Varda's Private Journal
Whether or not it matters now, this morning I found an account of our (we being Hercules and I, that is) meeting, from a futuristic perspective, on my bedside table in my palace. The author remains anonymous, but anyway, I will place the document in this diary.
On a warm summer’s day, in ages past, when the sun was bright and the air clean, the angelic lady Varda was taking a mid-day stroll over the fresh, green lands in a place that no longer exists. Through glade and glen her heavenly highness passed, seeking the fairest flowers in the land, to be a part of a bouquet for her husband across the sea. Manwë, as he was then called, was the Lord of the World, next to the creator, Ilúvatar, with Varda as his lady and companion, she was also known as Elentári, or Star Queen, as she was the maker of the stars.
Manwë and Varda were seldom parted. In fact, for ages, since the Ainulindalë until a moon prior to that one warm summer’s day, they had never been. Their love was as pure as the stars themselves, and when together, they could hear and see all happenings on Ea, the earth.
Because of their great love and how they used it, Manwë and Varda indeed never thought one could be without the other. Neither had ever known any love than his complement, and only love their creator more than themselves.
But it was, in fact, the creator, who ended up separating them. Ilúvatar had a great plan that required such a parting, and no matter how wrong Manwë and Varda thought it, they had to obey Ilúvatar’s calling.
And so it was that Lord and Lady were parted. Manwë stayed in Valinor, and Varda was sent across the sea to Beleriand, with numerous men, Elves, and other Ainur; most of these had perished many, many years ago in the great wars.
United with these people, she however missed her husband sorely, so daily they exchanged letters and tokens for good measure. And on this day, just after receiving a letter and rose from her counterpart, Varda decided to go and arrange a splendid bouquet of wildflowers for him. Yet she never did succeed in finishing that arrangement.
Three quarters of an hour into her quest, Varda unfortunately stumbled into a camp of the most foul and upsettable Orcs and Goblins imaginable. The poor Lady had been pondering where else to search, lost in her own daydream, too caught up in her musing to notice the telltale smells, sounds, and sights of an Orc-ish establishment.
Before Varda intruded, the troop of nasties had been divided in an argument: half of them wanted to head north in search of villages to pillage, while the other wished to go south. The debate had become so heated that they ended up disemboweling three of their comrades.
It was in the middle of the third ravaging that the unfortunate Varda entered their messy clearing, and when she did, the creatures desisted, and turned on her.
“Well, well,” said the chief of the “north” party, with a bit of intestine still dangling out of his mouth, “what a pretty thing we have here!”
“You know, I bet she’d taste a lot better than old Globkin here did,” added the “south” head, with bits of poor Globkin spitting out of his over-full mouth (he had a speech impediment anyway).
Sadly, for the Orcs, they never found out if Varda did taste better, and never decided on a direction, either. For just as Mr. South finished his sentence (which very much frightened Varda), a rift in spacetime appeared next to him, and out popped a very handsome and muscular man. As though on cue, without any qualms whatsoever, this traveler began to give the orcs their due, the most brutal beating they could ever receive.
The traumatized, and very fragile Varda had taken enough for one day, and thus fainted, still at the edge of the clearing. As she fainted, her grip loosened on her bouquet, and the wildflowers spread about her where she lay, giving her a very peaceful and serene appearance. In fact, as accounted by the man later, the flowers seemed “perfectly placed, as though by a divine hand, all about her.”
The man fought every one of the Orcs, which outnumbered him three-score (sixty) to none, without any weapons than his two hands, until each was good and dead; and afterward, he piled them up in an indent in the floor of the clearing, to hide them from plain sight.
It was after he had finished “cleaning up” that he noticed the array of flowers in what had seemed a dry and dead place. Curious, as he always was, the man went over to investigate.
And it was then that he beheld his Lady; even in her current state, her tranquil smile radiated warmth, as did her very presence. Indeed the light of the creator still shone in her face, and her beauty indescribable.
