down the long unending years, forseeing the Dagor Dagorath, the Last Battle yet to come, Manwë knew that only they would die and be reborn and come to know the Second Music of the One.   Sometimes he too could envy them their fate. 

The fall of tears had stopped but the little chiming voice was choked  “Father his sword-brothers have raised their voices in song and verse to honour him. They sang of North and South and West but they would not sing of me. They say I bring only woe and ill.”

The Lord of Air frowned and a drift of dark and brooding clouds gathered about the walls.  Manwë was saddened that they not would sing of her for of all the Valar he took chiefest delight in words and song and poetry.  Looking deep into the little Maia's heart he saw that in her zeal, in her fear to fail her task, she had forsaken the green spaces of Middle-Earth, haunted only the dark plains and steaming pits of Mordor and giving no thought to joy or love or rest.

Perhaps it was time to change her task.  The necklace held no more space for drops and he had ears and eyes enough in these latter days. 

 “Amrûn your gusts do bring storms and travail upon the people but does not the land lie cleaner in the sunshine when your storm has passed?  Does not a kite rise against the wind not with it? You forget the power of your strength my child. I ask you now to do what you may to aid your friend Olorin.  Bring hope and fairer winds to those whose task it is to resist the Enemy.”

“My Lord I will.”    

With the lightest of zephyrs the Lord of Air dried the tears upon his daughter’s cheeks. The ash and dust upon her cloak dissolved, its gossamer shreds wove tight once more and shimmered silver-blue in the torchlight.

He watched the little Maia take her leave.  He knew the dance still thrummed in the temper of her gusts.  Only by her own absolution would it be set free.

 

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With this new charge Amrûn returned back across the Sea, released at last from the bounds of the dark spaces she had watched.   She flew first to the Great River, desiring to see the Warrior once again.  In a little boat by the edge of the Great Bay she found him; asleep, at peace.   She kissed his fair white brow with her gentle breeze and bid goodbye. 

For a time she blew about the mouth of the Great River listening to the rapturous cries of the gulls and the sweet rustle of the seagrass along the dunes.  Before spring brought the first sweet scent of the shy rock rose, Siriell, the River-maid of Anduin, called to her, beckoning with her weed-green hand.   

Amrûn sat upon a sandy bank and listened while the river-spirit, clad in pads of lily and pale lotus, whispered of a great host issued out of Mordor.  Foul things were adrift upon the tides, both about the Bay and up the River.  It seemed her Lord was right.  There was yet work to do. 

The East Wind took wing and soared beyond the shore, spying many ships that were black-sailed and captained by blacker hearts.  Her ire swelled with her father’s thunder and she blew with all her might, dashing them to pieces against Tolfalas’ grey, forbidding rocks.     

Afraid the other ships had already tried to sow their harm she hastened next farther up the river  What she found was a marvel and a wonder: upon the deck of the foremost ship stood a Dunadan; crowned by a jewel of whitest fire and bearing fire in his hand.   He was the future.  It burned within him as fervently as the light upon his brow.

“Well met little one.”  her sister South cried as she filled black sails that now meant no harm.   

Amrûn bowed shyly and flew onward, heartened by the sight.  Before the Great City a fierce battle raged.    West, at his Lord’s command, had blown away the dark fumes that veiled Anor from the land.   Now all were cheered, could see that the Children of the Light made gains against the evil One.   

Before the black sails turned brave hearts to needless fear she dipped down and flapped gently about another Dunadan.  The tall grave man fumbled for endless minutes, cursing the wet knots of a great black standard but at last the banner snapped before her breeze.  The herald raised it high, its stars of diamond flaming proudly in the rising sun and lifting hearts and hopes.  The tides of fate had turned.  

When late that day the westering Sun streaked dusky red the white scarred stones of City she blew open a shutter and entered a hushed and anxious House.  Amrûn dipped before a white linen bier and caressed softly the still, chill face of a maiden fair. 

“It feels like home.”  thought a young King wonderingly as he held an icy hand.  “The warm breeze of high Midsummer has come with its promise of golden wheat.”  

