As Time Unrolls by Lyra

Spring

A note on naming (because this wouldn't be Tolkien fandom if things weren't complicated somehow): In the first segments, the Valar have not yet learned Quenya, so they are using their native Valarin. Naturally this only comes to bear in personal and place names, but I nonetheless apologise for any confusion caused by the weirder-than-usual words...
If any of the 'odd' letters (yogh, chi, and s with caron) cannot be depicted properly, I apologize; they look fine on my screen, so it seems the archive can handle them, but it probably depends on your browser whether you get the correct symbols or some gibberish...

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Spring.
The End of a Dream

"I wonder whether this is what Father intended," Waȝîrêz (1) says, cutting the weft. The finished tapestry hangs between high pillars, a novelty to adorn the newly-built halls. Upon its woven surface, the Lamps shine on while the real world lies in starlit darkness.

"What would you have us do?" says Mâχanâmôz. "We have seen that we cannot hold the world against the power of Ambêlikôrûz. It is wiser to withdraw than to waste our strength in endless battle."

"I find it strange that we are fourteen and Ambêlikôrûz is but one, and yet we yield."

"Strange it may be, but it is so doomed. We will not contend with Ambêlikôrûz for the moment. We are better than he: We do not require the whole world for our own."

"But we are appointed guardians of the whole world, not of Amanaišal (2) only," says Waȝîrêz, beginning to warp the next tapestry. "And what of the Children?"

Mâχanâmôz looks troubled, but only briefly. "Mânawenûz will know what to do when the time comes," he says.
Waȝîrêz asks no more, instead fixing her attention on the nascent tapestry. A memory of the Great Lake, lost to the living world, begins to take shape.

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) We are only given the Valarin names of a few Valar, namely Manwë (Mânawenûz), Ulmo (Ulubôz), Aulë (Aȝûlêz), Oromë (Arômêz) and Tulkas (Tulukhastâz). I have taken the liberty of constructing names for the missing Valar where I found it necessary, that is, where they appear. I have decided to make no outward difference between feminine and masculine names. Just in case you didn't guess, Waȝîrêz will later be known as Vairë; Mâχanâmôz (containing the attested Valarin word mâχan, "authoritative decision" (-> judgement)) is Námo (-> judge); Îrimôz is Irmo. Ambêlikôrûz is Melkor; with a name like that, I'd have turned evil, too.

(2) Amanaišal is attested in Aþâraphelûn Amanaišal, "Arda Unmarred". I'm assuming that the Valar were not overly creative as far as language was concerned, and that "unmarred" and "blessed" are different translations of the same Valarin word. At any rate, the -mana- element seems to appear also in Manwë's original name, which is translated as "blessed one", so there you go.

Trees

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Trees.
An Offer They Can't Refuse

"I wonder if they will come," Waȝîrêz says, and meets several bewildered stares from her brethren.

"Of course they will come," says Mânawenûz. "Look at them, how fragile and ignorant they are! Clearly they need our protection and guidance. Unhappy that they are so far from our Realm!"

Waȝîrêz looks at her work. She has depicted the Firstborn according to Arômêz' descriptions, with lithe feet that climb rocks and walk the forests, deft hands that discover and craft, and joyful faces uplifted in wonder to the stars.
"They do not seem so very unhappy," she ventures.

"Only because they know no better yet. But they will, for we will teach them. Think of how much they can learn, once they have come here! And come they will, for who would choose the dangers and uncertainties of a world befouled by Ambêlikôrûz' government over the bliss of Amanaišal?"

"But we have overthrown Ambêlikôrûz' government," Ulubôz protests. "And we have done it precisely to make the world safe for the Children."

"Ambêlikôrûz is overthrown," Mâχanâmôz says, "but not all of his servants have been accounted for."

"Just so," Mânawenûz says. "The world is still unsafe."

"We could have finished the job," Tulukhastâz points out.

"But we have not," says Mânawenûz.

"We should have," says Waȝîrêz.

"But we have not," Mânawenûz repeats. "And now it is too late. Think of the damage that has already been done to the world. Would you risk more?"

