The Parchment of Secret Valian Tales by SonOfMandos

Mairon held the watering can carefully. To his displeasure, his wolf form did not allow him to water the plants with great precision. To hold objects with his mouth was not the same as holding tools with his hands. He compromised and his physical body was a hybrid between a wolf and a Dwarf. Aulë looked like a Dwarf and his hands had much dexterity. Or rather, Dwarves looked like Aulë. Mairon shook his head: the right order of who looked like who was irrelevant because Dwarves were put to sleep and could not awake yet. Technically, no one knew what a Dwarf look like, save for Aulë, his Maiar, and two other Valar, so the comparison to Dwarves was meaningless.

Eldar were stirring. Dwarves would wake later, or so planned Eru. Melkor obviously disagreed with it and built caves in secret for Aulë’s children. Of all people, Melkor understood Aulë’s will to create the best. Or perhaps he was equal to Yavanna—the Valië too loved life. Her Ents roamed free in Middle Earth, and were not endangered because Melkor was smart enough to build underground sanctuaries for them too, and it never crossed Eru’s mind that a tree could walk and speak. So Eru paid Ents no heed since he was not aware of their existence at all. Just like Mairon and his hybrid physical appearance, Ents were a strange mix of a Dwarf and a tree. Aulë said that Elves did not look like a mix of a Dwarf and something else. They were like tall, hairless, skinny Dwarves. Mairon decreed Elves were boring and Eru lacked imagination.

As he was watering a bunch of purple flowers, Mairon wondered if Dwarves and Ents needed to be watered, too. Water was an odd necessity in all living things, he noticed. Except for him. Part of him feared water because water could tame fire, and he obviously had no wish to be tamed (as he was a being of fire). On the other paw, well, hand, Mairon had a bubbly, happy ball of warmth forming in his chest whenever he gave water to plants and witnessed them grow stronger as time went by. He wagged his tail with contentment. The water was kind.

The Maia glanced up at the giant tree next to him. Yavanna was teaching the vegetation how to help each other. She was the mother tree that had built a complex communication system through her roots so she could nourish the other trees and flowers. Prosperity was better achieved when the most resourceful ones endorsed bigger responsibilities and shared more. Possessions were never static, be they food, energy, or treasures. Cumulation disrupted their natural life cycle. It was the very core of things; things were built by power, and Ainur were those who channeled power so the world was created. They were hosts of the essence of the world that was in constant movement. Ainur would perish should they keep power within themselves—symphony would turn into cacophony. And so this very principle was what Yavanna was teaching her creations. In return, gardens and forests prospered through an act of mutual share.

Forests did not prosper alone: Ulmo and Manwë created weather together. Rain, when it came, was a blessing for everyone. This was the better version Ainur wanted to believe. Mairon had heard from a hushed conversation between Manwë and Varda that rain was accidental. Manwë and Ulmo were experimenting with rubbing each other (they had tried to fusion but couldn’t find a way to penetrate their companion), and something, coming from the insides of the two Valar, exploded between them. This is how rain was born. Because they were Valar and designed to create a world for the upcoming Children of Ilúvatar to live in, the rain had many benefits and was not destructive. The union of their magic was optimal despite its not-so-optimal cause.

Magic was the beauty of the world, thought Mairon. He affectionately patted flowers with his hairy, clawed hand and left the garden, watering can in hand.

***

Aulë was happy. The Vala rarely was in a foul mood, on contrary to his good friend Oromë, and very much like Tulkas and Nessa who were always joyful. Today was particularly a good day. Mairon had told him that he loved watering plants. This was much better than Curumo who was still afraid of being moist. It was all Ossë’s fault. Ossë once came to the forge because he was curious (after all, Maiar of Aulë helped build the ocean floor) and wanted to say hello to his fellow Ainur. He found Curumo to be the most attractive (Maiar of Aulë were either flames or golems. Curumo was a golem but he had a pink flower tucked on his right temple. Curumo was coquettish) so he took the form of a rainy cloud and glued his body to Curumo. This last one was wet in no time. He believed Irmo had cursed him (it was unlike Irmo to curse people, on contrary to what everyone said. Nobody could stomach their strange and shameful dreams. This is why they blamed the Vala at any given opportunity even if he had hardly done anything) and panicked. Ossë apologised and gave him cloud-puppy eyes (Ossë only wanted to make friends). It terrified Curumo even more (he confused Ossë for Eönwë and Eönwë’s latest hobby was to wear the disturbing shape of eight wings full of eyes. A cloud with puppy eyes had an Eönwë-esque characteristic to it).

Mairon was absent that day. He was busy staring at a watering can and telling himself it was harmless. He had been encouraged and supported by the Dryads of Yavanna who were happy to teach a spirit of fire how to take care of the flora. Eventually, he wielded the watering can and victoriously watered his first plant. He came back home unaware of the fright Curumo was put through.

Aulë was certain Mairon was ready to take the next step: groom himself in a bath. The Vala had had a private audience with Manwë—Aulë claimed that it would be better for Mairon to be accompanied by a friend for his first bath. Manwë had agreed. Eönwë had never taken a bath either but he was naturally curious and willing to try new things (except visiting the Fëanturi and their consorts. They scared him. He also avoided Oromë’s steed, Nahar. The stallion, according to Eönwë, bit him twice).

It was better than Melkor, even! He did not know why the Great Vala kept his hands away from water—wasn’t he the greatest of them all? Didn’t he mirror the power of all the Valar and Valier? To the Ainur, Melkor was closer to Eru than to them. There was nothing to explain why he distrusted water this much. Surely he did not appreciate Ulmo fornicating with his younger brother, Aulë reasoned. Big brothers were zealously protective of their younger siblings by default. Even if they spent more time pranking their siblings than protecting them.

Aulë started to forge a bath of steel.

***

Manwë wished he could clap his hands with satisfaction but his two hands were taken. One held Eönwë who was perched on him and the other was dutifully brushing Mairon’s back fur (the Maia growled whenever he stopped).

The bath was full and ready. Aulë gave a nod that meant ‘Now is time’. Mairon approached the bath with apprehension. He wrinkled his nose and frowned. Unsure, he pressed himself against Aulë’s side. The Vala smiled at him encouragingly.

Eönwë circled Manwë’s waist with his feet. For once, Eönwë’s appearance wasn’t bizarre: his shape and face were Elven, his hair was long feathers, he wore two wings on his back, his hands were clawed, his feet were like duck feet (it was Manwë’s advice to have this kind of legs today) and he had an eagle tail. His feathers were white, yellow, brown, and orange. The feathers on his head rose as he glanced at the bathtub. Something was suspicious.

Manwë put him down on the marble floor. Eönwë’s legs left his waist, but his arms resolutely stayed around the Vala’s neck.

“See?” said Aulë as he patted the water. “It’s just water.”

Mairon’s frown deepened and his eyes darted back and forth between the bath and the smith. He gripped the edge of the tub. After hearing of Curumo’s misadventure, he was cautious and scared that the water was Ossë. Eönwë didn’t share his worries and put his hand in the tub. He shook it enthusiastically and drops fell on Manwë’s face, which made him sneeze. Manwë’s sneezes were unparalleled: his four wings stretched out, making him look giant, and anybody nearby was hit by a blast. Eönwë therefore received a slap of wind in the face, but that never bothered him because his element was air. Mairon, on the other hand, did not appreciate (the sneeze shook the bathwater, and water attacked the Maia), yelped, and jumped behind Aulë. This last one merely wiped the water away from his beard.

Eönwë now had his two hands in water. He had discovered that if he cupped water fast enough, he could put it in Manwë’s wings. His technique was not on point, and water landed a bit everywhere on the Vala. The young Maia, at least, enjoyed grooming his Vala. It was more enjoyable than grooming Thorondor because Thorondor, just like Nahar, had the impolite habit of biting. Manwë did not bite. Manwë was polite. (Manwë only bit Melkor’s batwings and dragon tail when they were newly born Valar. He almost broke his teeth because Melkor’s scales were ridiculously hard and he made the sound resolution to never put his teeth on people again.)

The King of the Valar took Eönwë in his hands and lifted him. Eönwë realised he was to be dropped in the tub, so he curled on himself and chirped anxiously. Mairon watched the scene with fright and held Aulë’s forearm like his life depended on it. Manwë did not put Eönwë in water and waited until the Maia relaxed. Understanding he would not die, Eönwë tapped water with his foot. It splashed more than when he did the same with his hands. Mairon snarled. Manwë slowly put Eönwë in the bathtub.

