Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
And with “Of Sheep” finally finished, the long awaited interlude chapter. This one has a fun structure, as it’s five interludes from the POV of our main three during the War of the Valar. You could say they’re “Of Big Brotherly Protection, Of Copper-smithing and Friendship, of Sheep, Of Dogs, and of Uinen and Why You Can’t Return to Eden”
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 elves living in the safety along the shores of Cuiviénen knew not of the dreadful war waged on their behalf, except in general of its existence due to undeniable evidence in the far distance. A war between Ainur in their full power was felt across the entire world and thus could not be completely hidden from them, for the very contours of Arda were being reformed in those titanic battles.
Fires burned in the north, illuminating the crests of the hills and reflecting off the clouds. Long before either Laurelin or the Sun, night was pushed back by ruddy light. They were the flames of dreadful conflict as servants of Melkor battled their un-fallen brethren for dominion of Arda. This was long before the dragons entered Melkor’s black thoughts, but the devastation equalled any rampage of Glaurung. Winds brought heavy ash to fall over the valley of Cuiviénen until a more powerful wind smelling of burning frankincense pushed in from the west, clearing the air of ash.
Distant fires and the smoke and ash that they produced were not the only troubles to scare the elves. The ground would tremor violently, and people feared for their houses. After the sweet-smelling west wind, the tremors were never as savage, but it became common to feel the earth tremble beneath their feet.
It was the crashing thunder and lightning, and the bellowing sound that accompanied no lightning yet still echoed from every hill, that most frightened the Kwendî, for that continued even after the earth-tremors lessened. It was not normal lightning. Elwë described it as if a hammer was being taken to the roof of the black sky itself, trying to shatter it into a thousand pieces.
In his family hut, comforted by the familiar smell of smoke and wood ash, Elwë held his younger brothers close, one tucked under each arm, listening to their even breaths as they finally fell asleep, exhausted from worry over the terrible lightning and evidence of distant battles that they still knew little to nothing about. He cradled his brothers and thought back to when they were young and small, thankful that even now with all three into adulthood he was still much larger than either Olwë or Elmo. As children they had come to him for comfort during thunderstorms, wishing to be held by him instead of their parents. Now that they were all adults and the world beyond the borders of what any elf knew were being reshaped, still Elwë’s brothers turned to him for comfort. Elwe could not give them answers to those terrible lights and sounds, but in the privacy of their parents’ house, he could be the bulwark that he had always been for his younger brothers. He sat with his back against the wall of the hut as they clung to him, heads tucked into his lap and at the crux of his shoulder. They had been able to squeeze all three onto the sleeping shelf, and Elwë had draped his favorite blanket over his brothers and lap, covering their feet. Unmindful of the patch of drool or the sharp elbows digging into his side, Elwë held them tightly and stared out the doorway. Through the opening he could see the reflections of the lightning and fire against the waters of the lake. “Sleep,” he whispered to his brothers. “I will guard us.”
Until the final peal of unnatural thunder faded away, Elwë stared down the night and the flashes of odd-colored light.
…
In his time before returning to report to the other Valar in the Mánahaxar, Oromë taught the elves how to craft and use the bow and arrow. The young man of Elwë’s village currently called Belekô, though of his later names that of Strongbow would be most renowned, found the greatest aptitude with this new invention. Soon he devised tricks and games to better test his aptitude and accuracy, and with the repeated splitting of a lofted feather, he found no more challengers willing to partake in his contests. Most of the spear-hurlers among the Minyar did not switch to these new tools, so it was the third tribe who most eagerly embraced the weapon. Even if none of the other Nelyar possessed Belekô’s burgeoning skill, the bow and arrow became a point of tribal pride.
Oromë also showed the elves how to smelt and work with copper ore, being a soft and easy metal to locate and work with. Another metal that the Vala remembered from conferences with Aulë was iron, and that it was stronger but more brittle and difficult to work with. The red of its rust made it easy for the elves to find. “Aside from copper and iron, there is another metal you can pull from stone using your kiln fires, a silvery one but is not silver, that the Mbartanô says when mixed in with copper will make an alloy, a new metal stronger than either starting substance. But such knowledge is not of the songs I devised to sing, so I know not the metal or correct proportion.” Nevertheless, the knowledge of copper smelting was eagerly appreciated and embraced, none more than by Mahtan, a Tatyar man of Finwë’s village.
