Tag: imin

Ingwë Of Cuiviénen, (7/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Oh Belain~ This was a chore because of how long it is – twice the average length of a chapter for this story, and unlike the others I didn’t split it for flow of story. Any more than I already have. And I’ve looked this over so many times and shared wips and I’m too tired to focus on it. Tumblr readers, y’all are my betas for the final version that will go to AO3. Point out any weak spots. 

Here it is: The Great Hunt.

Primitive elvish names and terms still left mostly untranslated, but context clues should explain them. More world-building in my mode from Klingon-Promotion-Vanyar and young bucks of Cuiviénen.

…

The Vanyar would later sing of it as the Great Hunt. Their poetry spoke of Cuiviénen as the time of the Awakening, the Great Hunt, the Duel, and then the Great Journey. Elves who had lived before they settled Aman were known not as those that had undertaken the Great Journey, as it was among the Noldor, but those that had partaken in the Great Hunt.

Finwë and Elwë stayed behind in the Minyar village with the children too young and their mothers like nursing Maktâmê. Also appointed to stay behind were Inkundû and Ravennë to fulfill their parents’ roles as leaders while Imin and Iminyë led the hunt. Neither were pleased, though Inkundû’s face displayed his resentment more clearly than his sister as his mother painted a line of red clay across his jaw.

Elwë sat with Maktâmê and the infant Indis, comfortable and accustomed to such young children, whereas Finwë invited himself to the cache of spare spears, javelins, and other weapons stacked in the communal hut between the dueling circle and the chieftain’s house. These were the extraneous or damaged weapons as opposed to personal weapons of each tribe member, and Finwë busied himself by inspecting them. His goal was to identify the craftsman of each weapon if he could and to repair or re-sharpen what his skills could. Halfway through his self-appointed task, Inkundû would come over to loom over Finwë’s shoulder in peevish boredom, blocking the young man’s light. Imin’s son would begin a snide comment disparaging Finwë’s honor and intelligence, Finwë would turn red-faced and enraged to retort, and Elwë with his shadow-soft steps would be there unexpectedly, looming in turn over the shoulder of the Minyar prince with his greater height, interrupting this burgeoning squabble with questions for Finwë about the geologic properties of each stone for tool-making. Deliberately ignoring Inkundû, Finwë would prattle to his best friend about the superior knapping ability of flint as Elwë pretended to attentively listen. This was a game the pair had long played. Not so bemused would be Inkundû, and once more Ravennë would think her older brother deficient and immature.

—

The rest of the village, following the lead of Imin and Iminyë, began the long trek from the shoreline through the surrounding forest out into the grasslands. Before the abductions and deaths from Melkor’s cruel agents, the Minyar hunting parties would have split during the forest trails into groups of three to seven and fanned out into many directions. Wisdom was that the greater the number of hunting attempts, the likelihood of one group succeeding would outweigh the failures of the others. This division of the hunting parties, and that each group returned on their own schedule to the village, exacerbated the disappearances and abductions of the Minyar. The tribe had assumed innocent delays until many star rotations passed with none returning, and so scattered and separated, the pattern of these disappearances was at first overlooked.

Such a hunting party would include at least one pair of the first generation, the Unbegotten, with their greater experience in tracking and understanding prey, and a novice hunter to benefit from their knowledge. Another necessity would be a runner who could tire the animal in a long chase if projectile weapons failed, for as a last resort it was discovered that despite the greater swiftness of the beasts, an elf had near-immortal stamina and a will that overrode any weakness of the body. Hunting parties, once established, changed only once the novice hunter desired to allow another youth to replace them, or if some disagreement became too great for the dueling ring to settle. Sometimes two hunting parties would work in tandem or request a supplementary runner. Regardless of a single hunting party’s success on a trip, what could be returned to the village was shared with all, even if the individual allotment of meat, bone, and hide was unequal. This was not to state that fierce competition and jockeying of reputation among the parties and individual members of the tribe was not fierce and rampant.

Great hunts, where there were enough runners and spear-hurlers to corral an entire herd, and enough hands to carry more than one butchered carcass back to village, were rare and momentous occasions. That everyone had this opportunity to hunt with Imin and Iminyë was a boost to everyone’s status, a concept easier to grasp in concrete terms than the heady idea of hunting beside the god of the hunt.

Oromë had shifted his appearance to be no taller than Imin and changed his apparel to match the simple leggings and loincloths of the elven hunters. His belt carried no weapons or waterskins, only the gold-capped hunting horn, and his long brown hair was twisted back into a single tight ponytail. The boughs of the evergreen trees swayed with his passage, their limbs creaking like a slow eerie fanfare. Pine needles fell to carpet the forest floor behind his feet.

Before they entered the forest, Oromë had waved Nahar to run on ahead, and the silver horse had galloped away into the surrounding hills. “He searches for the nearest horse herd,” Oromë explained. “If I need him, I shall call, and it will not take him long to reach me.”

Oromë hung back, allowing Imin and the most experienced elven hunters to take the lead in the trek from the village through the great evergreen forests. His face revealed nothing. Still, a grave suspicion that the Vala was humoring Imin with that patronization of a grown man watching an infant toddle and crawl on village mats made the chieftain and other Unbegotten elves irritable. Iminyë was the one to finally voice a sliver of their concern. “You did not wish to show us the proper trail, Great Power Arâmê? I see you carry no weapon as we do. Is it because our ways are incorrect?”

“I have never seen you hunt,” Oromë replied in an even, conciliatory voice. “I cannot offer you judgement without knowledge.” He laughed, a short self-deprecating little sound. “This shall be a fresh thing for me,” he said, echoing his previous tales of entering Arda.

Iminyë smiled at this, mollified. The same smile appeared on Imin’s lips. “To enter a world where every experience and thing beheld is fresh for you and everyone around you. Yes, we understand.”

Kanatië turned around to address the young man that she still thought of as unspeaking Ûkwendô. “You should do the same, Son of Skarnâ-maktê. Observe how your people hunt.” Behind her, Asmalô whom she had mentored in his first hunting party grimaced. He that would be Ingwë replied not.