Waȝîrêz feels a new feeling awaken in her heart, one for which she does not have a word; something akin to anger, but less violent and more hurtful. Who would know better about the damage than she who had to consider it twice, weaving the history of the wars into her tapestries?
"Would you leave its wounds to fester until we have to take action?" she retorts, more sharply than initially intended, but she finds that she does not regret her tone at all. "Surely that would do far more damage."

"We will not have to take action at all when the Children come here," Îrimôz points out.

"Yet Father made the whole world for the Children," says Ulubôz. "If we are to teach them, should we not rather join them in their lands, instead of summoning them to ours?"

Waȝîrêz nods. "Surely Father would not want us to call them away from their proper inheritance."

"This does not need to be discussed," says Mânawenûz. "It has been decided. Arômêz is delivering our summons, and it is up to them to come or stay." He gives the dissenters a stern look. "But they will come."

"So it is doomed," says Mâχanâmôz.

---

Chapter End Notes

For note on Valarin names, see the previous chapter.

Darkness

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Darkness.
Fighting Fire with Fire

"I wonder what will become of them," says Vairë.

"Nothing good, that is for certain," Námo says gruffly. "'Jealous'! 'Idle'! We should follow him, he said, that upstart-"

"We will need more red yarn," Vairë says to Míriel, who bows and uses the chance to escape Námo's ranting, thus missing a variety of interesting curses heaped upon her only son.

"I feel sorry for them," Vairë says when her husband seems to have calmed. "And it is not as if we aren't responsible, in a way."
Námo says nothing, pretending to be absorbed in the half-finished tapestry, a graphic depiction of recent events in Alqualondë. Vairë raises an eyebrow.
"You knew that this would happen, did you not?" Silence. "Perhaps not exactly this, but you knew that Melkor would sooner or later cause a desaster. Did you not?"
Still no reply.
Vairë nods. "You did. So why did you not speak up when Manwë pardoned him? You could have prevented all this." In the old days, she thinks, she would have been able to read the answer from his thoughts. These days, they all seem to lock their minds from her.
Námo looks around, almost furtively. Finally he speaks.

"Manwë would not have understood," he says. "Besides, you were right."

Vairë tilts her head. "In what respect?"

"Father did not want us to call the Eldar away from their inheritance. Something had to be done to lead them back."

"What does that – you did not speculate on this, did you?"

"It was not hard. They had to clash sooner or later. It was unavoidable."

Vairë looks at the tapestry, and for a moment her hand twitches towards the loom as if to tear it down. She balls her fist, letting her hand fall back down to her side.
"You are telling me that this-" she gestures at the textile docks of Alqualondë, the swan-ships, the warriors, the churning sea, all liberally interwoven with blood-red - "was unavoidable?"

"It had do be done," says Námo. "It has relieved us of a variety of problems."

"A variety of-" She cuts herself off. Even after all this time, embodiment still holds its surprises, Vairë discovers. Never before, for instance, has she balled her fists so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms. Never before has she shaken with suppressed anger. Never before has her jaw hurt like that.

"Very well," she says through clenched teeth. "You can tell Irmo that he needs to grow more madder, then."

Sun I

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Sun I.
No Matter of Choice

"I wonder whether this was truly necessary," Vairë says, donning her armour.

"What do you mean?" says Námo. "Going to battle? I thought we agreed -"

"Of course we agreed. That is necessary. I wonder whether it was necessary to wait until it was almost too late – if it is only 'almost' too late."

"You know that we had to wait," says Námo, patiently, in the way he speaks to the confused and newly dead. "We were not asked for help, after all."

"You mean, we did not listen. I'm surprised we listened to that poor half-mortal; I half expected him to get a kick rather than his prayer granted."

Námo tilts his head. "You sound angry, my dear."

Vairë gives him a perplexed stare. "I wonder why," she says.

Námo rolls his shoulders uncomfortably; he does not like armour, and it seems that they will be needing it for a long time. "We could not interfere sooner. It was doomed that we should not listen. We could not go back on the Prophecy. We are, after all, bound by rules."

