Reality

Canon-compliant AU.  Philosophical crap.  No really, I'm serious.  It's entirely focused on an introspective perspective of a character I've never done a POV project for.  First time writing his POV.  Ever.  I suppose this could be related to any and all other stories hanging around, but is particularly related to any Valinor-based stories.  Takes place upon Taniquetil probably in the Second or Third Age.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none

Characters: Manwë (mentions Eru, Arien and Melkor)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, opinions about the world, philosophical stuff

Song: A Prayer for Humanity

Words: 1,080
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reality (noun): the quality or state of being real; something that is neither derivative nor dependent but exists necessarily
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/reality

It wasn't at all like the vision within his mind's eye.

When Manwë had descended from the Timeless Halls into the world created by the hands of the Father--a massive and empty open space ripe for creation, for shaping and building and perfecting--always harmony had been ringing in his ears and symmetry reflecting in his mind's eye.  Consonance, after all, was the most beautiful sound he could remember, and he wanted to see the physical manifestation of the closest thing to perfection he had yet to experience.

Mountains.  Oceans.  The open sky.  The lamps and the paradise of Almaren at the center of the realm of being.  From either side, all the world could be matched to its opposite counterpart.  Like the perfect resonance of a thousand voices singing together, perfectly matched in pitch.

But it had not been to last.

Just as the consonant music in the Timeless Halls had dissolved into chaos, so too did the consonance of this strange new creation.  Sculpted and etched and shaped to perfection, all that hard work was violently uprooted into something ruined and wrecked and twisted.

At first, it had raked its claws over the Lord of Arda's satisfaction, left him bleeding out discontent.  For this work of art could not be fixed.  Not remade into perfect form once again now that it had been tainted and broken and shattered apart by him.  By the spirit who had first created the dissonance within the great themes and dared defy their father.

Hatred would have been the easiest path, followed closely by resentment.  But Manwë resisted such a perilous path.

Upon looking at the new realm created in the wake of destruction, he discovered beauty.

Beauty in something other than happiness and perfect resonance.  In the untamed curves of the white ocean coast.  In the jagged teeth of snow-capped mountains veiled in the mists.  In the rolling hills, so green and speckled as far as the eye could see with flowers.

It had not been what he expected.

---

And neither were they.  The Eruhíni.

At first, they appeared as such.  Peaceful creatures interested in song and the stars, simple and delicate and pure-hearted even in the gathering darkness of the north.  As much as any of the others, these creatures fascinated the Lord of Arda. For they were his subjects, his children in all but blood, and he loved them all dearly.

For them, he wanted to create perfection.

Perhaps it had been folly all along, to believe that societal perfection could be established.  A realm of bliss where everyone got along and shared their resources.  Where everyone was willing and ready to help one another at a moment's notice.  Where everything was fair and balanced, always in perfect equilibrium, never leaning too far to one side or another.

Justice and safety.  A beautiful home.  A life with little hardship.

The reality of the matter was much more disappointing.

For, though they appeared graceful and gentle, elves were creatures forged of a mixture of themes, and by no means only those of consonance.  Tragedy echoed in their eyes.  Stubbornness and pride riddled their blood.  And a self-centered drive toward personal betterment overwhelmed many a compassionate heart.  They might be glorious externally, but internally they were somehow stained.  Somehow dissonant, poisoned by shards of the resounding counter-theme of Melkor.

Rules that were put in place were not flexible enough to encase these peoples.  The choice of Finwë and the resulting fallout of his sons and his people demonstrated this all too clearly.  Manwë could scarcely comprehend this anomaly, this strangeness.

There was the pain and grief he wished they never needed to suffer.  Torture and war resulting from black vengeance and greed.  Corruption of the mind eating its way through the ranks, for they were so vulnerable to the brush of dark inner whispering.  Clearly, his brother had planted a seed all too accessibly within the weaving of the songs that ran through these creatures, leaving them easily manipulated and resistant to direction and correction.

They did not want the rule of the Valar.  Rebellious, they scattered.  Resentful, they blamed.  And when there was no one and nothing to blame, they found a scapegoat to shoulder the burden.

Selfish, sinful creatures.  Not perfect at all.

And yet...

---

And yet, millennia later, Manwë discovered that that was what made them wonderful.  What gave their ultimate work its final flourish.

No mistake was it that they were riddled with dissonance and darkness.

Just as there was beauty to be found within the wrecked and tarnished, asymmetrical and jagged world of nature, he realized that the flaws in each of them gave them that spark.  That uniqueness.  That the gaze gleaming in a sheen of despair was just as beautiful as the eyes shining with overwhelming joy.  That the flesh networked with scars was every bit as entrancing as pale and unmarred skin.  That the single droplet of compassion and regret within a sea of guiltless selfishness was a thousand times more brilliant and rare, a pearl cultivated against all the odds.

That the reality of the world was not written in right and wrong.  Or consonance and dissonance.  And by no means was perfection conceivable, let alone possible.

Looking upwards, Manwë would always smile and chortle to himself, listening to the slightly off-key scream of wind in his ears atop the highest tower of Taniquetil, embracing the bitter cold upon the cheeks of his fleshy raiment and the garishly bright cast of Arien's rays upon the earth, sinking burning heat down to the core of his spirit.

The Father had never intended to make the world perfect.  It was never intended to be symmetrical and normalized and constructed with the clinical detachment of a whitewashed wall.  It was not meant to be a boring song constructed of harmonious chords and three simple, well-defined melodies.

The changing sequences.  The clashing tones.  The splash of color every which way.  This abstract work of art was random and yet so perfect in its imperfection.

Down to the last blade of grass and the tiniest, most insignificant spirit.

After all, if there was never evil, how could there have been good? If there was no darkness, what would become of light?  And if sorrow and pain had never existed, would joy be so sweet and blissful?