In that vast wasteland, where the air seemed to sigh between the stalks, a carpet of flowers of countless species stretched as far as the eye could see. Each petal shone despite the absence of the Sacred Trees, as if the last vestiges of their light still lived in that vibrant vegetation. Ancient whispers, resembling distant music, brought quietness and serenity to the place.
In the distance, under the light of dawn, four sinuous figures moved with the grace of falling autumn leaves. Their blonde and dark brown hair contrasted with the black and whitish tones of their clothing.
Tulkas, Oromë, Ilarion, and Huan advanced elegantly through Yavanna's personal garden, a joy reserved only for those she deemed worthy. Their destination? Aulë's dwelling. The two Valar, as a gesture of affection, accompanied Ilarion on his farewell.
"And that time," Tulkas recounted with great enthusiasm, "Oromë shot an arrow as fast as the thunder that follows lightning… and it hit Aulë right in the rear!"
"And it took Yavanna two whole days of rain to get it out!" he added, laughing with such a roar that the wind stirred and the petals on the ground trembled.
At this, Oromë clenched his teeth, grinding them like two stones colliding.
"It wasn't my fault," he said with regret reflected in his cerulean eyes. "That idiot Tulkas challenged me to prove that my arrow was as fast as him. You can imagine the result," he added, giving a look to Ilarion, who couldn't hide his smile.
Tulkas's loud laughter resonated, causing a slight tremor beneath Ilarion's feet.
"He was so furious," he continued, "that he chased me for four days and five nights."
Tulkas glanced at Oromë, whose dark brown hair already showed some white strands, a trait that instilled fear in anyone foolish enough to provoke his wrath.
Tulkas might be the strongest among the Valar, but Oromë was undoubtedly the most feared when enraged. His hair would turn milky white, like freshly fallen snow, and he wouldn't rest until he found whatever had awakened his anger.
Unlike them, Ilarion sometimes forgot that his companions were Eru's angels, beings of immeasurable power.
And yet, despite their greatness, they narrated their stories like mere mortals: they got angry, loved, laughed, and mocked each other. This reminded him that no matter how high a spirit rises, there is always time for love and joy.
A soft laugh escaped Ilarion's delicate lips, a laugh that made Oromë's white strands dissipate. The hunter treated him like a son, as did most of the Valar. So pure and luminous was Ilarion that even Mandos, the coldest and most distant of them all, found his company pleasant.
"Is that story true, Lord Oromë?" Ilarion asked. Not that he doubted Tulkas, but the Valar tended to exaggerate their tales.
At his question, Oromë smiled with a certain complicity.
"Of course, it's true," he replied. "I pursued him like the beast he is; only my sister made me desist," he concluded, with a dreamy look as he recalled those days.
It was then, amidst the warmth and laughter, that a voice as soft as the murmur of a stream rose, capturing the attention of the four.
"You are like children!" she exclaimed, as a gigantic flower emerged from nowhere, as if the earth itself had yielded to a miracle.
Its petals, a radiant yellow and ethereal silver, evoked the lost light of the Two Trees.
With slow majesty, the petals opened, revealing a woman as tall as the oldest oak, as beautiful as the first flower of spring, and as imposing as the golden suns of autumn.
Yavanna, in all her grace and splendor, stood before her brothers and the young Ilarion, who gazed at her with reverent wonder. Her green hair, vibrant and full of life, seemed to carry the very essence of nature. Ilarion deeply appreciated his encounters with Yavanna; her presence enveloped him in peace, like rest after a long journey.
"Oh, Yavanna!" Tulkas exclaimed, laughing cheerfully. "We must never lose our inner child, sister! We must always keep it alive."
Tulkas's words reminded Ilarion of a lesson from Manwë: the Valar were born as curious children of Eru Ilúvatar's thoughts, and they grew as their songs took shape.
"Tulkas, Tulkas…" Yavanna repeated, gently shaking her head. "You are right, dear brother, but I fear your influence might alter my little Ilarion's good temperament," she added with a smile, moving her hand.
A vine slid down to coil around Ilarion's arm. Its touch was like a mother's: warm, protective. From the stalk blossomed a crystalline flower, changing and brilliant, resembling a silver cherry tree that radiated hope and comfort.
"I know why you have come, my dear son," Yavanna said with the sweetness of the wind among the fields. "This flower will protect you from any curse or shadow that rises against you."
With the delicacy of a petal floating in the air, she caressed Ilarion's face, admiring the purity that emanated from him.
"Seek nature when you need to talk," she continued. "I will always be here to listen to you."
"I am grateful, Lady Yavanna," Ilarion replied with deep emotion. "I will treasure your gift and your words with all my heart."
Yavanna nodded tenderly, then cast her gaze upon her Valar brothers, a mix of affection and slight exasperation.
"As for you two… I know you are accompanying young Ilarion, but please, do not bother my husband when you enter his forge," she said, with a significant pause.
Oromë nodded serenely, while Tulkas let out a burst of laughter as powerful as distant thunder, which everyone was accustomed to.
"I promise," he replied, resting his hands on his hips. "I had to pick up the gift for the boy anyway."
"Good," Yavanna replied with a soft smile. With a wave of her hand, the flowers began to spin and dance, forming a redwood door decorated with floral motifs that resembled a forge made of petals.
"Enter. My husband awaits you."
Ilarion bowed his head in a reverence, reciprocated by Yavanna's spring-like smile.
"Thank you, Lady Yavanna," he said before opening the heavy door, which creaked softly as it moved.
The sight was familiar to him. The forging and construction tools, neat and orderly, filled the entire room. The tables, carved from the finest wood, held weapons and artifacts of admirable perfection.
In the background, sparks flew into the air like raindrops. The sound of the hammer striking the metal resonated forcefully, while the fire projected the shadow of the smith Vala. His reddish hair, fiery as the forge itself, moved in rhythm with each strike.
Ilarion watched with fascination. Under the firelight, the metal came to life, with a glow that oscillated between lunar white and the darkness of night.
The intricately designed hilt was a work of art: a purple orb at its center reflected Varda's unfathomable eyes, surrounded by golden and black lines that snaked as if space itself had been melted into the steel.
The blade's edge darkened towards the borders, deep as the cosmos. Small stars seemed to be trapped within it, shining faintly with each hammer blow, as if each impact awakened a spark from the night sky.
Ilarion felt something inside him respond to the call of that creation. The weapon seemed to have a life of its own, inviting him to approach its birth.
With hesitant steps, he obeyed that silent voice, until Aulë's deep timbre snapped him out of his trance. His words, laden with meaning, resonated like a sacred chant:
"Forged with Varda's starry hair, tempered by Manwë's breath," Aulë said in a trance, "cooled under Ulmo's waters and shaped by my hand and my steel."
With a final strike, the sword glowed, announcing its birth.
"Silmacil," Aulë proudly proclaimed. "My greatest creation."