"By rules, or by pride?" says Vairë.

Námo raises his eyebrows. "You spend too much time considering the fates of the Children. They begin to rub off on you," he says. "We are as we have been made. It cannot be helped."

"I know that. Still I wish it were otherwise." She gives her plated jerkin an experimental tug. It sits nice and snug and will, she hopes, offer the necessary protection. She takes up her spear, and heaves a sigh. "It cannot be helped," she echoed. "Well. Let us go to war."

Sun II

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Sun II.
Admitting Defeat

"I wonder how things will go, without us," says Nienna.

Vairë looks up from a dyeing vat; whether her nose wrinkles due to the stench rising from the bubbling brew or due to some unpleasant thought, Nienna cannot tell.
"To be honest, I doubt the world is going to notice much of a difference," Vairë says. "Our contributions to the well-being of Endor have been... shall we say... limited?"

"We did defeat Melkor," Nienna says. "Twice."

"The fact alone that we had to try twice should give you pause," Vairë says.

"Everybody deserves a second chance," Nienna says in a defensive tone that borders on the hurt.

"We failed to apprehend Mairon (1) twice, too. See where it got us," says Vairë, and to the Maia stirring the vat in front of her she says, "A little more vitriol. We need a colder green."

"We, too, deserved a second chance," Nienna says.

"Well, we've had it, and we haven't used it. At least we are being honest to ourselves, and to the Children, now. If we let them fend for themselves, we may as well lay down our office for good; at least they will not pray in vain, then."

Nienna makes no reply, weeping in silence. Vairë watches while her Maiar hang the dyed yarn up to dry, thread upon thread in all the colours of the angry sea: deep blue, steel-grey, dark purple; the cold green of icy waters, the black of the abyss.

"How things will go?" Vairë says when the preparations are finished to her satisfaction, taking up Nienna's question. "The same as ever. The song will run its course. People will live and die. There will be deeds of amazing valour and of baffling idiocy. I will always have something to weave into history, and you will always have something to cry over."

"It is unkind of you to mock me," says Nienna.
Vairë sighs. "I am not mocking you, dear sister. I envy you that you still care so much."
Nienna smiles a sad smile. "I shall not stop caring until you stop weaving. But you know that."

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) Mairon: Sauron's name before the Eldar lovingly named him Sauron. It means pretty much the opposite.

Sun III

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Sun III.
A Fool's Hope

"I wonder how you can bear it," Manwë says.
Vairë gives him a blank look.
"Watching," Manwë explains. "Whenever I try to look at the world these days, the darkness puts me off."

"I can hardly not look," Vairë says in a deliberately mild voice. "I must record history, after all. How would I know what happens if I did not look at the world, and interview those who have departed from it?"

"Of course you do your work," Manwë says, "but I still wonder how you can bear it." He pauses, avoiding to look at any of the tapestries too closely. "Is Olórin still here?"

"No, my lord, he has already returned."

"Good. Good." Another pause. "But you sound displeased, Vairë. Do you not agree that we should send him back to Endor in this evil time?"

"I quite agree. After all, I watch what is happening there. I am just afraid that it is too little, too late."

"We had to do something."

"Oh, yes. We should have done something long ago."

Manwë tilts his head, studying Vairë. "You do not think that there is hope yet?"

Vairë meets his gaze calmly; she even manages a smile. "I do not know. If you want a prophecy, you must ask my husband. I only deal in history."

Sun IV

Written for the B2MeM 2012 "Maglor in History 1" prompt, Maglor in the Fourth Age. Not actually featuring Maglor.

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Sun IV.
Moments of Peace

"I wonder how long he is going to last," Vairë says to herself, her fingers gently interweaving the colourful threads into a seaside scene. On the sun-bleached sandstone overlooking the ocean sits an Elf, his hands on a harp of ancient make, gold and brown against the pale yellow stone. Raven hair waves in the inland breeze. The last part is artistic license: A harper playing in a windy place would be wise to fasten his hair, lest it get tangled in the strings, but Vairë likes the way it looks.

