For feedback and shits’n’grins, here’s most of the Young Bucks of Cuivienen:

Mâlô

fic. aka the unofficial missing chapter of “Of Ingwë Ingweron” where Elwe first meets Finwë. Paleolithic elven baby nerds fic, where I constantly wandered off looking up various facts and tidbits. I’ve posted the first page before. Cameos from Rumil, Mahtan, several OCs, and the true star of this story, a giant dead sturgeon.

Elwê stood taller than either of his parents, which still amazed everyone in their village and made them wonder at first if all children would grow such, each new generation of elves bigger than the last. The first generation of his village, the Unbegotten, woke fully-formed on the shore of the lake, farther west near the waterfall where Enel and Enelyê had their houses, and did not grow or outwardly change, except for hair atop their heads if cut. But Elwê was born, the fourth or fifth so in the reckoning of the Kwendî, back when babies were still a new concept to the elves. By the time Olwê was born, the other couples of Elwê’s village began to have their own children and did not fumble with changes or remark with astonishment at every new accomplishment, be it opening of eyes or talking or standing upright and toddling around, as they collectively did to Elwê. And as Olwê stopped growing upward once he was as tall as Elwê’s mother and father, everyone decided that Elwê’s great height was his own quirk. Hwindiê for example was shorter than either parent, and she was a little older than Olwê. Still each new child was observed with interest.

Tall Elwê, the darling first-born child of his village, was now considered a grown adult, and as he was old enough to be entrusted with the same responsibilities as the Unbegotten adults, he would be joining his parents on the first long excursion outside the village. The purpose of the trip would be to barter supplies his village could not easily provide on their own. The village needed more storage containers, more pots to hold water and the gathered herbs and seeds. His parents wanted good Tatyar pots made of hardened clay. Reeds woven into baskets could be made watertight with coats of resin, but the pottery of the Wise Elves was best. Eredêhâno’s parents wanted more hides to make new clothes for what their young daughter had outgrew. Cloth of a sort could be woven from the water-weeds and reeds of the shore, and one of the other Nelyar villages had discovered a narrow plant that grew in the rich soil of the shore whose pale innards made a soft and light thread that was better than that of the nettle and less painful to harvest. The inner bark of some trees when pounded flat and soaked could be glued together in strips for clothing, but the material was thin and fragile. Animal hides with their soft warm fur was still the most desired option, though, and leather would not tear as quickly. Nor did water weaken and damage leg protectors made of hide, which was best for the fishermen and reed gatherers of his village, who needed to wade into the lake and through the marshes and wet meadows surrounding their homes. The final item on their list was salt, for one of the other Lindar had discovered that adding the white rock-like substance to fish before smoking it made it better and last longer. The first and last items could be bartered from the Second Tribe, and possibly the hides as well, for though the Tatyar did not hunt and skin animals with the same proficiency and regularity as the Minyar, they bartered for those hides with their stone tools and pottery. Therefore just one trip to the nearest Tatyar village, Elwê’s parents decided, was needed to trade fresh-caught sturgeon for the necessary goods.

There were two settlements of the Tatyar, the second tribe known for their skilled hands and clever minds. The first was older and larger, the village where Tata and his wife Tatië lived with their children. That was to the northwest, across the lake. The second village was founded when the first Tatyar village grew too crowded, though supposedly the true reason for the division was because the new location was near some materials the craftsmen liked, or because they had gotten into one argument too many with the other Tatyar. It was known that the elves of the second tribe were distinct from the rest of the Speakers by their common temperament, an overpowering desire to use the voices unique to the Kwendî as instruments to fight and shout at one another, united by their disunity. Elwë had no preference to which opinion was correct. His parents had moved away from the village of their leaders because they disliked the loudness of the waterfall and preferred the quiet and song-like melody of the stream. But no Kwendî spread rumors that there was division born of dislike among the third tribe or would be believed if so gossiped.

The second Tatyar village was in easy walking distance from Elwê’s village, the right-handed path. The left-handed direction, towards drier land, led to the Minyar village. Eventually Elwê wanted to see the first Kwendî village.

