To Voyage in Their Courses by Vulgarweed

Chapter 1

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Two suitors had she, and she would have neither.

One vast and mighty, haughty and twisted, and so great in his power that one by one many spirits of fire began to fall to his guile.

She would not fall.

One dreamy and wayward hunter, a dove-grey, beech-bow-bearing stripling among the drowsing willows of Lórien, watching from afar and longing.

She did not turn to him.

The fire of Arien burned from within, gold and steady.

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When the keening song of Yavanna brought forth the last gifts of the dying Trees - Isil the silver flower, Anar, the golden fruit - they were precious things and perfect, yet they were deemed not yet enough, still not come to their full potential. They were material to be worked upon still, they were fated to pass through many hands. Manwë sang high the song of hallowing; Aulë sang deep as he wrought the lanterns to shelter them and sharpen their light.

For the Valar work with their voices still - the music of the Ainur has not ceased - and each brings to each work a theme at once new and old.

Isil and Anar echoed in their lanterns, a light that was also sound, a summons to the Maiar who could hear.

Choose me, sang the flame that burned from the eyes of Arien. For long I tended Laurelin and I alone burn bright enough to bear this power unharmed. I shall sear your enemies and warm your loves. I can spread this golden warmth over all Eä, and light the darkest path.

Choose me, sang the silver glow in the voice of Tilion. For long I loved Telperion, and his color is my voice, like the starlight on the waters.

“You wish to be near me in the skies,” said Arien, and her voice crackled like pine pitch in the coals.

“I do not deny it,” said Tilion, and he whispered like crickets in the trees. “Yet I love my own light, and I do not truly seek union with you, for yours would blind mine and your heat would burn me.”

And so did Tilion go first into the sky with his precious burden, for his light was the elder of the two, and then his sorrow was blended with the greatest joy he had ever known. He felt himself many times created - in the thought of Eru Ilúvatar and his first notes in the Music; in the love of his Tree; and in the culmination of his sacred light, the night wind surrounding him in constant caress.

Long did Arien watch. Seven turns did Tilion make, all about the world, and all in Arda marvelled.

At last Arien took flight, and set the clouds ablaze with colors that were wholly new. As she had been created, so her light made new visions. Yavanna’s green-leafed children turned their branches up to her in love, yet none with eyes could hold her gaze.

She shed the limiting raiments of flesh and burned brighter. She made of herself a beacon, beyond all desire. She turned the lust of Melkor to fear and the fire of her anger to nourishment.