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Old 01-28-2004, 01:27 AM   #80
Child of the 7th Age
Spirit of the Lonely Star
 
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Sting

Aiwendil

His eyes half closed and drowsing, Aiwendil gazed sleepily at the panoply of stars parading across the darkened skies. A brown bat darted off into the night, spiralling upward, and then headed east towards the mountains of sand. One flash and a whir, a steady beating of wings, and Rôg had flown beyond even Aiwendil's sight and hearing.

A feeling of sadness, akin to envy, swiftly enveloped the wizard. The young man could take off whenever and wherever he pleased, while Aiwendil sat chained to the seat of a bumping wagon. Back on the ship, he had hoped things might be different here. But however he tried, he still could not penetrate the curtain that blocked off his inner sight. Behind that barrier lay the knowledge he needed to accomplish the goal that had been laid down for him.

That would be difficult, since the old man could not even remember why he had been sent. His knowledge of what had come before and many of his other skills had faded away during the long years he'd dwelled in Mirkwood. Yet his outer powers of observation--his eyesight and hearing--had not dimmed. Despite his befuddled appearance, very little escaped his attention. If anything, these faculties had sharpened. For he'd spent endless hours searching for small creatures and birds, seeking to capture their images and engrave them on his heart. They were a small blessing in a trying world. For even when bad fortune befell them, they did not complain or come begging for help. One moment they were here and the next gone, and others of their kind came to take their place.

With Man, it was different. Men had a great deal to say about why they felt they were here, and exactly what should be done to improve their plight. When he had first arrived, Aiwendil had been shocked to see such naked sorrow and want. So many people with so many needs, and each with a dozen different ideas about how to make things better. It was more than he could bear. He had gone off by himself and, without realizing it, began to adopt the same attitudes and behaviors as other Men: complaining about his situation and speculating on how the world might have been arranged differently for his own personal benefit.

In the midst of these reflections, the istar slipped over from a state of waking to that of sleep, his body slumped against the side of the wagon. He saw himself walking down a beautiful path in a garden that seemed hauntingly familiar. At the end of the path stood a figure of authority who hastened to his side, explaining why the istari were being sent, and what they were meant to do. It was as if time had rolled backwards and everything was being played over again.

Aiwendil glanced at Manwe and spoke what was in his heart, "I do not have the compassion of Olórin or the skills of Curunír. My power and wisdom are as nothing next to theirs. I am not suited for this task."

Manwe shook his head and responded sternly, "Aiwendil, I do not ask that you do this thing on your own. Only that you make some effort to help your elder brothers. For many years, you have been a gardener and a tender of beasts. Now, you must learn to teach others the things you have mastered, both in the mending of the earth and in helping them to discern the path of goodness. You are not to do these things yourself, but to teach those about you how to do them!"

Manwe fixed a sharp eye on the Maia, "Do not forget! No man who runs off by himself can teach. You must pay close attention to what others tell you. And until you fulfill these duties, you will not be permitted to return to Valinor." Then Manwe went on and spoke at length about the specific tasks appointed to Aiwendil. The old man strained his ears, but could not make out all the details. Yet a few words came floating up that seemed to make no sense. Something about 'wyrms' and 'eagles' and 'maenwaith' and that eventually Mordor would need a good gardener; there would be no need to rush his return, since the end of time was still very far away.

The rear wheel of the wagon momentarily slipped off the hard packed trail and sank into the softer sand piled up beside the path. Without warning, the wagon lurched to one side. It took a moment for the wheel to find solid ground again. In the meanwhile, Aiwendil was tossed roughly forward, hitting his head on the hooped canvas roof. He was instantly yanked back from the pleasant gardens of Lorien into Harad of the Fourth Age. The istar sat up and wistfully rubbed his eyes, wishing that he could will himself back again to hear more of what Manwe was saying. It was the first time in long years that he'd had a tiny peek through the shadowy curtain and caught a brief glimpse of what lay beyond. Regretting his abrupt awakening, Aiwendel looked about for Rôg and, realizing that he was still absent, grumbled a few sharp word beneath his breath.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:03 PM January 28, 2004: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]
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