Finwë came over and watched Mahtan work with the revolutionary new substance. The Unbegotten man was in the process of hammering copper wire when Finwë interrupted. “The latest earth-shake has ruined the wall of my kiln, and I am still too wroth to rebuild,” Finwë explained his presence. “Until I am calm, may I observe you?”
Mahtan sighed. “Pick up that stick dipped in pine resin and light both ends, then hold the lamp up for me. I need more light to see.”
Finwë did as commanded. Mahtan would periodically nudge the young man to switch angles as the nascent smith carefully hammered a soft length of copper into a progressively longer and thinner piece. Eventually Mahtan would have his fine wire, and with enough pieces he could twist the copper into fantastic shapes and jewelry. Mindful of how disruptive upon one’s concentration it could be with another hovering over a shoulder while one worked, Finwë was uncharacteristically quiet.
Mahtan’s spouse was not in the village at present, or she would be the one assisting him. Since he had the unexpected good fortune in an eager assistant, Mahtan decided to continue with his copper-working projects. He set down the wire and began to smelt down a large bowl of green copper ores. First he needed to raise the temperature of his kiln, a task that Finwë was quick to help with, as it was familiar to him. As Mahtan melted the copper ore, he directed his impromptu assistant once more. “I am making fine small rings. Fetch the stone mold. In that stack, under the buffing cloths. Gray stone. The one without white flecks.”
Eagerly Finwë complied.
The piece that he grabbed was only as wide as his palm but as long as his arm. The stone had a shallow mold for multiple rings carved into the surface, like a strange plant, perhaps a stylized fern frond. The pattern was beautiful and had taken the painstaking work of many hours to create. Yet it was but a tool for the creation of truly beautiful objects.
Mahtan would not allow Finwë to handle the crucible of molten copper, but he allowed the young man to watch as he carefully poured a small amount of the metal into the channel in the stone mold and observe how the metal flowed down the carving into the ring indentions. “Once this cools, I shall pull it from the mold and cut the rings free from the branches, then sand off imperfections.”
“Have you tried other mold shapes yet? I’ve made some with impressions of shells in clay for small vessels.”
“No, and don’t distract me. I cannot allow pour to overflow the grooves and ruin my rings.”
“Who will they be for? This is a gift, yes?”
“Tata,” Mahtan said.
“Chief Tata? Not Rumilô, or Chief of Chieftains Imin?”
Mahtan grumbled. At Finwë’s chirp of confusion, he repeated himself louder and clearer. “I am still Tatyar. We count the Second as our leader, and I cannot or desire to pretend that he does not exist. Rumilô and I and the others disagreed with Tata’s choices, but not all, and our disagreements change not that we are his people. We are not his village, but still in some ways he speaks for us. And we cannot have his anger at us. If we stop giving him gifts and respect, he will call us back to his village, have us all under his watch as Imin does the Minyar. And Sarnê’s kin would not have easy access to salt, or Rumilô his walking distance to the other tribes, or me my ores. In our speech we would have to use all of Tatiê’s words and Tata’s methods for making tools, regardless if there is another way that we prefer. Tata wants us to follow his example, but our deference to him in other ways will suffice. So a fine gift it is. And with this copper necklace, Tata can brag to Imin that he has a prize that Imin does not.”
Finwë pulled a face, so Mahtan was prompted in exasperation to explain further.
“Tata envies that Imin awoke before him, and thus is eldest and leader before him.”
“But I thought the Three were friends?” Finwë asked.
Mahtan laughed long and derisively. “The first three- friends? Ha! No, little Phinwê. They are jealous and competitive. Above all, Tata fears that his people will join Imin or Enel, call themselves Minyar or Nelyar. He does not understand how we can live away from him, not follow his ways, and still desire to think of ourselves as his people and not theirs.”