Cutting remarks and the wounds upon temperament and mind that they caused were reason to send one to the dueling ring, so that aggression could be matched with aggression and then released. Had he not been the shunned one, such words could have earned Kanatië a swift duel in the ring, and it would have expected. Asmalô, not for the first time, desired to champion the boy he had nursed beside. But he knew if he entered a fight to defend the honor of one who showed no outward sign of concern or regard towards his personal honor and standing among the tribe, it would not earn Asmalô any of the gratitude for whom this action would be done in the name of. Asmalô had long missed opportunities to proffer an assisting hand to his once friend, and now any outreaching gesture would be rebuffed. So the cycle was perpetuated, and Asmalô knew himself to be a useless and cowardly man, despite the bragging marks painted on his skin.

Thus Kanatië’s snide dig hung over the hunting party like an unwelcome odor. The man that would be Ingwë slowed his pace to take a rear position along the trail, back where any turn in the trees would hide him from view of the leaders. His tribesmen glanced back, troubled by the lack of anger to be sensed in the undercurrents of his thoughts. Secretly that was what troubled them most about this son of the unfortunate hunters, that his resentment of his tribe clearly remained and yet could no longer be readily sensed. He did not pretend to accept his place, but he hid his thoughts from them, as he hid himself. Imin waited for the nod from one of his most trusted hunters to signal when the young man would peel away from the tribe to hunt alone. The chieftain did not explicitly expect this to happen, but he would not be surprised. The young man’s disobedience and solitary ways would be watched for now.

Lasrondo watched in disappointment.

Ingwë did not speak to the ones he walked beside, but he never slowed his steps to fall to the last position or deviate from their path. His heels tread on fallen pine needles, and the heady scent anointed him. He did not join in with the traveling chants, but Ingwë was with his tribe and participated in the Great Hunt.

The hunting plains of the Minyar had only starlight to illuminate its features and no large body of water to reflect back the light. In this star-dark only the keen elven sight could distinguish the individual herds that grazed among the ferns and grasses. Bereft of the shielding trees, the wind was free to press against their faces and sing loud against their ears. Such a place frightened the other Kwendî, but to the Minyar this place was more home than the shores of Cuiviénen. Here there were no false star reflections in the water, no distant roar of the waterfall or the constant lapping of tiny waves. The lack of water music unsettled the Nelyar, but to the Minyar it was relief.

Here the only fire was what they brought with them. That was the job of those without the greatest skill in aiming and throwing spears or possessing exceptional speed or stamina. They were the fire bearers, and in Valinor they would become the core of the devotees to Varda, but during the Great Hunt, these young men and women unrolled the long leather rolls to pull out bundles of fat-soaked reeds, dried moss, and their precious flint stones. Carefully they lit the tallow sticks and held these rudimentary candles aloft, freehands cupped to shield the pinpricks of light from the wind. Tallow reed lights held aloft, the hunters inspected the lashings of their spears one last time, gazed analytically out onto the grasslands for the locations and relative positions of landmarks and animals, and waited for their chieftain.

In the primitive mind-speech created by the Unbegotten, Imin began to chant a song of limited words and well-known emotions, a pattern ingrained into the tribe. It was the most common -and most generic- hunting chant.

Illuminated by the stars far overhead and their tiny handheld imitations, the Minyar fanned out and began to sing.

Find me prey, the chant said. My belly aches, the chant said, but I have strength to chase after something that shall fill it. I am cunning; I shall find a way to catch it. Find me prey.

As they sang, Oromë changed. It was nothing overt, but the hues and tones of his appearance adjusted to richer and deeper levels. He had not before been insubstantial in any discernible way, but somehow his presence felt more solid as the elves sang. Self-assurance, perhaps, or satisfaction. It was hearing a story retold that one well-remembered, and hearing that each line recited matched what one recalled. Oromë did not feed off of their song, but it strengthened him.

No mammoths wandered within sight, but a large herd of deer was close enough to count the points of antlers in the dark. Colorless in the darkness, light would reveal their hides to be a rich reddish gold with a few scattered white spots high on the haunches, and they were a large species, which promised plenty of meat. Such deer were a favorite of the village.

The stars had made good progress on their rotation across the sky and several constellations had disappeared from the sky completely in that slow journey since the elves had last hunted on these plains, but the deer pricked their ears nervously to the sound of the Minyar chanting. The deer had not forgotten.

The song changed. Prey had been evaluated and selected.

Beatifically, Oromë smiled.

Imin pointed to the lead runners to go ahead, sprinting after the chosen animal. The deer broke into a bouncing run, quickly outpacing the elven pursuers. Half of the hunting party followed the buck, lobbing spears, while the rest worked to further divide the herd, looking for other animals that were falling behind their fellows or panicking in the wrong direction.

A quick chorus of triumph called out for the first animal hit, a clean chest strike that instantly felled the animal, but the Minyar hunters had only begun. They had not come to these plains for just one buck.

With a crow of delight and full body shudder that seemed to vibrate the very fabric of perceived reality, Oromë lept into the air and transformed at the apex of his leap into a four-legged beast, a great stag with ruddy coat and many-branching antlers. He cavorted up to the fleeing herd, looming over them with his greater height and rack of impossibly complex antlers, then when he reached the lead animal, Oromë shifted his physical form once more. This time he chose the body of a great black bull with horns as wide and curved as the rib bones of a giant. He lowered those horns into the path of the fleeing deer and bellowed. Even then the sound had no anger.

The lead deer stumbled as if poleaxed by the bellow of Oromë.

Spears flew through the air, some wobbling as they spun, and two landed with wet thuds in the bodies of the startled fleeing deer.

Imin running beside his wife turned to face her with a silent question, and Iminyë nodded. “More spears!” she hollered to her hunters. “Fetch the fallen! Runners after those two! Knives to the one we have. A full fist before we return! And watch for tracks and signs of another herd!”

Around the black bull that was Oromë the deer herd split and tried to flee, the two injured members falling behind, closely pursued by hunting groups. The man that would be Ingwë hesitated between which group to follow or if to stay behind with Asmalô’s group who had encircled the first slain deer and were beginning the slow but familiar process of butchering it. They sang as they pulled out their knives.

