Tolkien Fan Fiction
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| Yavanna |
| "Sister, Sister! Where are You, Sister? Our Festival starts anon!" Yavanna, She-of-fewer-names-than-Varda, yawns, stretching over Her silken divan beneath Arien's light vines trailing after Her fingers, ripping through the sheets and erupting into a stream of crimson flowers. Varda dislikes Yavanna's apartments, She knows, seeing Sister's flashing eyes darken at the sight of the hanging moss, the perpetually vine-encrusted furniture, the carpet of mushrooms near the door. Varda is neat orderly perfectionistic and obsessive-compulsive. Even the stars are evenly spaced. Whereas Yavanna prefers the soft, the filthy but comfortable, revels in unevenness and imbal- ance. "SISTER!" Kementári rolls Her eyes and pops a grape into Her mouth, stretching, waiting for the divine SHRIEKS ("How irritating She can be!") to fade. When the halls are silent once more, Yavanna jumps down and looks over the balcony's edge, examining affairs Below. "Interesting," She muses, tracing a dark thread of marble on the balustrade, watching Olórin and The Scruffy Wanderer (her own nickname) trading stories beside a campfire. Idly, she sends a cloud of midges to bother Scruffy, to nip his neck and give him annoyance, all of which gently nurse her grudge.... O, what long-held shame! O, what snide comparisons! "Did You hear that, Sister? The Elves have created six hundred more hymns to Me!" "Charming." "Have You seen, Sister? My images hangs in palaces from Gondor to Mithlond! The delightful dears!" "Quite." And that final straw... "Sister, that Ranger, that Aragorn, has sworn by Me to win his love! How quaint!" "...Indeed." Delightful. Quaint. Of course. Did he forget that athelas, (his birthright, his power) belonged to Her? Did he not recall that his herblore was Her domain, that everything he was famed for was from Her? No. Selfish mortal. So she spited him with many difficulties of freezing winters, parched summers, and inopportune injuries, lazily, from her living, leaf-strewn throne. Ha. Ha. "May you be plagued by them," she thinks smugly, and-- sneezes. "Oh!" A seed slips from Her palm, white, wrinkled, and now covered in Her sacred spit. Shaking Her hand in disgust, She flips it over the balcony towards Arda. It lands with a tiny "thump" in the southern mountains. She peers closer, examining the soil, the snow, and exhales on it, Her breath causing nearby trees to instantly grow twenty feet. She pads back to Her divan falls back into slumber while Sister's stars wheel overhead, time passing, dreaming of her forests, their peace, her children on Arda, growing from seedlings among harsh soils and inconstant rains. Years pass in a blink of Her eyes, or minutes depending on HIS whims and suddenly She awakens, yawning wide and blinking away sleep. In the south, She sees, propping her chin on the balustrade, there is a to-do over a new king. Yavanna is dismissive until-- "O, by Me!" --she recognizes "king" as "Scruffy." She is childishly delighted at his new deference, actually clapping aloud! He worships Her Sister, yet kneels to these small, rounded beings... ...and what victory is that? Feeling slightly triumphant, she salutes Scruffy-king with a gracious hand-- Wait. She squints. Listens. "Lo! here is a scion of the Eldest of Trees!" A pause. She giggles, and watches as Scruffy-king and Olórin step closer. An oblique wave of her hand, and the soil around the tree loosens, freeing itself into Scruffy's grasp. Yavanna yawns again, watching them through drooping eyes. A celebration, with silken banners and rejoicing crowds, thronging the streets of the circular city. Cups being raised to peace, to the king, praises to Varda ("Hmph.") for the blessedly clear night. Lounging balanced on the balustrade stretching clear from horizon to horizon, Yavanna dips a hand down through the clouds, down millions of leagues into the city, nudging a maiden's heart into lust, placing a handsome guard in her path and settling back to watch. (Varda likes perfect love stories: Scruffy's love for the Princess, his quest to win kingdom-crown-and-all, his hidden heritage. Yavanna likes her stories to have a bit of color, but she usually has them turn out all right.) "There," she thinks, drowsily, and slowly drifts back into sleep. |