𝗟𝘂́𝗺𝗲̈,𝗜𝗻𝗱𝘂𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗿 𝗔𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗼 | LOTR & Marvel Crossover [PART3]✓

Post-Credits | Endëala

Post-Credits | Endëala

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Irmo | Lord of Visions and Dreams

Location: Gardens of Lórien, Aman

Time: May 2981 T.A

Even under starlight and the waning movement of the moon, the lands of Lórien remained peaceful. Vast fields and gardens stretched beyond the southern half of Aman with the halls of its guardian laid just between its borders with Valinor. Trees of various colours and sizes, tended by Maiar and Eldar in the various hours of day...though in this current present: constant night.

Walking within the edges of Lake Lórellin was an elven-like figure. His hair flowed down in streams of silky white, matching his glowing white skin. His form was tall and lithe, and yet imposing and gentle, hands placed together in front of him as he almost floated upon the grass under his feet. Contrast to his hair was his robes, draped over him in hues of violet and blue embroidered in white and silver. They glimmered under the dim light, almost like the reflection of the water. [1]

His face wore far from the calmness but of a torrid storm. Dark indigo eyes swirling with constant thoughts. Thought of the past, the present and the future. Sometimes he could not tell which was which, only that he may be able to decipher it by the times he would catch himself back upon reality.

It had been much like this for the past several years. Thousands of years to be exact.

And endless search and conjuring of everything and yet nothing at the same time.

He stared across the lake, watching several Maiar tend to the willows and silver flowers as he then spoke with a smooth and flowing tone.

"I see all dreams...and yet there are certain ones I cannot entirely read."

The form who glided beside him questioned in return, "Cannot read or see?"

Upon the edges of his physical periphery, he found his older brother looking in the same direction as he was. 

Námo's own form was similar to his, though taller and more imposing than his own, there was more exhaustion and hardiness in his expression. The way he peered at the landscape, his form projecting a feeling of discomfort at the peace around them.

Irmo allowed himself to consider his question before he then responded with his own.

"They are the same are they not?" He calmly replied, before he then sighed heavily and continued, "I do not understand, and yet I do not know who it is."

"Perhaps it is the Oialëa. Or perhaps Fëanáro."

He could not help then but turn his head to him and eyed him with concern.

Námo held his jaw, his look sharp as Irmo's lips refrained to frown. Thousands of years and yet his older brother still felt the same in regard to this two fëar. For the young child of Miriel Þerindë and Finwë Noldoran, it was understandable. The eld has caused so much in the course of Arda, moving fate and wrapping it in the hands of three jewels. Jewels that seemed far for dangerous than predicted to be.

However the latter... was something which Irmo had always been perplexed about.

"Brother, I must ask. What is your interest in the Oialëa?" He did his best to remain neutral, asking in a way that more on focused more on his brother's own state than the situation itself. Irmo added, "Or as I may refer to what you say: not of my concern."