Chapter: 4

In that vast wasteland, where the air seemed to sigh between the stalks, a carpet of flowers of countless species stretched as far as the eye could see. Each petal shone despite the absence of the sacred trees, almost as if remnants of that light still lingered in this vibrant vegetation, ancient whispers like music bringing stillness and tranquility to the place.

There, in the distance on a hillside illuminated by Yavanna flowers, four sinuous figures moved with the grace of falling autumn leaves, their blond and dark brown hair contrasting with the black and off-white tones.

Tulkas, Oromë, Ilarion, and Huan strode gracefully through Yavanna's personal flower garden, a joy granted only to those she deemed worthy. Their destination? Aulë's abode. Both Valar, as a gesture of affection, accompanied Ilarion on his farewell.

"And then that time, Oromë shot an arrow as swift as the thunder that follows lightning, hitting Aulë right in the rear," Tulkas recounted with great fanfare, sharing anecdotes of his days in Arda. "It took Yavanna more than two days of rain and night to pull it out!" His thunderous laughter caused the wind to stir, swaying the delicate petals of the undergrowth.

At this, Oromë gritted his teeth, grinding them like two stones colliding. "It wasn't my fault," he said, regret reflected in his cerulean eyes. "That idiot Tulkas dared me to prove my arrow was as fast as him. You can imagine the result," he concluded, casting a glance at Ilarion, whose smile he couldn't conceal.

Tulkas' booming laughter resonated, bringing a small tremor to Ilarion's feet. "He got so mad that he chased me for four days and five nights," Tulkas said, glancing at Oromë, whose dark chestnut hair had streaks of white, a trait that instilled fear in anyone foolish enough to provoke his fury.

Tulkas might be the strongest among them, but Oromë was the most feared when enraged. His hair would turn a milky white, resembling snow, and he wouldn't stop until he dealt with whatever had provoked his wrath.

In contrast to the Valar, Ilarion sometimes forgot that those accompanying him were Eru's so-called angels, beings whose power was immeasurable.

Yet, despite their might, the stories they told were narrated like those of ordinary beings, they got angry, loved, and found amusement. This demonstrated that no matter how powerful one becomes, there's always time to love and have fun.

A soft chuckle escaped Ilarion's delicate lips, a laugh that made Oromë's white strands retreat. He treated Ilarion like his child, as did nearly all the Valar. Such a pure and graceful being made them deeply fond of him. Even Mandos, the coldest and most distant of them, found Ilarion's company pleasant.

"Is that story true, Lord Oromë?" Ilarion asked. It wasn't that he doubted Tulkas, but sometimes the Valar exaggerated their tales.

To his question, Oromë smiled meaningfully. "Of course, it's true," he said. "I hunted him like the beast he is; only my sister made me relent from that pursuit," he concluded, a dreamy look in his eyes as he recalled those moments.

It was in this moment, full of warmth and memories, that a voice, soft as the sound of a babbling brook, was heard, drawing the attention of all four.

"You're like children!" it exclaimed, as a gigantic flower appeared from thin air, as if the very earth had yielded to a miracle. Its petals, radiant yellow and ethereal silver, evoked the lost light of the Two Trees.

With deliberate slowness, as if stretching the moment to envelop it in greater beauty, the petals opened wide, revealing a woman. She was as tall as the mightiest oak, as beautiful as the first bloom of spring, and as imposing as the golden suns of autumn.

Yavanna, in all her grace and splendor, manifested before her brothers and the little Ilarion, who, unable to look away, gazed at her in awe. Her verdant locks, full of life, seemed to carry the essence of nature itself. Ilarion cherished his moments with Yavanna, the mother of nature; her calming presence embraced him in those exhausting moments of training.

"Oh, Yavanna!" Tulkas exclaimed joyfully. "We must never let go of our inner child, sister; we must always keep it alive," he said.

Tulkas' wise remark reminded Ilarion of a lesson from Manwë. According to the regent of the Valar, they were born as curious children from Eru Ilúvatar's thoughts. As their songs unfolded, they grew into what they are today.

"Tulkas, Tulkas," Yavanna repeated, shaking her head side to side. "You're very right, my dear brother, but I fear your influence might harm little Ilarion's good temperament," she concluded, gesturing with her hand. A vine coiled around Ilarion's arm, its touch like a mother's embrace, holding him gently.

On the stem, a beautiful flower made of crystals swirled, emerging with beauty and brilliance. Its changing shape resembled that of a silver cherry blossom, whose glow brought with it hope and warmth.

"I know why you've come, my dear child," Yavanna spoke with the softness of the swaying wind. "This flower will protect you from any curse or evil that may be cast against you."

Caressing Ilarion's face with the delicacy of a petal drifting in the wind, Yavanna allowed herself a moment of admiration for the purity radiating from Ilarion. "Seek nature if you desire someone to speak to, I will always be here to listen to you," she concluded, stepping back.

"I am grateful, Lady Yavanna," said Ilarion, his crystal-clear eyes reflecting the pure love shown. "I will treasure your gift and advice with all my heart."

Nodding, Yavanna directed her soft and pure gaze towards her Valar brothers. It reflected both affection and exasperation as she spoke. "As for you, I know you are accompanying young Ilarion... but please, do not disturb my husband once you enter his forge," she added with a significant pause.

Yavanna's request was met with a calm nod from Oromë. On the other hand, Tulkas laughed with a sound as thunderous as moving mountains, a laugh to which everyone was accustomed.

"I promise," he added, resting his strong hands on his hips. "Anyway, I had to pick up the gift for the brat."

"Good," responded Yavanna with a soft smile. With a small gesture of her hand, the flowers swirled as if alive, forming a door of sequoia, with intricate decorations resembling a forge made of petals. "Enter, my husband is waiting for you."

Ilarion nodded with a bow, which was met with Yavanna's spring-like smile. "Thank you, Lady Yavanna." With that said, he pushed open the sequoia door, which creaked as it moved.

The sight was familiar to Ilarion. The forging and construction tools, neatly ordered and clean, stood throughout the room. The tables, made of the finest wood, were spaced with weapons and other inventions of Aulë.

In the back, sparks scattered like raindrops. The thunderous sound of metal striking metal echoed. The fire cast the shadow of the Valar blacksmith, whose reddish hair, like the fire of the forge, moved with each blow.

Ilarion watched with fascination what one of his masters was forging. There, under the light of the fire, the metal came to life with a silvery glow that oscillated between the purity of lunar white and the depth of the night.

The hilt, intricate in design, stood as a work of art: a purple orb at its center, which seemed to reflect the unfathomable eyes of Varda, surrounded by serpentine golden and black lines, as if space itself had been captured and molded.

The blade's edge was a wonder in itself, darkening toward the edges with the depth of the cosmos. Small stars, trapped in the steel's void, began to shine faintly with each hammer strike, as if each impact awakened a spark from the night sky.

Ilarion was captivated by such a work of art. A small call within him reverberated, almost as if the sword was coming to life and calling him, urging him to approach its birth.

With hesitant steps, Ilarion approached. He knew his master disliked being interrupted while forging, but he couldn't resist; something called to him, and he was responding to the call.

Only Aulë's voice pulled him out of his trance, those words filled with profound meaning, bubbling with love and admiration.

"Forged from the starry hair of Varda, tempered by the breath of Manwë," Aulë said in trance. "Cooled under the waters of Ulmo and shaped by my hand and steel."

With one last strike, the sword gleamed, announcing its birth.

"Silmacil," Aulë proclaimed proudly. "My greatest creation."

**

Advance chapter in "p@treon.com/Mrnevercry"