The Maia had no idea what to do, so he spread his wings and tail out and floated there awkwardly. His eyes were wide open.

Feeling that Mairon’s grip eased around his arm, Aulë mirrored Manwë’s action. Mairon’s tail brushed water, and it was enough for the Maia to squirm like a hyperactive squirrel. He shifted around and took refuge on Aulë’s chest.

“Not the beard!” groaned Aulë. His beard might be of metal, but the Maia’s pull was painful.

In the tub, Eönwë took pleasure in rolling on himself and wiggled his legs in the air. It made it difficult for Manwë to wash him (Manwë intended to teach his Maia how to remove dirt from his body).

“Mairon, go to the bath, let’s get your fur clean,” said Aulë.

“But I groom myself!” protested the Maia.

“Can you groom your back?” the smith raised an eyebrow.

Mairon looked contrite. “...No,” he admitted. He looked at Eönwë. His companion was held by Manwë, and this last one massaged his feathers with soap. Eönwë chirped happily.

Aulë lifted Mairon again and placed him in the bath. The Maia hissed as he felt water soak his body. He stood in the bath, with water up his stomach, processing the new sensation. It was odd but not threatening. The only real threat was Eönwë who screamed a war cry then proceeded to kick water at Mairon. Manwë growled ‘Eönwë’ (he certainly growled Eönwë’s Valarin name, unknown to Elves and Men, so for the sake of the tale, the storyteller used his Quenya name). The purpose of bringing Eönwë was to give Mairon emotional support during this first experience in water, not to spoil it! Eönwë was mischievous but obedient (unlike Ossë who was mischievous and disobedient) and he stopped attacking Mairon with water. The Maia had tucked his tail between his legs, shaking slightly. Aulë drew circles on his back to soothe him.

The smith then remembered he had brought toys. He fumbled a hand in his pouch that hung on his belt and took out two little wooden boats and three little ducks (wooden ducks too, real ducks disliked being kept captive in Valar’s pouches). Manwë warned Eönwë to not throw toys at them. The Maia of the winds took one of the boats and slid it on Mairon’s arm. Mairon giggled. He was very ticklish. He also giggled because Eönwë looked silly with his wet wings and feathers. One of his wings was full of soap. Mairon yanked Eönwë to his side and proceeded to remove the soap from his friend. He was so concentrated on his task that he barely noticed that Aulë had started to wash his hair and back. It was good because grooming Mairon was sometimes near unfeasible since he was ticklish beyond reason.

The boys were washed and cleaned. Eönwë fussed when Manwë took him away from the tub. He cried like an angry otter. Mairon was compliant and rather liked to be wrapped in a towel and have Aulë rub his back. Being a spirit of fire, he could, of course, use his magic to dry himself. Drying oneself canceled the towel experience, so Mairon did not. He was the one to fuss when Aulë asked to give him the towel back. Eönwë was not fond of towels and shook himself with vigor. Droplets of water flew everywhere, risking to make Manwë sneeze once again (the Vala pinched his nose to avoid it).

It was a satisfying day for the two Valar. They concluded that they could teach all other Maiar to bathe. It was their new mission. If Maiar learnt the arts of bathing, they would then teach the Children of Ilúvatar to do the same. And Oromë. Oromë loved to roll in mud and he stank. Manwë hated bad smells. The only one who could avoid baths was Melkor because Melkor, no matter how much time he spent in the depths of the world, always smelled nice.

Truly, baths were the best invention of Eä.

Manwë glanced at the glass cage with contempt. It wasn’t much of a glass cage either—it was invisible. Magic was built around its prisoner like a cage and was for the most part invisible. The thought of having a captive unsettled the Vala; he strongly believed he had failed his duty as King of the Ainur. He had witnessed one of his people fall without resolving the situation.

The hostage was nowhere remotely as sorry as the Lord of the Winds. His hands and feet had been cut off, but that was a minor inconvenience to him. He was trapped in a body, perhaps, yet his spirit was poured into his creations. He felt his pulse run through the world, and that was enough to keep him distracted from his miserable situation (miserable as perceived by others. He had not figured out how he specifically felt about it beyond annoyance. He knew he would be put to sleep in the Void. Nothing too alarming. Sleeping was fine, the Void himself was a good lad, a sleeping lad at that. Long ago, Melkor had stocked the light of the Two Lamps in the black world hoping to awaken the Void himself. That bastard had barely stirred.) His lack of hands and feet did nothing to limit his moves. Each of his scales—he wore scales—had a spike. Some were tiny and almost unnoticeable, and some were long and sharp like a spider’s legs. The longest were on his back, giving him an intriguing appearance.

Aulë had forgotten about his scales and spikes when forging the shackles and the chains. Manwë thought it was ironic. He admitted it to nobody, not even his wife, but this in particular amused him. Melkor seldom used his feet and hands in the past and favoured his long thorns. It was the only thing in the situation that did not upset the God of the Winds. Melkor’s imprisonment and punishment tore his heart to pieces, and Melkor’s apathy and indifference were the worst. Manwë sighed and left the room.

***

Melkor eventually got bored from meditating on his semi-omniscience in Arda. His newest game was to toss around for funsies. The chains were long and allowed him to move however he pleased within the magical cage. When nobody was watching (except for Manwë, whom he knew spent most of his time observing him from afar and mopping around like a wounded dog), he executed a little dance. There was no percussion around so he mimicked the sounds with his mouth. Being a Vala, even fallen, was advantageous in this respect. He was able to produce whatever music he wished without instruments.

One day, Manwë found him hanging upside down. He stood there stupidly, not knowing how to react. Melkor had enough wits to say ‘What?’, but Manwë did not have enough wits to reply, ‘You surprised me.’ or ‘I didn’t know you could move around with the thorns on your back.’ or ‘The cage is magic, doesn’t it hurt?’ or anything else, really. He made a noise that fell somewhere between ‘huh’ and ‘erm’. He then turned on his heels—if his eagle’s toes could be called heels—and left.

Manwë came back later. He always came back. Eönwë asked him where he was going. He dodged the question with a poor lie. He had ceased to look at his wife in the eyes, well, the two stars on her face. He had the conviction he was betraying everyone. To him, Melkor wasn’t simply an echo of them all, the reflection of their powers combined, the then Great now Fallen, or Eru’s right arm; Melkor was the one he loved the most.

This time, Melkor was staring at his shackles, his back turned on the Vala. Manwë brushed the cage with a tentative clawed hand. A pale blue glow floated around him. He tried to push his hand further. To his despair, he could not. His hand only met resistance.

“Please, say something,” he pleaded.

Melkor ignored him.

***

“Are you going to say it?” said Melkor.

He was lying down and had propped himself on an elbow. The long legs of his back danced around him lazily. The shorter ones supported his weight on the ground. His black and thin hair cascaded on his waist. Manwë gulped. This waist was the object of too many temptations, many that could not be named. Being adventurous with Ulmo in the past and creating weather by accident was a thing, Melkor’s body was an entirely other one.

“Say what?” replied Manwë as he brought his attention to his two hands on the walls of the cage. The glow around them was green.

Melkor raised an eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me or yourself, coward.”

Manwë nodded faintly. A coward, this he was. His crown of starlight darkened, and his four wings stopped shining. The taste of shame was too much to endure.

***

“They say we are brothers.”

Melkor blinked. “Wow. Ingenious. Absurd. Who says that?”

“Them,” Manwë gestured vaguely. “The Elves.”

“Ah,” snorted Melkor. “They have ludicrous ideas. How did you find out?”

“Ingwë told me.”

“The Elvenking?”

“Yes.”

“Tssk. Here I’d thought he would know better, with all these years spent talking with you…,” Melkor shook his head.

“We don’t exactly talk. Not always,” said Manwë. “He swears at me from time to time, and I gently slap him with a blast. I do talk to him when I’m bored, or when he can’t sleep at night. He’s an insomniac.”

“So it came to your knowledge Elves believe we are brothers,” concluded Melkor, not paying attention to Manwë’s comment on Ingwë’s insomnia. “Weeell… I cannot say I’m not surprised. After all, we have a past of, how do you call it already? Ah! Intimate proximity. What kind of sick brother would do it with his sibling?” At that, Melkor pulled a disgusted face. He was a Dark Lord, certainly, but he had morals and standards. Shagging close family members was never part of the plan. If only Ungoliant were his sister… Catastrophic decisions would had been avoided.

