The Sleep of Reason by Michiru

Chapter 1

Manwë has words for him, desires his presence at the Ezellohar. But Námo has no wisdom to offer that his brethren will not eventually arrive at on their own, and for now…

Irmo’s garden is luminescent in the new Dark, the Dark his kindred had thought never to see again but that Námo has always known would return, unto Oilossë itself. Irmo has ever been contrary, whimsical to the point of foolishness, and had scattered lanterns throughout Lórien even in the Light of the Blessed Realm. Now the baubles glitter amid low-hanging leaves, and the clear dream mist carries and reflects their light. Lórien is become an island on a vast sea.

He finds his brother swinging contentedly on a seat made of birdsong and starshine, his bare feet caressing the full heads of a patch of lilies. Námo watches the intermingling of soft white and dark green and skin tone in the uncertain half-light, saying nothing to excuse himself. It is impolite to intrude upon another’s dwelling as he has; more than impolite given what has just taken place.

Irmo smiles.

“I know you’re there,” he calls in the haunting melody of the loon. “You are far too dour to be Melko, so do stop lurking, Námo.” The Arata allows the moment to hang, and then bodies himself and fixes the younger Fëanturi with an unimpressed stare.

“Melko would be much more gleeful,” Irmo says. Námo concedes the point grudgingly, brushing off the tugging of the wind. “Shouldn’t you go?” Irmo wonders as Námo disregards the summons to sit back-to-back with his twin. Námo prickles Irmo’s senses with the same question, and Irmo swats at him as he answers, “They don’t want my input.”

That is true enough. None of the Valar remarked when Irmo first departed the gravesite of the Trees, not even Estë. In the weeks that have since passed, not one of them has inquired after his location, nor questioned his absence from their counsels.

“I’ve kept busy,” Irmo soothes. “I have far too many productive things to do to sit and mourn with our cousins on Taniquetil.” Námo drops his head back on Irmo’s shoulder, staring up at the living canopy, beyond the Circles of Arda. His eyes do not pierce the Veil.

“There are many new dreams now,” Irmo continues absently. Then, a pall over his spirit, he adds, “Many new nightmares.” Námo does not respond, even in thought. Melkor has sullied all of their provinces. A cicada alights on Irmo’s hand and sings a brief melody, and his brother hums along until the insect moves on.

“Estë is grieved. She had hoped her powers would make a difference. I don’t suppose you’ll deign to tell me how it ends.” Námo—smiles. “No, I thought not. By all means, keep your secrets. I intend to keep mine.” A breeze ruffles through the lily patch more insistently; Irmo pulls his feet up and wraps his arms around his knees.

“Truant,” he accuses as Námo mirrors the action. He tweaks Irmo’s littlest toe, heedless of his younger brother’s indignant yelp. Their momentum fades to nothing until they are suspended, perfectly still, over the white flowers. A more ominous wind whistles through the boughs, setting up a staggered chorus from Irmo’s fairy lamps.

“He’s becoming annoyed,” Irmo observes idly, tracing stardust into a shimmering pattern between his fingertips. He sends his creation fluttering to land on Námo’s face; a butterfly, sketched more in shadows than in light. Námo swipes a hand through it, watches it fade.

“You’re all obstinate,” Irmo mutters. Then, “Sleep! The lot of you. It would do you good. Enough running in circles chasing the past. Sleep. What will be already has been, so let it come to pass. Sleep, and be unafraid, for the future does not rest in us alone. Reason avails us not; therefore sleep and have faith. Even the wisest do not see all things.”

Irmo’s admonition carries on and carries forth throughout Valinor and all of Arda, reverberating on moths’ wings and seashell sighs, through the deep places where silence reigned and monsters lay entombed.

And the winds fall dormant and the flowers fold up and the beasts in the fields lay down their heads. The cries of the Eldar in Valmar grow quiet and the Noldor cease to march and the Fëanárioni in their stolen ships slip into peaceful repose. In Beleriand, Orc and Elf alike dream side by side, and the Balrogs’ fire burns low and captives go unhaunted in the long night. Newly arrived in the deeps of Angband with his stolen treasure, Melkor collapses wearily into his long-vacant throne, and high on the peak of Oilossë the far-seeing eyes of Manwë fall shut.

And in his brother’s garden in Lórien, Námo Mandos slept.

Chapter End Notes

Notes! On stuff.

1. Estë, as “the healer of hurts and weariness,” might have tried to work with the Trees, though The Silmarillion doesn’t mention her involvement (page 19). While I feel her power is more in the healing of human spirits, the Trees seem semi-sentient, so I figure she probably tried anyway.
2. The original theme of Námo being unwilling to speak after proclaiming the Doom of the Noldor kind of faded to a background detail. Oops.
3. Irmo uses the older “Melko” instead of Melkor. He hasn’t told me why.
4. The title comes from a painting by Goya, whose title translates to, “The sleep of reason produces monsters”. While I see his side of things, this piece rather runs directly against that sentiment. There is also a hint of the “Go to Sleep” book by Adam Mansbach in Irmo’s speech, though I will qualify that it didn’t come from the original. See hilarious Starscream parody of said book on youtube. I was also attempting to emulate a Tolkienian-style wisdom speech.
5. Finally, I was playing with fantastic imagery to fit the mythological nature of the Valar.