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Estë wakes up to Irmo gone from their bed.
She opens one reluctant eye; stirring lazily between the furs and soft silk of their bedsheets. She is enveloped in a small cocoon of warmth; one that she is loath to leave, and turns to bury her nose in her pillow, inhaling deeply. Irmo’s scent is still strong on its soft fabric – lingering touches of lavender, the sweet floral fragrance that he favours above all else.
Estë stretches then; feeling the jointure of her elbows pop faintly, and makes a soft noise from the back of her throat. She should rise, she thinks, for it is very rare indeed for Irmo to wake before her.
Sleep is his realm after all; and Irmo delights himself in pacing its halls, easy laughter on his lips and a burning curiosity in his eyes. Recently has he chosen to exercise a little more control over his domain, spreading softness and mirth in the dreams of others.
She really should rise. She should… Alas, it is terribly hard. She makes another soft sound; eyelids still half closed, and wraps her arms around the pillow.
A minute passes, perhaps two- when her determination finally reigns over her sleepy laziness. Estë forces herself to move, pushing the sheets away with perhaps a little more strength than necessary (but she knows herself, and knows how she would sprawl there longer should she not force herself not to) before getting out of their bad.
She dresses in silence, favoring soft burnt orange robes, and is still half lulled to sleep when she passes in front of her window.
Estë stops then- slowly turning back.
What-?
She blinks, as if the gesture would change anything to the sight now offered to her- and lets out a small puff of laughter upon realizing it will not.
It has snowed in the night.
She knows for it to be snow for Melkor had long explained it to her- with wide gesticulations and fierce enthusiasm: explaining from the molecular structure of snowflakes to the soft coldness of a large enough amount of them.
She watches the picture painted before her with a faint, peaceful smile when she slowly realizes two things. First: the snow has not reached everywhere. She can see the green lands of her Island in the distance, meaning that Melkor has merely circled their home with snow; and there are two figures laughing outside.
From there, she can not hear what they are saying- but she recognizes them easily.
The first one is Melkor, clad in his usual gold and black, royal colors that she favors not for herself but sublimate him nicely. He has crafted a small ball of snow in his hands, and is shaping it to be rounder still.
The second one is Irmo; barefoot, purple silk falling around his form. He is freely laughing, small butterflies and moths fluttering around him, and his cheeks are the brightest blue – meaning that it must be very cold indeed.
She watches them for a few seconds; her smile stretching into true contentment. Irmo has now taken to chase Melkor in the field of snow; and the second one is running away- all while sharpening his ball of snow.
Estë has been said many times to be patient; but for some things, she is truly not- and chooses the lazy path of passing through the window; changing her fana for a moment to make it intangible, instead of heading for the door slightly further away.
Melkor and Irmo stop at her sight. Or- at least, Irmo does; a beaming smile brightening his features, and Melkor takes an immediate opportunity of his sudden stop, throwing his ball of snow directly in Irmo’s face.
Irmo has no time to stop it, nor to dodge; and the ball comes to crash on his face.
It startles a laugh out of Estë’s lips.
“Treachery!” Irmo cries out; with no anger in his voice. He laughs instead, and bends to pick up snow; running towards Melkor. “The foulest of betrayal!”
Melkor’s satisfied smile turns into concern- and then fear as Irmo rushes towards him. He spins to sprint away; but Irmo has the advantage of surprise, and a quickness in his steps; and Irmo is on Melkor before the latter can defend himself.
They fall head-first into the snow, and Estë laughs harder.
Melkor cries out something she can not hear, muffled by snow as it is, and he rises his head from where it had crashed into the ground – spitting snow.
“-shame on you,” Melkor grits out; half spluttering. “-shame on thy honor, shame on thy house, shame on thy maiar-”
“A just revenge,” Estë says, smiling so wide the corners of her mouth ache. “What warrants us such decor?”
“Tis I!” Irmo cheerfully proclaims; shaking his head as to make snowflakes fall from his head. It is indeed half buried under snow, the butterflies having long flown away from its icy composition. “I asked Melkor for it, for I had never seen snow before! Wonderful! Magnificent!”
Estë slowly shakes her head.
“I hope you have notified your Maiar beforehand, the cold is hardly favourable to them.”
