Dreadful Wind

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 Ingwion (his grandson).

…

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. The foul wind blinded eyes and shoved into lungs, causing convulsions and suffocation to those trapped in its attention before rushing on to more victims. It raced always upon the earth, rarely leaping high, but was bold and unmindful of light, song, or ward raised in futile effort to thwart it. Water nor wall could hinder it. A dark wind swift enough for the deaths it dealt to almost be merciful, if not for the mocking intent as it slew its victims. Worst of all was the mind behind the torrent, an envious intelligence that hated them personally and delighted in their pain. 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-nu-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. Ingwion had never attempted it, but those that had said it needed naught 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 that swifter than his king’s eagles, and could not touch it. Among both his soldiers and generals that Ingwion 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 cannot be bested” was whispered in the trenches.

Ingwion doubted that the black gale was aught but an elven soul, that surely such a powerful and hated thing had to come from something greater, even as he beheld the shadowy force barreling towards their central headquarters deep in the rear trenches. As this dart of hate hurled right towards him and General Imin, one of their bleak-faced captains whispered, “It has finally come for us.”

General Imin grimaced and hefted his lance, barking at the various aides-de-camp to move out of the way as he stared down the incoming gale. The first awakened of all elves, the long-deposed first leader of the Vanyar, Imin had retained his towering self-confidence even after his restoration from Mandos and the public acquiescence and acknowledgement of Ingwë’s High Kingship. Usually this arrogance of Imin annoyed Ingwion; right now it was his slim comfort. Deep within the shadows Ingwion could sense a presence, a feeling of a consciousness and memory of a body, something that his mind wanted to paint in familiar golden light. But all his ears could hear was a snarling voice that shattered in crescendos to high-pitched screams of envy. Ingwion strained to discern words amidst the howl instead of mere emotion. The darkness, swiftly passing from the outer ramparts into the interior of the fortress with unreal speed, had narrowed into a shape no bigger than a man’s form, a shifting column barely taller than Ingwion. It was like -and yet not- the forms of balrogs that the Vanyar army had encountered. Unlike the popping flames, the sounds and sensations behind this shadowy form were familiar, completely akin to elves. Mind-speech, a resentment so deep it was given shape, but of motivations that hinted that an elf could understand if only able to pierce the black cloud surrounding the soul, a core no Balrog possessed. And the syllables through which the wind screamed promised comprehension, dangling just outside the range of language understood – not at all like the discordant alien notes of Valarin. Imin sensed this too, stronger than his grandson, for he gazed nonchalant upon the incoming gale, a puzzlement on his brows as if scouring his memory for a match. Imin boasted that he could recognize and remember the face and voice of every elf that had first awakened, a talent for memory that he continued to practice with all of the army’s captains and underlings. Imin almost recognized this ghost. Upon that brow was fear as well – Ingwion had practice now of discerning the elements of facade in his grandfather’s overwhelming bravado. A mental shout of recognition as the maelstrom devastated the room, racing around General Imin to fling him into the air like a child as Ingwion dove to the floor, then holding Imin aloft, mocking and toying and slowly constricting like a serpent. Ingwion could not say if that call of recognition came from the spirit, General Imin, or both. It was clear the elven soul beneath the black wind knew who Imin was, which spoke of the Houseless spirit’s incredible age, for Imin had died in Cuiviénen before the Great Journey. Words it began to speak to Imin, in a voice and vocabulary horrifying similar to Imin’s own. Titles, Ingwion thought the phrases might have been, a mocking greeting, but the words were old. One of the First, Ingwion thought to himself as he tried to crawl away, that is why it is so strong.

“Run to your grandmother!” Imin shouted as his eyes began to bulge, a scream in ósanwe more than physical vibration of air, and Ingwion could feel the attention of the hateful spirit turn from Imin to himself. The screams of envy shifted and focused as well, and Ingwion could feel the shapes of those thoughts, of the anger that Imin lived with a body seemingly untouched, still a powerful and confident leader, accompanied by not just a son but a grandson. The feeling of that hate was sharp enough to strangle, and Ingwion ran out of the room faster than he had ever in his life. Gibbering hind-thoughts were screaming at Ingwion to dare presume that he could possibly outrun the dreadful wind. Yet Ingwion prided himself on his speed – if not to the levels of egotism his mother’s father conducted himself in- and there had been a cry of triumph in Imin’s command, a surety that the wind be defeated if Ingwion’s grandmother reached in time.

