#young bucks of cuiviénen

[squirrelwrangler]

Of the grave conference between Oromë and the first three elves: Imin, Tata, and Enel, little is known and details unspoken. Only Oromë’s words were recorded, his offer of the Valar’s own homeland to the elves, that the Children of Eru should relocate across the vast sea and be enriched by their protection and gifts, greatest of all the light of the Two Trees. The reluctance of the three chieftains is known and their reasoning easy to guess at. The shores of Cuiviénen, the Great Mother Lake, was all of the world that they knew, and Oromë’s words alone would not cleave them from the site of their birth. The war against Melkor to lay Utumno to its foundations fostered dread in all Powers that were not the familiar Hunter and his shining horse. Oromë anticipated their reluctance. “Let me choose three to bring with me to Valinor, one from each of your tribe, to see the truth of my words and return to you with their validity, as I myself tarried among you to learn your ways before I returned to my king and kin.”

It is said that Imin nodded first, and that Tata tapped his lips and agreed, and that Enel turned away to look at the waters behind them before he turned back to Oromë and said, “We know the three that you wish to take with you, the three boys that found you.”

“It is fitting,” said Tata, and Imin looked, it is said, to the stars above them as if seeing solace or sign.

“Those three I wish as the ambassadors,” Oromë said. “They were the first to speak to me and speak on behalf of all Speakers, to inform me of your woes brought upon you by Melkor, of your lives and joys and sorrows, your needs and dreams.”

“Who else but them?” murmured the first leaders of the elves.

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë of Cuiviéven, (9/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Look. yes. I know. hasn’t been a real update in years. Didn’t think it was four years. Pretend it’s only been one or two. Oh god please I’m sorry just pick it back up.

Some of the delay was because this wanted to be the short pre-Road Trip chapter and I worried that it won’t be enough without starting to include Oromë ferrying to boys to Valinor. Final scene of family angst means I could delay the Maiar fun times.

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 earth tremors ceased, and as the duration of their absence lengthened so grew the easing of the Kwendî’s tension and fear. Such mollification was not universal. Enel, chieftain of the Third Tribe, monitored the volume flow of the waterfall beside his village with lingering trepidation, for the quantity of water had diminished in the shakes, and the song of the waterfall had altered. Nervously he awoke and listened for its roar, irrationally fearful that if the cascading water was ever silent, then he that was The-Third-to-Awake would no longer wake. In those first seconds of life, opening his eyes to see the bright stars without knowing what he saw, only their beauty, Enel’s ears had not yet opened as his eyes had. But in the irrational yet deeply emotional center of his mind Enel thought that it was music, not starlight, that woke him. He could not prove this thought, but he believed that when the first drops of water poured into the lake the beautiful sound that was created was the cue that awoke the Kwendî. He wished not to hear of logic establishing that the waterfall flowed over the rocks beside his village in a time before he awoke, because to Enel all time before his existence was null. The song of water hitting the surface of the lake only started when his lungs took in breath, and the working of his lungs only persisted with that song. Waterfall and wakefulness were one and same to him that was The-Third-to-Awake.

Enelyë, his spouse, chastised her spouse for his paranoia, dragging him away from the stakes that he had driven into the muddy bank to measure the water depth and fret over each shift in the watermark and change in color. She told Enel that he saw nothing more than the progression of tides, ignoring the evidence of the receding shore. The Great Mother Lake was eternal. Enel must be wrong. The hammer blows of lightning had not dislodged the stars from the black sky. Thus it followed that none of the earth shakes had touched the water. The shells and beads of her netted cap rattled as she shook her head. Her hand on her spouse’s arm, tugging him from the riverbank, her own ankles sinking deeper into the mud, her voice pleading with Enel to return to their village and attend his duties as leader of the Third Tribe - all noise of Enelyë, all pointless. “Something eats my lake,” Enel muttered. “Something drains it. Enelyë, release me. I must see it. See the proof. You must see it, too. My waterfall.”

Daunted by the ineffectiveness of her efforts to erode the stubborn stone that was her spouse, Enelyë returned to their village and her cold pillow.

Enel stood at that waterfall when the Vala Oromë rode out of the northern shadows atop the luminous silver Nahar. A piercing horn blast heralded Oromë’s arrival, so Enel was not startled when the rider pulled out of the mist. He did not care. The call faded into the darkness beyond Enel’s torch lamp, and silence hung over their meeting. Enel’s wide umber eyes met those of the Vala, unconsciously begging for reassurance but wary of what new missive might upend his world. Before the unseen war to capture Melkor Enel would have treated the arrival of Oromë with glad hope, most eager of the first awoken three to celebrate the Vala’s arrival and aid, but now after the earth tremors and lightning-filled skies he was chary of the Rider’s gifts. His trust had receded with the shoreline. Enel did not yet directly blame Oromë for all the ills that would follow, cursing the Valar along with their apostate Melkor, as they who would name themselves the Penni did. Those were the words of the Unwilling and the first division of the Eldar, a time that had not yet come to pass.

Nahar’s footsteps slowed, the horse reluctant to approach the waterfall, as if he sensed the doubt and coldness of Enel’s thoughts. “I know of your fears,” Oromë called above the roar of the water and the mist that hung above its churning wake, “and I bring a proposal that shall soothe it.”

Oromë’s proposal irrefutably did not.

...

Of the grave conference between Oromë and the first three elves: Imin, Tata, and Enel, little is known and details unspoken. Only Oromë’s words were recorded, his offer of the Valar’s own homeland to the elves, that the Children of Eru should relocate across the vast sea and be enriched by their protection and gifts, greatest of all being the light of the Two Trees. The reluctance of the three chieftains is known and their reasoning easy to guess at. The shores of Cuiviénen, the Great Mother Lake, was all of the world that they knew, and Oromë’s words alone would not cleave them from the site of their birth. The war against Melkor to lay Utumno to its foundations had fostered dread in all Powers that were not the familiar Hunter and his shining horse. Oromë anticipated their reluctance. “Let me choose three to bring with me to Valinor, one from each of your tribe, to see the truth of my words and return to you with their validity, as I myself tarried among you to learn your ways before I returned to my king and kin.”