Her rescuer was captivated by her at once, and knelt beside her slumbering form to wake her.
“My wondrous lady,” he said in a deep, gentle voice, “it is safe for you to wake. The creatures are no more, and thus goes the danger. My queen, arise!”
Varda stirred, stretched, and slowly opened her eyes. Seeing the man above her, she reached up, smiling softly, and brushed his cheek with her hand. She then spoke: “Such a comely face, a demanding, yet gentle, countenance. I pray, tell me your name. And where you come from? My savior, my prince. I owe you my life.”
“Ah, to hear you speak!” he exclaimed. “You owe me nothing, for to look upon you is far to great a gift, so I, in fact, owe you. My name, you ask? I shall give it to you. I am Hercules, son of the god Zeus, and the mortal woman Alcmene. I come from a place called Greece. I beg your name, milady.”
“Hercules, a god-son!” said Varda. “In such case, we are both divine. I am Varda, of the Valar, and you ware now in a land called Beleriand, on the world called Arda. Now, I know ever corner of my word, and as I know no ‘Greece,’ I should be right in saying that you are no longer in your world, but in mine, sweet Hercules. So the question is, how did you get here?”
“Well,” Hercules replied, helping Varda to her feet, tucking a flower of blue in her hair to match her skirt, “that’s a very good question.”
Varda laughed, then discovered that she was still weak from the scare she had received. Without asking or being asked, Hercules scooped the Vala up and carried her out of the desolate Orc-clearing, throught he small woods, and out to a meadow full of daisies and flutter-byes, as though she weighed naught but a feather! Here he set her down upon a soft patch of grass, and sat himself down beside her.
“So what were the flowers for?” asked Hercules earnestly.
“Oh, those!” said Varda, giggling. “Well, I was picking a bouquet, but I don’t suppose that matters now, does it?”
Just reading that brings tears. The strange thing is, our meeting went that way exactly. It makes me wonder who the author was, or is, or will be?
Hercules is gone now, he has gone back to Greece, and here I sit, alone and cold.
On a warm summer’s day, in ages past, when the sun was bright and the air clean, the angelic lady Varda was taking a mid-day stroll over the fresh, green lands in a place that no longer exists. Through glade and glen her heavenly highness passed, seeking the fairest flowers in the land, to be a part of a bouquet for her husband across the sea. Manwë, as he was then called, was the Lord of the World, next to the creator, Ilúvatar, with Varda as his lady and companion, she was also known as Elentári, or Star Queen, as she was the maker of the stars.
Manwë and Varda were seldom parted. In fact, for ages, since the Ainulindalë until a moon prior to that one warm summer’s day, they had never been. Their love was as pure as the stars themselves, and when together, they could hear and see all happenings on Ea, the earth.
Because of their great love and how they used it, Manwë and Varda indeed never thought one could be without the other. Neither had ever known any love than his complement, and only love their creator more than themselves.
But it was, in fact, the creator, who ended up separating them. Ilúvatar had a great plan that required such a parting, and no matter how wrong Manwë and Varda thought it, they had to obey Ilúvatar’s calling.
And so it was that Lord and Lady were parted. Manwë stayed in Valinor, and Varda was sent across the sea to Beleriand, with numerous men, Elves, and other Ainur; most of these had perished many, many years ago in the great wars.
United with these people, she however missed her husband sorely, so daily they exchanged letters and tokens for good measure. And on this day, just after receiving a letter and rose from her counterpart, Varda decided to go and arrange a splendid bouquet of wildflowers for him. Yet she never did succeed in finishing that arrangement.
Three quarters of an hour into her quest, Varda unfortunately stumbled into a camp of the most foul and upsettable Orcs and Goblins imaginable. The poor Lady had been pondering where else to search, lost in her own daydream, too caught up in her musing to notice the telltale smells, sounds, and sights of an Orc-ish establishment.