Manwë shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “What if we…,” he started, “did it again? One last time before you leave. Please?” Heat crept on his neck and cheeks. He considered digging a hole in Taniquetil and disappearing there forever more.

“I wish,” responded Melkor. “But use your head for two seconds and look around you: I can’t get out of this invisible chest the others locked me in to touch you.”

Manwë’s expression was sour. He had to find a way to enter the cage.

***

Manwë was very excited.

“Step back,” he intimidated Melkor.

“I can’t go further,” grumbled Melkor.

The King of the Valar jiggled his four wings. “Shield your eyes, I’m coming!” And he entered the magic prison in an explosion of light. He felt jolts all over his body and grinned widely. “Finally!” he exclaimed and squeezed Melkor with his wings and arms.

“Mānawenūz, what are you-” Melkor groaned and shifted but he did not push Manwë away. His thorns intertwined Manwë’s feathers. Part of him was content to be enveloped by a familiar warmth. Something slid on his neck. “Are you crying?”

“Shut up,” retorted Manwë, pressing his forehead in the crook of the prisoner’s neck. It was only a matter of days until Melkor would be sentenced to the Void. The Lord of the Winds was not ready to bid his farewells.

After a moment, Melkor asked, “Do the others know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Did you cast a spell so we can have a bit of privacy without anybody walking on us?”

“...No,” Manwë replied behind his gritted teeth.

“Might want to do it now.”

“Next time,” promised Manwë.

He held Melkor in his arms for a long time before he left.

***

“The spell will last a day. No one will walk nearby,” said Manwë, his hands on his hips.

From the floor where he was sitting, Melkor looked up. “I’m going to regret this, am I not?”

“Maybe.”

“How sore do you intend me to be?”

Manwë licked his lips. “Very.”

“Eru.”

“Don’t invoke His name,” scoffed Manwë as he undid the buckles of his robe.

Melkor’s spikes twirled in anticipation.

***

He was cast away the next day. Nobody knew where Manwë had been since then. It was said he had reached the bottom of the sea and dwelt in Ulmo’s domain. They all felt his sorrow when the terrible gate of Mandos closed for the last time. Even Tulkas did not laugh. Melkor had murmured that life began where a journey ended, but it was Manwë’s life that had ended.

Melkor was serene and had not looked back. The pulse of Arda did not stop drumming like his silent heartbeat.

Chapter End Notes

Mānawenūz (Valarin): Manwë

Part I

“Sir, you absolutely cannot, in any way, wear a form that has six wings!”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

Ingwë grunted. Four days ago, after reciting his morning prayer, Manwë had appeared before him. There was nothing unusual: Manwë appreciated the company of the Vanya with whom he could discuss mundane topics on daily life. The Vala learnt about the Vanyar and in return, he told Ingwë of the whereabouts of the Elves from Aman to Arda. It was beneficial for Ingwë who was the High King of all the Elves but could not see beyond his eyesight.

Manwë had appeared because he wished to explore the three capital cities of Valinor (Valmar, Tirion, and Alqualondë) and meet other Elves. He required guidance. It would be all too awkward and intimidating for the Vala to stand with his magnanimous form at the image of the grandeur of Taniquetil. He needed an appropriate form. Manwë also knew Elves communicated differently than the Ainur. If he never had any issue conversing with Ingwë, this last one sometimes confessed Ainur, Valar especially, seemed to think as if they came from a parallel universe.

The Great Monarch had listened to Ingwë’s advice and had changed his body accordingly. Mostly. He was touchy on the matter of wings and refused to let go of his three pairs. It was six wings or nothing. He used to wear four in the prime of his youth. Six wings were a symbol of maturity. It was absurd to believe he could have only two like Eönwë.

“Because what? I don’t see what’s wrong with them,” Manwë pouted.

“Six is too much, you won’t be able to pass through the door,” Ingwë shook his head.

“I will prove to you I can,” declared the Vala.

Having said so, Manwë walked to the door and went through the doorway.

“See,” he shouted from the other room. “I told you!”

“My Lord,” said Ingwë, going to the room where the Ainu was, “if you pass through walls and objects, you will terrorise the Elves.”

“…ah.”

Indeed, on Manwë’s right were two servants who were clutching onto their brushes and staring at the Vala like he had eaten a whole table raw. Manwë cleared his throat and flashed a grin. “Good evening,” he greeted them jovially.

“Elves feel comfortable around beings that are relatable to them,” said Ingwë. “Come, let’s go back to my office and let them finish their work.”

“Your Highness, I’m sorry we couldn’t finish before the morn!” exclaimed one domestic. He kneeled and bowed deeply.

“We apologise!” his coworker agreed as she bowed too. Her forehead touched the floor.

“Morning? What morning? What nonsense is this?” asked Ingwë. “The Light has mingled not too long ago…”

“It’s bright as daytime,” replied one servant.

“Odd.” The Vanya turned toward Manwë. “Lord, do you not control the Light, do you? Or time?”

“Oh no, I’m not my wife, Yavanna, or the Fëanturi.”

Ingwë narrowed his eyes. The palace did shine as it had been blessed by Laurelin.

“I’m certain it’s your power. Is it possible to control it?”

“Like I’m a creature of the shadows who doesn’t shine? Let me… Ah! There it goes! How is it?”

Ingwë glanced around him and then at Manwë. “An amber glow surrounds you, but that’s quite the difference, really. The night is back.”

Manwë smiled, pleased with himself. The two domestics stared at him, astonished.

“Your Highness,” said one tentatively, “who is he?”

“He’s a Maia of Varda,” answered Ingwë the moment he saw the Vala open his mouth. He realised it was preferable to keep Manwë’s identity secret. He didn’t want his servants to believe the end was near or Manwë had come to cast a spell that would turn the world upside down. It was better to pretend he was a Maia. Vanyar met Maiar on the daily in Valmar.

“Very nice to meet you, sir,” said the servant.

“Yes, very nice,” parroted her coworker.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us…,” Ingwë jerked his head toward his office and grabbed Manwë by the arm. He aimed for an arm, but he took a handful of feathers. Either way, the Vala complied and followed him. “Sir,” said Ingwë once they entered his office, “tomorrow, I shall show you the streets of Valmar and see how you interact with my people before I judge it safe to leave you alone. There are Maiar who mingle with the Vanyar. They’ll recognise you. Can you conceal your power?”

“I suppose. Is it a problem if I can’t?”

“Yes, it will startle the Elves if the Maiar bow before you and make a scene, and our goal is to be discreet. Hence the importance of not having six wings.”

Manwë crossed his wings defensively. He looked like a spring roll. “These are my wings! I’m keeping them!”

“My Lord…,” frowned Ingwë. He opened his mouth and closed it. He pulled the face of someone who was about to make a grand speech, simply, he realised it was pointless to forbid Manwë from visiting Valmar. There was nothing the High King could do against a Vala. Suddenly, he had the idea of the genius: “If you don’t comply, I’ll report you to Lady Varda!”

“Fine…,” grumbled Manwë. Unhappy, he sulked.

“Thank you.”

Ingwë yawned. He had not noticed how tired he was, despite the night being young. He showed the Vala his library to keep him busy until morning. Ingwë doubted Valar slept, save for the Fëanturi who didn’t count because they were of the strangest brand of Ainur.

He wished Manwë goodnight, went to the royal chambers, heard his wife the High Queen snore loudly, and walked up to his room instead. It had a small mattress on the floor, a wardrobe, a desk, a drawer with a mirror, a few plants, heavy blankets, and a sea of cushions. It was small but cozy. The Vanya built a nest with his cushions and blankets, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit his pillow. He didn’t have time to worry about Manwë summoning a tornado out of boredom.

The next day, he woke up to his palace renewed. Manwë hated doing nothing, so he took the bull by the horns and helped the servants to clean the place. Everything was wiped, washed, scrubbed, polished. Funnily enough, Manwë had replaced torches with some of his feathers. Each floor was lit by a different colour (fire, said Manwë, was always orange, and orange became boring over time). Ingwë considered hiring Manwë as a palace keeper, and later to lend him to Finwë and Olwë. Olwë especially would benefit from the Vala’s cleaning skills. Ingwë had heard stupid stories from Olwë on home design because Uinen and Ossë, albeit well intended, forgot that decorations under the sea couldn’t be the same as terrestrial decorations. Fluorescent seaweed favoured by the Oarni looked like a pile of wet feces when left on land. Nothing Olwë was fond of.