"Who?" says Míriel, almost making her lady jump. "The new king?"
Vairë wonders whether she can answer truthfully. She does not wish to hurt Míriel, or any of her servants, really. They see enough hurt in their daily work. Now is a rare time of peace, permitting them to recover a little; but they are still reeling from the end of the Third Age, and no doubt this respite will end sooner or later.
"He will last a lifetime," Vairë finally says. "As they do. No, I mean your grandson."

Míriel moves in, softly, looking at the tapestry. Gently, she strokes the woven Elf's dark hair.
"He is still staying," she says, something like wonder in her voice. "He is one of the last, is he not?"
"The Ages of Men have begun," Vairë says. "Not many of your people are left in Endor."
Míriel nods, smiling. "His choice is the opposite of mine, is it not?"
Vairë ponders that. "Yes, one might say so."
Míriel nods again. "There must be balance. He will last long." She strokes the tapestry again. "This is beautiful."

"Yes," Vairë says. "I thought we'd better start recording the moments of insignificant beauty, too. They will be significant when darker times come again."
"So you think there will be darker times again?"

Vairë spreads her hands (impossibly even and smooth: any Child weaving so much would have callused hands with rough skin and chipped nails).
"There will always be darker times," she says as kindy as possible. "Such is the fate of Arda Marred. I wonder if your grandson must see them all."
"I wonder if he must be alone all that time," Míriel says. "It is terrible to be alone for so long."

Vairë looks at Míriel sympathetically. "He has got his music," she says, turning back to the tapestry. "And of course, their paths might cross..."
A sandy beach comes to life on the loom, not far from the sandstone cliffs. Almost hidden by dogroses and blades of long grass sits another slender figure, raven-haired, playing a silver flute.

Sun V

Written for the B2MeM 2012 "Crossover 1" prompt, Crossover with a mythological story.

The Christian nativity story, to be precise, so tread with care if that's a touchy subject for you.

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Sun V.
New Rules

"I wonder if it is Adûnaic," Eärendil says thoughtfully, and at Vairë's glance explains, "Bethlehem. It sounds sort of Adûnaic."
"I doubt it," Vairë says. "Derived, maybe. I can get you a skilled linguist, if you need one," she adds, because she is feeling a little mischievous. She has been feeling mischievous more and more often lately. Námo says that it is her way of dealing with her work. He may be on to something.

Eärendil shudders. "No, thank you," he says stiffly. "It is not that important."
Vairë smiles to herself.

"Anyway," Eärendil says, "'the son of Eru'? How does that work? Are we not all Eru's children?"
"Supposedly, this time it is to be understood more literally."
"Literally?" the no-longer-mortal mariner says, staring at Vairë, who stares back, her face carefully blank. "Then who is the mother?"
"Some mortal maiden, apparently. Please do not ask me how that works. I do not chronicle everything. There is such a thing as discretion."

The mariner bites his lower lip. "My apologies, Lady Vairë," he says. "May I ask another question?"
You already did, Vairë thinks, but this time she stops herself in time. The poor fellow is confused enough as it is. No wonder. They all are.
"Certainly," she tells Eärendil.
"What is the purpose of... this?"

Vairë ponders him for a moment, then goes ahead. "Father wants to change the rules," she explains. "Something about damnation and love and foregiveness."
"I am not certain that I understand," Eärendil says.
"I am not certain that I understand," says Vairë. "Námo does, supposedly, but he appears to think that I should just do my job and stop asking questions. Did I say that out loud?"
"You did, lady."
"Pretend that I didn't."
"I shall, lady."

Good boy, Vairë is tempted to say, but stops herself again. Instead she says, "Rules, once set, are exceedingly hard to change. Even Father is bound by them, you see, except He no longer likes His old rules. So He means to contravene them by some sort of elaborate self-sacrifice."
Eärendil looks blank.
"Mortals have always been forbidden, on pain of doom and death, to come to Aman," Vairë illustrates helpfully. "Unless they just happened to have a Silmaril with them. This whole 'son of Eru' business – that's the Silmaril this time. In some way. Somehow."
"Oh," Eärendil says.
"Yes," Vairë says. "Anyway. Time for your great performance. Are you ready?"
"As I understand it, I'm just to be a messenger star," Eärendil says. "I've been doing that for years."

