Of Life Amongst The Sindar by LadySternchen  

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Maia

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Melian knows not who or what she is. She really doesn’t. And every day she spends with her people, she knows it less.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she leans against the mossy boulder, allowing her breathing to slow, until it is in rhythm with the breathing of the forest. In… and out. Tears start running from her eyes. She does not bother with wiping them away. What makes her cry, she does not know, because she is not sad, not really. Just… lost. She is nothing and nobody, and yet needs to be so much.

 

How long she sits with her tears falling silently, she does not know, before she senses his presence, long before she hears the softest thud of his footfall on the moss, barely audible. He does not ask why she cries, is not scared by her tears. He only sits down beside her, and tenderly encloses her in his arms. His warmth feels so good, so comforting. He pulls her closer, presses his lips to her hair so that she feels his breath on her scalp. The sensation makes her giggle, and she sits up straight and wipes her tears away. Only to her dismay, new tears fall almost at once, and before she knows it, she is weeping once more against her husband’s chest.

“ I feel so lost,” she sobs. “I know not who I am anymore.”

He cradles her in silence for a long moment, then says deliberately:

“Yourself. But you do not know who ‘yourself’ is, do you?”

Tearily, she shakes her head, knowing that he understands. It is something that at times aisles them both, and having a companion in feeling lost makes one… not so lost.

“Someone wise,” he says, gently tilting her chin upwards so that she looks straight at him, “once told me to start at the beginning.”

He smiles at her, but his words only make her even more desperate.

“How… how can I be wise when I feel so lost?”

“Because one can be many things at once. Or so you once told me.”

Melian nods. Whatever happens, she is still a thought of the Almighty. That, perhaps, should be a comfort. Only it is not. She knows she makes herself guilty of vanity, knows that she should be content with that, but she is not. It is not enough.

Breathe in… and out. 

Yavanna’s creations surround her, trees and moss and flowers, deer and squirrels and how many tiny crawlies.

 

In the thought of the One, she is kin to Vána and Yavanna, and with her new understanding of family, she calls them ‘cousins’. The weight on her shoulders seems a little less. Yes, that she is. And they are around her, ever. The forests of Middle-earth pulsate with Yavanna’s energy, and in the unchanging beauty of the Elves, of her own living body, she feels Vána’s grace. It feels like an embrace, and Melian leans into it gladly.

Elu squeezes her a little.

“Being part of a family helps. I know.”

There is no need for her to explain anything to him, she knows he has followed her trail of thought.

“But it is not only Yavanna’s creation that surrounds you— it is of your own making, too.”

Melian looks up at Elu, and marvels. He is right. She knows not which parts, knows not what came into being through her voice, but she knows that something did, and that is comforting. And she knows her theme, the domain that was given to her, a power so beautiful and terrible that it well matches those of the Valar. Yet it was given to her, a Maia, not one of the Valar, the power that affected even the mightiest. And it has come into being through her song.

When she later sang, carefree and untroubled, at the mingling of the light, even the bells of Valmar were silent.

And a singer, she is still.

When she sings, her people harken. She can sing trees into bloom and grass into sprouting. Her song ensures that her people can live a life void of hardships, it heals wounds and ailments and when someone is weary, Melian can ease them to sleep.

That she has learned, in the gardens of Lórien, that were once her home. She has been not only a servant there, but an eager pupil to her lady Estë and lord Irmo, who had taught her willingly the secrets of restful sleep. It is into his care that she recommends those whom she sings to sleep. Estë, on the other hand, has taught her the art of healing, and indeed a healer she is now. And with every day, she refines her skill.

So maybe apprentice she is still?

“Our people would surely be very surprised to hear you think that of yourself, even though I agree with you. But they see you as the one who teaches them everything, from the weaving of fine tapestries— see, that you are, too. A truly marvellous weaver. Anyway, you taught our people everything, from the waving of fine tapestries to the baking of lembas, and all the lore and wisdom of the Powers of Arda. You taught them about the song and the kindness of the Valar…”

“That you did, too.” Melian interjects, squirming slightly at being praised so.

“I told them of the kindness of the Valar, love. But you did more. It was you who taught them about their very being. You were not half-blinded by awe when you first saw them, you know them since before they even could be seen. That you are too— a priestess to your people. And above all, their beloved Queen.”