Fortunately the great Minyar hunting party had not widely dispersed in pursuit of prey before the following happened.

Oromë as a bull lifted his dark head, the giant white horns curving up to cup the star-speckled sky between its points. His nostrils widened, and ears flicked with sharp intent. A hoof lifted from the ground; shoulder muscle tensed. The elven hunters turned towards the direction of his glare.

On a distant ridge they could see moving silhouettes of wolves. These onlookers were positioned so that the majority of the elves were between them and Oromë. They were obviously interested in the dead buck that the elves were beginning to skin and quarter. This occurred commonly on the plains. A particular pack liked to follow the Minyar hunters and were well-known and not feared. Sometimes the hunters even left scraps for that wolf pack, back before meat was scarce and hunting limited by fear of the Dark Hunters.

Yet these shapes were not true wolves, and certainly not their friends. Though the lead shape was a pale blue in this perpetual midnight of Arda before the creation of sun and moon, the forms that followed the lead of the pale hunched wolf-figure were made of light-devouring voids. Even at this distance, the elves could judge the size of those distant shapes as unnaturally large. The uncanny matte quality coupled with the wrongness of their silhouettes made it obvious that they were the Dark Hunters.

This time Oromë’s exclamation bloomed from a deep-seated rage. The giant bull shifted back into the red deer with many-branching antlers, and the scream that came from that throat was a clarion piercing note, a sound that seemed to physically manifest as an explosion of light. With that cry, Oromë leapt in direction of the Dark Hunters. It was a leap that said physics were not concrete law but merely the outlines for a player to improvise as one did playing variations on a melody. The pack of not-wolves began to scatter, disappearing into the darkness. The pale blue lead figure paused before fleeing from Oromë, though if the pause was a challenge to the Vala or the freezing of terror, no elf could say.

A second cry and flash of bright white, and Nahar galloped into view, white mane and tail streaming behind him. His path was on an intersect with Oromë, passing by the elves who were butchering the first kill. Asmalô dove to the ground in fear of collision with the galloping horse.

As Nahar leapt towards the fleeing not-wolves, his hooves slammed against the hard earth, cratering it with the ferocious impact of a meteor strike and sending chunks of dirt and stone flying through the air to land dangerously close to the astonished elves. This time Lasrondo was the one to dive to the ground, covering his head with both arms, and Asmalô to pull his fellow hunter back into an upright position and convince him of their safety.

Nahar’s landing at the end of his great physic-affronting leap was no less destructive, and though he did not vocalize, there was a song in the undercurrents of his thoughts, a complex rhythm that evoked the sensation of overpowering rage.

When Oromë and Nahar were abreast, the deer-form flowed back into his original man-shape, and with a leap almost too quick and graceful for the onlooker to comprehend, he vaunted onto Nahar’s back. Astride Nahar, Oromë sat up and pulled a shape into being in his hands. He was too far aways and too swift-moving for the elves to see the objects that he held. Later Oromë would display them for the elves: his great hunting bow and arrows.

The muscles of his back bunched and strained as he pulled back an arm, then let loose the arrow as that arm flung up with the graceful curve of a hunting cat’s tail.

The arrow arced like a comet over the plains. Wind screamed in agony in its passage, shrill and short, and air rippled out like water from the impact. Earth liquefied under the arrowhead, and the impaled shadow-shape writhed like a spineless deep-sea creature brought to the surface before it dissolved into the ground. Faint wisps of steam rose from the crater around the embedded arrow. A tuft of matte-black fur lingered around the arrowhead before disappearing with a foul odor, though no elf was close enough to behold this.

With perfect balance Oromë rode astride the galloping Nahar as the titanic horse quickly crested the hill and pivoted on his hind legs, shining silver hooves raised as if to strike. Oromë pulled another arrow into existence from a quiver of song and released it into the darkness. A split of air, a scream of pain, and the Lord of the Hunt smiled to see another servant of Melkor vanquished. Nahar’s front hooves thudded back to the earth with a quiet impact of sound. Imperiously the stallion tossed his head and snorted. “I concur,” said Oromë, and then he nudged the horse back to the waiting elves with a shift of leg muscle.

When Nahar and Oromë reached the elves kneeling in astonishment around the half-butchered buck, he reached an open hand down in offering to load the carcass onto Nahar’s back. Gingerly Asmalo and the man that thought of himself as Ingwë hoisted the skinned carcass onto the giant horse’s back behind Oromë, carefully positioning the antlers and legs. Nahar’s movement as he carried his rider and the deer carcass to the rest of the waiting elves was now a sedate walk, and his silver hooves barely bent the grass or left imprints in the dirt, so gentle was his stride. The horse could scarcely be believed as an instrument of such impactful violence, had one not witnessed his actions not a minute prior.

“You center your balance when you ride,” Oromë began to instruct as the elves walked beside them. Already Oromë had warned them not to follow directly behind Nahar in his blind spot. The Minyar who hunted the dun horses as often as the red deer needed not this reminder of a horse’s powerful kick. “Sit so your legs are between the muscle of the shoulder and the barrel of the chest, and grip with the upper leg, not your calves. Raise your toes so the heel of your foot is lowest. Observe.” Oromë flexed his foot. “This way you will not fall off.” Nahar flicked his ears in a complex pattern and made gentle whuffing sounds, punctuated by a low nicker. “Well, they cannot have perfection. The second gait will be difficult. And they will need usage of both hands, so they must learn to do so without clutching the hairs of the manes in fear of falling off. Oh! Yes, I had forgotten seeing that in the Song. Yes, aides like those would help the Children.”