Finwë sat on his heels and thought about what he had learned, of leaders and friends, envy and loyalty. Of his thoughts, the only that he vocalized was meekly said and too quiet for Mahtan to hear. “I liked it better when I thought they were friends.”
…
Ingwë counted sheep.
The animals were mostly juveniles, three of them male, and they were various shades of brown with lighter bellies and rumps. They roamed the paddock area that the Minyar enclosed for the sheep, nibbling at grasses and a few much-besieged bushes. There was not enough fodder inside the paddock to keep the animals fully fed, so food and water needed to be brought to them. Ingwë had covered baskets with dried grass and various seeds for the sheep to eat. One of his tasks was ensuring those baskets remained untouched by other animals or gluttonous sheep. And penned as they were, the animals would be targeted by predators or could break free of the fencing and escape if not guarded. The sheep were not yet truly tamed that a shepherd -a job that the Kwendî were in the slow process of inventing- could take the animals out to forage around the lakeshore and not lose them. So, the young man that would be Ingwë Ingweron guarded sheep.
Ingwë’s reasons were selfish.
He did not adore the sheep. His concern for their safety was not tied to any deep empathy that he felt for the animals, but that he was the one currently chosen for watch duty, and the penning of these particular animals had been his suggestion, giving him a layer of ownership. If he did not protect and tend the herd to a high standard, his tribe could censure him. Thus his pride was intertwined with the success of the animals, and any failure attached to them would give others ammunition to hurt him, especially if the herd came to harm or did not flourish during his watchguard shifts. The task of watching over the sheep and singing to keep them calm and associate the Minyar camp with safety and food was necessary, for the animals were valuable tribal resource. A ready source of meat and fur guaranteed surety of life. Still, Ingwë felt a greater proprietary fondness for his traplines and cloak than these bleating creatures, even if the balance of value was weighed heavily in their favor.
Over the course of the Great Journey, the Vanyar would replace their sheep with goats and cattle. The more intelligent goats, in particular, could withstand the scarcity and variability of food and climb the two mountain ranges that would lay in their path. Ingwë Ingweron’s biases may have also been a guiding hand in the Vanyar’s conversion from sheep to cattle.
With another sigh against his feelings of undue imposition, he raised a bone flute to his lips and began to play the soft tune that combined with a touch of oswarë to blanket the animals’ thoughts with a sense of docile calm. So engrossed in his task, he did not hear the other elf’s approach. Ravennë walked with arm’s reach of the fence posts before Ingwë noticed her presence. His song faltered for a moment as his fingers slipped from one of the flute holes, but he recovered and pretended that her arrival had not startled him. He offered her no greeting, and Imin’s daughter gave him none. Instead she leaned against the paddock fence and observed the sheep. Discreetly, the man that would be Ingwë evaluated her appearance, searching for clues for why she had walked out beyond the village palisade to the sheep enclosure. His guard shift would not finish soon, and he knew Handë was the one who would come to replace him. Ravennë carried no weapons, though she wore a pair of leather leg-wraps that tied into a loincloth instead of a wrapped skirt, and her thick yellow hair was braided and tied away from her face. This suggested a non-sedentary task, and she had a pouch tied to her waist that he could not deduce the purpose of, for he did not recognize it. The cover flap was the entire paw of a leopard stitched to the leather, and pieces of spotted fur trimmed and decorated the cuffs and lining of her garments. The overall effect was showy, Ingwë privately admitted, but he was most curious at what Ravennë had in that pouch, and why she had gone through the obvious effort of dressing in one of her finer ensembles. Perhaps she meant to visit one of the other villages, especially since the earth tremors had lessened recently. Ingwë wished to visit his friends soon. Ravennë had a healing gash across her lower left ribs, the skin paler and more shiny in the torchlight. Though he had not seen the injury, he could reasonably guess at its cause, for duels happened frequently these days. The duels were for preference order to ride the limited number of horses, Imin having given away one of the silver Nahar bridles each to both Tata and Enel. Almost every member of Ingwë’s tribe wanted a chance to learn to ride the new horses, and there was not yet enough animals for everyone. A competition had formed over riding privileges. This was expected behavior for the Minyar. Perhaps that was where Ravennë was off to, though the fenced enclosures for the horses was in the opposite direction, closer to the lakeshore.
