My Heart Lies Where My Eyes Alight by wind rider

---

5: Butterfly Garden

---

Varda ambled along the small paths of the vast gardens in her corporeal form. Her mind was idly filled with the shapes of the constellations visible from naked mortal eyes and the idea of adding some more stars to them.

 

 Today was one of the few days in the recent ages in which the Valar and Maiar could be at peace. There was no trouble regarding the Firstborn or the distant matters from Middle Earth concerning the Secondborn, the exiled Elves, and the Ainur’s fallen brethren. During times such as this, she would relinquish her duties and even her regular hobbies for a rest. But, as the Children said, too much of anything make the thing worth less.

 

 She had indulged herself in all sorts of relaxing occupations all day, including plotting with Yavanna to prank Aulë, who had been rather annoying as of late according to the latter Valië, and strolling down the corner of the Halls of Mandos that had been specially set for the fëar of the Elven children, frolicking with them for a while. The day was coming to an end; Arien and her bright vessel had descended low on the western horizon. Tomorrow, she believed, trouble would find her and her brethren again, and she would not be bothered with finding another job to occupy herself.

 

 A brown butterfly fleeted close to the side of her head; it had come from the direction of a corner of the gardens. The Queen of the Stars hummed with interest, suddenly remembering. Sure that no one was around – either the Ainur or Firstborn –, a bright grin broke on her face and she skipped lightly to the direction whence the beautiful, fragile little creature had come, feeling suddenly youthful like those countless ages ago in the Timeless Halls in the presence of her Father.

 

 Laughter sounded in her ears, gentle, rich and melodious.

 

 `Father….` she half-whined, embarrassed, but neither her demeanour nor her gait faltered or changed.

 

 `You forgot that I always watch you, my child,` a voice spoke, the last of the laughter evident in his tone. Varda blushed into a deeper shade, almost red.

 

 `I am sorry, Father,` she said, sincerely contrite. `I cannot promise that I will always remember, though. You are so far away…`

 

 The voice did not answer. Instead, she felt like being hugged warmly and kissed on her brow.

 

 Thus she arrived in the corner she had aimed for in a state of beatific bliss – and ignorant of her surroundings.

 

 It was Manwë, also in his corporeal form, who broke her reverie. “You are quite happy this afternoon, my lady,” he greeted her from the opposite side of the flower garden. Happy was such a pathetic word compared to what she was feeling, she thought with an annoyed snort, but she replied him with a cheery smile and decided to set aside her irritation for a good time well-spent in the garden. Her spouse was there, irksome though he might be at times; what more could she wish for?

 

 Manwë looked even more ethereal and, if she was truthful to herself, handsome, surrounded by butterflies of every size, shape and colour. Indeed, everything in that corner of the complex was wreathed by butterflies, but for now her attention was solely on him. He was beaming gaily at her, his deep-blue orbs twinkling like her stars. The formal, dignified air he put on in some occasions when dealing with the Elves or Ainur, or when he was conducting meetings of grave import, was absent from his demeanour. Here he was simply the Ainu she had espoused all those ages ago, the one that she loved beyond her creations… and sometimes even beyond herself.

 

 They were like lovestruck youths, twirling around on the patches of green grass among the clumps of various flower plants and bushes. The butterflies danced alongside them, celebrating the love and light-heartedness of two of their creators joyfully. The pair halted at various lengths of time to exchange fleeting kisses. They were quiet, except when one of them was whispering silly ideas or pulling up a trick on the other; the actions would elicit a fit of light, mischievous giggles from both of them.

 

 There, tucked in a corner of the mansion and obscured by swarms of butterflies, they could both express their feelings freely. The slightest disturbance in the clouds of colourful insects would inform them of newcomers. Problems would only occur if one – or more – of said newcomers had already been there, meditating or contemplating, as visitors were wont to do in the heaven-like silence.

 

 Varda halted gradually when the last thought crossed her mind. `Is there anyone else here?` she asked, a little too sharply from what she had intended. Manwë was unperturbed, nonetheless.