When this impromptu procession reached Imin and the elves gathered around the second kill, Oromë dismounted and began to carefully cut hairs from Nahar’s tail and weave the strands. Seeing the Hunter absorbed in this task, Imin refrained from interrupting him with greetings and instead bade his tribesmen to continue to field dress the slain deer, waiting for Oromë to finish this strange task. Then Nahar lowered his great head, and Oromë began to rope and twist the braids into loops around the head, one encircling the muzzle, another the ears. Satisfied, Oromë gently pulled this new contraption off of Nahar and began to weave more rope. Finished with his task, he turned to Imin and this audience of elves. “I have a gift for you, for your fellow leaders, and for the three young men who introduced me to the Children.” He held aloft his creation. The braided rope shone silver in the torches. “Use this as the halter for your horses as to tame them. When you have them captured, place this around their heads. As you see, it is woven from the hair of Nahar.” Oromë paused, and his mouth twisted into a wry grin. “This is only a temporary measure. The …scent, we shall call it, shall fade. To train a horse to accept a rider is no quick process, if there is to be trust earned. But this shall quicken the process, and our time is limited to do what is necessary. Mailikô’s servants are bold, and that one leading that group was especially powerful. Nahar will stay with you, and he will call forth horses so you may gather and tame them. But I must go. I will not tarry overlong, but that servant should not be permitted within echo distance of any innocent life, and if I have a chance to capture that traitor, I shall seize it.”

“When shall you return?”

“Gather your kills, and I shall bring more, and before you leave these plains for the forest, Nahar has instructed the herd to await you. The trees shall tell me when to rejoin.”

Mighty Nahar stood guard as the elves gathered their kills and searched for more prey, the flare of his wide nostrils the only sign that the blood might in any way discomfort him. The torch-bearers stood closest, but none were brave enough to touch him. In time they grew accustomed and forgot the horse’s presence, absorbed in their tasks. Handë, one of the runners, cornered the man that would become Ingwë in a fit of inspiration, realizing that the young man must have made many solitary hunts. His question was not mocking when he asked what food the loner would have gathered on these plains without companions to assist in finding and running down prey, though Asmalô, fearing that his once-friend would construe the question in a negative way, interrupted and talked over Handë in a fumbling attempt to play peacemaker. With a sigh, Ingwë admitted that his haul was normally eggs, though here on the plains he found a modicum of success with nets and especially with a simple length of cord weighed on both ends with stones by which he could knock birds from flight and taggle the legs of running deer, though he had only attempted this method on smaller ungulates. Handë and Asmalô were impressed by the ingenuity – which the man that would be Ingwë felt was underserved, as the bolas trick was a hunting method he learned from Elwë’s parents- and by the keen eyesight it would take to aim at a flying bird in the pure darkness. The young man would have blushed from their admiration if not for the enforced impassivity of his face. Ingrained habits made him turn away, and he retreated to the safety of Nahar’s silver sides, rubbing the soft nose of the horse and wondering if there might be a nest to raid in a nearby tree.

While his wife directed the next hunt, Imin held the silver halter bequeathed by Oromë and ran appraising eyes over the giant horse. He made a wordless scoffing sound and addressed the objects of his thoughts. “You believe yourself capable of this new thought, to ride upon one of the beasts that look like this and not be thrown or trampled?”

Ingwë startled to realize his chieftain had been addressing this question to him. With a pause that could be construed as rudeness, if proud Imin was so inclined, he finally answered. “Yes.”

Imin waited for elaboration, and he was miffed when the young man’s answer remained a curt single syllable.

Asmalô’s expression was aghast, but his face was hidden by the darkness. Then Kanatië and Elnaira interrupted with delightful cries that they had discovered the burrows of large ground squirrels, and everyone rushed to flush the rodents from the burrows. The meat from an individual animal was minimal, but the hunters were after multiple kills, and the pelts were prized. After the ground squirrels were gathered and piled next to the deer carcasses, the Minyar spotted a small herd of camelid creatures. This time Handë pulled Asmalô and the man that would be Ingwë to join with his group of hunters, and Ingwë felt an unfamiliar joy to run beside another and a greater joy when his spear pierced the side of the galloping animal. Lasrondo nodded in approval when the young man dodged the flailing limbs to give the grace stroke, murmuring the song of appreciation and relief.

Exhausted, the Minyar gathered their bounties, and Nahar carried what they could not. When they retraced their path to the treeline, they found a small herd of horses grazing on the tender ferns around the saplings. The horses raised they heads and made low greeting sounds to Nahar, but seems to ignore the presence of the elves. As the Minyar knew that they were covered in the smells and effusions of gore from their hunts, and that these animals of the plains like the deer were remembered as dangerous, this unconcern was deeply unsettling. Cautiously they approached the horses, and Imin was bold enough to bring forth the silver halter and loop the end of the rope around the closest horse’s head in a makeshift noose. The horse continued to graze, only flicking an ear to the elf in a sign that that it was not blind to the approaching elves but was choosing to ignore their presence.

“I have oathsworn that you shall not harm them,” an unfamiliar voice sang.

Imin replied, “They obey you well, Chieftain of Horses. I swear we shall not harm them. What food do they need? My people shall gather them, or bring forth from the stores of Tata and Enel’s people.”

Nahar snorted. “It is your people’s fire and spears that have convinced these little ones. Turn those weapons away from their hides and towards the wolves and lions that hunt their foals.”

Imin nodded. “They shall not be so calm without your presence, I still presume.”

Nahar bobbed his head, then turned and lifted his upper lip to make a high-pitched cry. In the distance, trees began to sway from an unseen wind, and a large shape moved across the stars.  

Oromë returned to find the elves in enthusiastic debate over the captive horses and if this feat could be replicated with other animals. Imin had adjusted the loops of the halter to fit the lead mare’s head properly, and some of the other elves were scratching ears and carding fingers through the stiff manes. The concept of paddocks to corral and shelter the animals had progressed onto propositions of where to construct them and upon whom the duties of building and later guarding these enclosures, and how many would be needed and of what dimensions. That had led to the debate over what other animals might be kept in pens and corrals near the village.

“What of the mâmâ? They are smaller than the auroch or wisent, and some have thick long hair on their hides that would easier to make felt, perhaps even weave as we do the stems of plants. Despite the large horns on the males, they are not near as dangerous.”

Every elf present turned to stare at the eighth-born child of the Minyar. Asmalô was the one to voice what they were all thinking. “That was the most words you have addressed to your tribe since we were children.” Swallowing his shock and remarking from a position of more than a little jealousy, Asmalô added, “Is it that you speak only in the presence of others and not your people that the Tatyar and Nelyar boy call you Kwendë?”