Mahtamë, Ingwion’s paternal grandmother, stood at the other end of the courtyard, called forth by the screaming. Her presence here was an anomaly, the culmination of a touring visit to assure the troops of stability and incoming supplies back in Valinor. Mahtamë was not wearing any armor, even, only the richly pleated robes and heavy lace afforded her as mother of High King Ingwë, her golden crown a simpler version of the one Ingwion’s mother wore.

Ingwion raced towards his grandmother, hating himself for bringing this foul thing behind him, for he could hear clear the words of disdain now interlacing with the wind’s howls, the spirit’s hatred of bright, perfect Ingwion, a son beloved and spoiled, of these people whole and splendid. That Imin kept what he could not, his child, his family, his body and life, happiness, all. The wind overtook Ingwion, blocking out his sight, then abandoned him, aiming straight at Mahtamë in her lace veil and golden crown, arms raised as if to ward off the shadowy mass. Ingwion could not turn away as the wind slammed into his grandmother, then suddenly retreated as Mahtamë screamed.

The sound from his grandmother’s throat, echoing stronger in ósanwe, was not the cry of pain Ingwion expected. It was a scream of pain – but of a far deeper anguish. A wound of the soul, not physical pain. The sound itself was like a column of searing white, a fountain of Laurelin’s purest light, with Mahtamë at its center, her arm outstretched towards the fleeing shadow, reaching for the vaguely man-shaped figure sobbing in pain beneath the light-devouring shadow. The scars of her long-healed injury shone white against her skin, fingers like the teeth of a desperate starving beast.

“Alaco!” Grandmother had screamed to name the swiftly fleeing wind.

POV!

Count this as a pov switch for Chapter Ten of Release from Bondage or Promise You Won’t Forget :

Indomuinë loved the epessë she earned in this place, Dondwen. She was no crafter or maker of things, and aside from some minor talent and enjoyment of playing musical instruments, she did not exemplify the pinnacle of Noldor maidenhood, even if she had been praised as if she did throughout her young life. Her father had been the reeve of their village, her family wealthier than their neighbors, and she had been the only girl in her generation, which made the attention of boys almost unbearable once she neared her fifth decade. She hated the hollowness of that regard. As Indomuinë left childhood, she chose Princess Artanis as her role-model, for she found training her body for physical exertions was something she did excel at, more so than lute-playing or sewing, and mapping the trails into the mountains surrounding her village kept her away from unwanted suitors. Wrestling was a joy, though competition itself taxed her. Costawë’s mother approved of her training, for the older woman was Vanyar, and honing the body to peak strength and health was valued by the Vanyar just as being a powerful debater was among the Noldor. Indomuinë entertained plans of running away to one of the Vanyar monasteries, but she did not wish to abandon her family and hometown. Nor did she really desire to repudiate her people or their ideal of femininity.

People had already left, and had yet to return. He had.

The stronger she grew, the more distantly she was treated. Her strength and toughness became expected, and no one praised her beauty -unless to point out how large her bosom was- or remarked how shy and kind she was. No one offered her flowers or said her eyes reminded them of stars. Her lute lay neglected for no one wished to hear her play. Indomuinë wanted to be the sort of Noldor beauty that was praised in song, one who truly had earned admirers with her wisdom, talent, and loveliness, and whom some gallant knight or prince would dedicate poetry to. Just once she imagined how nice such adoration would be, if it came from an honest heart.

He had promised.

Indomuinë loved her long straight black hair and spent hours brushing it smooth each night. She wore gloves to keep the skin of her hands as undamaged as possible, even as she used her fists to crush stone – and later would pulverize orc jawbones. She had owned fine gowns shipped from Tirion that mimicked courtly dress, though she never wore them for long. She hated the hindrance towards movement that the long skirts caused, that she could not kick freely, and how the hanging over-sleeves felt like a pair of useless wings, though at least she could squash her chest down with those square bodices. She did not like to wear the fine gowns. Still, Indomuinë would lace herself into them in front of her mirror and stare at her reflection, dreaming. She had not been so foolish as to bring any of those fine dresses when she joined the Army of the Valar, only her simplest of white cotton garments and the heavy leather clothing she wore on the mountain trails. And it was not practical to wear her hair long or loose, though she could not bear to cut it.