 

 `Our triplets were here with me. They were enjoying a day off, just like the rest of us,` he said. `The last time I checked, they were playing with some butterflies, encouraging these lovely creatures into patterns.` His head was resting on her shoulder, and she was embracing him lightly. Freeing one arm from hugging back his spouse, he extended a hand and let a few of the more curious butterflies land on it. As if to accentuate his point, he guided the little creatures gently with his thought into a formation of wheeling circular shapes. `As long as they are gentle and the butterflies agree, I see no objection.`

 

 Varda smiled at the shapes, but then her thoughts went back to his earlier concern. `I think I sense some people nearby,` she said. `I wonder why I did not sense them before. It could be fatal…`

 

 `Do not fret, beloved,` Manwë chid her, a fond smile on his face. `As I told you, those are only the triplets. Do you suspect them of wishing harm upon us? You should know better.`

 

 `Not that way, my lord.` Varda glowered at her spouse, although she could not hide her blush fully. Avoiding finishing her explanation, she instead pulled him towards where she suspected the other visitors to the garden were.

 

 Indeed, she found said triplets on the spot. Judging from the various shades of red on their faces, they had watched their lord and lady all along. It was just as well that they blushed too, because if not for the evidence of the differences in their personalities, it would have been impossible to set them apart from each other.

 

 Lúnwë, although he had been the boldest of the three, now was the most timid among them since his capture and the torments of Melkor and his minions. He blushed the deepest and was the swiftest to beg for pardon from the two Valar. His body shook with some measure of mortification when Varda’s silver orbs landed on him.

 

 Eönwë faired only slightly better. The eldest of the three brothers and the one with the most important position among them, he felt guilty of peeping on the Valar’s private time and dragging his younger brothers with him into the crime. Without a word, he knelt and bowed in supplication, shuddering slightly.

 

 Fiönwë, the middle brother and now the boldest, looked down with face a soft hue of pink and mumbled an excuse, hoping to save the triplets from trouble. “…We then decided to stay. We were charmed by your joy and intimacy and we could not think to go anywhere and so here we are…” In the end, he stuttered into a silence and blushed almost as deeply as his brothers. By then Lúnwë looked to be about to faint and Eönwë had practically prostrated himself before the feet of the Valar, groaning feebly in abject horror.

 

 Neither Manwë nor Varda spoke nor moved. The silence became palpable – and unbearable for the Maiar who had been caught red-handed. The bold Fiönwë was even on the verge of tears now.

 

 Then, suddenly, both Valar started to chuckle,

 

And they laughed out loud at the stunned look growing on Fiönwë’s face.

 

 “Well, you are honest enough,” Manwë commented with mock severity. He stooped down and gently scooped up Eönwë into his arms before gathering the dumbstruck Fiönwë as well. “If you promise us not to flaunt this experience to anyone, I suppose this case could now be considered closed,” he said when none of the Maiar looked appeased. He kissed Eönwë’s brow and cradled the Maia’s limp head in the crook of his right arm. “And you, my herald, must not always take all charges to yourself. Have I not told you so?”

 

 There was no answer coming. Said herald was weeping silently.

 

 Manwë loosed a long-suffering sigh. “Well, as those Secondborn like to say, all go downhill at a point.”

 

 Fiönwë chuckled weakly.

 

 They made their way to a bench set under an apple tree at one side of the garden close to the eastern wall, where the butterflies did not often visit. There they seated themselves with Fiönwë sandwiched between his lord and lady.

 

 Eönwë, for the first time in all the ages, did not protest or shy away when Manwë gathered him into the Vala’s lap like a young child. In fact, he was quiescent; perhaps the side effect of the earlier shocked mortification. The same happened to Lúnwë who was nestled in Varda’s embrace.

 

 A few hours later things changed a little – for the better, thankfully.