Irmo’s smile slowly freezes on his lips. He darts a glance to Melkor, busying himself with picking up snowflakes from his eyelashes, and is returned one as equally frozen in place.
“Have you?” Irmo asks Melkor.
“Have you?” Melkor shots back.
Estë sighs; but it wears no lassitude in it. It is amused; far more than it should be, in truth; and she takes a first step into the snow. It is- she lets out another laugh, delighted. It is soft and hard at the same time! Her feet sink in it, yet having layers of snow hardening under her step.
She hears faintly the other two Valar’s bickering, delighting herself in making small steps, feeling the texture of the snow under her feet. It is a cold so deep it is burning, as if needles piercing through her skin. Paradoxical – as many of Melkor’s inventions.
“You did something of true wonder,” she tells Melkor, beaming.
Something pass in his dark eyes, fleeting enough not for her to truly recognize it- but Estë is no fool; and knows how he longs for the recognition of his work.
It is why she tells him as often as she can, for this yearning for appreciation is deep in his heart, and Estë wants him to know that his work does not go unnoticed.
“Tis nothing,” Melkor says. “I am merely indulging him.”
He points his chin towards Irmo, who has now taken to sink his fingers into the snow, leaving small imprints on it.
Estë’s smile widens. “Indulging yourself as well! There is naught wrong in that; and it has been a true pleasure to have you with us.”
Melkor scoffs. “A true pleasure, certainly not.”
“But yes,” she says. “It truly has. Leave to us the opinion of your stay in our home, will you not? Although, it is now yours as well as it is ours.”
Melkor’s eyes widen. He had been darting small glances to the snow; pleasure shining within them, but now has his gaze focused solely on Estë.
“I do not plan to stay,” he says, hesitantly.
“Perhaps. You are welcome to; if so would please you. We would rejoice of it- ah, Irmo very much as well, is it not right, dearheart?”
“Of course!” Irmo exclaims, clasping his hands together. “As long as you would wish to, even if you see no end to it! And even if you decide on an end and then deem it too near and see it deferred; we would be delighted to welcome you.”
Melkor gives him a curt nod, and says nothing more of it.
Estë does not press him. Instead, she gives them both a warm smile, and Irmo saunters to his feet to kiss her cheek, whispering a word or two of their love.
“Yavanna have brought me back a new confection of her-” she tells them; and then stops herself- distracted by a second by the falling of snowflakes. She enhances her vision to see the details of them- amazed to see that none is similar to its neighbour, to each their uniqueness.
Irmo and Melkor exchange a glance.
And then, the latter, having never sworn to renounce his foul ways, hastily picks a handful of snow to slide it into the back of Irmo's neck. He lets out a harsh bark of laughter, immensely pleased by himself; and Irmo shrieks.
Estë gives them another sigh.
She lowers her gaze to the ground- where the snow is so easily picked up. She bends to touch it; and none of the other two darts a glance at her. Swiftly does she retrieve enough snow to make a ball out of it, as she had seen Melkor do.
She is precise, methodical in her movement. Estë knows medicine, and the surgical precision of one having healed and repaired. She shapes the snow into a round, smooth, ball; and then picks up another handful of snow to make a twin for her first ball.
Irmo has tightened his fingers around Melkor’s ankle; both gripping at the other in a tentative to make him fall.
Estë hums as she shapes her second ball. She weights them, a second, to ensure that none is heavier than its neighbour. Irmo and Melkor have turned to some sort of wrestling; blissfully unaware of her actions.
Estë aims.
Melkor and Irmo both have barely the time to register her gesture when a snowball hits each of them in the forehead; exploding on their eyes, on their noses.
Above the shrieking sounds that erupts, Estë says:
“Yavanna have brought me seeds, a new invention on her behalf. It would seem a torrefaction, a grinding as well as the addition of ewe's milk would make it possible to obtain a beverage which she assures to be as delicious. I found myself curious about it, and asked Noshuasë and Mileön if they would be kind enough to help with the preparation before we woke up. It should be ready by now. I can not quite remember the name; however... I might be mistaken, but I believe Yvanna has named it "hot chocolate.”
She gives them a knowing smile; perhaps bordering a tad on a grin.
“Should I have another two cups made for you?”