He liked me; he thought I was beautiful even though we were both children. I cannot bear if he no longer thinks me beautiful.

Indomuinë rubbed her eyes, scowling at the tears on the leather of her gloves.

I am so shallow and foolish.

Trailing behind Airanis, who looked the part of a princess, ethereal and soft and kind, the type of maiden that people fell over themselves to protect, only highlighted how Indomuinë fell short. Airanis was a healer and could identify plants by scent and brew any tincture by memory, the type of woman praised by Noldor court and song: ability and knowledge paired with beauty and elegance. Indomuinë could not suppress her envy. Nor could she dislike Airanis; that was likely impossible for anyone. True friendship was still difficult for Indomuinë and her guarded heart. Airanis loved openly. Worst of all was Airanis’s humility coupled with a bold personality. She naturally had what Indomuinë did not, a great ease with other people, be it flirting or consoling, and thought nothing of it.

He would have loved her. Should have. Did?

She felt a deep fulfillment in her role as Airanis’s shield, guarding her and the other healers from attacks. Airanis would bandage her knuckles and gush over how wonderful Dondwen was, oblivious to her greater necessity and worth.

I could have been a truer friend to him.

Indomuinë could see the falsehood in Airanis’s eyes when the other woman said she did not know of Costawë, that she could not offer any clues of the whereabouts of her childhood friend. “Am I not Dondwen, crusher of stone and smasher of orcs’ faces? Do you not think me strong enough to hear a sad truth?” she wanted to shout to Airanis.

The softer voice of the girl that twirled in her blue dresses and blushed to think of a boy promising her that he would return as her hero replied, “Is this not what you wanted, to be the one shielded?”

Indomuinë curled her hand into a fist, and had nothing to punch.

I wish you would write a fic where…Emeldir fights alongside Barahir.

Barahir falls in love with her when they are both ten, and she shows up for beginning lessons on how to hold a shield in a tunic that is too small over a pair of too-big trousers stuffed into the tops of her boots and rolled thrice at the waist as to not fall off her skinny hips. She brings her own shield, painted bright green. Lessons on holding sticks are saved until next month’s instruction, and they must train for at least one full planting season before sticks are exchanged for dull pieces of metal. Barahir doesn’t realize what he feels for Emeldir is love until years later as she holds a green shield above his body to protect him from arrows, his own shield shattered at their feet. “We were taught to use our shield to protect our heart,” she tells him later. “That is exactly what I was doing.”

Barahir sulks off into the woods to find a moss-covered stone to sit on and attempt to compose heartfelt love songs to match the suave poetry of how Emeldir declared her feelings. Eventually he gives up and trudges back to her house, feeling as if he had returned to the awkward days when his beard first grew in. She meets his eyes with the same cool aplomb he envies and admires, and for a second Barahir worries he misunderstood her declaration. “Dagnir is leading a party down into the plains to hunt for enemy spies. You are the first warrior I want by my side,” he tells her. Emeldir nods. Then, before his courage deserts him, Barahir blurts out. “I want to fight by your side.”

Emeldir blinks slowly. “You said that.”

“I mean it! I mean, what I also meant was I want to be by your side. Always. I love you. I think I always have.”

Emeldir thinks he is ridiculous, and stubborn, and oblivious, and beloved.

When Morgoth awoke,
and felt the blood from the cut on his brow,
the missing stone from his crown,
saw the sleeping forms
of his army around his feet,
great was his rage,
loud was his bellows.
Lighting did he cast,
great bolts aiming at the fleeing shapes:
the one that had looked like
a great wolf
with long pale tail and
had crouched behind his heels
and was not his –
and the chit, that cunning maid,
who had come in the shape of
his bat servant and
betrayed and lied.

And when his lightning hit not
the two for which he aimed,
greater still was his rage.

Weak and untrustworthy
were Thuringwethil and her brood,
like the spider they came only to betray him.
With his anger he should smite them all,
thus were his thoughts.

