Chapter Text
Irmo | Lord of Visions and Dreams
Location: Gardens of Lórien, Aman
Time: May 2981 T.A
Even under starlight and the waning movement of the moon, the lands of Lórien remained peaceful. Vast fields and gardens stretched beyond the southern half of Aman with the halls of its guardian laid just between its borders with Valinor. Trees of various colours and sizes, tended by Maiar and Eldar in the various hours of day…though in this current present: constant night.
Walking within the edges of Lake Lórellin was an elven-like figure. His hair flowed down in streams of silky white, matching his glowing white skin. His form was tall and lithe, and yet imposing and gentle, hands placed together in front of him as he almost floated upon the grass under his feet. Contrast to his hair was his robes, draped over him in hues of violet and blue embroidered in white and silver. They glimmered under the dim light, almost like the reflection of the water. [1]
His face wore far from the calmness but of a torrid storm. Dark indigo eyes swirling with constant thoughts. Thought of the past, the present and the future. Sometimes he could not tell which was which, only that he may be able to decipher it by the times he would catch himself back upon reality.
It had been much like this for the past several years. Thousands of years to be exact.
And endless search and conjuring of everything and yet nothing at the same time.
He stared across the lake, watching several Maiar tend to the willows and silver flowers as he then spoke with a smooth and flowing tone.
“I see all dreams…and yet there are certain ones I cannot entirely read.”
The form who glided beside him questioned in return, “Cannot read or see?”
Upon the edges of his physical periphery, he found his older brother looking in the same direction as he was. Námo’s own form was similar to his, though taller and more imposing than his own, there was more exhaustion and hardiness in his expression. The way he peered at the landscape, his form projecting a feeling of discomfort at the peace around them.
Irmo allowed himself to consider his question before he then responded with his own.
“They are the same are they not?” He calmly replied, before he then sighed heavily and continued, “I do not understand, and yet I do not know who it is.”
“Perhaps it is the Oialëa. Or perhaps Fëanáro.”
He could not help then but turn his head to him and eyed him with concern.
Námo held his jaw, his look sharp as Irmo’s lips refrained to frown. Thousands of years and yet his older brother still felt the same in regard to this two fëar. For the young child of Miriel Þerindë and Finwë Noldoran, it was understandable. The eld has caused so much in the course of Arda, moving fate and wrapping it in the hands of three jewels. Jewels that seemed far for dangerous than predicted to be.
However the latter… was something which Irmo had always been perplexed about.
“Brother, I must ask. What is your interest in the Oialëa?” He did his best to remain neutral, asking in a way that more on focused more on his brother’s own state than the situation itself. Irmo added, “Or as I may refer to what you say: not of my concern.”
It was then Námo narrowed his gaze and responded in a warning tone, “My concern is for both of us. There is chaos in her. Chaos that may be possible to turn to the darkness.”
Irmo scrutinized his gaze back to him. Had he not understood that everything, within a generalized matter, was chaotic anyways? Even he, who mastered all visions and dreams, could not control fate itself through his own means. Much as how his brother could not control the fate of the lives of everyone upon Arda.
To hear the frustrations underlining his argument showed him that his brother was more adamant as to why he could not see nor read this individual’s own way.
“You cannot see her fate can you? Nor give her prophecy itself.” Irmo concluded, correct as he noticed the way his brother tightened his eyes away back to the landscape. He softly asked him, “You believe she is the one altering the Song as we speak?”
“I believe that is the object in which Morgoth seeks.” Námo determined – a declaration which brought Irmo more concerned as his tone grew harsher. “Since her birth, her ability to create light and to maim Morgoth has caused ripples in the Song itself. And faster we meet the end of Arda.”
As the words lingered upon the air, Irmo could not refrain anymore and let out a ragged breath.
Sometimes he wished his brother did not seem so…harsh at the souls of this world.
But knowing him since their creation, he knew his brother would do anything to redeem the taint which wounded his pride. Just as most of them always seemed to hide. The pride in their creation and contribution to Arda.
For his brother: this was now at the hands of a young fëa that was possibly rearranging the world.