The young man that would become Ingwë Ingweron was not yet accustomed to the attention of all elves present to be focused intently on him and his words, but even in his discomfort the young man found his reply falling easily from his lips. “I speak when I have words worthy of being heard.”

Imin’s face was a thunderclast. “Or to those deemed worthy of hearing your voice? By choosing never to speak to your tribe, your actions were a choice to state that we were undeserving of your voice?”

“You made it clear it was I, and my parents, unworthy of bother to the tribe,” Ingwë countered.

“All voices are allotted the respect to listen to them,” Oromë interrupted, “at least for that initial hearing. Eru Ilúvatar allowed my king’s brother to sing with us, even after he disrupted the song.” A sarcastic lit of mouth. “Twice. It was his will to drown out the other voices that displeased my Father.”

The implicit rebuke was a shadow over their return to the Minyar village, though the excitement of their successful hunt and the herd of horses buried the dark feelings until after Oromë departed.

Ingwë of Cuiviénen, (6/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

You didn’t think this story was dead?

Finally we reach “Of the Naming of Indis” – and the beginning of a long series of moments where awkward bystanders look on to Imin and Ingwë’s battle of wills. Happens right after Erikwa. 

Primitive elvish names and terms still left mostly untranslated, but context clues should explain them. More world-building in my mode from Klingon-Promotion-Vanyar and young bucks of Cuiviénen.

…

Though the introduction of the people of Elwë’s village to one of the creators of their universe had happened with success and ease, the three young elves were not such foolish optimists to assume an equal ease in all other introductions, especially when they were not leaders or holders of high regard and respect among the other Kwendî. Elwë was the firstborn son of the now-lost leaders of his village, but for him to inhabit the position they had held was still something newborn and thus as weak. Enel and Enelyë knew him not and had not gifted him their approval. Finwë was admired for his craftsmanship in his own village, but it was Rumilo who led and made decisions – and even he bowed to the will of Tata and Tatië. And all bowed their will to the First among Chieftains, Imin. A great problem faced the three that led Oromë and Nahar to the Minyar village.

This problem was not what the man that would become Ingwë Ingweron thought of as he returned to the Minyar village. Plotting how to successfully introduce the Vala Oromë to his chieftain and tribespeople should have encompassed all his mental efforts. His mind should have been formulating what words to say, the correct level of deference and obstinate conviction to show in both tone and action to his chieftain. He needed both to garner respect for his words and by association to the Valar he had found. To ensure that the Hunter Oromë swiftly gained the full acceptance from that village that the man who would become Ingwë Ingweron had never accrued, this should have been his concern. To overcome the uncertainties that would be raised merely because he was the one to find Oromë, this was the disadvantage the man that would be Ingwë faced. That he had disobeyed his chieftain to leave his village when ordered not to, and that such a betrayal of trust disrupted the fabric of his tribe as gravely as had he disobeyed an order while hunting, the gravest of crimes because a hunter that could not be trusted to follow orders meant empty bellies for everyone, should have been his worry. The man that would become Ingwë existed under censure from his tribe for his sullen and solitary ways and could ill afford more. These were not his thoughts.

His thoughts were for his newborn sister – and the name he wished to bestow upon her.

He that even now knew he should be Ingwë knew his sister should have the name Indis.

Indis, for Nessa, for the Bride, the sister of the mighty Hunter, and thus he wished to claim for her a name of one of the Powers that created and held stewardship of the very universe itself. There was an arrogance in naming her this, in proclaiming that she would be as swift as the deer, as graceful a dancer as to be beyond words to describe, and that her chosen love and equal could only be a warrior unconquerable. Yet the alternative, more conventional reading of the name he gave his newborn sister was, while less cosmic in its ambitions, no less confrontational and bold. Indis, First among Young Women, was an usurpation of Iminyë and especially Iminyë’s daughter, Ravennë.

The second child of Imin and Iminyë must be here described, their daughter Ravennë. A boast it was to name their child the lioness, in honor of the great hunting cats that instructed by example the Minyar how to hunt and who shared with the first tribe a similar tawny golden pelt. It was a proud name for a proud young woman. ‘Most beautiful’ the daughter of Imin and Iminyë was lauded, the princess of the Beautiful Ones, but this was falsehood. All Kwendî were comely, and the golden hair of the first tribe was esteemed as highest beauty by others outside the tribe, but objectively Ravennë did not outshine her peers in appearance. For one, she was short among a people that prized height, and her mouth considered ill-shaped for her face. She inherited her father’s jawline that made Imin handsome but his daughter not. Her eyes were the bluish purple common to the Minyar, whereas had she inherited the golden brown of her father, the striking similarity to her namesake would have elevated her to the acclaim so liberally bestowed. Her brother was handsome, insufferably so. None regularly praised him for his looks. But Ravennë embraced the flattery of her beauty and made falsehood reality. She cared herself as the most beautiful daughter yet born to the elves, and could not fathom a rival to this claim.

In the darkest roots of his heart, where the veins drank bitter resentment to survive his shattered childhood hopes, spite towards Ravennë fueled this decision of the man who wished to proclaim himself Ingwë. Ravennë, proud and beautiful and beloved by the village, possessed everything he desired for himself and his family.

More so than Imin’s son, the bumptious prince, Ravennë was his target.

—-

The journey by foot from the small Nelyar village to the singular large village of the first tribe was not arduous or long – though despite the wetter terrain, the distance between Elwë and Finwë’s villages was shorter. On a rise of land away from the direct shoreline of Cuiviénen, the Minyar village with its ever-present fires was easy to spot only a few minutes after the lights of the other village had faded. Like a lodestone it directed their path, the shapes of its fence and buildings slowly growing more distinct in the ever-night. Soon their feet found the well-worn path.

The man that privately thought of himself as Ingwë began to lengthen his stride as to separate himself from his companions as scouts did on the long hunts.