And thus did they bolt,
the little shadows, the skittering wings.
All the children of Thuringwethil fled
before the lightning of their former lord,
shrieking above the crash of thunder,
ducking under the great gusts
kicked up by the wings of Manwë’s eagles,
flying on the southerly winds sent
by the Lord of the Airs,
away away they flew.

Safety and solace they found,
the tiny shadow children of the night,
and learned to reclaim
its darkness from cruelty and rage.
Beside the dancing figure of greatest voice that ever was
there flew this multitude of high-pitched singers.

Bats lived on the island of Tol Galen with the Dead That Live.

re-wrote this tag ficlet

squirrelwrangler:

The second sentence from the herald of the fleet that comes unexpectedly out of the West, shining in armor crafted by hands of Power, voice stern and grave, is “Are there any tidings of the sons of Lady Elwing?” The grim Teleri captain standing on the small boat that carried over the herald is unarmed, but the dark promise of vengeance if the wrong answer is given is clear.

Círdan is relieved when Elros and Elrond stick their heads out from behind Gil-galad, exclaiming in excited, half-wondrous voices, “Mama! Mama really is alive?”

The golden-haired herald smiles.

Howl

Getting around to this. Where The Brides of Death comes from. Overloading on symbolism and call-forwards with Beren.

…

The night of the masks had come again, on the full moon of the last harvest. The last sheath had been gathered, bound, and hallowed in the name of the giver of fruits, and now balance would shift to another, she of grief and winter, and the nights would grow longer than the days. After tonight, the lords and ladies of growing things and warmth would step down from their thrones. With promise the tools of harvest were stored beside the seeds for next year’s planting. The blistering days of the last twilight of summer would become distant memory after tonight, the winds blowing only cold from the north and the pines preserving the only remnant of color. Here came the night of sorrow and memory, but also the night of hope and defiance.

Illuminated by towering bonfires built in the cleared and now empty fields, the people gathered to listen and sing their history. They brought their torches and wreaths and some the masks that hung face down and hidden the rest of the year. This ritual of sacred history was shared only on the full moon before the turn to winter. Once all had gathered around the tallest bonfire did the silence break. The wise woman began the songs in a voice that was strong and piercing, and those that did not sing joined her with clapping hands or feet. What was sung were old melodies, the most ancient songs, for half the words no longer had meaning, and of their significance only the wise woman knew in full. Of the words they still understood were chants for running, for long journeys and sorrow and desperate hope. No names were spoken that night, for none had survived to be recalled. Memory needed the dance and the masks more than the words.

Once they had no fields, no harvest, no food, no home. Once they had only darkness and hunger, travelling ever westward in the hope of freedom and safety. Once only the moon had known them. Only the moon knew their journey and all the words to the songs they had sung.

Once long before they had possessed fields and homes, but no freedom, for their harvests had not been their own. Once long before their great enemy had claimed them as their own.

In the flickering of bonfires and moonlight, the people hid their faces behind masks of their enemies. They disguised themselves as snarling wolves and monsters, chalk-white fangs and black fur capes lined with wooden beads that rattled and shook as they cavorted and danced. The ones hidden beneath the masks of wolves howled and laughed, stamped their feet and forgot their voices. Hunched over like the beasts that their masks mimicked, they curved fingers like claws. Running to the edges of the field they disappeared in the darkness, then leaped back out to weave patterns and circles in what remained of the winnowed grain. Others unmasked dressed themselves in their simplest garments, the white of undyed cloth bright against the glow of moonlight. They danced in counterpoint with garlands of autumn flowers and leaves crowning their heads, and streaks of ash ran like tear tracks down their faces. The ash came from what had been gathered from their hearths as the people dosed all the fires that morning. On this night the only lit flames would be out in the middle of the harvested fields. They danced for their ancestors who fled from the first fields, those who left homes and hearth for the unknown wilds, running before the wolves of the enemy. Their dance was steadier, forming rings of joined hands and staying close to the bonfire. Until the ones in masks leaped out. Then the hands would break apart, the dancers in white scatter. In mock horror they screamed and skipped away from grasping hands of those masked like wolves. Back and forth went this dance, while the rest sang and rattled strings of bone and beads and clapped and chanted.

