Typing this on my phone – here’s the POV switch from Dreadful Wind:

The rushing wind retained his sense of self.  His master, the true king of all Arda, had not deluded or erased that from him. If memories were fogged, details forgotten, it was only because they had not been important enough to preserve.  He still knew of the joy that he had so cruelly lost, of a wife and young son (pride, such pride, and such sorrow, such hatred on their behalf), and his master had not discouraged those feelings but helped the wind to retain them.  It had been a long time since the rushing wind had been confined to a body -and oh! what a limiting torment that cage had been!- and unlike the other mere Houseless phantoms, the rushing wind did not hunger to be confined to that physical pain again.  What was the taste of food to this freedom?  Here on the plane visible to the soul and not sight, his body was whole and beautiful and powerful. He could run with perfect balance, without heed to blood or lung.  Faster than Nahar, more agile than the skittering brood of Ungoliant, he was uncatchable.  Death was a memory abandoned, for what use was he that need no longer fear it?  He was a storm wind loyal to Morgoth, a prize of the sky stolen from the Dark Lord’s younger brother.The rushing wind remembered his life as an elf -greater though his form was now, and he would not trade it.  He recognized his tribesmen -Minyar, Vanyar, the name did not matter- golden and beautiful, returned now, within his reach now.  And oh! no longer whole, were they?  No longer free from fear and misery!  What glee the rushing wind felt to see the twisted faces of anguish and torment on his kinsmen, his exaltation to taste their agony on the spectral plane.  Their deaths!  Now they were the twisted fearful things.  (That disgust, that fear, damn them!)  Now they were hopeless.They deserved it, for his wife and child if not the man that the wind had once been.
The rushing wind saw his former leader, arrogant ungentle Imin, the vain fool.  A shock, but a chance for delightful revenge.  He hated Imin most, the one who had allowed his cruel ostracizing, who had had power and love and opportunities.  A full belly.  Praise from everyone, universal adoration.  Imin who stood garbed in strength and wealth, unchanged in authority, who had never suffered as the wind had suffered.  Imin’s outward accouterments had changed, but not to extent of other elves, and the soul was the same.  No one had disfigured Imin; no death had touched Imin.  Imin First of Chieftains, who thought he knew the rushing wind, thought he could challenge that which the Maiar of Manwë could not best, could compel the wind to obey him as if he was still one of his subordinate tribesmen – that fool!  Oh Mighty Imin!  The rushing wind was stronger now; untouchable Imin could be -would be- bested.Slow, no, it must be slow.  Slow as his torment had been.Imin called for a grandson to flee, and the rushing wind choked on rage and resentment.  The wind remembered his own son, a bright clever boy, one with such unjustly thwarted promise.  His son deserved to be here, assured by the company of father or grandfather of how precious he was regarded, given command and safety.  The rushing wind felt divided, uncertain whose attention was more deserving.  The boy was running.  The wind laughed.  How dare he.  The rushing wind had been unmatched in that skill; not even Imin or his favorites had outclassed him, and this was before he had been found and shaped by Morgoth.  (Such bitterness, those years he had barely been able to walk- no one else deserved to do aught but hobble as he had been forced to.)  The boy ran towards a woman -Grandmother?  Yes, but this woman did not feel like Iminyë on the plane of thought and soul; something was off.  Was his memory not untouched?The rushing wind reached the Vanyar woman draped in fine lace and gold, this beautiful regal breakable thing, eager to revenge himself.  Revenge a wife and son.

He knew her.
He knew this woman’s soul; how could he not? It was the first soul outside his own that he had ever known. More familiar than Imin, more familiar than his -their- long lost son.
His companion, the other whole that was half of their union.
She was whole, beautiful, restored in body, healed in soul – how?
That meant the grandson – hers? Imin’s grandson? But then how- was he the child of his son? That beautiful child? What of his son, the clever boy, the quiet boy? Was he whole, happy? And had they not conceived a second child – had he forgotten them? What had been hidden from his memory? What else had he lost?

She screamed in anguish- not the same anguish he felt, not the same memories of resentment and loathing (self-loathing, oh! that had been as strong as his outward hatred, as hers, as what had poisoned and stunted their son). Horror, but not the horror he had meant to cause. She knew him as he knew her, saw all of his soul from shadows to depths. Echo of a scream of loss he had never heard, the scream of loss and horror and rage his death had forced her to make. Fear, horrible fear. For him. Always for his behalf. Love. Arm reaching for him. That outstretched arm, his

Maktâmê

. Trying to capture him, her Alakô.

No!