However, Irmo did not wish to jump to conclusions. He did not think that the young Elemmírë Oialëa was the culprit of this accelerating song. Perhaps one who contributed to it, though deep down he knew there was no direct evidence that it was this individual.
But he would let his brother lead his own conclusions.
“Let us hypothetically believe this. Believe that this individual has this ability. But that only means that she may possibly be not quendi. Perhaps Aini.” Irmo raised his shoulders before exhaling, “However: we are guides, brother. We cannot fully intervene unless we risk destruction and possibly retribution from our father. If we seek more than guidance then…we may be no better than him.”
Perhaps he should not mention him.
But even the subtly brought a spike of power radiating off him. And anger and agitation which caused the nightingales around them to fly away. Ripples upon the water splashed against the shore as Irmo cautiously watched his brother turn to him with a deep scowl.
“He seeks desecration. Power. How are we to create the paradise of what our father envisioned if we are to divulge of such beings within the kingdom of Arda?” Námo questioned him.
Irmo then peered sternly back and coolly, “We do not. We can only give them an opportunity.” He gestured to him, “Just as I provide them visions and dreams. Just as you house them. We give them those choices.”
“Just as you choose to lie to me about The Endëala?”
He froze as the words echoed through the air.
Irmo’s hands tensed as he warned him, “You do not know what you speak of brother.”
Though it would seem his brother did not want to change it, deciding to push him back. “There are other names for them. Though from translation it means middle being,” Námo spoke.
His lips remained shut.
Until the word escaped his brother’s lips.
“…A Nexus.”
Irmo flicked back to him and snapped readily, “The Nexus does not exist. And if there was they have yet to reveal themselves or they are not ready.”
“But they are.” He narrowed his gaze, jutting his chin as he grew closer to him. “I sense in the ripples of the world that they are there. You do not wish to tell me because of what I may plan to do.”
Yes. Of course, he would not speak of it because of exactly how his brother was reacting. Just as everyone was. Every Ainur and being upon the lands of Aman.
For the Eldar, the word was nothing to them. A myth. But for the Valar: they knew it was something which had been mentioned during the great song. The prophetic vision that all of them took a glimpse of. Each of them found only a different piece of the puzzle.
As for him: he had been given the sight of the Endëala. The being that connected to every being could create ripples upon their destinies and fates.
However, Irmo did not believe it at first. He could not comprehend one that could almost surpass even the greatest Ainur and their powers. How one singular being could almost match Eru Ilúvatar in bringing fate down to its knees.
Until a certain half-Aini brought herself to him.
A young Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Elu Thingol and Melian, who secretly spoke of them. That they shall be born with his gift of pure foresight and dreams. That their unique power shall consequently bring even the strings of the song down into a new piece.
Once he did understand and discovered who it was: all Irmo wanted was to protect them. To protect this Nexus from the burden of becoming the pinnacle of the Valar’s gaze. He didn’t want them to be a target.
However…the end was coming. The world has gone wrong and he had no choice but to let go soon. And it was somehow harder than he perceived it to be. Almost like letting go of a grown child and letting them see the world for who they are, Irmo had to trust them to make the right choices.
“And why do you ask?” Irmo inquired, trying to suppress his frustration. “Brother, I am doing all I could to maintain the peace. To remain neutral of this so-called agreement you have conjured and requested Manwë to implement.”
“We cannot maintain peace if there are those that are a risk!” His brother hissed until his face fell, sensing the realization that he would not concede to his demands. “Irmo…”
“I am sorry, Námo.” He heard his own voice growing hard as he shook his head. Irmo told him, “I cannot tell you knowing what you may risk in doing.”
His brother merely stared at him in disbelief, perhaps betrayed by how he clamped his mouth tight and began to walk away.
Once his brother disappeared, most likely to return to the Halls, Irmo’s mind swirled with more chaos and fear.
Though one thing was for certain. He would allow the Endëala to finally see themselves for who they are and hope that they would make the right choice.
[2]
- Illyria Strange will return in Changing of The Song: Part 4 -