A boy spun and leaped free of his older cousins, his laughter rising above the crackle of the bonfire, the rattle of beads, clapping of hands, and stomping of feet. Last year he had been a wolf, and he had howled loudest behind his painted fangs. No one had been a better or more believable wolf. This year he was his ancestor, defying the enemy by running free of the wolves. No one could touch him. The boy spun once more in the air, his white tunic spotted with soot and ash, gray as the moon that witnessed his daring leaps.

The wise woman finally rejoined the dancers with a new crown atop her white-streaked hair, one with three pieces of polished rock crystal instead of flowers, a cloak of black wool across her shoulders. On the finest chair from the feasting hall whom none would remember having fetched and just as mysteriously would none remember returning the chair to the hall once the dawn rose did the wise woman sit enthroned. Surrounded by torches, her face was recast fey and strange. Her eyes heavy-lidded surveyed the dancers before her, and with hand gestures slow and imperious she bellowed that her wolves bring to her the brightest sacrifice. Her piercing voice was pitched low and cold, the mask of the enemy.

In a leaping frenzy the dancers in wolf masks began to ring the bonfire, howling the last song as the dancers in white fetched torches to light. The boy paused and smiled, teeth as bright as the painted fangs of his cousins as he held out his hands. Each grabbed one arm and hoisted their laughing cousin into the air, carrying him through a gauntlet of other dancers, unlit torches crossed above their heads. To their great aunt enthroned with a black crown they brought the boy, and in the enemy’s deep voice she demanded to know who they had brought before her. Ritual words she called out; his name she desired, the labor of his hands, the bounty of his fields.

The boy knew his role, that he was supposed to pretend to be afraid of his great aunt, of the enemy enthroned and crowned, but that he must shout defiance, give no name, as the dancers in masks bowed low and waited for the shout that would allow them to remove their snarling wolf-faces. Together everyone would dip the torches into the bonfire to begin the last procession from the fields back to the feasting hall where they would drink and feast until the dawn. The hearths would be re-lit and masks hidden. Still, the boy could not halt his laughter as the wise woman loomed above him, the pieces of crystal in her crown reflecting off the harvest moon like true gems. Laughter and pride danced in her gray eyes as the boy, released by his pair of cousins, stood and stepped forward. A bold one, she called him, the hint of a smile at the corner of her frowning mouth. Once more she demanded his name, and the dancers shifted awkwardly. The boy could not break tradition.

He wanted to shout his name for all to hear and proclaim it would not matter anyway, for the enemy could not catch him. He wanted to turn the simple taunt into a new song of defiance, to list all that his people had accomplished and would now that they were free. He wanted to sing until the moon heard his voice. To howl like the wolves, forget once more he was a boy. Wanted to lean close and whisper into the wise woman’s ear that she did not frighten him. To kiss her eyes and break the spell that made her terrible and fey. To brush his fingers against the crown of dark branches and pluck free the three pieces of clear stone.

Swan-ships

Their ships are their glory and their homes. Song cannot contain the importance of their ships to the Teleri. The ships are the unsurpassed culmination of the crafts of their hands, their love for and striving towards beauty, and the collected knowledge of their people. This knowledge was built upon trial and error and by every watercraft that has come before. They are the legacy of their people, of their creativity and also the kindness and friendship of Ossë, the first to teach then to sail, to master the waves and learn to fly across its surface. The ships are a connection to their roots and also the wings that take them to the future, but most of all the breathing present of their culture. Daily life ties to their ships like the netting that hangs from the masts. The Teleri are their swan-ships, for they have poured their souls into their sails and used their planks as the foundation of their lives. The ships are the physical manifestations of the furthest flights of fancy dreamed up by their builders. Seemingly delicate, calculated and engineered, they are also the work of an entire community, those long efforts of many hands, of men and women, from eldest to youngest. Every hand has at least some small part in the building and maintenance of the fleet, and all have sailed upon them. Undeniably the swan-ships are masterful works of art, yet they have purpose and a practical application greater than their unequaled beauty. Tools as well as sculpture, homes as much as monuments to their creators. The movement across the bay comes from the performance of their sailors to ensure their white sails catch the winds and their swan-shaped prows cut through the cresting waves, to create a dance that gives meaning to their glorious appearance. It is with pride that their owners gaze upon the work of their people.

