Conduct Unbecoming... by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

  Ingwë was lighthearted as he entered the House of Olórin, it was among the fairest of all dwellings in Valinor, and the most hospitable. And it was far from Valmar, where relations with his wife were currently to be compared with conditions at the summit of Oiolossë. It was like a holiday to be away from the disdainful eyes of his courtiers, who knew all too well that his wife craved only the love of the Ainur, however spiritual, while he himself felt the full force of the flesh, with all its needs. 

   Olórin awaited him in the garden, where Aiwendil wove garlads of honeysuckle. With a radiant smile, he placed one on the head of Ingwë, who bowed formally, expecting a jest from Olórin. But the twinkling eyes were grave, and Ingwë frowned.
   "Is aught amiss, my old friend?"
   Olórin nodded, frowning himself, but Aiwendil laughed, a remote, cold laugh, that brought vividly before the mind of Ingwë the vast gulf between himself and these mighty Ainur, and between the elves and the forests of Yavanna.

   Aiwendil, in his musical voice, half-sang "They have rediscovered sex pollen."
   Ingwë gaped, Olórin grimaced; Ingwë idly wondered whether it was the fact or the description of it that offended him so. What was it to creatures like these what the elves did for pleasure? But he sighed, for the knowledge that the thing could be done must not be allowed to escape, and should such a thing reach the hands of the malicious, or even the careless... The consequences did not bear thinking about. It must be contained. "I would hear more." 
   Olórin beckoned and the scholar Erestor approached them, his face more anxious than ever. "Sire, my lords, will you hear my tidings?" he looked from one mighty lord to another, unsure which should take precedence. But Olórin and Ingwë were paying close heed, and Aiwendil was as distracted and distracting as ever. Erestor cleared his throat.
   "It seems that a group of students working at the northern edge of the gardens of Yavanna were experimenting with grafting."
  Ingwë frowned; so much was learned that none could study all, and much was yet to be gained by having the students of Yavanna learning the skills of the students of Ulmo, and so on. He himself read as much as his eyes could endure, and listened to endless reports and theories, but it was impossible, utterly impossible to know everything. "Grafting?"
   Erestor looked at Aiwendil, but he had his head on one side, listening to a bird, which fluttered around him then alighted on his finger. He looked up at Erestor with a remote smile, and Erestor sighed "Grafting, sire, is when the stem of one plant is attached to the roots of another."
   Ingwë shook his head "Of course, forgive my ignorance, and my interruption. Please continue."
   Erestor shrugged "That is all. Those affected swore secrecy among themselves, but one was troubled by dreams of the wrath of Manwë and confided in Olórin. Sire, this is the first such outbreak I have known, or heard of. What is to be done? What have you done in the past?"
   Ingwë looked to Olórin, who nodded slowly "We are grateful for your labours Erestor, and your reward shall be further toil. What, in your view, should be done?"

   Erestor looked at the maia with troubled eyes, he had been kept awake at night with the knowledge burning into his mind, the terrible power such knowledge gave weighed on him like the chains of Melkor. What could he do with that power? He could take his pick, he could... But it was a double-edged sword, a poisoned chalice, what could be done to him with such power? He was handsome enough to be irritated by his many admirers, and the thought that some of the more unpleasant among them could have such power over him... "Those in possession of the secret must be sworn to keep it." 
   The bird flew from Aiwendil's hand as he stirred and looked at Ingwë, then at Olórin. Still he said nothing. Olórin sighed. "Forgive us, Erestor, but that will not do. There are those who can read thought as you read scrolls. The memory, the knowledge itself must be hidden."

