The Parchment of Secret Valian Tales by SonOfMandos

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The King of the Valar

In which the crackship Manwë x Fëanor happens.

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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.