Ingwë followed his morning routine, chatted with his wife, searched for Manwë, found him grooming his wings in his library, congratulated him for having two, borrowed clothes from his footman, and dressed up.

“We have an issue,” declared Ingwë.

“Your Highness?” said his footman nervously.

“No, not you.”

Manwë scowled. “I have two wings as you requested me.”

“My Lord, not you either.” Ingwë sighed, “I can’t go on the streets like this. People will recognise my face.”

“May His Majesty borrow makeup from the Lady Queen?” suggested the footman.

“Oh, the little folk of Aȝūlēz wear paintings on their faces and arms,” said Manwë. “You will stand out even more if you do that, I’m afraid.”

“Aȝūlēz?”

“How do you call him in your language? He’s a Vala. The smith.”

“Aulë?” answered the footman.

“I’ll take your word, young man.”

Ingwë scoffed. His footman was by no means a ‘young man’, although everyone was young compared to Manwë.

The King stared at his reflection in the mirror. He put his hands on his hips. “Yes, makeup…,” he said. “Fetch one of my wife’s scarves and some of her jewellery; I will go on the streets as a woman.”

***

“What an idea,” pestered Ingwë. “I look ridiculous with that tint and glitter on my lips and eyes. Nobody will believe I’m a mere lady!”

“I could turn your voice high-pitched,” said Manwë.

Ingwë blanched. “Nessa’s tits, no!”

“Don’t swear.”

“…sincere apologies.”

The Vanya glanced at Manwë. This last one sniffed the bouquet he had bought at the flowershop. Ingwë had no idea where Manwë found money, but he reasoned Valar could create coins on the go.

Going to the marketplace went remarkably well. Manwë said nothing to hint at his real identity. Rather, he tried a bit of everything (food, clothes, jewellery, flowers, pottery—Ingwë had to prevent him from purchasing a fragile vase) and was charming to everyone. All seemed to be drawn to him.

They crossed paths with a Maia of Tulkas. The heart of Ingwë had stopped beating for a second, but the Maia was clueless and thankfully accepted Manwë’s story about him being a Maia of Varda. He was also unaware people swore by his Vala’s wife’s bosom.

The only problem was birds. If Vanyar wanted to get a glimpse of Manwë’s white hair, purple eyes, and bright smile, they at least kept their distances. Birds invaded the market as if the place belonged to them. Even a Great Eagle landed on top of a building. Ingwë told it, ‘Shh!’ when he and Manwë walked next to the establishment. He could not risk the Eagle to open his beak, address his lord, and spoil it. People stared at Ingwë like he was a moron. Manwë, either oblivious or good at ignoring the Eagle, commented that lemon pastries were the best thing he had tasted so far.

The duo finished the day safe and sound. Ingwë agreed to let Manwë explore and interact with Elves without his surveillance.

Manwë flew to Tirion. He was intrigued by the dark hair of the Ñoldor that was so different from the Vanyar’s golden manes. He was also curious about their love of stone, and the lack of trees and plants on their streets. Vanyar put flowers everywhere they could. Nails full of mud were a sign of beauty; it meant one took time to garden daily. Ñoldor, on the other hand, were enamoured with stonewalls to the point Tirion was nothing but a myriad of greys and whites. Fortunately, Ñoldor loved gems as well and decorated their windowsills and doorframes with colourful precious stones. Manwë thought they were strange people. He understood why they were Aulë’s favourites. Rock lovers, concluded the sovereign of the Ainur. It was unfair to say Ñoldor detested trees. On the contrary, they adored hiking in the forest and mountains behind the city.

The Vala found himself in front of the gates of the royal castle. He was just about to open his wings and fly off when two guards shouted at him.

“Hey! Hey! You! What are you doing here?”

“I wish to visit the palace,” replied Manwë.

“Do you have the permission of His Majesty?”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean, ‘which one’?” one of the guards asked, incredulous.

“King Ingwë gave me the permission to visit the cities of Aman,” answered Manwë. He failed to see what the issue was—he was all-seeing through his wind and birds already. He had seen every household in the world.

The guards looked at each other. “What do we do with him?” one whispered.

“Has His Majesty Finwë invited you over?” questioned another.

“Hm. No.”

“Then you cannot pass through the gates.”

“Ah.” Manwë opened his wings fully. He might have only two, but they were impressive regardless.

“W-w-wait!” the boldest guard grabbed him by the feathers.

Irritated, Manwë shook his wings and the guard stumbled back.

“What are you?” gasped the guard.

“A Maia of Varda,” lied Manwë.

“What is your name?” his companion inquired.

“It’s… I forgot.”

“You forgot?!” the two Ñoldor yelled.

“When I revealed my name to King Ingwë, he decreed it was too long and gave me a new one for the Elves to use. I forgot what it was.”

“Okay,” a guard scratched his neck. “Tell us in Valarin, then.”

“It’s Aranāẓeŋkhurōẓ.”

“What is going on here?” a voice interrupted the exchange.

“Prince Fëanáro!” rejoiced the guards. They felt immense relief. Fëanor, quick-witted that he was, always found a solution to uncanny situations.

“Prince Fëanáro, sir,” one of the guards said, “this person here wishes to enter the palace but has no formal invitation from His Majesty nor you.”

“I stopped him from flying!” the other mentioned with pride.

Manwë rolled his eyes. No Elf could stop him from flying.

“He is a Maia of Varda,” pursued the guard, “his name is… erh… I can’t pronounce it.”

“Aranāẓeŋkhurōẓ,” Manwë finished for him.

Fëanor eyed him from head to toe. He had the demeanour of someone who was used to barking orders and being obeyed. Manwë smirked inwardly. He liked that arrogance in High Elves.

“You,” said Fëanor, “you will come with me.” When he saw that Manwë raised an eyebrow, he added, “That’s not a question, that’s a command.”

One’s pride was the shovel that dug one’s grave, had said Námo. One’s pride in this precise moment stirred Manwë’s curiosity. He was amused by the cold tone of the Ñoldorin prince. It was a change from Ingwë’s banter that still held notes of reverence and friendliness beneath.

Fëanor led the Vala through the woods behind the castle. They walked for some time. Manwë decided flying was the best means of transportation. Walking was infuriatingly slow in comparison.

Soon they were surrounded by crows, owls, and even vultures, perched on trees and staring at the two travelers. Fëanor narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve never seen such a thing,” he murmured. He glanced at Manwë behind his shoulder. “That’s because of you, isn’t it?”

Manwë offered a sly grin and shrugged one shoulder. Fëanor glared.

They walked on sinuous trails until they reached a forge—Fëanor’s. A crow landed on Manwë’s shoulder. It nibbled his ear and made soft sounds.

“It was not to my knowledge a Maia of Varda could be a bird whisperer,” said Fëanor. He frowned with suspicion.

“I come from a faraway place where the Light of the Trees doesn’t reach, but where the stars shine brighter. There are few of us, so we learn to develop other powers and abilities, including conversing with animals and plants.”

“Right,” whispered Fëanor. He was under the impression the Maia did not tell him everything, yet he acknowledged there was nothing he knew of the Dark Lands, their people, and their customs.

He opened the door of the forge. “Mahtan?,” he called. “I’m here!” He addressed Manwë: “This way. Remove your shoes and pick a pair of boots.”

Manwë lifted his robe. He was barefoot. Fëanor sighed. “I suppose there’s no need to tell you to be cautious and not harm yourself.”

The crow cackled, jumped from Manwë’s shoulder, and explored the room.

“Put your bird outside,” ordered the Ñoldo.

The crow, offended, made an angry noise at the Elf. Another door opened and Mahtan stormed in. He wasn’t alone.

“There you are,” said the smith-master, grinning wide. “You came with?”

“I do not know, this is why I’d like your insight on the identity of this individual,” Fëanor pointed at Manwë with his thumb.

Mahtan stroked his beard. “I see. Mairon?”

The Maia approached, nodded ‘hi’ at Fëanor, and brought his focus back to Manwë. “I do not know you,” he said. “What do they call you?”

