Hey, y’all know that one plot-hole in “Of Ingwë Ingwerion” and its connecting stories that no-one has yet to ask me about? Here’s the answer.
Author Note: Imin, the first leader of the Minyar/Vanyar, is reembodied right as the War of Wrath begins. He submits to Ingwë’s royal authority and becomes a general under Ingwerion (his grandson).
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In the trenches, the Vanyar foot-soldiers called it the foul wind. It was a cruel spirit that punched through all their defenses, barreling through the fortification lines in a gust of un-light, a screaming gale of hate and despair.
Light and song were consumed in its path.
It blinded eyes and shoved into lungs, causing convulsions and suffocation to those trapped in its attention before rushing onto more victims. It raced always upon the earth, rarely leaping high, but bold and unmindful of light, song, or ward raised in futile effort to thwart it. A dark wind swift enough for the deaths it dealt to almost be merciful, if not for the mocking intent. Worst of all was the mind behind the torrent, an envious intelligence that hated them personally. Eönwë’s lieutenants only confirmed what the elves who faced the attentions of that black gale knew, that the spirit was not a Maiar like the balrogs or Sauron the Cruel, but one of the Houseless long corrupted by Morgoth, twisted in hate and made unbelievably powerful. Disembodied elven souls could be dangerous to the unaware- yet remained pitiable. The borders of Taur-in-Fuin had been home to many of those phantoms eager to stalk and strangle any lost wanderers, and during the campaigns to free and purify that forest of darkness, the Vanyar and their Ainur allies had worked tirelessly to overpower the Houseless phantoms and send them to Mandos for healing. Fighting phantoms depended on a bright strong will. Ingwerion had never attempted it, but those that had said it needed aught but a clear voice and patience, and a familiarity with using ósanwe. Yet this spirit could be neither caught nor given the luxury of pity. Eönwë himself had tried to capture the dark gale, shooting after the rushing wind swifter than his king’s eagles, and could not touch it. Among both his soldiers and generals that Ingwerion commanded as supreme leader of the Vanyar, not even Sauron himself was more hated and feared – nor inspired the same great feeling of helplessness. “The foul wind could not be bested”, was whispered in the trenches.
Ingwerion doubted that the black gale was only an elven soul, even as he beheld the shadowy force barreling towards their central headquarters deep in the rear trenches, a dart of hate hurling right towards him and General Imin. “It has finally come,” one of the bleak-faced captains whispered.
Dreadful Wind
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