Aching Wings by Narya

Chapter 3

Present Day

The sun sank over the city – this strange metropolis raised on hills that had once belched fire and flame. Further down the hill, children squealed with laughter at the antics of the penguins. Here, outside the parakeet enclosure, crowds had gathered to watch the jewel-winged birds flit about and forage for the food left out for them.

It was a pity, I thought, that it had come to this – that in order to protect these creatures, mankind had been forced to shut them into a cage. I did not blame them, exactly, if it meant that they could be saved. But saved for what? Once again, my dreams were dark. The world had grown old; I saw the birds I loved dying, and the insects were already falling into silence.

Down the hill, a guitarist struck up a jaunty tune and began to sing about life under the sea. Couples wandered about with large ice creams in hand. I watched them all, though none saw me; I found it easier to go without form, these days.

In the centre of the grassy knoll, a tree-shaped sculpture had been raised, and ribbons were tied to its branches. I smiled, and reached for Yavanna, but I felt only a thrum of amused recognition in return. The great powers walked the world no longer, though some of us - myself, Olórin, Aiwendil, others – returned to Middle-earth on occasion, to do what good we may. Darker things, too, remained in the world. Much had faded – but not all, and new threats rose every day.

A soft chitter of pain drew my attention back to the parakeets. Inside the hut, away from the eyes of the visitors, one bird was being treated for a broken wing. I slid into the creature's mind – quietly, gently – and was welcomed as an old friend. I could do little directly; the man and woman treating her would notice if the wing healed instantly and mysteriously by itself. Still, I could help things along. Softly, I sang, though nobody would hear it – not with their ears, at any rate. The parakeet crooned quietly. I set a thought of healing into the bone, and sang of strength and hope.

Outside the light dimmed further. Up the hill, the lions roared. The birds had begun to sing, perhaps sensing my song, or perhaps simply because the day was dying. I slid out of the birdhouse, and observed two young women, standing alone under a tree, looking out at the city, hand clasped in hand.

The world was quietening. Yavanna's trees, here, breathed air that tasted of fumes. But even so, I lifted my voice, and I led the birds in song – and I felt Kementári's mind touch my own, and under the grass, new shoots began to stir.

Chapter End Notes

I am, as always, indebted to the wonderful SWG bios for the characters I write about – this time, in particular, to Oshun's wonderfully detailed analysis of Melian.

I have played about with a few different versions of the Legendarium here – in particular, the Book of Lost Tales version that gives Vána more of a role in the creation of the Trees (she is Yavanna's sister, after all).

The Entwives living near the Shire is a dear headcanon of mine. It sort of has a canon basis (the wandering elm-tree on the North Moors, and Treebeard telling Merry and Pippin that the Entwives would have liked their land) but is not confirmed anywhere, as far as I know.

Melian visiting Edinburgh Zoo is, I'm afraid, pure self-indulgence.