Sun VI

Reaching the 20th century, yay. Or not yay, because there's a lot of 20th century history that the Valar rather wouldn't have witnessed...

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Sun VI.
Destroyers of Worlds

"I wonder if it is over now, at least," Nienna says. Strangely, her eyes are dry, and she looks angry rather than sad.

Námo shakes his head. "Soon, I believe," he says. "But not yet."
Nienna stares at him in disbelief, pointing at the tapestry Vairë is in the process of weaving; a desert landscape, and a hail of dust and fire, and rising from it, a cloud like a mushroom.
"But surely a threat like that –"
"A threat may suffice in a later, more civilised age," says Námo. "But in this time of barbarism, I fear that the mere threat will not do."
Nienna looks around. Vairë has taken great care to depict little moments of happiness, of joy, above all of peace – whenever she found the time and occasion - but the overwhelming majority of recent tapestries show destruction, cruelty, death in numbers and on a scale that once would have been, and forever should have remained, unimaginable.
"So it will get even worse before it can get better?"
"I am not certain that worse describes it, at this point," Námo says in his most gentle tone, "but we must be content that it will get better."

The Weaver, who has so far remained silence, gives a snort. "To think that there was a time when we were afraid of doing too much damage in fighting Melkor, for the Children's sake," she says.
Nienna, stroking the haggard, hopeless faces of the people in one of Vairë's tapestries, nods. "To think that we once believed that Alqualondë was as bad as they could get," she says.
Námo turns away.
"We could not have stopped them," he says. "Even if we were still in office, we could not have changed things. Even this, I'm afraid, is part of the music."
"Part of Melkor's discord, you mean."
"I hope that it is part of Melkor's discord, yes," Námo says. "But I do not know whether we can blame it all on Melkor."
The two Valier stare at him in shock, and then Nienna says, "But surely Father would not –" she does not continue, does not finish the sentence: Maybe she does not need to, or maybe she is afraid that if she does, Námo will contradict her.
Námo only looks at her with his deep, dark eyes, and says, "I do not know."

It is the most honest conversation Vairë remembers having in centuries, no, millennia, yet she cannot celebrate it. It is the first time in ages that she feels fond of her spouse, and feels pity for his burden, yet there is no room for joy in her heart just now. She is too shaken by the history of this most recent war, and too distressed by the mere thought of how it may end, if it ever ends. She looks at Námo, trying to find out whether he spoke the truth – whether he really does not know – or whether he merely keeps the truth to himself, as he so often did in the past.
He meets her eyes, and Vairë realises that the Judge is just as lost and scared as she feels.

"Well," Nienna says, her voice hitching, her eyes welling up again. "It will get better. Brighter days will come, and the Children will wake from this nightmare."
Námo agrees too quickly for Vairë's comfort. "Yes. Brighter days will come."

"For a little while," says Vairë.

Sun VII

And then, in the distant (?) future...

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Sun VII.
Tenn' ambar-metta

"I wonder how it is going to end," says Manwë.

Vairë raises an eyebrow. "So eager for the end?"
"Not particularly," Manwë says. "But it stands to reason that it is not too far away. The ages have grown ever shorter, after all."
"And Menelmakar has been flickering most oddly these past nights," Varda adds.

Vairë looks around at her brethren. She had wondered why so many of them – even Ulmo! – had decided to visit her weaving chamber, as if their interest in Arda Marred had reawakened after centuries.
"And you do not know, my lord?" Vairë asks Manwë, disbelieving.
Manwë's hand moves in a vague, expansive bow. "I know some very basic benchmarks," he says. "But nothing specific. I had hoped that Námo would know more, and had told you some of the details."