   Erestor gaped, took a step backwards and held up his hands protectively in front of him. To his surprise Aiwendil began to whistle. He turned to Ingwë, who was lowering his head, wilting like a dry flower. But Olórin smiled sadly at him "The trick, if you like, is to take the affected, each alone, to the gardens of Irmo in Lórien. There Irmo himself will blend their memories with dreams of their hearts desire, impossible dreams, and they will forget the grafting and the plant and the pollen and remember only the sweetness of the dream."
   Erestor looked doubtfully at Olórin "But does it work?"
   Aiwendil laughed merrily, Olórin looked sadly at Ingwë, who started, and leaped to his feet "By the stars! You have done this thing to me!"
   "This is the fifth time" said Aiwendil. Both elves stared at him in astonishment. Olórin sighed and put a hand over his eyes. Aiwendil looked at him "I do not see it, Olórin. How can my words be 'insensitive' if they will have forgotten them by the time Laurelin waxes again?"
   "Because" snapped Olórin "we do not believe it to be entirely effective. Some trace remains in the mind, not merely as dream, but as memory itself."
   "Really, Olórin, you make such a fuss! It is a different elf every time, it is not being remembered, not the actual graft."

    Ingwë spoke dully, he looked faded, like dried grasses under cloud "I had forgotten even what 'graft' meant."
   Erestor drew in a breath, ready to leap to the defence of Ingwë; but as well charge the mountain as gainsay the Ainur. He slumped, and sighed "What must be done?"
   Olórin smiled with such charm that Erestor felt his cares ease away, and marvelled anew at the power of even a maia like Olórin. "Your part in this is over. Go now to Lórien and rest, all will be well. And you, lord Ingwë, do you likewise. Come, Aiwendil."
   As he left, Erestor wondered whether Aiwendil would speak to them, or even smile, but he trailed after Olórin without a glance at them, and the bird returned to his hand.

   Erestor, the courtier, awaited dismissal from Ingwë’s presence. Ingwë was still and silent, staring unseeingly at the bright garden, busy with creatures other than elves, living their rich lives as they had since their awakening by Yavanna, oblivious to the elves and all their works. For an instant Erestor saw himself as Aiwendil might see him, as insignificant as the bird on his hand. His spirit yearned to grow beyond the bounds of his flesh, to see and know the whole of Ëa, to rise...
  Ingwë's head snapped upright "Oh Erestor, my wife feels as you do. At times I myself share such vigour. But when I do, and I climb Oiolossë, and listen to the lament of Nienna, and the grief of Manwë and of Varda, I feel smaller than my own little finger, and I crawl home to my wife for comfort, and she looks at me with that yearning I see in your eyes, and gives me nothing." He paused and looked narrowly at Erestor "What were the plants?"
   Erestor, accustomed to obedience, opened his mouth to speak, but merely gaped at Ingwë. Ingwë nodded "But Erestor, they will take the memory from me. I am ordered to Lórien where they will intrude upon the dreams of my heart." His voice suddenly sharpened to vicious curtness "For the fifth time!"
   "Lily of Estë and waterlily, the stem of lily of Estë"
   Ingwë breathed out sharply "By the Trees! I knew that too! Olórin is right, the memory is not gone, merely hidden from the thought..." he looked at the frightened Erestor as though seeing him for the first time, and smiled. "Poor Erestor, so young to bear such burdens. Go you now to Lórien and rest, I shall see to everything. And thank you for your hard work. You enrich the lives of all elvendom by your labours."

   The basin was heavy, and covered in a wooden lid. He closed the door to the chamber he shared with his wife and glanced at himself in the jewelled mirror, smoothing stray hairs into place. She had been summoned. He strode through a tall window and gazed out at his own garden, realising with self-mocking amusement that it was patterned after the garden of Olórin. He spun on his heel and paced about the room, and laughed when a bright blue bird landed on his own wrist, cocked its head at him and flew away chirping. The door opened and she was there, cool and lovely as water after long thirst, her eyes seeking his with silent questions. He smiled his most seductive smile and raised the wooden lid to show her the marvellous lily, or lilies.
   She laughed scornfully "Oh Ingwë, again? Not more sex pollen!"