A priestess. That word makes her squirm, too, though she knows it to be accurate. She will bless Tarn Aeluin later this very day, following the pleas of their people. She is the one who leads them in their praise of Varda, and who reassures them that not every storm, not every flood, is a punishment from Ulmo or Manwë. Ai, will they ever understand that the Valar do not punish?

Her thoughts wander, the crushing sadness slowly subsiding. One of her nightingales lands on a branch close to her, a fat spider clutched in its beak. Behind it, its children, puffed up and complaining loudly, make a rather wobbly landing on the same branch, waiting to be fed. Melian smiles. They are almost grown, but will sooner yell at their parents than try to catch a fly themselves.

That she is, too. A mother. And sometimes, Lúthien reminds her of those little birds. She, too, is a grown woman, but will still keep Melian company when she sits by her loom, and tell her of her day, like she did when she was a little girl. Warmth spreads through Melian. She should never have been a mother, strictly speaking. She should never have experienced that, and yet she is deeply thankful that she has.

Of course, clouded though the scenery of the Music is where it touches upon those Melian loves most, she still has sight enough to know that Lúthien’s existence has not only been born of her rebellion, but of the will of the Father. Her Lúthien has to be.

But Melian is also a wife. And this, more than anything else, feels like being herself. She has done her deed, so to say, with bearing Lúthien. But that has changed nothing about her love and affection for Elu. Had they not succeeded, had Melian proven unable to conceive, she would still love him just as deeply now. Almost all other things they named to help her feel who she is are defined by others. But this, her marriage, is her own choice. Her little rebellion. She belongs with Elu, regardless of them being entirely different beings. They belong together, in whatever shape or form they might appear.

Once more, Elu tightens his hold on her, and it needs only one look at him for her to know just how moved he is by her thoughts and sentiments.

“Has any of this answered your question, then?” Elu asks in a low voice and a tone that tells her clearly that he knows she has not.

Melian sighs. Maybe it really is less the question of who she is, but what she is.

 

The damp from the forest floor has begun to seep through her dress, making her backside uncomfortably cold.

Breathe in…

The forest air streams through her airways, filling her lungs. She holds her breath, and after a little while starts to feel dizzy, and is overcome by the urge to breathe out, and then draw new air into her body. She feels her heart pumping faster, almost indignantly, due to the unnecessary stress she has put on it just now. When she closes her eyes, she cannot see the physical world around her. She needs her body.

And she wants to need her body. Lovingly, she thinks back again to the miracle of Lúthien’s conception and birth. Her body worked like an Elvish body would, her womb allowing Elu’s seed to take root there, and giving Lúthien a place to grow safely. It birthed Lúthien. Admittedly, thinking back to the actual birth still makes Melian’s heart race and her throat become dry. She was in so much pain back then, a pain Elves do not experience. Not like this. But still she has survived the ordeal, and more, her body once again worked as it should, nourishing her baby until Lúthien was old enough to take solids. It is still marvellous to Melian.

But then, if she wants and needs a body, is she truly still a Maia? Despair creeps back up her throat.

“You can be both, meleth. Like you can be servant and Queen, teacher and disciple. A Maia you will always be, you are not bound by the existence of Arda. You are, and you will be even after all this is gone. But you are an Elf by choice, also. You have your place among us Firstborn. You are so many wonderful things. Do not torment yourself so. You are you. You are eternally loved. And all that you touch, be it in body or spirit, are blessed with your grace and your light, just like Aeluin with its clear waters that will not be defiled now even by shadows.”

Melian again looks up into her husband’s light grey eyes that are like stars made into flesh, shining with the light of Laurelin and Telperion like her own, but also with his overflowing love for her. She wonders, as she has done countless times before, if he has truly been touched by Varda in a way no other Elf is. Varda’s parting words ring in her ears again, her advice to always keep to the stars should Melian ever get lost in the vast wilderness of Middle-earth. Of course, it may only have been that— advice, a blessing, a phrase of parting. Only Varda said it with a very knowing grin on her face that Melian could not interpret then.

There is no way of knowing, of course, but Melian likes the idea of a beam of Varda’s light touching that little baby boy within his mother’s womb, marking him as Melian’s husband. She hides these thoughts from Elu, though. Something tells her that he would find the idea humiliating rather than sweet, and apart from that, this image belongs to her alone. Her own little treasure.