Finally, Ravennë broke her silence. “You are very gentle,” she asserted. “Not just with the mâmâ. With your parents, the disfigured ones. And your baby sister. You are an accomplished caretaker. This is a good role for you, which you excel at. Very soft, very patient.” Ravennë nodded at her proclamations, never once turning to actually face Ingwë as she described her observations of him.
The young man, whom Ravennë had only ever addressed as Ûkwendô and seemed to have ignored all their lives, dropped the flute from his lips and stared at her. Her words infuriated him, and he could feel the swell of outrage pouring into his mouth from his diaphragm and from the root of his tongue, flooding up to press against his lips. If he opened his mouth, he knew he would scream at her. Seemingly oblivious to his feelings, Ravennë leaned over the fence and stretched out a hand to attempt to caress one of the sheep. “Katwânîbesê said that the animals were unsettled earlier with the lightning, though at first they grazed and seemed not to notice. Then a large sound, and one of the little bucks nearly somersaulted. One of the horses did the same, spooked and kicked out and nearly lamed itself, but that was discovered to be caused by a lion prowling too close and not the northern fires. I think Katwâ was just unskilled at this task. She cares for herself and does not look outside her face.”
Ravennë pulled out some of the dried broken grasses and rolled seed from the covered basket and tossed them over the fence to draw the sheep’s attention and lure them close to her. One of the young ewes bleated and trotted over to the food, and Ravennë could reach down to stroke the animal’s back. She pulled up a loosen tuff of wool and played with it between her fingers, twisting the fibers.
Still as if she were addressing the sheep instead of Ingwë, she spoke. “Nurwê Enelion will marry soon. He has chosen as spouse Eleniel, the most beautiful daughter of the third tribe. According to them. His father Enel has demanded animals from my father as a gift, so that his son may have resources to establish his own village, as the Nelyar are so wont to do, splitting and budding new villages like willow trees. I must say I do like this new idea of wedding celebrations and offering gifts. Enel almost bequeathed his son the village of your friend Elwê, because their leaders had died and their son is unmarried. They do not like this, a leader alone. They awoke in paired sets, and the lack of match still unsettles them, my parents and the other chieftains. Enel wished to give the Estirinôrê village to Nurwê, but Father and Tata talked him out of that scheme. They were impressed with your tall friend. So Nurwê and Eleniel must build their own homes from scratch and convince their own friends and companions to join them. I do not know where they shall choose. One of the little islands out on the lake for all I know. Father will send Mother and Brother to confer with Enel over which animals to send, if to give them more of our horses or some of these sheep. If I were making the decisions, I would give Nurwê two or three of the ewes and a spare ram. The more intractable animals. Let him and his companions capture their own beasts if they wish more. The Nelyar have surplus plant food.” Ravennë rolled some of the shredded hay through her fingers, tossing the pieces out for the sheep. “That reasoning is most sound; don’t you agree with me, Kwendê?”
At first he was befuddled at her intentions in telling him these facts, but then Ingwë’s feelings progressed through incensed relief on behalf of Elwë and then more confusion. Though her last words were a question, she gave no sign that she expected an answer from him, treating him as a sympathetic but silent ear, same as the sheep. Ravennë pulled away from the soft muzzle she had been petting and stretched. “The sheep like your tuning and gentle songs. You should play more often. Don’t be so silent.” With that parting remark, Ravennë left him.
…
Wolves lingered on the outskirts of the elven villages. So did other small canids eager to dig through the refuse piles for scraps to eat. Fire and aggressive words would scare them off. Once the initial fear wore off, the elves thought little of the lingering canids. Compared to wild hogs, leopards, or snakes, a few foxes and shy wolves were of small concern when the palisades deterred them.