Finwë began to play with the dyed fringe of his shawl, a nervous tick, and turned to remark to Oromë. “We let Kwendê take the lead here. This is his village.” Finwë had often visited his friend, Elwë, to attend village celebrations like roof raisings and the addition of new children, but he had never stepped a foot inside of the Minyar village. Elwë, as heir of a governing couple of one of the numerous small groups that had branched out of the main following of Enel, had spoken formally to the chieftain of all the elves, and the prospect of meeting Imin was not an idea completely foreign to him. This was not to say Elwë felt no nervousness, only when compared to his good friend.

Oromë gave a solemn nod.

Nahar pushed against the elf’s back in a gesture meant to be reassuring, yet the force of the nuzzle unbalanced Finwë.

Elwë had fallen back to fill his waterskin in one of the streams that flowed outside the Minyar village, for the large stream that fed his village still held the tainted taste, and he wished to limit how often he drew from their stores of good drinking water. He said nothing as his friend stumbled or his other friend jogged towards the village gate.

That such an arrangement among the three friends of who ran eagerly forth and who fell back should be later repeated, to profound historic effect, should be no surprise.

The two elves, Ainur, and horse-shaped Maiar waited as Ingwë returned to his home village. From their positions behind him, none could see the tightness to his normally stoic face or the worry hiding in the tension of the skin around his eyes. The Lord of the Forest sensed it, and restrained from making a fond sound.

Asmalô, seventh-born of the Minyar and one of their more promising young hunters before the depredations of the Dark Hunters curtailed the long hunts, rose from where he crouched on a hillock outside the thorn-lined and torch-brightened palisade that delineated the confines of the Minyar village, his lanky body nimbused by the village fires. His movements were jerky, though his distance from the village’s safety was not great enough to explain his fear. Even in this eclipsing angle, the whites of his widened eyes were clear. “Ûkwendô!” he called out to the other member of the first tribe. “Please be you! Imin knows you are not in the village, that you disobeyed his command!” The former childhood friend of the man that would be Ingwë spoke with concern when Ingwë expected only angry censure. “You give no heed to anyone in the tribe, and I fear tolerance of your defiant ways has ended. You can no longer go alone as you wish,” the young hunter began to scold, then dropped his lecture as he beheld the companions of the one he thought of as a loner. “Who do you bring with you? ….Lo, Ûkwendô, what have you brought to bear upon your people?”

“Peace, Asmalô. Elwê of the Nelyar and Phinwê of the Ñgolodor are known to us, and the ones with us mean the Speakers no harm.”

“Who are with you?” Asmalô stammered, staring at tall Oromë and Nahar gleaming silver in the starlight.

“Not the Dark Hunters that so scare you and our mighty leaders,” the man who would be Ingwë Ingweron said in a false mild voice, the undercurrent of mockery rising to color his speech. Asmalô caught it, and his thoughts warred if to openly rebuke the slightly younger man for the confrontational audacity.

Finwë began to run towards the two Minyar to forestall further conflict, but Oromë pulled him back with a hand on the young man’s shoulder as he stepped forward instead. Seeded within the action was a gradual increase of the Vala’s size and the incorporation of an uncanny luminosity to his skin, until the Power stood half again in height taller than the elf beside him and glowed with a holy faint blue light.

The texture of bark and dappled fur had returned to his skin, and a sweet scent of crushed pine needles waffled strongly from his form.

Such action naturally pulled the attention away from the elf who had transgressed against Imin’s decree and displayed towards it a blatant disregard. Had Asmalô held his weapons in his hand, he would have dropped them.

“Greetings, young one,” Oromë called out in a voice that boomed like his hunting horn, the Valaróma. “Your concern for your friend and people do you credit. And forgive me my amusement, for it is not so that your mother named for the yellow songbird beloved by both my wife and king? I had not known that the Fruit-giver had allowed various seed-eaters to awaken on the far shore, aside from those like the pine buntings.”

In later recountings of the meeting of Oromë and the Vanyar, that the first topic consisted of the habitat range of small birds was allocated to a footnote.

The population of the Minyar far exceeded that of Elwë’s village, and all that were of age were gifted in mind-sight as to feel the true nature of the spirit of Oromë as he that would be Ingwë had in the forest glade. Thus the meeting between the Vala and the first tribe of elves need not be imagined as greatly differing from the first assembly, aside from a few particulars. It was tall Imin, crowned with a pair of feathers and draped in beautiful striped and spotted furs, and Iminyë in a gown made of hundreds of rattling bone beads and a thick cloak of a white auroch hide who greeted Oromë, while his tribe stood behind in amazement but not fear, and the Vala bowed to them and spoke in a tone less informal than before to humor the first-awaken Children of Iluvatar.

Oromë

swiftly recounted
the identities of the Valar, their origins and their appointed task in Arda, their maliciously recalcitrant member and his war against their rightful authority, his search for the elves and his wayward servant, and the sudden encounter, as well as his intentions to aid the Kwendî by clearing the hunting grounds of the evil shadows that abducted the elves. The sheer magnitude of new information to confront would have daunted anyone, yet the Unbegotten had awoken once to an entire world with which they needed to fill their blank minds, and even this shock was not as great. Imin and his wife had the comfort, when they gaze upward, that the stars still shone down. A disservice it would be to their characters to say they were hidebound and unwilling to accept the cataclysm to the society and world they had outlined and commanded. One should not judge too harshly those that would lead the Refusers. 

Oromë and his horse were welcomed into the village, led to the clearing in the center of the village between the circle where disputes were settled and warriors trained and the grand hut of the chieftains family. Here Imin and Iminyë pulled out a pair of stools to sit and listen, as everyone gathered around them.

. Finwë and Elwë were included in the invitation, but fundamentally ignored.

Elwë made a token effort to shoulder all responsibility, as it was his need to avenge his parents that had drawn his friends Finwë and Kwendë from their villages, and Finwë was eager to praise his friend’s virtues to a disbelieving audience. The Minyar response was quiet but profound befuddlement.

In the excitement and upheaval of Oromë’s arrival and the revelations about their entire universe, the transgression of venturing far from the village in secret seemed forgiven. This was a false assumption, but the meeting of ones’ deities took priority.