The sturgeon his parents were bringing to trade, aside from a basket of other small fish and some gathered clams, was the largest fish his village had caught in a star-pass. Elwê’s parents expected a great trade for it. As long as Elwê from pointed mouth to tail, the fish was wrapped in two mats and tied at each end to a pole to make it easier to carry by the young man and his father, though as it was heavier than a similar-sized tree trunk, the prospect of lugging the fish all the way to the Tatyar village would be unpleasantly tiring. This task did not diminish the excitement of visiting a new place, though it did stymie Olwê’s envy.

Elwê and his father hefted the pole onto their shoulders and took several practice steps to sync. Such sharing of heavy loads Elwê was rarely asked to join, as his greater height would unbalance everything.

The heavy giant sturgeon in its reed bundle swayed with their steps.

Belekô laughed and fetched two of the reed hats. “In case of rain,” he said, and asked if they wanted him to knot the long ties around their necks so each hat hung down their backs or to tie them to the pole.

“They are not heavy,” Elwê’s father said, “and if we wear them, the hats will beat against our shoulder blades as we walk and become uncomfortable. Tie them around the center so they hang on either side, where we have also hung the waterskin.”

Belekô did as asked.

One of the hats Belekô grabbed was Elwê’s favorite, he was pleased to see, the one with white and green duck feathers inserted into the basket weave to create a spiral pattern on top. The other hat was plain but wide and funnel-shaped, tightly woven, a refinement of the basic design by Eredêhâno.

Thus prepared and with the rest of the village sending them off with farewell songs, Elwê and his father lined up behind his mother to begin the journey. Elwê’s mother balanced the tall basket of clams and smaller fish on her head and dipped the torch into the last of the village bonfires next to the gate of the palisade. The palisade was sickle-shaped, a wall of spikes and thorn-bushes meant to discourage the larger animals from the forest from entering the village, and there was talk among the elders to extend the spikes and stakes all the way to the shoreline and enclose all the village huts. There was one opening in the palisade facing the forest, and to the left and right of this opening were two fire pits surrounded and protected by stones. Only the great bonfire in the center of the village was more important, so someone’s task was to watch and feed the fires at all times. Right now it was Nôwê’s turn to keep lit the bonfires, and he waved to Elwê. Shifting the pole on his shoulder, Elwê waved back.

When Elwê’s parents first awoke on the lake-shore, there had been no fire and no villages. A scary thought, Elwê thought, as his mother held out the burning torch from her body to illuminate the path before them. He knew every step of the silty clay beds and canebrake around the village, with the branching stream before them singing the soft and familiar tune, and the paths that led to the forests with its tall pines and firs. Unless he traveled deep into the forest the stars would show his surroundings, and he would only need to look up to find his bearings. Bright Aklara-inkwa shone halfway above the horizon. But even if he got lost, the fires of the village were a beacon visible from miles away, and fire frightened away all but the boldest beasts. Fire meant safety and home and the presence of people.

“Follow my steps, Elwê,” his father cautioned. Carrying the unwieldy sturgeon made what should have been a light and easy passage slow and awkward, the weight sinking their feet in the mud up to their calves.

“Heavy,” Elwê hissed.

His father snorted. “Worse than pulling it ashore. And it will only be heavier before we make it to the other village.”

“First you need to carry over the stream,” his mother called, waving the torch and pointing to the fording spot. “Be careful,” she stressed.

“This is the deepest of the channels,” Elwê’s father said. He gripped the pole with both hands and turned his head back to ensure Elwê did the same. Already across to the other shore, Elwê’s mother had devested her basket of fish and clams to hoist the torch to shine where the ford stones were. This spot was the shallowest crossing of the small river, but then Elwê’s parents had the clever idea when they first settled the village to drag two nearby flat stones and place them at the fording to creating a bridge. The idea came from a path of stones across the river that fed the waterfall next to Enel and Enelyê’s village. Neither bridge stone was large enough for both Elwê and his father to stand on at the same time, but the steady and dry platform to rest their feet as they crossed the stream helped. With careful navigation and coordination they got across with their heavy parcel. Elwê’s mother balanced the basket back on her head and returned to leading the way to the Tatyar village. The music of the stream burbling pass the bridge rocks faded away as they traveled on.

Elwê’s shoulders ached with a pain greater than he could have imagined by the time the distant light clarified to the outline of a wooden fence and the thatches of many huts behind it, ringed with tall standing torches. “Here, finally,” he panted out and laughed for his father said the same words in the same weary but relieved tone of voice with him. There was still a furlong to walk to reach the village itself, which sat on a low hillock away from the shore.