There was also a clever wolf pack that would follow the Minyar hunters for the express purpose of waiting to scavenge the remains of the elven hunters’ kills, as the ravens and other carrion birds would in turn do to the pack. This wolf pack did not try to chase away the elves from kills as some of the other predators did, perhaps because they were consignate of the danger of attempting so or of hunting the elves as prey. There were lion pelts hanging in the villages for a reason. The wolf pack was treated cautiously, but over time the fear had lessened and nearly vanished. This particular pack was beginning to take the proffered but conditional tolerance of the elven hunters a step forward to work almost in tandem with the Minyar hunting parties. It was almost a friendly competition when they or the elven hunters began to scatter a herd to pick off individuals – and with two groups, if not truly coordinated for the wolves could not understand elven hand signals and the Vanyar mindtouch only brushed the faintest of intentions and emotions, the process of winnowing a prize from the herds was easier for all. Helpfully, the two groups tried not to go after the same beast, for this level of communication of intentions was possible. It was a stray thought common to many elven hunters after a successful spear throw to bring down their kill that perhaps one day they might not lunge a second spear or stone at a horse or deer to leave it for the wolf pack to finish off. It would be a goodwill gesture of thanksgiving and camaraderie. If nothing else, having their own successful kill to tear into would deter the wolves from eyeing the elves’ prizes. Pups from this pack had grown into maturity with a lessened fear of the bipedal strangers, associating them not as prey or danger but opportunities for extra food if treated with deference and caution. Then bored hunters, he that would be Ingwë among them, began to toss objects to the wolves for the animals to play with: stray tufts of fur, sticks, even bits of bone – a willingness to play games instead of trying repel the creatures.
With the threat of Melkor’s Dark Hunters gone, the press for food was not so overwhelming that nothing could be spared for the wolves. With joy and reunion the Minyar hunters sang to the pack that they already thought of with the stirrings of fond ownership.
Thus even before the arrival of Oromë, the elves had begun the process of domesticating dogs.
Ironically it was members of the Second Tribe, Sarnê and his sons, who found a litter of wolf cubs near a dead mother. Without a fear of the tiny creatures and bolstered by tales of the fledgling camaraderie with the nearby wolves, they took the pups back to the village. That action caused an uproar in Finwë’s village which only the inherent cuteness of the puppies quelled. Then both Sarnê and his eldest son, Morisû, disappeared, taken by the agents of Melkor, and Sarnê’s remaining children would not entertain the slightest suggestion of giving up the young wolves that they had adopted as family. The second eldest of Sarnê’s sons had been pestering Finwë to break the edict and travel to the Nelyar village to bargain for precious meat, fish being the only reliable source of protein and the Nelyar villages the only ones with surplus with the Dark Hunters about, when Belekô arrived to interrupt with his alarming message about Elwë’s intentions. Now with Oromë’s intervention and the restoration of hunting parties, meat was easily obtainable for Sarnê’s mostly-tamed wolves.
The preliminary plans to corral ungulate herd animals for easier gathering of resources and horses to ride prompted the Minyar to turn to Sarnê’s wolves. “If we can create a partnership with them as there is between Arâmê and Nahar, to raise more wolves to see themselves as packmates with us …why it should be easy to accomplish! The bond exists, and Arâmê confirms of his own servants many are hunters that he calls chasers.” Soon the Kwendî created their own word, khugan or hound, to distinguish wolf from the animal that saw elves as family and slept inside their villages. Keeping the more traceable and affectionate of each subsequent litter, coupled with training, soon developed dogs suited for hunting with the Minyar sprinters or for guarding the penned sheep from lions and other wolves. The excitable protective instincts, with their proclivity to bark and sing at the slightest intrusion, endeared the canines to the elves who were still nervous and fearful of evil intent abroad. Therefore most elven villages soon had many dogs roaming inside their palisades, of various sizes and new coat patterns.
It were the hounds outside the village walls that needled Elwë’s attention.
