Not A Victory March by The Wavesinger

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Not A Victory March

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“Make them stop,” Melyanna cried, and that was how Ilmarë came upon her in the gardens of Lórien. “Make them stop.”

 

Melyanna? Ilmarë sent out waves of concern and delight—her friend, back from her journey in Middle-earth!—but Melyanna did not seem to notice; she lay on the grass, clutching her head in her hands. “Make them stop!”

 

“Melyanna.” Ilmarë concentrated, for a moment, and took on a corporeal form, kneeling next to Melyanna in the dew-soaked grass. What is wrong, my friend?

 

Melyanna looked up, and there were tears streaking across her pointed face (tears? Ainur did not cry), her almond eyes speaking of a feeling Ilmarë could not fathom, could not understand; Ainur did not speak with their eyes. That was for the Children.

 

“I have not heard that name for a long time,” Melyanna whispered, and her voice was hoarse and broken.

 

Ilmarë reached out to her friend, again, and was met with silence. Melyanna's soul swirled, dimmed but still beautiful; there was no block that Ilmarë could perceive. And yet it appeared that she could not feel the melody of the world. “What is wrong, Melyanna?”

 

“Ai, the nightingales!” Melyanna cried out again, and turned her head away. “They sing!” And indeed they sang; they always did, around Melyanna. Ilmarë felt warmth surge up in her at the thought, a deep, deep delight which she instinctively poured into Melyanna.

 

And Melyanna leapt to meet her, drinking in the joy as the Children did water. And finally, she touched Ilmarë.

 

Melyanna's soul was not only dimmed, but torn and broken, tattered by a strange thing Ilmarë did not understand. Snatches of images, of thoughts and feelings flew through her: a king of the Quendi, silver hair glinting in the moonlight, a throne in a glittering cave, a beautiful child, an even more beautiful woman, leaves falling from trees, and blood, drenching everything. And through it all, a haunting song of grief, something Ilmarë had heard of, but never truly understood. It was too much; the feelings were overwhelming. Ilmarë flinched away.

 

Melyanna's flinch mirrored hers, only in body instead of soul, and her hands were back over her ears. “They are all dead, all dead, and I am to blame—” Her voice broke, and she sobbed.

 

Hush, Melyanna. It is I, Ilmarë. But Melyanna had withdrawn again, and Ilmarë spoke aloud; a strange, unwieldy method, another thing she could not understand about the Children, but it would have to do. “Hush, Melyanna. It is I, Ilmarë.”

 

“Ilmarë?” Melyanna spoke in a dead voice. “Make them go away, Ilmarë.”

 

The nightingales. Ilmarë did not understand. But she did not need to—somehow, they were distressing Melyanna, and that was all that mattered. With a soft thought, she sent them away.

 

Slowly, Melyanna's sobbing ceased, until she sat up, wiping her face with a palm. And even that was strange, a strange gesture. As was the fact that, when she spoke again, she spoke with words: “Ilmarë.”

 

“Melyanna.” Love, she added, in the private parts of herself, but Ilmarë had learnt that some among their brethren—and ai, even her Lady—thought little of love, love especially among those whose corporeal forms were—similar, as the Children termed it. A strange manifestation of the One's thought, but here, they were not equals among equals, but less powerful and more powerful, and Ilmarë kept her opinions to herself, lest they think she was fallen. And she had never told Melyanna. Melyanna would not understand.

 

“Ilmarë?”

 

With a jolt, Ilmarë realized she had gone where Melyanna could not follow. Quickly, she drew her back into her mind.

 

The caress of Melyanna's mind against her was strange, again, strange because Melyanna clung and caressed in a way which was—not allowed, except among spouses. Gently, Ilmarë pushed Melyanna to a distance. Not too far, but far enough.

 

Immediately, a wave of regret came through to Ilmarë, accompanied by spoken words: “I am sorry. I am not used to—to mind-touch. My peop—the El—the Children build walls around their souls, and do not let manny in.”

 

Curiosity. And—Melyanna's people?

 

Melyanna laughed. “The—Grey-Elves, you call them here. I was their Queen, Ilmarë. They were my people. I failed them.” Sadness, again, and anger too. Melyanna's laugh was grating, now, and in the Children Ilmarë would have called it bitter.

 

But all of them had failed. Failed, when Melkor tore the Trees down and brought horror to Valinórë. The darkness was palpable in the images she shared with Melyanna.

 

Melyanna shook her head. “It is not like that, Ilmarë. It is different, when you make choices which destroy your people.” She paused, and her eyes were sparkling with tears again. “I should have been firmer with Elu—Elwë. I should have made him put aside his ridiculous pride, but I loved him too much—or too little. I do not know anymore.” There was a catch in Melyanna's voice, and her mind was trembling too, trembling and threatening to tear apart.

 

A moment later, the control was back. The stormclouds were gone. Only the deep, sad meoldy remained.

 

Melyanna. The name formed itself, unbidden, in Ilmarë's mind. She let the thought drift, and Melyanna caught it.

 

Ilmarë, Melyanna whispered, and there was a hand on Ilmarë's—cheek, she knew it was called, and then lips against hers.

 

Ilmarë reeled back. She did not understand, could not understand, what this was, what Melyanna was doing. Strange, strange, strange, and Ilmarë had seen some of the Eldar do it, but that did not change its strangeness.

 

Melyanna, too, drew away, her mind distant and shuttered again. “I am—I overstepped my bounds, and I apologize.” A formal voice, but even the distance of her soul could not quiet the despair.

 

An image of a bonded pair of Quendi flashed in Ilmarë's mind—a thought with the distinct colour of Vairë, and Ilmarë knew Vairë had power enough to touch her without her knowledge if she wished to, but why would she, and Ilmarë pushed that away—and she knew, suddenly, what Melyanna wanted.

 

And she would give it. Melyanna asked and she gave, and she shied away from the fear of the powerful ones, and thought of Melyanna.

 

Tendrils of affection (but not love, Melyanna could not know of that) sent Melyanna's way, and there was a sudden brightening in Melyanna's thoughts. “Do you mean it, Ilmarë? I do not ask this lightly.”

 

Reassurance, affirmation. And then Melyanna was wrapped around her, and they were one.

 

(And maybe, maybe, once Melyanna forgot about her lover among the Children, she would give her love to Ilmarë. But that hope Ilmarë kept to herself.)