Before Varda intruded, the troop of nasties had been divided in an argument: half of them wanted to head north in search of villages to pillage, while the other wished to go south. The debate had become so heated that they ended up disemboweling three of their comrades.
It was in the middle of the third ravaging that the unfortunate Varda entered their messy clearing, and when she did, the creatures desisted, and turned on her.
“Well, well,” said the chief of the “north” party, with a bit of intestine still dangling out of his mouth, “what a pretty thing we have here!”
“You know, I bet she’d taste a lot better than old Globkin here did,” added the “south” head, with bits of poor Globkin spitting out of his over-full mouth (he had a speech impediment anyway).
Sadly, for the Orcs, they never found out if Varda did taste better, and never decided on a direction, either. For just as Mr. South finished his sentence (which very much frightened Varda), a rift in spacetime appeared next to him, and out popped a very handsome and muscular man. As though on cue, without any qualms whatsoever, this traveler began to give the orcs their due, the most brutal beating they could ever receive.
The traumatized, and very fragile Varda had taken enough for one day, and thus fainted, still at the edge of the clearing. As she fainted, her grip loosened on her bouquet, and the wildflowers spread about her where she lay, giving her a very peaceful and serene appearance. In fact, as accounted by the man later, the flowers seemed “perfectly placed, as though by a divine hand, all about her.”
The man fought every one of the Orcs, which outnumbered him three-score (sixty) to none, without any weapons than his two hands, until each was good and dead; and afterward, he piled them up in an indent in the floor of the clearing, to hide them from plain sight.
It was after he had finished “cleaning up” that he noticed the array of flowers in what had seemed a dry and dead place. Curious, as he always was, the man went over to investigate.
And it was then that he beheld his Lady; even in her current state, her tranquil smile radiated warmth, as did her very presence. Indeed the light of the creator still shone in her face, and her beauty indescribable.
Her rescuer was captivated by her at once, and knelt beside her slumbering form to wake her.
“My wondrous lady,” he said in a deep, gentle voice, “it is safe for you to wake. The creatures are no more, and thus goes the danger. My queen, arise!”
Varda stirred, stretched, and slowly opened her eyes. Seeing the man above her, she reached up, smiling softly, and brushed his cheek with her hand. She then spoke: “Such a comely face, a demanding, yet gentle, countenance. I pray, tell me your name. And where you come from? My savior, my prince. I owe you my life.”
“Ah, to hear you speak!” he exclaimed. “You owe me nothing, for to look upon you is far to great a gift, so I, in fact, owe you. My name, you ask? I shall give it to you. I am Hercules, son of the god Zeus, and the mortal woman Alcmene. I come from a place called Greece. I beg your name, milady.”
“Hercules, a god-son!” said Varda. “In such case, we are both divine. I am Varda, of the Valar, and you ware now in a land called Beleriand, on the world called Arda. Now, I know ever corner of my word, and as I know no ‘Greece,’ I should be right in saying that you are no longer in your world, but in mine, sweet Hercules. So the question is, how did you get here?”
“Well,” Hercules replied, helping Varda to her feet, tucking a flower of blue in her hair to match her skirt, “that’s a very good question.”
Varda laughed, then discovered that she was still weak from the scare she had received. Without asking or being asked, Hercules scooped the Vala up and carried her out of the desolate Orc-clearing, throught he small woods, and out to a meadow full of daisies and flutter-byes, as though she weighed naught but a feather! Here he set her down upon a soft patch of grass, and sat himself down beside her.
“So what were the flowers for?” asked Hercules earnestly.
“Oh, those!” said Varda, giggling. “Well, I was picking a bouquet, but I don’t suppose that matters now, does it?”
Just reading that brings tears. The strange thing is, our meeting went that way exactly. It makes me wonder who the author was, or is, or will be?
Hercules is gone now, he has gone back to Greece, and here I sit, alone and cold.