1. The Calling
He is beautiful. Such a fair one, and strong. While he sleeps and while he wakes I am singing to him, calling him to me. I will the glory of my waves, my white foaming crests, to haunt his dreams. Even as he strides across the works of Aulë, I am there. He hears my love-song in notes of raindrops on leaves; my yearning for him thunders in rushing rivers that guide him to me.
Through the summer he revels on my shores, content with the cries of gulls and tunes of the wind on sand. My outstretched tides on the beach are his lullaby at night, though he is a full-grown man. I am in ecstasy when he swims in my waters. His enthusiastic strokes echo through my oceans and my currents dance with joy. I delight in licking his toes as he walks across the pebbled strand. He is mine, gloriously mine, even as he imagines he is in solitude.
Though I sparkle and glisten in his company, my beating waves become sighs on the land. I know that just as I needed him to bathe in my beauty I need now to send him away. With wordless songs of valor and strength I give him a vision. He finds his gift-raiment, and clothes his tawny skin that I have caressed times uncountable, then comes to my shore.
Embracing the winds of Manwë, I cause a great storm. Waters from my green depths pitch up to the sky, and the heavens howl. He faces into my turbulent deeps, unsure and alone. I make my voice like thunder, and reveal myself to him.
Like unto a wave as high as Varda's stars I take form. In battle garb I must show myself, and at seeing me, he is stricken with awe, and kneels at my waters edge. In my glory I appear before him, my helm as of skin of the glistening porpoise, seafoam dancing on it as feathers in the raging wind. I clothe myself in mail that reminds him of fish scales, silver encapsulating endless rainbows. My long hair is black, the color of unfathomable deeps found in sea otters eyes, which sways gently in the tempest, like seaweed in the shallows.
My voice is that of waters crashing on stone, of rain pummeling the earth. I tell him to find the hidden city that houses many of the Firstborn, those whom I love but whose affections are turned always to the heavens. I despair at his departure, yet know it must be so. I allow my waters to drench his feet, my passionate tides to cling to his strong calves, but then I will them to retreat. Before I relinquish him to tread again the hard ground, I give him two gifts. As he gazes at me, his eyes a blue-green as exquisite as my frozen sculptures in the north, I bequeath to him a cloak to hide him from our enemy, just as the starfish cover the forms of watery rocks.
I bear my second gift to him through the night, as the storm takes an unwitting toll on a ship voyaging from the West. Of the many figures in the boat, I save only one, though my heart grieves with loss. In mourning, my cerulean deeps accept these beautiful forms, pale bodies who become reverse stars, white lights in my dark swells. I weep for them, salted raindrops hurtling down from the sky, even as I can sense their feä journeying to the quiet harbor of Mandos.
I subside and rest, surrendering to my natural form. As the winds calm, I lull him to sleep, lapping at his dear flesh, now lying prone on the sand. The twinkling lights of Varda dance overhead, and the rushes in my rivers far off languorously ease to and fro.
When my beloved wakes, he stands and looks longingly at me, though I am now silent, smooth and impassive as glass. Shedding his battle garb, he slowly eases himself into my shallows, and I bear him up even as he gazes at the sun. Then, even as I bade him, his footprints walk away from my wet borders. Clothed in my gift-raiment, he treads to Vinyamar and finds the immortal who I saved, and then they depart.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.