Vairë now raises both eyebrows. "If he knows more, he has not shared that knowledge. Your guess is as good as mine, I am sure."

"Another war, I reckon," says Tulkas. "I mean, another big one."
"Or global warming," ventures Vána.
"Or some sort of dreadful accident that spirals out of control," Oromë suggests.
"At any rate, some kind of man-made desaster," Yavanna states dryly.
"I don't know, it might also be a deluge," muses Ulmo.
"Or a meteor strike," says Varda.
"Or a super-volcano," Aulë adds.

"Some say the world will end in fire," Nienna says, making them all jump, "some say in ice...*" At the other Valar's bewildered looks, she spreads her hands. "What? I happen to like poets."
Manwë huffs. "That's all very well, but we still do not know how it's going to happen."
"What of it?" Vairë says. "At least we know that we won't have anything to do with it."
But even as she speaks, she feels a strange twinge, and frowns, and introspects. "What on earth...," she says.
"What?" Manwë says.
"I hold with those who favour fire," says Vairë, with a nod in Nienna's direction. "It seems that I spoke too soon. Please excuse me." And she leaves them, gathered around her loom in confusion, to seek out her spouse.

"Námo, dear?"
"Yes, Vairë?"
"You wouldn't have released Fëanor early, by any chance?"
Námo gives her a reproachful look.
"I would never do such an absurd thing," he says flatly.
"It was precisely the right time."

---

Chapter End Notes

* Nienna and Vairë quote from Robert Frost's poem "Fire and Ice". It seemed appropriate, somehow.

Epilogue

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Epilogue.
Revolutions

I wonder why you are still working, says the Voice in Vairë's head.

She knows that she will see no-one when turning around, yet she turns: She has been embodied for so long that it has become instinctive.
The question is justified. There is no more history to weave now, of course, so Vairë has ceased weaving. But ever since, she has been spinning, producing yarn enough for centuries of tapestry. One may well wonder why. Still...
"You wonder?" she says out loud. "Do you need to wonder, Father?"

I do not like to pry into the secret minds of my Children, the Voice of Ilúvatar says, feeling reproachful, neither those of thought nor those of flesh. So yes: I wonder.

Vairë shrugs, distracted for a moment. "You learn a thing or two from history," she says, "and one of them is that the good times never last," she says.

Nor the bad times.

"Indeed," says Vairë, "they only feel endless. What I mean is, things always come around and around again." With that, she returns her focus to her steadily revolving spindle: Turning and turning and turning as if to illustrate her point.
Why should Arda Unmarred not last? asks the voice in her head. Do you think I cannot support it forever?

"I do not doubt that you could make it last forever, Father," Vairë replies, and pointedly adds, "if you wanted."

Ah, says the Voice of Ilúvatar, and falls silent, although the Presence still remains. Vairë's hands do not visibly tremble, but her spindle is no longer running quite smoothly.

You know me well, it seems, the Voice finally says – a little grudgingly, Vairë suspects.
"As I said," she says, bowing her head, "I learned a thing or two from history."

She is relieved to find that the Voice feels amused rather than angry. That does not mean that you cannot rest while there is time, it says, and Vairë imagines a wry smile. Nor do you have to go into any new Marred World - should there be such a thing.

"I know what the job is like," Vairë retorts. "I can hardly leave it to some other poor spirit."

I could nonetheless appoint someone else.
"Yes, of course."
But you do not want me to?

A shrug from the Weaver. "I'm not sure. Just now, I don't think so. I've grown too used to it, though maybe I will grow out of it again. We'll see. How long do you think this Second Music will last – if you want to tell me?"
The Voice replies willingly. I am not certain. I have not yet figured out a good way to begin something new, you see. Middles take care of themselves, but beginnings and ends are fickle things.

Vairë suppresses a snort. "Someone will provide an opportunity sooner or later – like Melkor did."

No doubt.

Vairë stops her spindle and smiles. "When that happens," she says, "you can ask me again."

---

Chapter End Notes

Yeah, I suppose I don't really believe in "Happily Ever After"s forever...