Ingwë stood before Imin as a young buck would face an elder male with a herd, muscles coiled tense and eyes staring straight on without subservience. His spear he had handled off to Asmalô, and his face was bare of paint or markings.

The expression of his face was not one of challenge or anger, though its impassiveness was barely less confrontational.

His thoughts, as always in the village, he guarded from others to sense. This stoicism dismayed Finwë and Elwë, who knew of the joy and excitement their friend had felt with the discovery of the Valar, and were leaning their hopes on that confident delight to convince the Minyar of Oromë’s goodness, as it had for themselves and Elwë’s people.
“I returned with bounty, and the stars shined upon my hunt,” he said to his chieftain, the ceremonial words of hunters when entering the village with success. The Minyar tittered at the incongruity of likening all this to bringing back some felled deer, and even Imin smirked. Imin and Iminyë’s son, vain Inkundû, disliked the sensation of feeling envy towards the village pariah. His sister, Ravennë, appraised the son of feared and pitied Skarnâ-Maktê with fresh eyes and shrewd calculation.

Oromë excused himself from the undercurrents of these interpersonal interactions, though his interest in observing them was strong. His opinions and observations he would hold private until he returned to the Mánahaxar. 

Of particular interest to him were the small children, from the half-grown teens lean with hunger to the toddlers and infants clutched tight to their mothers and fathers.

Maktâmê held her infant daughter in her good arm, openly weeping to see her son returned hale and in high spirits. He did not run to her, but his pace to reach her side was decidedly quick, and it was a firm voice that bade her listen to the name he had chosen for his newborn sister. Bitter resentment of her tribe and those that lead it encouraged Maktâmê to eagerly embrace her son’s suggestion, even if she had not yet heard the full story of Nessa and knowing full well the conflict this would bring with Iminyë.

When Maktâmê’s son returned his attention to the discussion between Oromë and his tribe members, the topic was the proposed hunt.

Kanatyë, whose spouse was the first taken by the Dark Hunters, spoke. “Are you truly so mighty, Great Arâmê, as to scare off those horrible things that stalk us?”

To this Oromë replied by hefting aloft his great horn and bringing it to his lips, then blowing a single pure and roaring note that rang across the shoreline and deep into the surrounding forest. “Those that I hate, hear that sound and fear me. Those that I hunt, hear that sound and flee from me,” Oromë proclaimed. His voice was low and deep, especially in contrast to the aural lightning strike of the Valaróma’s call.

“Then we shall hunt, all who are most able,” Iminyë said. “Our food is near depleted, and we wish to see you and the skill and might you promised. Then my husband shall take you to meet with Tata and Enel.”

The implication that he and his friends would stay behind was not lost on the man than would be Ingwë, and he shoved aside Inkundû to stand before his leader once more, ignoring the sputtering anger of the prince.

“Do you care to speak now, Kwendê?” Imin asked, a lilting note on the name that outsiders used to call a member of his tribe. The rebuke was unsaid but hammered like a waterfall, fueled by hurt feelings and confusion, for the man that would be Ingwë had kept himself aloof from his people.

“Now that I have worth to share,” Ingwë eventually snapped out, a curt gesture in the direction of the Vala.

Oromë interjected, “The three shall come with us. It is right, as they were first to find me. Though if I am to meet with all the Children, if you are spread out along this giant saline lake, it might be prudent of me to teach you how to ride.”

…

Asmalo is named for the yellowhammer. Don’t ask me why Tolkien chose that specific bird to give a PE name. That, crow, and nightingale are it.

Ele!

squirrelwrangler:

When I suddenly pondered the step-by-step duel of Imin and Ingwë (Klingon Promotion Vanyar Style) and kazaera‘s post here was giving me inspiration for Imin as I was trying to think about Ingwë and Ravennë and Cuiviénen elves. So a quick flashfic inside the Quendi Minyatar’s head at the most pivotal moment he faces the tribal outcast returned from Aman. Aie I think I ship them?

The youths are foolish, to place their confidence and effort into elaborate posturing and flashy moves. Duels take one stroke, one stab, if the warrior is right. The fight is before, the hunt is the wait. It is to reach the mind out and feel the echo of the opponent and flow of his thoughts. That is the secret of the hunt, to sing without words and feel as others feel, both companions and prey. To know the challenger across the ring and judge his thoughts. To be either the spear, stabbing boldly forward, to overwhelm the challenger and cow him under force of will – or be the lake, to absorb the attack like the water swallowing everything in its depths, find the weakness and in the same instance push back.

Imin knows every trick, has watched every fight that has ever been. Oldest and first, he has no equal and no one before him. There is a pointless cruelty in accepting this challenger, for Imin has no weaknesses, and this boy has no hope. What pride compels him, this boy that hunts alone and has never challenged his companions in the ring, to think he can best the first among all? Imin reaches out to find the challenger’s spirit, to hear the beat of the other heart, and overwhelm it with his own. The boy is tall and strong, his grip on the spear relaxed but right. There is a strange gleam of health to his body and a light in his eyes that Imin does not trust. The boy speaks of a land of light without death, a land that has made him strong. Imin can feel the boy’s strength. He acknowledges it. But the boy is young, and Imin is oldest and first, with no one before him. He looks across to the calm face of his opponent and feels with mind instead of ears the steady heartbeat of the boy. Incredulous! that the boy has no fear. That the mind is as calm as the mask-like face, the heartbeat even, no trepidation to face his leader, no bravado to explain the boy’s presumptuous challenge. Not even the lake is this still, and Imin falters. It is a tiny thing, that uncertainty, which does not show on his face or body. But he is no longer first, alone, no one before him. Imin sees the boy across from him in the dueling ring.

‘Lo!’ he shouts in the quietest corner of his mind, as he feels the intention flow into the action, feels the other man stab forward with his spear, begins a strike than Imin cannot stop or deflect. ‘Here you are, my equal. I thought I was alone.’

The last thoughts of Imin, oldest of elves, as he falls dead to earth and his spirit flies west to a land of light, is this: ‘I am glad I was not. Lo! I see you. Ingwë.’

POV!

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!

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.

