Just so y’all know, there is a resolution to the Dreadful Wind. It’s a rather short story – Mahtamë, the Mother of King and Queen, dignified matron of the elves, chooses to stay in Beleriand until the end of the War. She has a quest, and will not leave, no matter how much this disrupts anyone’s plans or distresses her family. Mahtamë is going hunting, and it has been a long time since she hunted for herself.

Mahtamë marches along the borders of Valar-controlled territory, hunting for her husband. She will lure this spirit of Morgoth back to her. Everyone is aghast and terrified for her- then mildly terrified of her.

Mahtamë’s plan is simple. She sings. Old songs, her songs, their songs. Hunting songs, running songs. Love songs. Bawdy descriptive songs of love-making with her husband from in those early days when the elves were first figuring that out. (Mortified, Ingwion realizes where that trait came from. Then he has the songs transcribed and sent back to Valmar, petty revenge) Songs about the pure joy of running beside someone.

The elves know how powerful song can be to reunite lovers and defeat the power of Morgoth.

A few months later, vocal chords a little raspy from the strain, a supremely self-satisfied expression on her face, Queen Mother Mahtamë boards a ship and sails back to Valinor.

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.

Dreadful Wind – heget – The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth – J. R. R. Tolkien [Archive of Our Own]

Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth – J. R. R. Tolkien
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Characters: Ingwion (Tolkien), Imin, Original Elf Character(s)
Additional Tags: Houseless Spirits, Family Reunions, War of Wrath, Dark Version of a Miyazaki Film Flying Scene, POV switch, Fantasy Violence, Murderous Ghosts are Canon
Series: Part 4 of Vanyar
Summary:

What is the War of Wrath if not the opportunity for most unexpected and horrible reunions?

Answers to a few loose ends from Of Ingwë Ingweron, and why dragons were only the last in a long list of terrible foes that the Army of the Valar faced in the final years of the First Age.

Dreadful Wind – heget – The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth – J. R. R. Tolkien [Archive of Our Own]

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.’

Feasting with the Lions of Valmar (1/3)

squirrelwrangler:

Okay, so here’s the fic to answer for myself why, using the version of Ingwë from these posts (Klingon Promotion, Pride, and Young Bucks), his son Ingwion would be the one to lead the armies of the Vanyar during the War of Wrath. But then general world-building for the Vanyar took over, and the libido of Ingwë and Ravennë. The story never quite dissolves into smut, to which you may either blame or thank the narrator.

…

“Let me lead the armies of our people,” Ingwion petitions to his father. “Let me stand for you and command our people when we cross the sea and wage this final war against the renegade as the Valar have commanded. I will do you proud and bring honor to our people. The Valar shall give only praise to our efforts.” I am your son, let me prove it, Ingwion does not say, but knows that raw desire is what shows in his eyes, gives conviction to his words.

Keep reading

Laughing Maiden

squirrelwrangler:

Just a little thing I had on my mind when I created the OCs for Ingwë and Indis’s parents. Means sense if you’ve read this.

Indis tells her mother the name she has chosen for her second daughter, Lalwendë the laughing maiden, in a soft voice as she holds the golden-haired infant to her breast. Finwë had given his name to both sons, her first daughter had been named for both of them, but beautiful Írimë Lalwendë can be free of the burdens of the ruling Noldor, carefree and bright and joyful. Indis’s mother Mahtamë smiles at the name, looks down at the peaceful infant, and agrees it is a fitting name, one Lalwendë will grow into.

“Her spirit reminds me of Alakô,” Mahtamë says. “He was always laughing as well.”

“Truly?” Indis asks. Her mother speaks rather of his father, who had died before Indis had been born, nor does Ingwë speak of him. Indis knows her father had awakened at the side of her mother at the shores of Cuiviénen, that he had been a swift hunter and well-liked, and that when he had been grievously injured in a hunt, the toll had been too great and he had chosen the release of death. As Míriel had chosen, which perhaps explains some of the silence on the subject.

“Oh yes,” Mahtamë says, and the faraway look of her eyes is light and pleasant. “Your father could never stop smiling, was always amused at something or another, even if it was just the feeling of the wind in his face. Never still, always drawing Ingwë and I into a jest or dance. Delighting in movement. The stillness of your brother, that reservedness, that was not your father. Alakô was always running. I am amazed your solemn brother came from him; you are far more like Alakô. Wishing that everyone around them are smiling. He would be pleased to see you, and pleased with our Lalwen.”

Mahtamë reaches with a hand to tickle the infant’s belly, causing her to giggle and kick. Indis joins in on the laughter, and hears the echo of a wind.

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.