 

 The last rays of the sun shone brightly, stark against the darkness of the approaching night. Arien seemed to be in a merry mood in this particular parting, gauging from the way she and her vessel shone. In the garden below, a small spot in the complex of its kind, Manwë and Varda sauntered among the slowly-retreating butterflies. They halted behind a tall white rose bush opposite the bench at one point and spied the three Maiar who were still seated there. `This is our chance of retaliating, beloved,` Varda snickered when Manwë mentally asked why she proposed to peep on the Maiar like that.

 

 Indeed, those three charges of theirs were still in their places, but they were not silent at all, and nor did they seem to be resting.

 

 Fiönwë was teasing his younger triplet by tickling the latter’s face with a rope of vine, giggling all the while like a mischievous child. He cackled when Lúnwë uttered a short whine in protest; his attempts to catch the older triplet’s offending hand bearing the vine failed for the umpteenth time. Eönwë, on Fiönwë’s other side, for once pretended not to notice it. In fact, the eldest of the three was busy stuffing shreds of fallen leaves into the back of Fiönwë’s tunic while the latter was occupied.

 

 Lúnwë, exasperated, forsook his futile endeavour and changed to another approach. Apparently, Fiönwë did not expect him to do so. He yelped in surprise when the usually-timid-and-silent Lúnwë uttered a fierce battle cry and tackled him, pinning his body in a vise grip. They ended up wrestling on the bench. Seconds later, though, they moved the small impromptu contest to the ground when the half-annoyed Eönwë pushed them away.

 

 That was when Fiönwë noticed something wrong with the back of his tunic, as the shreds of leaves scraped against his skin.

 

 “Eönwë!” he roared. As an answer, the herald of Manwë, respected captain of the host of the Valar during the War of Wrath, laughed uproariously. He scooted away from his brother’s flailing arm and crouched on the farthest end of the bench. In his hands were a bunch of more leaves and a fistful of the shredded ones. The herald’s eyes, light-grayish-blue like his brothers, shone brilliantly with childlike playfulness and joy; it was a look that had been lost from his countenance a long time ago.

 

 “Does your back itch, brother?” he asked cheekily. He hopped aside nimbly when Fiönwë’s arm swept across the bench, freed momentarily from the tussle with the youngest of the set of triplets. Quick as lightning, Eönwë shredded the rest of the leaves and threw them in a quick succession at the two wrestlers on the grassy dirt.

 

 He was too focused on watching Fiönwë wipe the little bits from his face. He did not notice said Maia’s foot tripping him from his precarious perch on the edge of the bench. With a cry, he flew onto his two younger brothers and landed on top of them – or, more appropriately, three-quarters on top of Fiönwë and another one-quarter on Lúnwë’s middle – and was subsequently forced to participate in the wrestling match.

 

 He was thankful that it did not go on for long. Manwë and Varda chose that time to appear from behind the rose bush, as though they had just ended their stroll. For the first time after the length of the little episode, the Valar allowed themselves to laugh.

 

 The three Maiar, faces ruddy with sheepishness and eyes bright with mirth, scrambled into a – rather haphazard – sitting position and looked back up to where they had heard the mingled laughter of their lord and lady. The reddish hue of the last finger of light fell down upon their beautiful complexions, identical one to another, sharpening the lines on their faces and brightening their eyes. The Valar doubted that any of the younger children of their Father could look into those intense pairs of eyes for any length of time.

 

 “What do we have here?” Varda smiled. She raised a hand when Eönwë was about to answer and laughed softly. To the Maiar’s amazement, she took a seat on the ground beside them and plucked up the exhausted Lúnwë, gathering him into her lap and holding him in her arms. Said Maia stiffened, yet then he relaxed when the Valië hugged him tighter and did not seem to wish to release him soon.

 

 “Being mischievous, are we?” Manwë, chuckling, came around to behind the other Maiar, knelt down and held them in each of his arms.

 

 “You… saw us, lord?” Fiönwë squawked. He cringed at his own tone afterwards and spluttered an apology. But Manwë only fell into another bout of chuckles and held him all the tighter.

 

 “This evening is beautiful, is it not?” the Vala remarked instead. The two Maiar in his arms nodded. Lúnwë had fallen asleep.