Release the Bonds of Winter by Dawn Felagund

For Love of the Moon

In Lórien are his gardens in the land of the Valar, and they are the fairest of all places in the world, filled with many spirits.
Valaquenta

I'll confess to having something of an obsession interest in the Maia Tilion. (This might begin to explain why. ;) In The Book of Lost Tales, "The Coming of the Valar and the Building of Valinor," it is said that Irmo loved Tilion (then Silmo). Since then, I have had a bunny nibbling my ankle, asking me to consider that love. Here, I do so, in 300 words.

As such, some will consider this a slash story. I'm not sure that I do, but you have been forewarned.

From behind the silver boughs of a willow, I watch him enter the garden. He staggers a little; he is wearied. The hunt is long, and he stinks of blood and the sharp winds of the Outer Lands.

I close my eyes. I coax a warm wind heavy with the scent of poppies, and I let it wrap him. Caress him. Take the blood off his hands and the ache from his bones. It cradles him as he collapses to his knees, then comes to lie, beside my Sister's pool.

Tilion …

If the wind--if I--sigh his name, then he hears only in dream. Is that a smile upon his lips? I leave my hiding place upon silent footfalls and ease closer.

But then there is my Brother--ebony hair and eyes sharp and green like a beast's--in my thoughts, where he remains since the Music, sudden as a dash of water to the face. Irmo--Brother beloved--have I not told you? My name in his voice as harsh as hammer against anvil. Already have I said too much, but I transgress for love of you, Brother. Your fate and his are different. Give him not your heart, for he shall not keep it.

Too late. I open my eyes, and I am at Tilion's side. His silver hair falls like water through my fingers. There is a gash on his arm, clotted already, but not healed: our failings in these forms we take. Were we elemental, I could wrap him and our Musics combine into a song as beautiful as anything that Eru, in his might, foresaw.

I touch the cut, and, by my Power, it heals. The wind stops. By an iota yet, I weary.

A bead of his blood quavers at my fingertip.