Erikwa

Posted this a while back to AO3, but wanted to have the full version on my blog as well. ‘The very first elves are sort of creepy and think certain concepts are very creepy’ fic, the ‘if she only has a feminine version of her husband’s name, make the reason slightly unsettling’ fic. Title is Primitive Elvish for “single, alone”

…

Explanation for oswarë and a glimpse into the psychological issues of the Unbegotten and the minds of Imin and Iminyë.

…

Imin awakes loudly, with a great gasp of air as if he had held his breath during sleep, and only upon this cession of sleeping does come up like a diver from the great lake Cuiviénen reaching the surface. It is almost a fearful sound.

His gasp, like the very first gasp of air that the first of all elves ever took, wakes his wife Iminyë from her sleep. She opens her eyes and turns to her husband. Sometimes in these moments she will reach a hand to touch him. She reminds him in these simplest of movements that he did not sleep alone, nor does he wake alone.

He is always the first to wake, and that moment between his gasp with eyelids flying open in alarm and the opening of his wife’s eyes is the shortest of moments – and yet it is the longest and most fearful of times.

It is the great fear of the first generation of elves, spoken lowly amongst themselves. They fear sleep and a return to the oblivion in which they laid before their awakening, before they cried out at the sight of stars above them with the first opening of their eyes. They fear returning to the dumb unknowing unwaking, and it is the closest the Firstborn of Ilúvatar ever come to the mortal fear and understanding of death. They know not what woke them first, so they know not if this awareness will end.

The deep sleep, when eyes are closed and minds are blind, isolates the elves. They learn how to sleep with eyes open and thoughts quiet but still able to sense other minds around them with that feeling which involves neither eyes nor ears. Imin and his people have honed this skill to the point that they can read even the thoughts of other minds, but it was a skill formed out of the need to just reach for the warmth of another consciousness in the coldness of the unknown. Isolation is the fear that drives the first of elves, the fear of reaching out and feeling no echo of other minds, to call out in a voice and have only dumb silence answer. In this twofold fear of the sleep he will not wake from and the fear that only he alone shall wake does Imin, the First of all elves, gasp and turn for Iminyë.

As his wife reaches for him with grateful eyes he hears the flicker of her thoughts return to him. She is relieved that he is here, that he has called her from sleep, that she is not alone.

The consequence of waking separately is this disruption of synchronization between Imin and Iminyë. As their eyes and minds meet to banish the lingering fears of sleep, their heartbeats and the inhaling and exhaling of breath settle into accordance with each other. Their minds echo to each other like the rhythmic two-point pulse of their heartbeats, just as comforting and present. Together as one they blink, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the light from the many bonfires and torches that have turned the village into an island of illumination against an endless sea of dark.

Their children are accustomed to light, having entered this world surrounded by elves holding torches and who have encircled their sleeping areas with large fires for warmth and glow. The dark unknown is now an expanse with understandable features, illuminated by fire. The light of the stars above delights the children of elves, but not the same way as the stars did that first moment Imin awoke. Their children open their eyes first in these safe places of the village, already knowing the touch of their mother and father’s hands and the sounds of many voices. Iminyë and Imin think of their son and daughter, each who entered this world single, without knowing who their other half was, yet at the same time connected to others. They were carried for months under the sound of Iminyë’s heartbeat, knowing the presence of mother and father. They do not fear silence as their parents do, treat the stars with the exact same wonder, or understand.

Imin stretches his arms, Iminyë mirroring his movements like a reflection. Together they slide off the large pallet of woven reeds sandwiched with other woven mats and stuffed with the fur scrapped from treated hides, topped by the fur of a giant bear. It is a softer bedding that the clay of the lakeshore they once had. Together they fold the bearskin at the foot of their wide sleeping pallet. A small clay vessel next to it holds fresh water. Someone must have refilled the bowl as they slept. Imin reaches for it and hands it to his wife, who accepts the dish without looking, lifts it to her lips and drinks, and hands it back to Imin’s waiting grasp without checking with her eyes. Their movements nonetheless are perfectly smooth, the water still. There is no hesitation or need to ask. Together they gather their feet under their bodies and push with hands and feet and stand. In one moment they breathe, chests expanding with air; together they exhale. Like perfect reflections they stretch their arms again, unfurling fingers like young ferns, straightening out the left arm on Imin’s side and the right on Iminyë’s. Rotating their heads to pull the stiff muscles of their necks, together they turn their heads. Outside their sleeping hut they can hear one of their people shuffling feet and waiting to speak to their leaders. “Come in,” Imin and Iminyë call as one voice, and the silhouette outside the door of the hut startles. Abashedly Imin and Iminyë look to one another, forgetting they had not delegated which one of them was to speak aloud. Two pairs of eyelids close, and Iminyë breaks the synchronization by the slightest nod of her chin. “Enter,” Imin calls, but it is only Iminyë who bothers to open her eyes and look at the person who enters. It is one of their hunters, one of the fellow first awoken who has pulled aside the hanging hide that functions as a door.

“A hunting party has returned,” Lasrondo says. They can feel worry on the taste of his words, a wrongness. Imin does not remember sending any hunters out, and if he does not, Iminyë does not. There are many in their village when once they were few, and yet Imin and Iminyë know each of their people, had witnessed their first breaths and memorized their manner of walking and the sounds of their laughter, and while their tribe has grown large it is not yet too large to split into more than one village, to separate away from Imin and Iminyë. All should be in the village, and it takes only the slightest of hesitations to reach out with the touch that is mind instead of hands, groping blindly for who is missing. Blindness lies at the root of that hesitation, for there should be no disobedience or oversight. Either would be unwelcome. This feels like secrets.

Imin feels cold; Iminyë wraps the warm felt around her hips to make a long skirt, then pulls the new poncho of soft felt over her head. Now they are warm. But the disquiet does not ease, so they reach for one another, echoing back heartbeats and breaths until the sounds become one, until there is no difference between two bodies in tempo, eyes staring back as two reflections until what division is between them is meaningless.

They have no secrets between them, Imin and Iminyë.

They have nothing between them except for that terrible lonely waking moment.