The mingling lights of the Two Trees dimly illuminates the harbor of Alqualondë, and even that light disappears when one takes a ship out into the bay, for it would be a waste of not the just effort and craftsmanship but of the soul to chain any seaworthy vessel

to the docks, especially those as perfect as these masterpieces. To Tol Eressëa they will sail sometimes, but usually there is no destination in mind. The joy of the ocean and to see the jet inlay eyes of the swan-like prows buffeted by spray is goal enough. Out on the water there is no Tree-light, only the stars, and darkness holds no fear if it is surrounded by the creaking of sails and the roar of wind and wave.

When the true darkness of Ungoliant’s Unlight comes, and Morgoth destroys the Two Trees and steals the Silmarils, there is unease and sorrow in Alqualondë. It is strange to have only darkness come through the Pass of Light, and Ossë does not answer their demands for news or reassurance. The Teleri turn to their ships, for the vast majority live upon their vessels far more often than they do ashore. And standing aboard the gently swaying decks, huddled with their arms around their families in the cool holds, here they feel safe. The ships are the most perfected works of their people’s hands, their homes and their pride. And as long as they are aboard their ships, the lack of aught but starlight feels completely natural, whereas the dark streets of Alqualondë where once there was always at least a silvery twilight hold no comfort. On their ships they can pretend they are somewhere else, out on the bay away from shore, out near Tol Eressëa with its high cliffs and sweet-smelling trees. One can almost forget anything dire has happened. The swaying of the ships rock their children to sleep.

The Darkness of Valinor, and the madness that comes with it, feels like a hurricane on the horizon to the Teleri. But their ships do not falter on the waves and with hand pressed to their tall masts and proudly carved prows, they know they need but wait out this storm and the smooth waters will return. Strength pours from the wood of their ships to calm them.

With their swan-ships the Teleri wait.

The Survivor’s Guilt Coda to the Band of the Red Hand series I’m writing:

Beren had done this before.

This was one of the thoughts, slow and cold, that came to Beren in his insurmountable grief as he cradled the cooling corpse of beloved Finrod, king and friend. Blind hands feeling in the dark at the gaping wounds on Finrod’s chest where the wolf had scored with venomed fangs, fingers dipping into the blood that has overwhelmed his remaining senses, he wished for light to see and was thankful he could not. Strange that the blood which slid across and stuck to his fingers smelled exactly like that which leaked from mortal things. That the scent was over-familiar.

He had been here before, Barahir’s son. On the shores of Aeluin, rushing alone and wild with grief and rage into the orcs’ camp to slay that one holding aloft a dismembered hand, he knew this. For two years he had known this numbness.

Beren carried dead men’s names, the names of comrades that had left him behind. Not by choice, but what difference in the end? He alone had been there to pick up those burdens. He lived then, even though he had not desired to. He should have joined them, the names he carried in a solo dirge. The memories had driven him to his knees some days, made him curl in abandoned fox dens and weep, willed the coldness to seep into his bones and stop his thoughts, that he was singing what should have been a choir. Other days the rage and sorrow gave him the determination to climb after the enemy. His had been the only voice that remained to speak those names, to sing their deeds against the great foe and preserve their glory, to recall their joys and sorrows, and to carry on their defiance against the enemy with all his monsters and orcs. In battle Beren had called their names. In the silence of a dying forest he had whispered them. For two years Beren had carried the weight of twelve dead men: of doughty Dagnir and Ragnor, Radhruin, Dairuin and Gildor, Gorlim and Urthel, Arthad and Hathaldir, his cousins Belegund and Baragund, and his father Barahir. Kin and comrades, and all had died, leaving but Beren to survive.

Another twelve now, and this time, waiting for the last wolf to come, Beren knew he would not linger on alone. Pulling back the hand covered in Finrod’s blood, Beren waited and began to compose his song. A new list of names, ones just as dear, and like before only Beren left behind to recall their names. Of doughty Arodreth and Ethirdor, Aglar, Consael and Heledir, Tacholdir and Bân, Gadwar and Fân, Edrahil, and his king Felagund.

