Eau de Olórin by pandemonium_213

The Maia stopped short at the curve of the path that led down into the small dell surrounded by willows. The voices ahead revealed the presence of Valar. He recognized the dreamy melodious drone of Irmo but could that other voice – that stern basso profundo resonant with judgment, doom and gloom – really belong to him? Olórin listened intently, his suspicions confirmed. Better yet the long strings of rattling syllables exchanged between the two Guardians of Arda took on a husky undertone, a dead giveaway that a sexual charge was building.

Olórin wended his way through the willows, silent as smoke, and settled behind a veil of leaves to watch the two Valar. There at the bottom of the grassy dell was the Master of Dreams, his cloud of silver hair floating over his iridescent clothing. Before him stood the Judge of the Dead, his dark robes sucking all light into their folds. The Maia could see Námo’s eyes, green-gold like those of a reptile, catch the fading light of Laurelin's golden fruit. The Judge laughed, a dreadful sound that sent a bolt of fear down Olórin’s spine and into his guts.

“So that is how the Elf was made to confront his hubris,” said Námo, licking his thin lips. “Do you wish to know how he was taken at the last? How he was forced face his guilt? Do you, Glaaki? Do you wish to know?”

Olórin looked on, stunned but aroused, as the Master of Dreams took a long drag from the pipe he always carried with him, inhaling the burning resin of poppies, and then exhaling a narcotic fog before answering languidly:

“No. No, I do not wish for you to tell me, Cynothoglys. I want you to show me.”

The Speaker of Doom smiled and opened his mouth, his snake’s tongue slithering out to meet the devil-flower of red tentacles that burst from the Master of Dream’s face. The Valar’s bodies dissolved into a mass of amorphous flesh that collapsed to the ground.

Olórin could not tear his eyes away from the horror of the coupling Valar. Swollen, pulsing things protruded from their bodies; yellow fluid oozed from the tips of many turgid organs, dripping onto the grass that shriveled upon the touch of the acidic ichor. The Maia felt himself stiffen beneath his raiment. He touched his growing interest, but the outburst of unearthly shrieks of passion that filled the glade and rent the sky deflated him and nearly made him lose control of his bowels. To avoid such betrayal by his body, Olórin reflexively shifted to the incorporeal.

The writhing mound of flesh in the glade below froze, and a few of the erect protuberances wilted.

“Glaaki! What’s that smell?” The shapeless but one-armed entity’s stentorian voice boomed throughout the glade.

A long sigh puffed wetly from the pulsing form that vaguely resembled a giant slug. “Tobacco. I’m sorry, Cynothoglys. I’ll attend to this.” The slime-covered thing shifted into Irmo’s human form -- preternaturally tall and naked, his impressive erection now failing. He focused his lapis eyes on the effluvium hanging amidst the curtain of willow-withies.

The pipeweed-scented mist that was Olórin fled, streaking away from the little vale of willows toward the safety of Nienna’s domain. She would protect him from her perpetually stoned brother. She had before. Just turn on that fountain of tears and all capitulated to her.

Why do I keep doing this to myself? he wondered as he wafted through the sky, the terrible sounds behind him revealing that the Great Old Ones had elected not to pursue him but had resumed their lovemaking. It was always risky to catch the Valar in flagrante delicto, but somehow, Olórin just couldn’t keep himself from trying.

Chapter End Notes

If you hadn't guessed, Cynothoglys and Glaaki are gods of the Cthulhu Mythos.

With regard to Olorín's telltale scent of pipeweed, I was inspired by the following passage from Parma Eldalamberon 17 and a quip from Gandalf's Apprentice.

In QUENYA, owing to close relations of the Eldar in Valinor with the Valar and other lesser spirits of their order, fana developed a special sense. It was applied to the visible bodily forms adopted by these spirits, when they took up their abode on Earth, as the normal "raiment" of their otherwise invisible being. In these fanar they were seen and known by the Eldar, to whom glimpses of other and more awe-inspiring manifestations were seldom given. But the Elves of Valinor asserted that unclad and unveiled the Valar were perceived by some among them as lights (of different hues) which their eyes could not tolerate; whereas the Maiar were usually invisible unclad, but their presence was revealed by their fragrance.

Lorien the stoner is inspired by the following passage from The History of Middle-earth, Book of Lost Tales I:

Varda had set stars within their depths for the pleasure of
Lorien, but his sprites sang wonderfully in these gardens and
the scent of nightflowers and the songs of sleepy nightingales
filled them with great loveliness. There too grew the poppies
glowing redly in the dusk, and those the Gods called fumellar
the flowers of sleep -- and Lorien used them much in his
enchantments.
 

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