They looked like wolves, if not for muzzles too short and ears too large and rounded for their skulls – and that their stature dwarfed the height and length of any creature that prowled the outskirts of the villages. These wolves that looked more like khugan never alarmed the territorial and protective attention of the elves’ rudimentarily domesticated hounds, and that alone was deeply suspicious. The giants would pace between the tree shadows in silence, and should have been mistaken for phantasms if not for the real paw tracks left in the mud, each larger than Elwë’s outstretched hand. Yet show the imprint to one of the khugan so eager to sniff and chase, and the dog would ignore the track. Elwë wished that Oromë had not left, so that he could question the Vala about these giant wolves with pale blue, green, and gray eyes that never vocalized or seemed enticed by a chance for food. He was certain these hound-shapes were servants of Oromë patrolling the perimeter of the Cuiviénen settlements, the recounted chasers of the Lord of Hunt.
Worried yet grateful at their presence, and certain of his hunch, Elwë instructed his brother and others of his village to catch a large fish, then with a simple yet solemn ceremony, Elwë carried the bounty to the outskirts of his village, waiting for a pair of pale green eyes to return. As the giant hound trotted up to towards the palisade of Elwë’s village, its puzzlement of Elwë’s action clear despite lack of words, Elwë lowered the fish and bowed his head. “We are grateful for the guard that Arâmê has left to ensure our safety. We leave this token as appreciation of your efforts.”
The giant hound did not reply, but Elwë was not expecting it to speak. It did not touch the offering, but the fish was left outside the palisade, and when next inspected, that corner of the land cleared around Elwë’s village was devoid of a single scale or fish bone. The elves took this as a sign that their offering was appreciated.
Millennia would pass before Elwë, now Eu Thingol King of Beleriand, would slouch on the floor of his palace in Menegroth and reach a hand to pet the ears of the Hound of Oromë, valiant Huan. Quiet and subdued, Elu would murmur words of thanks to Huan’s kin.
“Where you there, loyal friend of my daughter and her love?” he would ask in a wine-slurred voice, speaking of those days back in Cuiviénen. “What did you and your people think of us and our simple villages?”
In answer, Huan licked his face.
…
It was not a tremor of the earth or a distant boom of thunder or earth that woke Finwë, but a change in the scent of the lake, a stronger concentration of salt and the perfume of unfamiliar plants, and as he walked to the shoreline, noticing how the waters had receded to uncover more of the rich mud and pale shells than normal, he wondered at the cause. Vaguely he recognized the absence of bird calls, but that silence had been common ever since the distant sounds of upheaval to the north had begun. As the mists parted, Finwë found why.
A figure rose from the surface of Cuiviénen, phosphorus and reflective as wet scales, standing as tall and still as a great tree. Long green and brown hair flowed from her head into the waves of the salt lake, partly shrouding her like a fine cloak. She wore no garments, but with her long tresses she could not be thought of as naked. Like the roots of a mangrove tree the water rippled around her thighs, hiding her feet. Small crabs scuttled between the fronds of her hair, and starlight picked out the mussels and sea stars that hung like precious beads in her tresses. Her arms were raised in a warding motion, and as Finwë approached, she turned her head back to meet his eyes over her salt-crusted shoulder. Her eyes were green as well in the faint light, strangely glassy as fish eyes were wont to be, but welcoming and gentle. The strong smell of salt and sea almond floated to him like sweet music.
“You are one of the Powers?” Finwë called to the woman.
“Ui-nend I am called,” she said, as a pale crayfish skittered across her brow. “Return to your home, little one. I shall keep the waters still. Fear not.”
“Why would I fear?” Finwë called, and wondered at the calm dreaminess of his feelings.
“Waters were moved because of the war,” answered the Power cloaked in seaweed and the growing life of the salt marshes, “And because of that, this valley would have flooded, had we not sent Curumo and others to shore up the stone beneath the waterfall and diverted some of the other rivers that feed into this place. Rather we allow this lake to evaporate into a salt flat than allow the violence of a great flood to drown the Children.”
Images and words accompanied her speech that Finwë could not comprehend, but the gist of her message he could understand. “The lake will disappear?”
“Not soon,” Uinen answered. “But eventually, yes. This is not the only place that is changing. My lord’s seas are deepening, and new shorelines are forming. Not all changes shall be dreadful, but we cannot stop them. Not if we wish to stop him,” she said, turning back to the north. “Go back to your bed, clever Phinwê,” she called over her shoulder. “Olos will send you more pleasant dreams.”
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