This time there would be no empty years afterward, alone but for the trees and the shy creatures of feather and fur that aided him in a long and fruitless fight against the enemy. No long years with words worn away until he forgot the names and remembered only the grief and vengeance-call that their deaths had burdened him with. No stumbling numb and dumb and mad into a starlight glen where a wondrous vision sang and danced and for a while lifted the burden of grief and rage.

He had joined his voice in a duet, that fey and joyous summer, he that had lost his voice.

To think of Lúthien hurt more than the rest of his sorrows. There his thoughts could not dwell, for he knew this time would have not a reprieve.

He had done this before and knew what should happen next, what his next steps were, the next lines to sing.

‘This time I shall join the names of his dead’ – such was the thought of Beren.

So why did he smell flowers?

the fic with Earwen and the Telerin women singing :DD

le fic

Eärwen’s head overflows with song, the tunes sloshing around like water in an overfilled bucket, spilling over the sides as droplets of

dripping notes and stray lyrics to soak her thoughts. She carries the songs from the sewing room as she leaves to her next lesson, skipping through hallways of pearl inlays and tiles brightened by red coral while humming and whistling these smattering of melodies. She sings fragments,

unable to hold them all, as she turns each corner, needing to set them free. They snarl and slip through her mind, hopelessly tangled, overlapping like the wake of ships against incoming waves. Half-finished lyrics float into the pale vaulting of Alqualondë’s palace and echo down the passages that glimmer like mother-of-pearl. Faintly the parts blend together, a mermaid’s sweet sorrow intertwined with the call to trim the sails, the chorus to the crab dance against bright rising notes that mimic splashing water, even a short rhyme about ducklings waddling to the shore. Eärwen slips out of the palace and runs down the private pathway to the royal docks still singing, challenging the raucous seagulls to a musical duel as she struggles to remember the last line of her aunt’s shanty. “Up aloft from down below!” she hollers as she hops onto the dock, swinging her arms to mimic the heaving of halyards.

Indis?

One of my absolute favorites!

Oromë the Valar rides with her tribe for a few of the star-passings, wishing to confirm with his presence how smoothly their journey is, to see if the Eldar need more provisions or animals and if their path is safe and easy to travel. He is most often in conference with Ingwë, Chief of the First Tribe. Therefore Indis, young sister of the Chieftain, finds the moss-green eyes of the Lord of the Hunt familiar to her, and she delights to ride on the gentle wide back of silvery pale Nahar. The girl hugs the neck of the Father of Horses, breathing in the strange and sweet fragrance of his mane, and laughs and giggles like a personification of joy. Oromë is infected with her joy and reaches over to give her an object she has never seen before, something small and soft that has the same pleasant smell as the Vala’s steed. Oromë calls it a flower, and it is the most beautiful thing Indis has ever seen and smelled. The Vala says flowers come from growing things, that they bud from the ground and from trees and once everyone reaches the Land of the Valar there will be thousands and thousands of flowers blooming. In the Land of the Valar are more flowers than there are stars in the skies, each with a sweet scent and of more colors than can be imagined. Oromë describes his wife, Vána Ever-Young, who has flowers springing up in the shadow of her steps. He loves flowers that she creates almost as much as Vána herself, and in each flower is a reflection of her beauty and propensity for new life and creation of joy. Indis giggles once more, breathing in the flower’s perfume, and says she wants to meet Vána. The Lord of the Hunt bequeaths upon the girl another dazzling smile. Instead of immediately answering his smile, she contemplates the flower and brushes a petal with her finger. ”Can you create another flower?” Indis asks.

“How many do you wish?” replies Oromë with a jest.

“One for everyone!” Indis exclaims. “A pretty one for Mother, and one that smells nice for Ravennë, and one for Brother even if he saw many flowers when he went to the Valar’s land. Everyone in my tribe should have a flower! And for Finwë and Elwë and their people, too.” Indis sobers. “That is too many, isn’t it? I’m being greedy and asking too much of Lord Oromë.”

But Lord Oromë laughs. “When we get to Aman, there shall be flowers for everyone, too many to ever count or hold. And flowers can be regrown, kind and generous Indis.”

Her answering smile is as bright as a bloom of Laurelin.

“Everyone deserves a beautiful flower, yes?”