Work Text:
The scene was thus, for any who might happen upon it. The sky was dark—not merely the darkness of night, but the utter blackness of a sky bereft of the moon and dotted only by a few faint stars, a sky that had never known the day. All around was a sea of grass that undulated in the breath of an encouraging breeze, and out of which rose islands of lichen-coated rock.
Two figures gleamed like pillars of flame in the darkness, flame that held no heat, and would not destroy what it touched.
One was a woman, impossibly tall and beautiful. Her skin was smooth and black as ebony; her hair, which fanned and twisted in the air behind her, was white as snow. Her raiment was a rich purple kirtle that left her arms bare but for glittering jewels that shone like stars bound in gold nets. Her face was wise and compassionate and glad. Galaxies swirled in the confines of her eyes; to look into them was to catch a glimpse of eternity.
The other was a child. She came perhaps to the waist of a grown man of ordinary height, and the woman at her side could easily have lifted her onto her shoulders. Her hair was straight and neat, the glossy black of a raven’s wing. Her skin was white, her features the fine, blemishless features of a porcelain doll. Her dress was a black robe with a high, stiff silver collar, and silver at her sleeve cuffs and the hem. The child’s face was impassive, but there was wisdom and discernment in the serenity of her expression. Her slanted eyes were dark, and in them shone faint pinpricks of light, the reflection of distant stars.
Varda, Queen of the Stars, and Ilmarë, chief of her handmaidens, typically demanded solitude when they worked. Their work was not any sort of sacred mystery, not to the Ainur, and not to the Eldar who, in the future, would not be able to replicate it even if it was. The demand for solitude was more for Ilmarë’s benefit than it was for Varda’s. Ilmarë demanded that no eyes but Varda’s be upon her, when she set about her work.
Ilmarë strove to quiet her mind. The work required serenity. Varda had found it within herself to banish all disquiet from her mind, in spite of what had happened. Ilmarë focused her gaze on the sky above, and sought peace.
Illuin and Ormal had been cast down, and the world plunged into this black night. The fair isle of Almaren was utterly destroyed, the home Ilmarë had made there lost. Endóre was blighted and freshly abandoned, and the western lands of Arda would have to be Ilmarë’s home now.
She had foreseen it. All the Ainur had foreseen it in some measure. It was inevitable, she had known, that the light of Illuin and Ormal would be extinguished. But Ilmarë had neither known the hour of their destruction, nor the cause. She had not known what havoc their destruction would wreak.
Now, the Ainur must begin anew. Carried by the wind, there came the distant strains of Yavanna’s song, as she willed into life two new lights for the world, though they would shed light only on Aman, and now on all the world as Illuin and Ormal had. Preparations must be made.
“Are you prepared, Ilmarë?” Varda asked gently.
Ilmarë hesitated for a moment, before answering, “Yes, I am.”
“Then let us begin.”
They both raised their hands towards the sky. Varda’s voice rose in the first few notes of their shared song, and at the moment, just the right moment, Ilmarë added her voice to the song.
They had learned this song from Ilúvatar at the beginning of all things, one song amongst many. In the beginning, all had been song—they had spun the whole world from the power of their voices and the secret fire Ilúvatar imbued it with. The creation of the first stars had been no different; it was song and power that birthed stardust, and nebulae, and finally those billions of lights.
The song grew more complex, and Ilmarë branched away from Varda, becoming her counterpoint, rather than her twin. They had sung this song many times, and this was Ilmarë’s role, to the end of time. This was a song meant to be sung by two voices. With more, the meaning was lost, and the work would be left undone. With less, the song was incomplete, and there could be no result but failure.
Light formed in their upturned palms, Varda and Ilmarë’s both. At first, it was colorless, but turned blue, white, yellow, red. The light glimmered and winked and whispered, reflecting the words of the song back at the singers.
Varda’s voice rose, and so did Ilmarë’s. The light grew stronger and more distinct. From swirling orbs to clusters of individual lights that quivered and flickered and batted against each other.
Finally, Ilmarë gave the last note, and Varda the final command, and the lights shot up from their hands, rocketing into the sky until, at last, they took their places in Ilmen, new stars ready to gleam more brightly than their predecessors.
“Let this be a light for the Eldar, who even now near their time of awakening,” Varda said softly.
“Let them look upon the stars, and hear our voices whispering to them,” Ilmarë finished for her. “Let them hear us, and know peace, even if they do not understand.”
Would that Yavanna’s trees would cast light upon Aman longer than Illuin and Ormal had cast light upon Arda.