As they approached, Elwê’s mother began to whistle the return tune, a song that swooped up in sharp and loud notes to signal to any watchers at the gate. “El! Ele! El!,” she trilled, “‘Lo, we come!” At her whistles and calls, a cry came from the village, and an elf jogged out from the opening in the palisade to greet them. He carried a torch whose waving light made shadows dance across the well-worn path into the village, illuminating the thick moss growing on either side where the constant tread of feet had not disturbed its growth.

“Rúmilô!” his mother cried, waving a hand to the approaching elf.

“Etsiriwen! Etsiriwêg!” the man called, and Elwê smirked to himself after he puzzled it out that the man was addressing his parents by the name of their village. “You brought another with you!”

“Our son!” Elwê’s father shouted.

“We brought food to trade as well,” said Elwê’s mother.

Gesticulating eagerly for them to follow into the village, the stranger began to question them about the journey and what they had brought, what Elwê’s name was and how many star cycles he had seen, if more Kwendî had joined their village, and if they had recently visited with Denwego, another leader of the Nelyar whose people were constantly travelling between the various villages to trade and explore. Elwê remembered Denwego, for he had visited Elwê’s village not long ago with news of a new-found stand of trees that could be harvested for their inner bark to make clothing. Denwego had been very excited about the discovery. Elwê and his brother had been more excited to hear Denwego’s descriptions of a giant beast spotted in the forest, a long-snouted creature tall as a hut and half as wide with enormous tusks. Elwê’s parents did their best to answer each question from the Tatyar man, though they did not mention the beast Denwego had seen, and they beseeched Rúmilô to repeat some of his many questions. This unconstrained curiosity of the Tatyar was well-expected but still a handful to manage.

Elwê’s first look at a Tatyar village was not as exotic as he imagined.

Built of the same materials as the Nelyar houses, Elwê could readily tell that the design of the huts of the second tribe came from an unfamiliar mind. The thatch of their huts reached nearly to the ground, with the two sides of the roof leaning against each other in long sharp-angled shapes instead of circular. This created larger buildings but amusingly presenting an untidy and doltish impression of the craftsmen. There was more space between the houses and more small structures of stacked rocks and clay bricks to shelter fires. The towering bonfire at the center of the village was the same, though it was ringed by fire pits. No drying lines of fish and the air smelled different, but these were small things that Elwê noticed only because he was searching for all disparities.

The elves of the Tatyar village, he was surprised to see, looked barely different from those of his village. Their skin was perhaps a little paler, but their hair was dark brown and black, braided back or hanging loose. Elwê knew they would not have his silver and gray, which he shared with his brothers and parents, for only two other families in his home village had light hair, the starlight hair Elwê was named for. The Tatyar did wear more braids and in ways Elwê had never seen before, in loops and various sizes and some that weaved in and out or fanned out from one into several many little braids. He liked that style best, for it reminded him of one of the rivers as it entered the lake, branching out into a web of streams and rivulets. They also wore strings of beads of many colors and sizes roped around their necks and limbs, some of stones and others of clay and a few the shiny glass that caught the torch light. Some of the Tatyar combined the strings of beads with their loops of braids, and so rattled everywhere they moved. Hwindiê’s necklace of white shells, which was the maiden’s prized possession, looked drab and small to these decorations. The hierarchy based off the amount of beaded strings was easy to decipher. Rúmilô, festooned with rattling beads, must have garnered great respect among his peers.

Now that Elwê’s mother had worn her short capelet of duck feathers and her best leather apron for this venture made sense. Appearance of material possessions was important to the Tatyar, the foundation of their pride. Elwê’s people had their own pride.

At the center of the village where the central bonfire gave the best illumination was where his parents halted and began to mark a spot in the packed clay with their feet. Here Elwê’s mother deposited her basket of clams and small smoked fish, pulling out a few of the choice selections to place on the ground where onlookers could see their size and color. Her eyes did not glance up to the Tatyar, fixated on her goods, but the slow manner in which she twisted the fish so their scales glittered in the light and the way she hefted the clams to smile at how large the shells were against the palm of her hand was all artifice for her audience. Relieved at the removal of the heavy burden from his shoulder, Elwê danced back as his parents began to hum, mindful of the growing number of watchers. Almost he laughed. The hummed tune transformed into a shout matched by their audience, as with dramatic flair Elwê’s parents unrolled the giant sturgeon, stepping back so their shadows did not fall across it. The gasps of alarm and astonishment at the size of the fish swelled and grew as more Tatyar pushed to join the crowd, some kneeling to peer closer at the pointed upturned snout and the barbels. Some onlookers began to clap.