“If you mean in the local language, I forgot,” Manwë replied evenly. He fought hard to swallow a smirk that threatened to appear on his lips. He was entertained by the whole and regretted he could not share stories with the Elves of Mairon when he was a young being.

“In Valarin.”

“Aranāẓeŋkhurōẓ.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Is he not a Maia?” asked Mahtan.

“It’s impossible he’s not an Ainu,” said Fëanor. “He has wings, glows like candlelight, and attracts birds like no one else. He claims to be a Maia of Varda from the Dark Lands.”

“I’ve never said where I was from, the place is called ‘Harad’ by its inhabitants,” corrected Manwë.

Mairon crossed his arms. “I have the feeling I know him, that confirms to me you are at least a Spirit. I’m not personally acquainted with all Spirits, Elementals, and Maiar. He may be what he claims to be. However…”

“However?” pressed Fëanor.

Mairon groaned. “May I have a word with both of you? In private.”

Fëanor nodded and they went to the adjacent room, leaving Manwë alone in the forge. Air circulated and Manwë was the Lord of the Winds—nothing escaped his earshot. Poor Mairon had no idea.

“He’s not a normal Maia,” Mairon told the two Ñoldor.

“Eönwë?,” mused Mahtan.

“Of course not,” scoffed Mairon. “Eönwë is my friend, I know him. Either way, be careful around him, he hides his true power.”

“A Vala?”

“It’s possible,” sighed Mairon. “Which one, I can’t tell. Some are excellent at hiding their real identities.”

Manwë played with the crow until the smiths finished their not-so-secret meeting. When they returned to the forge, he said, “Now that this little conversation of yours is over, can I go outside and explore the woods? Lovely trees out there.”

“No,” refused Mairon.

“Why not?”

“Not until I am sure you have no ill intentions.”

Manwë rolled his eyes for the second time of the day. He mentally took note to request Ingwë to write an official parchment along the lines of It is safe to interact with this Ainu. This Ainu succeeded in his training on Ainurin-Elvish communication. Diploma issued by King Ingwë, High King of the Elves. He moved to a corner of the room, sat down, and started to change the colours of his wings, having nothing else to do. The smiths paid him no mind and directed their attention to what they were working on. Manwë observed them until he had enough. He used the eyes of his birds to watch over the world.

Fëanor, Mahtan, and Mairon worked for hours. None of the Elves took a break to eat Manwë suspected they fed from potent fruits in the woods.

Fingers snapped in front of his face. “Wake up! We’re done.”

Manwë blinked. Fëanor’s face was a few inches from his. There was a fire that irradiated in his chest, Manwë noticed, stronger than other Elves.

“You said you wished the explore the woods. We’re doing that.”

“Am I not allowed to go on my own?”

“No,” retorted Mairon.

Manwë had forgotten how stubborn he was.

The little trip was overall agreeable. Mahtan took pleasure in to explain the vegetation in detail, and Fëanor enriched the conversation by talking about the various kinds of soil in Aman. Mairon kept silent, except when he complained about the birds flocking around (an owl had landed on Manwë’s head, was transfixed by Mairon’s fiery hair, and had tried to bite it repeatedly).

They parted ways when they reached the royal palace. Manwë and Fëanor awkwardly stood in front of the gates.

“Will you be there tomorrow?” inquired Fëanor.

“In Tirion? Yes, I’m exploring.”

Fëanor tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind his ear. He had tied his hair up in a ponytail though some wild strands fell around his jaw. Manwë thought it was adorable.

“I can show you around if you wish,” said Fëanor.

Manwë considered the Ñoldo. The prince no longer showed signs of hostility and suspicion.

“So be it,” the Vala accepted.

“Meet me tomorrow at the gates.”

Manwë bowed his head. “Until tomorrow.”

He took a red feather from his wing and placed it in Fëanor’s hair before flying away.

Fëanor blushed despite himself.

Part II

As promised, they met the next day. Birds followed them. The people of Tirion were delighted to see forest birds; it was a change from the usual pigeons, turtledoves, robins, crows, geese, and song sparrows of the city.

One thing Fëanor discovered was that Manwë (whom he still believed to be a Maia of Varda) abhorred inefficiency. The Ainu often paused in their tracks to fix something (scolding misbehaving customers and giving a lecture to store clerks on proper store management). Broken glasses were repaired with a snap of the fingers. Fëanor was surprised Manwë did not comment on the state of his forge. The semi-mess did irk Manwë, but he judged it necessary to play docile. He wanted to befriend Fëanor, not the opposite.

Fëanor wondered what would happen if he brought ‘Aranāẓeŋkhurōẓ’ to the palace. There was a farming tax issue that was unresolved. The Ainu proved to love solving problems, and Fëanor hated tax issues. Nobody right in their mind liked them, but Ainur were a different brand of beings. So Fëanor announced their tour was over, much to Manwë’s disappointment. He protested (he enjoyed his time in the horse-drawn carriage). They agreed to visit the city for a little longer (Manwë convinced Fëanor with one of his irresistible smiles) before heading to the palace.

Manwë treated governors and advisors not too kindly. Their issue was nothing but a silly miscommunication problem. He gave them a lesson on organisation and paperwork—bureaucracy was hell because nobody liked it, consequently, they shortcut everything they could and missed important bits. Manwë then demanded to see the paperwork on international affairs and trading. The advisors refused. They knew he’d complain.

Twenty minutes later, the Ainu had said paperwork in hand. He had threatened to destroy the place with a hurricane. It worked like a charm. He claimed the first desk he saw as his, and worked relentlessly. Fëanor had a heart attack when Manwë burnt the papers. Finwë, who had been alerted of the situation, nearly fainted. Thankfully for them, Manwë had an excellent memory and he had rewritten the papers in no time with guidelines and protocols to follow (with a bonus of possible problems that could be encountered and how to solve them).

When not busy bossing others around, Manwë was good company. He was relaxed and cracked jokes. Apart from one’s sense of organisation (or lack of), he was not judgemental of one’s quirks. Fëanor could talk to him forever about his passions. The smith’s favourite precious stones were emeralds and he ensured Manwë received sufficient knowledge on this mineral. The Ainu plucked a feather, turned it into an emerald, and gave it to Fëanor. This last one’s face became beet red.

“Why do you give me your feathers?” he almost shouted, flustered. “You did the same yesterday!”

“Elves give flowers as a gift, don’t they? Flowers don’t grow on my back. Feathers do.”

Fëanor hid his face behind his hands. “Do you realise what the meaning of a bouquet is?”

“Yes. I’m not stupid,” smirked Manwë.

Despite his embarrassment, when they parted ways, Fëanor invited Manwë to come over again. Finwë begged him to keep the Ainu away from the Estate’s affairs.

Manwë’s presence made people from the court chatter and gossip. They speculated the Crown Prince had hired a new guard. Why else would the Ainu spend nighttime perched on the tower of Tirion watching over the city? In truth, there was no further reason than Manwë’s instinctual preference for heights to explain his behaviour. Taniquetil was his favourite place to be, followed by the Halls of Nienna. This was unknown to court members. Conspiracy theories proved to be more thrilling. It escalated to a point where they had convinced themselves Dwarves built an underworld so large there was a Dwarvish stronghold under Tirion. Fëanor wished it were true. It was his lifelong dream to meet a Dwarf in the flesh. He couldn’t comprehend how conspiracy theories reached this conclusion, however.

Wishing to be away from senseless rumours, Fëanor escaped to the mountains. He had built years before a small wooden cabin to satisfy his urges to flee from court and society to a place where he could study in peace. This was where Manwë found him. And Fëanor often saw the Ainu perched on the higher trees, gazing at the horizon. He spent his nights there. Fëanor deducted as a Maia of Varda, he longed for the sky and the stars. Guarding a secret underground domain was unlikely.

Against all odds, one night, Manwë asked the Elda, “What does it feel like to sleep?”

Fëanor tried his best to give detailed explanations of his dreams. Manwë tilted his head. He had not understood. The prince encouraged his companion to try to sleep with him. A minute passed before he caught the innuendo. Manwë was already resting against his side in the bed. His glow had faded away. It was too late to make a diversion.

If the Ñoldo wanted to make a move, it was too late as well. Manwë had closed his eyes and his breathing was calm and steady.