His heart was lightened and with a voice hoarse from the cry of battle he spoke to his sister of new born hope, of capering foals and silver streams and berries ripe upon the vine.   

The little Maia smiled.  The veil of shadow now grew no deeper and she was content.  Light as a sigh Amrûn pressed a kiss of blessing to the maiden’s brow and drew away.  There were others suffering and she was warm, a breath of buttercups and sweet green grass in a space chill with fear and pain.   

Olorin, pausing in his great labours, reached up and touched a shining drop that was a mirror, reflecting as it did the sparkle in his eyes.  

“Always fair one when you brushed my face I knew it was a prayer.  By your warmth the grey faces of the sick are lightened for a whileYou have my gratitude.” 

She curtsied, for of all of their Lord’s servants he had worked hardest for this day.  

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Little by little in the months and years to follow folk came to know the East Wind differently.  She was, if not always warm and gentle, always fresh and untainted by dark fume.   If she brought rain none now complained for where she flew the many drops that shone and sparkled about her neck kissed the clouds and made them groan, made them let go their heavy burdens to begin again their rush to join Ulmo’s works.  She washed away the memory of decay from lands rent and torn by war.

On a morning of sparkling golden sun two Princes paused at the summit of a softly rounded range of hills.  One, dark of hair like his father but with his mother’s easy grace, laughed as the bright jingling of a headstall broke the droning song of the lazy bees.   He reached forward and thumped affectionately on his stallion’s neck.   

“Our mounts become impatient with the climbing, my friend.  They smell the sea and shore upon the rising wind. They want to run.”   Away below them stretched leagues of shining blue crowned by white caps of the dancing waves.  The leaves of the Cumulada trees swayed softly to their time.

The other prince, fair and proud as his mother’s people, took a deeper breath, loosened his rein and let his own mount crop greedily at the thyme and purple thistle.   The air had grown heavier, full and soft with the barest tang of salt.

 “As do I.  I love this Dari.  Sun and breeze before us on such a morn.  It is a good sign I think, a wind from the East.   We will have a little welcome rain before the day is done.”  

 “We shall.  I wonder what mysteries  the Wind can tell us of?  We know so little of this land.”   His companion smiled, wondering what lay beyond the farther shore draped by a silver-green and silent wood.  The dark prince raised his hand to shield his eyes, searching nearer for a gleam of sand.  “It is a pleasant view.  I am hot and sticky from the climb and would like to pause.  Let us camp by the sea and have a swim before the day is through.”   

Eldarion turned and whistled to the company behind them.  The men began to pick their way down the  slopes of the old eroded mountains. They were in high good spirits and as voices raised to greet the day the young Prince of Gondor caught a snatch of an old tune he had heard his father sing.  

“What news of the East, O fair fey wind, do you bring to me this morn?”

“What news of Boromir the blithe and the echo of his horn?”  

About the waves the Amrûn twirled in delight.   She sang to the Princes of the river running from a sea girt in silver woods, of the wild white kine that grazed about its shores, of an island where once a shining lamp rose high. 

Rhûn, released from his long dark and troubled slumbers, smiled to see her billow foam against the rocks of his shingled shore.

"How delightful is your dance this morn Amrûn.    Your mist has washed the haze from my sight and all I see is fair, yet you are fairer still.  Will you tarry a while with me?"

She smiled shyly and alighted on the island, chased a playful watching otter with a tumbling gust.   He was so courteous.  Perhaps she should rest and speak with one who paid such pretty compliments. 

Perhaps.  But she would not speak of love quite yet.

 


 


Chapter End Notes:

A/N: I have played with canon from the Silmarillion a little here: I have placed Manwë for simplicity in his halls atop Taniquetil earlier than is known.  That the winds were Maia is also not canon…strictly speaking they are not mentioned, but as Manwë is Lord of Air I thought it fitting.   

There is no River-Maid of Anduin in JRR’s Legendarium but I like to think there might have been. 

Thanks so much to Thanwen, Annafan, Gythja, Lucia, and Gwynnyd for feedback and encouragement and to the voters at Teitho for their support once again.   This tied for first in Teitho's August challenge with Wynja2007's amazing "A Good Idea at the Time." 

 



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