It is said that Imin nodded first, and that Tata tapped his lips and agreed, and that Enel turned away to look at the waters behind them before he turned back to Oromë and said, “We know the three that you wish to take with you, the three boys that found you.”

“It is fitting,” said Tata, and Imin looked, it is said, to the stars above them as if seeing solace or sign.

“Those three I wish as the ambassadors,” Oromë replied. “They were the first to speak to me and speak on behalf of all Speakers, to inform me of your woes brought upon you by Melkor, of your lives and joys and sorrows, your needs and dreams. Let them speak again in the Maharaxë before the full council of my peers and let them see and hear of what we offer up to the Children of Our Father. They are the three that I choose.”

“Who else but them?” murmured the first leaders of the elves.

...

After their discussion with Oromë, each of the three elves mounted a horse and rode towards a village, leaving in one direction whereas they had rode in from three. To the village that Rúmil founded did Tata ride, and Finwë greeted the news of his task with loquacious delight. Praise flowed like a torrent from his lips, and Tata applauded himself for his wisdom. This orphan boy with his mountain of words and ingratiating attitude was the perfect choice to send to Valinor and bring back accountings of its land. Rúmil and the other Unbegotten adults of their village watched as clever Finwë charmed Chief Tata, nervous that the clever lad would tip the scales into an unctuousness of obvious falsity or his clever tongue edge into an offense. The villagers piled gifts onto their chieftain: beautiful items of metal and ceramic and salt. With loaded bags to weigh down his horse, Tata rode home, head full of new words and Finwë’s eager promises.

Further west at the village at the river’s mouth Enel beheld tall Elwë appoint his brothers as stewards to watch over their people, officially bequeathing their parents’ hut to Elmo. “I know we promised a telu celebration to build you and Linkwînen a new house in which to welcome your firstborn child, but if I am to leave to this land of the Balî, there is no time, and our parents’ house has space,” Elwë said as he clasped his youngest brother’s shoulder.

“I will help,” Olwë added with laughter in his voice to mask his fear. “And sleep in the house of Nôwê when the infant’s cries drive me to tears.” Olwë smiled at his brother, and Elwë rolled his eyes and pointed his knowing gaze to Nôwê’s comely sister. The teasing interplay between the three brothers amused Enel. The-Third-to-Awake regretted that his own son had no siblings, thinking that Nurwë would be strengthened by the support of a brother or sister. The shift in Enel’s mood -and the return of her husband’s attention to her- pleased Enelyë. Of this thought’s naivety one should not be quick to judge, for the third generation of Kwendî were yet unborn and dynastic struggles between siblings and cousins likewise nascent. And the sorrows that this began among the Nelyar Avari, grave as they were, paled to those of other tribes.

Only to his own village did Imin return, the sprawling singular Minyar home ringed by a mighty palisade and pasture pens full of horses and sheep. His son, Inkundû, was not at the gates to greet him and turn the horse loose in a pasture. His son’s absence neither surprised nor consciously aggrieved Imin, and Inkundû was found, as expected, in the cleared circle of the dueling ring, wrestling with Asmalô over leadership of the next hunt. A minor squabble, the bout lasted only to the first ground pin, and Imin watched his firstborn win the match. Inkundû failed to notice his father’s observation, preoccupied with crowing victory as Asmalô rolled his eyes and grumbled a final time about herds moving away from depleted grazing fields. Nor did the chieftain stay to congratulate his son. The dueling ring was a sour reminder of the one that never partook in the rituals. Imin asked if the young man that would be Ingwë was inside the palisade or once more roaming the darkness far from his people. “Skarwô-iondo, where is he?”

Feinting an ignorance of the peevish tone of Imin’s question, Elnaira bowed to her chieftain and answered, “Inside, as he has been since before the Nelya messenger came for you.” Imin turned to the approaching Iminyë and sighed in relief as his wife looped her arms through his and led him deep into the village. He poured his concerns over the meeting into her waiting ear.

“The scarred ones’ son is with Elnaira’s spouse, dutifully helping him butcher and dress meat. I decreed that we roast a sheep to celebrate your return. And if Great Arâmê graces us, a lamb we shall roast.” Iminyë smiled as she walked her husband to the large campfire prepared with grilling racks and beyond to where several elves knelt over animal carcasses with various stone knives. Two elves who were butchering a young sheep carcass, carefully separating the ribs into beautiful racks, lifted their heads at Imin and Iminyë’s approach, but it was the third elf still focused on the least-desirable offal that Imin wanted. “Skarnâ-Maktê’s son, attend us.”

Ingwë raised his head. 

“Great Arâmê made a request for you and your friends. End this task and hear what you have been commanded to do,” spake Iminyë.

With blood-dried fingertips the young man answered Iminyë, “If the Great Hunter calls for me, I obey.”

Imin’s eyes narrowed. There was an insult buried in those words that he could not see, but Iminyë smiled. Imin trusted his spouse. Her judgment was his.

Judgment was not foresight.

Imin and Iminyë believed that there would be no danger to himself or his position as the chieftain paramount of all Kwendî in sending this boy to the abode of the Valar.

One person who slept in the finest house in the Minyar village was still doubtful. Inkundû returned from a disappointing hunt to learn the specifics of his father’s meeting with Oromë and the other two chieftains. He sulked through the feast repurposed into a farewell gift for the chosen ambassador. