Work Text:
As he usually did, Oromë found Vána in her gardens. But upon his entry, his hunter instincts knew something was amiss. His wife's gardens were always lush and beautiful, indicative of her gentle care and true talent, and he would always be the first to boast that his wife's gardens were perfect.
And that was the problem he sensed. They were perfect… too perfect. Every single plant was pruned, every leaf of every weed pulled, every petal of every flower cleaned—everything was too obsessively perfect. And in the middle of it all was his dear wife. She knelt in the garden, her hair pulled back, working away. But the smudged dirt on her face and clothes and the strands of hair falling out of place suggested she had been here for a very long time.
The sun shined down on the gardens, and it was still so strange to see the flowers turned towards the sky. Years before, they had been turned in the direction of Laurelin to soak in her light. Oromë supposed they were doing that still, simply in a different direction. But there was one being in the gardens not looking upwards. As Oromë watched, Vána straightened and stretched, then went back to work, never once lifting her head towards the sky.
With a soft sigh, Oromë headed towards her, being careful not to crush any of the flowers. She didn't appear to hear his footsteps, but he saw her gardening tools pause when he approached. "Dearest," he said gently, "how long have you been here?"
Vána made no move to look up at him, simply going back to work. "Since the day began."
"It is nearly the evening, my love."
"I am not finished yet. There is still so much to do."
"The flowers look perfect, darling."
Vána struck her weeding tool into the dirt around a small weed. "You always tell me so."
"I would never lie to you." When it didn't appear to sway her, Oromë tried a different strategy. "Perhaps you should rest. Have you eaten today?"
"Yes, I have." Vána began to work her tool around the weed. "I must finish my work before I rest, my love."
Oromë knelt down beside her. "Vána," he said gently, "what is upsetting you?"
"Upsetting me?" Vána looked up at him. "I am not upset."
"I know you are. I sensed it the moment I entered your garden. Please tell me, so that I may help you."
"There is nothing upsetting me." She dug her weeding tool harder into the dirt. "I am simply working."
"Do you not think you have worked too much?"
"No, I do not. My garden must be looked after, as you do your hounds."
"And I admire how hard you work, as I always have."
"Oromë," Vána sighed heavily. She put her weeding tool aside and dug her fingers into the dirt instead, burrowing them down around the weed. "Please do not soften your words. What is it you are trying to say?"
There were times when Oromë hated how perceptive his wife could be. He could never hide anything from her. "My love… I am worried about you. I know the loss of Arien pains you—"
"But she is not lost," Vána interrupted. "Not truly lost." Her voice carried a strange edge of resentment. "Nor is Tilion. As Varda and Manwe have told us."
Oromë shut his eyes at that. As much as he wished not to, he still felt the same resentment. Neither Varda nor Manwe could understand the loss of Arien and Tilion. They were not the ones who had guided and loved the two Maiar since they came into being. "And yet they feel lost. I understand—"
"Nobody understands!" Vána suddenly burst out. "Nobody! They do not mourn anymore! They simply pretend everything is fine. Even Yavanna pretends!" She whirled around to him. "Do you know she goes to Ezellohar alone? She tells no one, but I have seen her go there. She pretends nothing is wrong, that the Moon and Sun have replaced Telperion and Laurelin, but she mourns them still! And she does not tell anyone, because everything is supposed to be fine. But it has been a year, and nothing feels fine." She began to tug at the weed in the dirt. "There are no more Trees to tend, no more vats to collect dew for, no more Arien to make everyone laugh with her stories, no more Tilion for you to scold for his recklessness—all of it is gone!"
At her last word, the weed finally came loose, and she tore it out of the ground. Dirt was sent flying, landing on their robes and in the flowers. Vána gripped it in her hand, staring at Oromë with burning eyes and flushed cheeks. Oromë simply held her gaze, sadly wondering how long his wife had been keeping this to herself; from even him, to whom she told everything.
Then Vána's face crumpled and she dropped the weed to hug him tightly. Oromë wrapped his arms around her. "I'm sorry, Oromë, I did not—I should not have yelled at you." Her voice shook as she pleaded. "Please forgive me."
Oromë kissed her head. "There is nothing to forgive, my dearest. This grief still pains me as well."
Vána sniffled quietly. "You were right. I am upset. I am grieving, and I am angry, and at what or whom I do not know—but there is nothing I can do. I loved the Trees. I loved tending to them, and feeling their Light. I loved Arien's stories, and her puns—none of us want to make puns anymore. There are no more Trees, no more stories, no more puns. It feels sometimes as if all I have left are these gardens."
"My love… I understand. I miss Tilion. My hunters and I wear silver to honor him, but it does not feel the same. I still look to make sure he is not acting reckless, but he is never there. It hurts more than wounds ever could."
Vána's arms wrapped tighter around him. "I am sorry I did not tell you, my love. I felt like the only one who feels this way. Did I make you feel alone?"
Oromë sighed. "Yes," he admitted. "I did feel alone in my grief."
"My love, I am so sorry. Will you tell me of it now?"
At that, Oromë smiled. "So you can worry about me, but I cannot worry about you?"
"I—no, that isn't what I—" Vána finally laughed, albeit rather tearfully. "Oh, shut up. Now I won't worry about you."
"Oh, how you wound me, my love!" Oromë pulled them both to the ground. "You wound me dearly!"
The two laughed for a while on the ground together. Oromë basked in the sight of Vána's smile. His hunters loved to tease him for being such a fierce hunter and warrior and yet so soft and adoring around his wife—but how could he not?
Vána gave him a kiss. "I am sorry, my love, truly. I know you do not like being vulnerable, and I made it more difficult. I suppose with our kin appearing to have moved on, I did not want to speak of it."
"I felt the same," Oromë agreed. He smiled again. "How lovely that after thousands of years, we still have so much in common."
Vána snickered. "That is why we know each other so well."
"Indeed. Which is how I know you are trying to talk about my grief so we do not talk about yours."
Vána sighed, her head falling back into the grass. "It is… difficult. There is nothing to be done for it. You cannot fight it away."
"No, I cannot," he admitted. "But there is something that can be done."
"What is that?"
He wrapped his arm around her waist to hug her close again. "Stop your work for the day, my love. Come home and rest, and we can share our grief together."
After a moment, Vána smiled. "Alright. Let us go home."
With a smile, Oromë sat up. Then he lifted Vána into his arms and stood. "Shall I carry my dearest wife back home?"
Vána laughed. "It seems my husband has been replaced with Tulkas! May I at least put my tools away?"
Oromë sighed heavily. "If you must."
"My dear, dramatic husband." Vána kissed his cheek. "You can put them away with me."
"Now, why did you not say that before?" Oromë set her down. "Lead the way, my love."
Smiling brightly, Vána took his hand and went to gather up her gardening tools.
High above in Ilmen, where the stars shone bright, Arien looked down on Valinor, where her master and her husband left the gardens together, and smiled. They would be alright.