Title: His Lady's Words
Author: Elly
Character: Olorin, Nienna- O/N pairing
Rating: PG
Notes: Uh. This is all about Olorin/Nienna. Because that's how I am. Notice I said Olorin and not Gandalf. This really won't make too much sense unless you're familiar with the Silmarillion, at least a little.
Here, I'll summarize: Nienna is one of the Valar, the lady of sorrow. Her speciality lies in knowledge and the ability to turn grief into wisdom. Olorin was the Maiar of... Irmo as well as Nienna. He spent lots of time in Lorien, learning from Nienna, thus leading me to Olorin/Nienna OTPforevah!11!!!!11!!!one
Yeah. If that didn't make any sense, well, I can't help you. =D
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She was crying when he first saw her, on a cool night in the gardens. She sat in a shadowed corner with her knees pulled up to her chest. She seemed almost a child to his eyes; though his heart knew her soul was old, older than many things in this place of ancients. He drew near to her, moving quietly and studying her face; seeing that her skin was reddened with crying and her face was twisted with silent sobs. He made a small noise, prepared to back away if she wanted no company. She raised her head at the sound and looked him in the eye, startled. Her eyes were grey and shadowed and in them he saw a greater wisdom, or perhaps just a different kind of wisdom than any he had encountered before. He knew then, upon looking into her eyes, that this was the Lady Nienna, the one who wept. She peered at him and made a small sniffing noise; her nose had been running and her eyes were red. And in that moment he fell in love. There was no godlight or singing in his soul or any of the things that he heard were to happen when he lost his heart, just a feeling that this was how it always had been and always will be. She looked up at him, expectant, not bothering to wipe her tears or straighten hair that was mussed and tangled. "Why do you weep?" It was all he could think of to say. He knew that she wept because that was who she was; it was a part of her and a part of the very earth he stood on. But still he asked. She caught his eyes, then, and looked deep before smiling slightly and banishing the darkness behind the sheen of her tears. "Not all tears are an evil, my lord." He nodded and reached for her hands to help her to her feet. "I think we have much to speak of, my lady." She rose and they stood a moment hand-in-hand, surrounded by the night of Lorien. And then they began to walk, sometimes speaking and sometimes silent. Often, he would speak and she would listen, her responses putting answers to the questions, teaching him what he would need to know. And none who saw them wondered at the pair of them, walking hand-in-hand. It was as it had always been and would always be and somehow, all was right.
"I go, my lady." He held her in his arms and kissed her brow, not minding the salty taste of tears. There was never a time when she did not taste like the sea breeze and he had never minded. "You will return, I know. But not the same. The One who sends you knows this too." She laced her fingers in his own, holding tightly. "But you will return to this place and to me." He smiled, then, though some tears escaped from his eyes to leave little marks on the front of his shirt. Their parting would not be long, in the grand scheme of things, but it would be long enough for two lovers to feel the pull of heartache. She laughed a little and brushed his cheeks dry with her fingers, pressing close on last time. "Not all tears are an evil," she whispered. And then he was gone.
He rejoined her once between the time his journey began and ended. His body died, he passed through deep darkness and bright light, through fire and oceans. Though he saw nothing but empty space he knew she was with him. He lay naked on the mountain top and felt no cold for she watched over him and wept, her tears warming and waking the body he found himself back in. He woke and she was gone, but his body was warm and he found a neatly folded pile of garments near him, so white the stood out even on the snow. Gathering them up, he noticed the stitching on the cloak and recognized the pattern as hers. It was subtle, circular and in gold. But still he recognized their story, saw her prayer woven in cloth. Putting it on, he smiled and set down the mountain, back to his task.
The journey was long and he was changed. Where he once had been young, he was older. Where he once had been full of vitality, he was weary. He had done his part for The One who sent him and he had missed his lady every day. They stood in the harbor, waiting for home. He would miss this place, for he had loved it and those in it well. But he was weary and it was time to go. The little Ringbearer, the one whose mere existence humbled him, was waiting too. He was not homeward bound, but bound to home. He would never leave this place behind, not truly. But he would find comfort and relief and he had much yet to learn. The others did not understand, of course, and when it was time to depart they wept for their loss. They were mourning, and indeed they had a right to be. This was an ending for them, rather than the beginning as it was for the Ringbearer, or a continuation of an old life, as it was for him. They looked to him for counsel as they had always done; they looked up into his eyes and searched them for a reason not to cry. He knew, though, that there was peace in tears, that from grief comes wisdom and that there was hope still, for these Halflings who had become his friends and for this place that had become a second home. So he simply echoed his lady's words, left them with that last bit of guidance that he knew they would one day understand. And there was hope for him, as well. For across the sea his lady waits with joy in her heart and tears in her eyes. And when the meet again they will weep, but that is no matter, for her words ring true. |