The next day, Manwë left the cabin due to serious business waiting for him in Valmar. Said serious business was to seek Ingwë’s counsel on Elvish reproduction. Manwë knew everything of the theory; none of the practice. He desired to try mating with an Elf. Ingwë stammered more than he phrased full sentences. He did relatively well in explaining the meeting of two sexes until Manwë enquired about same-sex intercourse. Ingwë found himself at a loss with what to say. The Vala gave up and flew to the woods of Oromë. The Hunter had spent ages leading young, horny Elves to the West. He would know.

Oromë provided sufficient descriptions of the matter. The reminiscence of the Great Journey made him grumpy. It took him longer than anticipated to teach the Firstborns simple things such as baking bread. The Children’s main life goal was copulation. Mature Elves were better company than the hormone-fuelled ones. Massive reproduction was the most infuriating event of the Journey.

Content, Manwë went back to the cabin. Deep down, he was glad Varda was gone west—she was in Harad with her Maiar. Planning to fornicate with an Elf was a thing, doing it when Varda was near another.

To his consternation, Fëanor’s heartbeat was abnormally fast when he returned. The Elf had no wish to confess he had spent the day fantasizing about their meeting. There were too many emotions to endure and fire to tame. Fëanor made up a ludicrous story about his heartbeat. His knees almost gave up when Manwë’s fingertips touched his neck, feeling his pulse, and sent electric shocks down his spine.

The Prince thought it was time to take the bull by the horns. After a few shots of whisky, Fëanor found drunken courage to consume his union with Manwë. The Ainu was pleased. His curiosity had been fulfilled.

Manwë continued to practice the art of sleeping. He had gotten so good at this he fell asleep on the top of Taniquetil by accident.

A terrible dream plagued him. He dreamt of a Vala so powerful, so terrible that the Music was distorted. Yet the Vala of his dream carried the Light of Eru. It was his son.

He woke up disoriented and confused. He felt ill. The feeling lingered on. His mind paced, trying to find an answer to the signification of it. The Vala flew to Lórien, and urged Námo and Ulmo to come. Manwë needed Irmo for the interpretation of his dream, Estë for healing his illness, Námo and Ulmo for support and further theorization on his dream-son.

Estë placed her hands on Manwë’s stomach. “My dear,” she said with her whisper-like voice. “You are with child.”

Manwë felt his soul leave his body.

“And to say I was looking for the hidden meaning of it,” sighed Irmo. “He is truly pregnant.”

Námo shook his head. “I’ve known of the son of Eru for ages.”

“Why haven’t you said anything about it?” cried Manwë.

“I couldn’t know you’d fall pregnant by copulating with an Elf!” retorted Námo, already irritated. The absurdity of the situation tired him.

“I don’t have plants powerful enough to abort you,” said Estë. “Perhaps Ullubōz has weed that would help.”

“I don’t,” the Lord of the Sea replied.

“It’s Eru’s child,” repeated Námo. “The child is meant to be and will be born. We cannot change the future.”

Manwë whined. Estë patted him encouragingly.

“What am I going to tell my wife?” he wailed.

“Good luck with that,” whistled Irmo.

“Know that there will always be a place for you in the ocean,” said Ulmo. “If your throne is no longer a place to be.”

Námo, uninterested in the conversation, was playing with lavender. He enjoyed the soothing smell. He planned to decorate his halls with this flower. Its presence would be welcome in the troublesome future he foresaw.

***

It was wiser that Manwë built a nest in Lórien where peace reigned. Estë’s and Irmo’s Maiar were not intrusive and left him be. The company of Estë and Irmo reassured him that Ulmo and Námo didn’t. Ulmo was his best friend, but his sense of righteousness forged his strict character; Námo was wise and saw beyond the world, but his abstract thoughts proved difficult to follow, and he was broody. The gentle, albeit bizarre at times, nature of the gardens of Lórien was a balm to the special situation Manwë was in.

There was no point in hiding the truth from Fëanor. With Estë, he flew to Tirion. When Manwë saw Fëanor’s beaming smile, he changed his mind and found every reason to bury the matter in the depths of the world and keep the Elf in ignorance. He told the first lie that came to his mind. Estë, disguised as a simple Ñoldorin flower shop clerk, had the decency of mind to say nothing in front of Fëanor.

With a broken heart, Manwë kissed Fëanor goodbye. There was no harm feeling in the Ñoldo’s gaze, only sweet sadness he concealed far behind the fire of his eyes.

The worst was yet to come. Manwë had no experience in giving birth and laying eggs. He took the form of a Great Eagle, hoping to ease the process.

He laid an egg one night. It was pale green with grey and white dots. A proud little egg. Relieved, Manwë went back to his Elvish form with no fewer than six wings. It was his favourite body to wear. A crown of massive cedars had grown around his nest. A gift from Yavanna. Manwë had no idea why she had grown them. He suspected it was Námo’s doing. The Judge walked away from the spotlight to operate in darkness. His help, or wrath, came when most unsuspected, yet when most appropriate on the path of unfolding events.

Irmo often came to talk to the egg. The baby was sentient, he said. Manwë held the certainty the fetus was developing and not sentient at all. So he sat there to look at Irmo coo at an egg. It was stupid.

Manwë worried little about Varda. He created a facetious story in his head: Eru gave him the egg and it was his duty to take care of it. She would ask him why the others had no idea. ‘Surprise!’ he would reply. It was a perfect plan.

The Vala worried about the powers of the child. If he were to believe his dream, the child eclipsed the Aratar in might. Manwë, as a ruler and caregiver of Eagles and Maiar, had experience with managing others. Raising someone more powerful than him was never part of the equation. He was ignorant of what to do.

The day the egg cracked, Námo held a secret meeting with Manwë, Estë, and Irmo.

“I tried to summon Ullubōz,” said Námo. “He claimed the less he knows, the better. He will not join us today.”

“Ah,” Irmo responded flatly. He carefully inspected the egg. “I want one like that for my birthday,” he told his wife.

“Time didn’t exist when we were created,” replied Estë. “Therefore, you can’t have a birthday.”

“You’re right,” sighed Irmo. “What a pity.”

“We are here today because the baby soon will walk—or fly—in this world,” announced Námo. It was evident why they met. Námo tended to state the obvious when he wasn’t speaking in his odd, abstract speech. “The others know.”

“They know?!” cried Manwë.

Námo raised his hand. “Peace, my friend. Irmo crafted a prophetic dream. You are the guardian of the Sacred Egg. This is the version they’ve been given. Not a single word on the,” the Judge groaned and made a vague gesture of the hand, “unfortunate circumstances of its making.”

Manwë cringed.

“Also,” Námo pursued, “your herald and the King of the Elves worry about you. I dealt with them.”

“I advised him not to be scary,” Estë chimed in.

“Right…,” said Manwë. “What have you said?”

“To the Elvenking: that you will return in due time. That’s all I said. I figured your wife would question him when she returns. Just like Ullubōz, the less he knows, the better. As for your herald, I told him this was an occasion for him to observe the equilibrium of the world and meditate on how to preserve or change it.”

“Poor little ayanūz,” moaned Irmo. “He wasn’t ready to have such responsibilities.”

“I told him to meditate,” retorted Námo, “not to rule.”

Manwë sighed. He felt sorry for leaving Eönwë and Ingwë in the dark. “Yes, that’s the best.” He glanced at the egg. “I’m terrified of the future.”

“As you should,” said Námo.

“You’re not helping,” scowled Estë. Irmo winced.

“What? You know he always falls back into habits! Of course, change would terrify him! I’m not scared for him. He will overcome this,” retorted the Judge.

Manwë smiled. Námo, when he wasn’t talking in abstract metaphors like his siblings, stated things as they came, yet, advocated fighting one’s demons and finding one’s truth. It was the kind of support Manwë sought in a friend.

“Do you know how long it’ll take before the child is out of its egg?” inquired Irmo.

“Not really,” sighed Manwë.

“Let’s pray whoever we should pray—my sister, why not—that it won’t take ages,” loured Námo, “or else this little prophecy Irmo and I fabricated means nothing.”

“You heard that, baby?” chirped Irmo. “Hurry up!” He patted the egg.

Manwë closed his wings around himself like a cocoon. There was nothing to do but wait.

***

And he waited. The egg hatched fully after a few days. Manwë had on his lap a little creature that looked identical to the Children of Ilúvatar, or almost. The child had scales like a lizard, and his skin was a strange greyish-green colour with blue highlights. He (Manwë safely assumed he was male after looking between his legs) had big, pale blue eyes and black hair too short to be braided. Apart from warbling, sleeping, and eating, the child did nothing else. It was too weak to walk.