Rúmilô made a noise of alarm. “That fish is larger than the body of a Speaker, my friends. How did you capture just a beast?”

“Not alone,” replied Elwê’s father with a laugh.

“And with much effort,” said Elwê’s mother.

“The entire village can feast off this bounty,” Rúmilo said, and the Tatyar around him nodded. “No mouth shall go hungry for many meals. But such a prize, the value of it we have no gift that would equal such a windfall.”

“Fine pots to hold our own food shall benefit our village,” replied Elwê’s father.

“And salt,” said his mother, “the usual agreement for twice the weight of the clams.”

One of the Tatyar men whose braided hair shone light reddish brown as a fox pelt in the firelight conferred with Rúmilo about the payment for such a generous offering. Another Tatyar, who introduced himself as Sarnê, brought over a white pot with two handles like curving vines and a lid which he uncovered to reveal chunks of white and clear rock salt. A younger man, whom he addressed as Morama and from the resemblance of their faces was likely his son, brought over a scale made from two small clay dishes hanging from a pole. He weighed the salt against the clams, conferring with his father over each piece, picking out which would be best for brine and drying food. As Elwê’s parents haggled with Sarnê and his son over salt price, Rúmilo commanded one of the girls to fetch a skin from a longhouse. “It is a fine pelt,” he said to Elwê and his parents, “a gift from the Minyar. They hunted wisent recently. Horns they kept, and the hides of the largest kills, but those were great beasts with enough meat to share with all the villages.”

“I remember,” said Elwê’s mother. “The meat was good, even dried.”

“The forefront of the beasts is very shaggy, unlike the auroch or deer. The Minyar kept most pelts, but the smallest cowhide they gave us. I have not used it for anything, aside from treating the hide so it shan’t rot. Please, my friends, accept it as part of payment.”

“We need leathers,” Elwê’s father admitted. “The horse-skin like last trade would suffice.”

Rúmilo pursed his lips. “The wisent, and two buckskin. You are giving my village all parts of this monstrous fish, and I will see you recieve its value.”

“And the pots.”

“For this,” said Rúmilo, staring down at the giant sturgeon, “only our best.”

Satisfied with the deal, Elwê’s parents focused on carving the fish into manageable portions for the Tatyar. As for Elwê, they tasked him to fetch the pottery their village needed. Morama pointed out which hut belonged to the best potter. His gray eyes only briefly met Elwê’s, his attention drawn to observing how Elwê’s parents butchered the giant sturgeon as to carve the best cuts of meat, removing bone and carefully skinning the fish for the Tatyar to turn into leather. “Save some as a gift for Imin. The chief of chieftains will be impressed with the pattern,” Elwê’s mother said, pointing to the line of pale diamond scutes along the side of the fish. Elwê’s father hummed as he began to scoop out the swim bladder and other organs.

“If you are wise,” remarked Sarnê to Rúmilo in a low sidewise voice, “you would send a piece of the treated hide, enough for a belt or boots, to our chieftain as well. Then Tata and Tatiê might soften their hearts to you.”

Rúmilo snorted. “And next I should expect milk from stone.”

“Worth the attempt.”

“No, Sarnê. Wiser to court favor with the Minyar. Imin is chief above Tata. And,” a conspiratorial nod to Elwê’s parents, “once his approval is won, he is steady with it. We need the Minyar.”

Elwê’s mother turned to glare at her son, finally noticing that he had lingered to listen to this discussion of intertribal politics. The young man huffed off, his father’s laughter at his heels.

To Elwê’s surprise, the craftsman responsible for the clay vessels was a young man, a boy really, who by Elwê’s rough guess was somewhere around Olwê’s age, maybe younger. Similar to Morama and his father, he was pale-skinned and black-haired, with pale colorless eyes. The string of beads the Tatyar boy wore around his neck had many made of glass, and braided with the leather belt around his hips was another string of colorful clay beads. A skillful craftsman despite his young age, or a clever bargainer, to determine by the finery. The boy smiled up at Elwê, cheeks turning fat and dimpled. There was a manic glint to his gray eyes. “The Nelya! You’ve come for my pieces; Rúmilo told me. I am to ensure you leave with the best. Which sizes do you need, and what designs?”

