The child of Alakô and Maktâmê was the eighth born to the small tribe of the Minyar, an auspicious number. That the new generation of the tribe were not evenly split yet among genders, that the Kwendî had not a readily apparent sign of which was another’s life-mate because they did not awake in pairs beside one another, was a source of much anxiety for that first generation of parents (and it wouldn’t be until the Eldar meet the Valar and with the example of unmarried Ulmo and Nienna that this societal hetero-normative pressure to pair and beget children, coupled with the assurance that the elves are immortal and in the safety of Aman there’s no danger of the tribe’s extinction, eases off). Ingwë’s mother shared nursing duties with another hunter who gave birth a few months before her, freeing both women to join the hunting parties. This ‘milk brother’ of Ingwë was a friend and companion until his parents’ maiming, after which he shunned them like everyone in the tribe. He grew to be a typical hunter of the Minyar, gregarious smile but swift to snark at those that annoyed him. In time the relationship would be repaired, and the hunter was one of new king Ingwë’s strongest supporters (and the one to guard and keep a watchful eye on Ravennë’s older brother least the former prince try to cause trouble.)
No one remembers of speaks of Ingwë’s first name, the one before ‘Ukwendô’, not even Mahtamë, but then the Vanyar collectively haze their memories that Ingwë was known as anything but Ingwë.
Even before the accident, Ingwë was a solemn and serious little boy, wishing to make things with a gravitas that brought Alakô to tears of laughter. Ingwë thought his father too silly, too often smiling even when there didn’t seem a reason to be. The lonely boy taunted by his tribe as Ukwendô regretted any negative thoughts he once had about his father’s smiles.
Before, Ingwë wanted to be a hunter in the parties with his friend, eventually marry another Minyar hunter, as that was what one was supposed to do. His favorite part of the hunts was the painting of hunters before they left, the ceremony complete with speeches from Imin Ingweron. Young Ingwë liked to pretend to be the chieftain, sticking stray feathers in his hair and making proclamations to his follow toddlers. They would all giggle, and their mothers picked them and tickle them, Maktâmê kissing her son’s cheek and pulling out the feathers with her teeth. Imin and Iminyë would watch with bemused patronizing fondness, and Maktâmê recalled with pride how her chieftain praised her son’s powerful voice. “You are made for greatness, my son,” she told Ingwë, and she never stopped telling him this, even in the blackest despair of their lives.
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