Varda had not come back from Harad. Manwë was scared she had figured his secret out and planned their divorce.

Estë, Irmo, Námo and Ulmo came to visit regularly. The baby seemed to appreciate the attention—when he was awake. When he was asleep, he gave no reaction, as common sense dictated.

Námo suggested they find a name. Manwë had forgotten it was proper to name babies. ‘The baby’ was succinct and efficient, so he didn’t bother to come up with something else. He let Estë do it, as she was the most sensible one of them. Ever the literate person, she named the child ‘The One Who Arises in Might’. It was a long name, but Valarin names were rarely under three syllables, so it didn’t matter.

Fëanor never knew. All he discovered years later was that a powerful Vala was stirring trouble, according to the Ñoldor. Ñoldor prided themselves as superior to everybody else and didn’t take too kindly that some Ainu was, with Varda’s blessing, building empires in faraway lands, empires said to be more technologically advanced than the people of Aman. Flying chariots! How mad could this Vala be? A single star that lit those dark places more than the Light of the Trees? Heresy! When Melkor came to his place for the silmarils, Fëanor, clueless, slammed the door on his son. Námo and Irmo found it quite humorous. Manwë considered trading places with Ulmo and disappearing into the ocean forever.

Chapter End Notes

'Aranāẓeŋkhurōẓ' doesn't mean anything, I made it up.

Ullubōz: Ulmo
Ayanūz: Ainu

The prompt was 'Melkor is Fëanor's son!' in case some of you were wondering.

1. Alqualondë

The sailor wished his fellow sailors goodnight. They were back home after being gone for a full month. On land, the air was already warmer than it was in the middle of the sea. The sailor breathed with satisfaction. He couldn’t wait to be home, hold his wife in his arms, and play with his two children and his cat. A bit dizzy after time spent on a rocking ship, he wobbled to his apartment.

Suddenly, the ground shook. The sailor lost balance and tripped. Somebody stepped on his ankle and fell on him. A deep laughter echoed through the air.

“What in Ulmo’s name was that?” exclaimed the Teler above him, too stunned to get up.

“I don’t know,” the sailor replied, too stunned to tell the Teler to get off him.

“It’s the second time this week it has happened!” said the Teler.

“Ah?”

The Teler propped himself on his elbows to look at the sailor in the eyes. “What do you mean, ‘ah’? It was felt from here to the suburbs of the city!”

“I had no idea. I’m just a sailor, sir,” he explained. “I only came back tonight.”

The sailor wondered if it were an earthquake. He then wondered if earthquakes made a laughing noise when they occurred. Something was off with the logic of the world.

***

On his throne, Olwë looked bored. For the fifth time this month, somebody had come to him to complain about the meteorological disturbance.

“I hear you, madam,” he told his audience—a woman with a baby on her back that she had
wrapped in a sling carrier. The infant was oblivious to the atmosphere and slept soundly. The Teler king envied him.

“You must understand, your Highness, that we are scared!” she huffed. “You are the king: you must do something!”

Olwë nodded and raised his hand. Two guards approached the woman. It was time to leave. She bowed before Olwë and was escorted by the guards out of the throne room.

“What are you going to do?” asked Finarfin, who stood next to Olwë.

This last one rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s not as if I could control the weather, is it?”

Finarfin shrugged. “It may not be the weather at all. I’m sure it’s that laughter’s fault. We must find the culprit.”

He was right, conceded Olwë. Only, he was too lazy to audition the entire Alqualondë to find what moron laughed so hard it made the ground tremble. There were at least more than two Teleri in the city. There were thousands of them. He refused to spend too many hours on this silly task. Yet, duty called.

And to say he had planned to attend sewing classes this afternoon. Alas, this would wait.

***

2. Tirion

Forced to lead the detective mission to find out the source of the laughing earthquake, Olwë went with his guard to Tirion. Finarfin had refused to come. According to him, Eärwen’s advanced pregnancy required his presence in Alqualondë, even though Finrod was old enough to take good care of his mother, and Olwë’s wife never left her side. Finarfin judged it wise to ignore Eärwen’s suggestion to go to Tirion with his father-in-law. The truth behind his refusal to come was that Finarfin had lost a bet against his sister. Findis still demanded what was due. Finarfin, prideful, had refused to give it to her. Nobody else knew about it than the two concerned siblings. Finarfin was too proud to tell his wife. He predicted she’d mock him. His ego was already wounded, thank you very much.

From the edge of his carriage seat, Olwë sniffed like a hunting dog tracking its prey. His guard was too polite to say anything but gave him a wonderful side-eye. The coachman was too polite to say anything and give him a side-eye, too. Good for Olwë, he didn’t pay attention at all.

Olwë sniffed again. Tirion smelled like grilled beef. Alqualondë, in comparison, smelled like seaweed and fish. Noldor, with their love of cattle and rocks, had invented barbecue. Olwë was forever thankful for this culinary innovation.

The carriage turned right. The scent of beef was replaced by the scent of grass. Olwë sighed in relief. Grass, that, he knew what it was. He could cease to behave like a hunting dog. All this zealous sniffing had almost caused him to hyperventilate.

Unfortunately for Olwë and his bodyguard, Aistaro, the royal guards refused to let them enter the palace. The burden of proof fell on the shoulders of the Teler monarch who had brought nothing to prove his status. Yes, he was the king of the Teleri, and no, he did not wear his fanciest clothes with embroidered white pearls. It was in no way practical. Why couldn’t they believe him? Aistaro threatened to poke Finwë’s guards’ bums with his sword. It did nothing to improve the situation.

Many headaches and protests later, Olwë was admitted in. He was to meet the monarchs in their quarters.

He was served a tray of cold meat and cheese in Indis’ office. Finwë’s office was out of use, or so he was told. Aistaro enquired why. The maid was vague with her answer, but Olwë caught the words ‘Prince Fëanáro’.

Somebody came in, to Olwë’s relief. He had enough of inspecting the table he was sitting at to keep him busy while waiting.

Aistaro let out an appreciative ‘woah’. The person who entered was Vanyarin. Aistaro loved to repeat to everyone he could that Eru had favourites, and his favourites were the Vanyar. Especially the women. Olwë wished the floor swallowed him whole. He turned around to reprimand his guard. The shock caused by his guard’s conduct had for effect to erase his ability to speak in full sentences. Olwë managed a strangled ‘You! Mhh! Mrgh! I- You- Euargh!’

Fortunately for him, the object of the whistle, Indis, took no offence. “No harm done, King Olwë.” She batted her eyelashes and flashed a wide grin. “It’s rare I receive such reactions. Men are too scared of me to tell me in all earnest how beautiful I am. They are under the impression my husband would eviscerate them.”

They wouldn’t be wrong, Olwë thought to himself. Finwë had the guts to re-marry. He would have the guts to terminate someone for fawning over his wife.

“So,” said Indis once she was seated in front of Olwë, “what brought you here?”

Olwë wasted no time in detailing the past events that occurred at Alqualondë. Concerned, Indis listened intently.

“Wait for me,” she said. “I know who can help you.”

She promptly left the room. When she came back, she was accompanied by Finwë and Fëanor. Finwë cheered at the sight of his old friend. Fëanor didn’t pipe a word but gave Olwë and Aistaro a polite nod

“Woah,” Aistaro whispered. “That’s a real piece of a man.” He was staring at Fëanor.

Olwë groaned. Fëanor grumbled under his breath, “Why does everyone say I’m handsome? Why can’t I be praised for my intelligence?”

Finwë cleared his throat.

“Right,” said Fëanor. “The weather oddity. I’m afraid, King Olwë, that earthquakes do not laugh. I have reached the conclusion it was a particularly strong laughter that’s the source of your problem.”

Olwë scowled. “This is what Arafinwë told me. I was hoping he’d be wrong.”

“Arafinwë said that?” replied Fëanor, his surprise undisguised.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Not bad.”

Finwë put his hands on his hips. He was not known for his patience. He wanted to know the outcome of the problem as soon as possible. “Then, what?”

“We ought to find who laughs with such a force,” answered Indis. “And forbid them from laughing ever again.”