Elwê recited the list of his mother, splaying his hands wide to indicate girth. A large egg-shaped container with its narrow neck and double handles for holding water, two large lidded vessels for holding seeds, at least one cooking pot, and as many serving plates as the boy had. The Tatyar boy nodded and scrambled back into his hut, pulling out finished pieces from the stacks of plates and jars. He called the pots by unfamiliar individual terms, pointing out each vessel. “Water vessel you have to carry back, but you’re tall so that shall be no trouble. And not near as heavy as that fish! Empty that it. And mine don’t leak! Here, you want this one, on the left. All my stripes are painted straight. If you turn the other one next to it over, you’ll notice I errorred on the pattern and the lines aren’t as even. You don’t want that one.” The boy had a running commentary for each selection. “What of the storage vases? What pattern? Smooth finish? I think it better to smooth out the finish, even it takes more time, especially with different pieces of bark and leather to get the smoothest feel. Or if you had a coat of colored slip -that’s was I call the water clay mix I use as glue and coating. But I have to cook it twice. Mâhtan says I should do that for all my pieces, but he also likes the color of the regular pieces. This one I wrapped a rope around before firing it, so the indent of the cord spirals around. I didn’t have enough to do the whole vessel, only the bottom for a handspan. I was so angry with myself for misjudging the length I needed. I twisted the cord myself. That drinking cup over there I used the same rope-coil method. I didn’t invent that, of course. But I did add salt to the kiln as I fired it – that’s when we heat the vessel in the fire-pits so it turns hard. Like making charcoal. Nelyar use charcoal instead of just firewood?” Elwê recognized the question addressed to him in the midst of this rapid patter and chose to ignore the implied condescension. “See how it has that shiny texture? Almost like glass, and no water soaks into it, but I had to melt a lot of salt, and Sarnê only trades me enough for small pieces. That drinking vessel! You’ll want that one. I inscribed a pattern that looks like fish scales.” The boy held up the cup so Elwê could see the pattern in the firelight. “You have to take it. And what other designs do you like?” Though his parents gave no limitation on design, Elwê admitted that he personally preferred the green and blue pieces, as he had not seen so many pieces of that color. He told the potter that was amazing. The Tatyar boy smiled eagerly, pointing to the plates that closely matched. He began to describe the clay he used for each piece, and that he discovered that mixing various clay together meant less pieces breaking, though not everyone had believed him, that the other potters thought not staying pure to one source was folly until he prove it by tallying all their pieces and how many they had to discard because they cracked during firing, and Rúmilo had recorded the results. So now they were testing to see which combinations were best and how many color variations they could create, and he was in the lead. The boy grabbed one of the shallow dishes and began to indent a series of lines along the rim, describing the proportions of its construction and plotting out the color he would try to create.

“Wait, you are still here?” the Tatya boy paused in his tirade, staring at Elwê in open astonishment that unsettled the older young man.

“Yes,” Elwê answered, more than a little bemused.

“Nobody stays to listen to me when I go into detail,” the Tatya said. “They wander off or tell me to shut up.”

Elwê thought that sounded rude. Sure, the craftsman’s prattle was continuous and full of information that Elwê could not decipher, and it made no difference to him where the other had found the clay he was molding or how thin to make the coils or just what wood shavings were best to line the fire pit to bake the vessels. Well, the last part sounded vaguely interesting, that it was a mystery how the smoke would pattern the clay. And Elwê did notice how shiny the boy’s pottery was, and how the newest one which he was holding up for Elwê to inspect had a wave pattern of smooth and rough, which came from rubbing the clay when it was still leather-like and half-dry.

The boy gave a smile less steady than its predecessors, yet one more honest, as Elwê crouched down so he was no longer looming over the much shorter elf and smiled. “I like listening to you. My name is Elwê of the Lindar, named for the stars and my silver hair.”

“Phinwê,” replied the Tatyar boy. He laughed. “Our names are the same, named for hair.”

Elwê reached for the other boy’s hands and gripped them tight. “A sign that we were meant to be friends,” he said, finally identifying the hungry look in Phinwê’s eyes as loneliness.