Where are You, Sister?
Our Festival starts anon!"
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.
Yavanna's apartments, She knows, seeing
Sister's flashing eyes darken at the sight of the
the perpetually vine-encrusted furniture, the
carpet of mushrooms near the door.
Whereas Yavanna prefers the soft, the
filthy but comfortable,
in unevenness and imbal-
Kementári rolls Her eyes and
pops a grape into Her mouth,
waiting for the divine
("How irritating She can be!")
When the halls are silent once more, Yavanna
down and looks over the balcony's edge, examining
"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
"Have You seen, Sister?
images hangs in palaces from
Gondor to Mithlond!
The delightful dears!"
And that final straw...
"Sister, that Ranger, that Aragorn,
has sworn by
to win his love!
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?
So she spited him with many
of freezing winters, parched summers, and
from her living, leaf-strewn throne.
"May you be plagued by them," she thinks smugly, and--
A seed slips from Her palm,
and now covered in Her sacred spit.
Shaking Her hand in disgust, She flips it
over the balcony
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
grow twenty feet.
She pads back to Her divan
falls back into slumber
while Sister's stars wheel
dreaming of her forests,
growing from seedlings
among harsh soils and
Years pass in a blink
of Her eyes,
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
He worships Her Sister, yet
to these small, rounded beings...
...and what victory is that?
Feeling slightly triumphant,
she salutes Scruffy-king with a gracious hand--
"Lo! here is a scion of the Eldest of Trees!"
She giggles, and watches as Scruffy-king and Olórin
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
praises to Varda
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.
perfect love stories:
Scruffy's love for the Princess, his quest
to win kingdom-crown-and-all, his
Yavanna likes her stories to have
a bit of color,
but she usually has them turn out all right.)
"There," she thinks,