Fëanor didn’t miss a beat to accuse Fingolfin. The younger prince laughed too loudly. Finwë retorted he was being mean.

Seeing that father and son were about to debate Fingolfin’s laughter for hours, Indis motioned Olwë and Aistaro to follow her. With her wisdom, she knew Fingolfin did not have the strongest laughter of the Noldor; Findis did. So the three of them went to find Indis’ eldest daughter.

It turned out that while loud, Findis’ giggles were a string of high-pitched shrieks. Aistaro covered Olwë’s ears for safety. No earthquake was recorded. Indis carried a smug expression as she was proud of her little trick. She enjoyed tickling her daughter at the cost of the palace’s sense of hearing. Aistaro muttered under his breath that he had never met someone so ticklish.

Indis concluded that the earthquake could not have been caused by any of her children, including Fingolfin whose favourite activity was to carry heavy sandbags, drop them on the ground and punch them while making dubious noises. She doubted that Fingolfin’s strength was this destructive.

Olwë and Aistaro stayed at Tirion for three days. They left for Valmar on the fourth.

***

3. Valmar

Manwë was proud of himself. It was the second week of his training with Ingwë. He was training to become an Elf. Not that Manwë had a genuine interest in renouncing his title as King of the Valar. What he wished was to perfect his disguise and emulate the Elven kin.

He missed his dear wings, of course, but it was a little price to pay to live among the Elves incognito.

This price was not the sole price he paid: to live as an Elf implied to eat like one, and so it implied to use the loo thereafter. Manwë felt disgust at the mere thought of excretion. He felt sorry Eru had made Elves this way. He wondered what Eru’s problem was. Sometimes, Eru lacked judgement. Manwë had concluded that Eru may not be fit to be the Creator.

With nothing to do this morning than aimlessly roam around in the golden palace of Ingwë, Manwë headed to Ingwë’s quarters. Ingwë would know what to do.

When Manwë found Ingwë, he found someone who clutched a piece of paper that Manwë assumed was a letter.

“Ingwë, what-,” the king of the Valar opened his mouth, but was cut off by the Vanya.

“He is coming!” Ingwë’s tone was thick with apprehension.

Manwë wrinkled his nose. “Who’s ‘he’?”

He knew it was impossible ‘he’ was Melkor. Melkor and Aulë were busy working on the terrestrial crust and upper mantle of the world faraway in Middle Earth. Besides, Melkor never announced his presence with a letter, let alone personally wrote to an Elf. He came when he felt like it, and that was it.

“Olwë!” Ingwë cried.

Manwë snatched the letter from his hands. What in Taniquetil’s name was so terrific? The letter read as follows:

Dear Ingwë,

Something strange happened. It is on Indis’ council that I am coming to Valmar. You must know, I am sure, what the cause of my worries is.

Yours truly,

Olue

“’Something strange happened.’ What does he mean by that?” inquired Manwë.

“I don’t know!”

“Then, why fussing? Tell him you don’t understand what he’s talking about, and that nothing’s wrong,” advised Manwë. The matter, to him, was more than straightforward.

Ingwë stared at him and blinked like he had seen a Vala. Granted, Manwë was a Vala, but in Ingwë’s office, he appeared like any ordinary Vanya.

“You are right!” exclaimed Ingwë. “I’m so relieved! All is well that ends well.”

Manwë raised his eyebrows and nodded. Life with Elves was a genuine manifestation of simplicity.

Simplicity, however, left as soon as Olwë entered the palace. The situation was bizarre enough that Ingwë requested Manwë’s presence for his private interview with his fellow king. Olwë narrowed his eyes at the sight of Manwë-not-Manwë. Ingwë reassured him that he was a councilor in training, not a stray yahoo that was picked up from the shady parts of Valmar.

“What do you think you can do about it?” said Olwë after he finished his little story.

“I could…,” started Ingwë. His eyes went in Manwë’s direction. The Ainu looked back at him, waiting. “I could summon Eönwë. Have you tried to summon Ulmo?”

“No,” admitted Olwë. “But what does Ulmo know about earthquakes?”

Pensive, Ingwë scratched his chin. “I doubt the Vala of water is versed in the domain of geology. You’re right: it would be useless to request his presence.”

On his chair, Manwë squirmed, offended. Ulmo was not stupid. He knew more than a thing or two about other elements! He did agree with Ingwë that summoning Ulmo was useless for another reason. The Lord of the Seas never came to important Valarin meetings.

The two Elven kings agreed to speak with Eönwë. After their decision was made, Ingwë invited Olwë to explore his gardens. Ingwë valued his plants and flowers greatly.

They bumped into Aistaro and Massadil, Ingwë’s guard, in the corridors. Aistaro didn’t miss a beat to compliment Ingwë’s ‘kingly king-like kingness’. In Aistarian speech, it meant he was impressed.

“What about me?” pouted Manwë. He longed for more interactions with Elves. That was the point of his training, after all. He was tired of being ignored.

Aistaro scanned him from head to toe.

“Your hair is interesting. More brown than is common for Vanyar.”

“But?” said Olwë who sensed there was more beneath the ice that waited to be expressed.

“But,” sighed Aistaro, “I’m sorry, my good man, other than your hair, you are the most average Elf I’ve ever seen! Not even imperfect asymmetrical lips or a bumpy nose that would add character to your face, or a remarkable build to stand out in a crowd. No! All is average.”

Olwë inhaled deeply. What was wrong with the man and his undying frankness? He had no tact.

Manwë pulled a ‘not bad’ face. “I see. I thank you for your honesty.”

When Olwë and Aistaro weren’t paying attention, Manwë turned toward Ingwë and flashed him a victorious smirk. He had succeeded in his Elf training. The most average Elf he was, by Taniquetil!

Ingwë rolled his eyes.

***

4. Middle Earth

“I’m surprised you have four wings,” commented Ingwë.

“Is that so,” mumbled Manwë, who was brushing bread crumbs off his thighs.

“Yes,” added Ingwë. “I thought you’d wear ten wings.”

“Four or six are my lucky numbers,” said the Vala.

He got up from his chair. He had abandoned his Elvish disguise and had opted for something that represented him more. He wore a simple but long white skirt that was adorned with subtle, shining stars. His wavy hair—blue, grey, and white; a reflection of clouds—veiled his naked chest and back.

From his place, while he dipped his bread in his bowl of broccoli soup, Ingwë admired the view. Manwë had the decency not to wear a dramatic and frightening appearance. After all, he did wish to dine with Ingwë before he flew to Middle Earth to find the source of the laughing earthquake. His miniature-Elvish-sized-yet-Valarin-looking-self was a sight to behold.

“Well!” groaned Manwë. “I must go.”

He scowled. The recent event put him in a sour mood. Whoever dared trouble his training! Why couldn’t other Valar behave properly? Idiots shouldn’t be Valar, he thought.

He opened the window and tried to fit into the frame. Stuck, he grunted; his wings took too much room. Ingwë helped by pushing Manwë’s bottom. The Vanya hoped Varda wouldn’t mind. With sufficient strength and willpower, Manwë finally got outside, opened his wings and flew in the sky at a speed faster than the wind. Ingwë found it was as witnessing one’s child come of age and take the reins of independence. It made him strangely sentimental.

Manwë flew as fast as he could. He had to find Aulë.

He first found, in some far away lands, a furious Yavanna yelling at Oromë. He landed between the two, hands on his hips. Between a feast of screams, Manwë gathered that Oromë came to shoo Melkor away. Melkor, Aulë, and Yavanna were working on the heat beneath the surface to ensure a healthy world. And so Yavanna, annoyed by Oromë’s noise (she despised the sound of his), came from the underworld to tell Oromë to tune it down or she’d kick him in the groin. Oromë defended himself by yelling at her. Yavanna yelled back. None of them would let go. Manwë cut it short and ordered them to take the example of Nahar who was peacefully eating grass.

Manwë then found Aulë and Melkor. Melkor was vexed that Manwë believed he could cause an earthquake by chuckling. Aulë said Elves fostered a vivid imagination and must be taken with a grain of salt.

Sheepish, Manwë returned to Valinor. Perched on a tall tree, he sulked. His time had been wasted. That was just great.

Suddenly, the tree shook. The soil trembled. Laughter erupted from the sky. These darn Elves were not lying! A figure sprang high in the air. A second followed it. As they disappeared on the horizon, the trembling ceased.

It was Tulkas and Nessa.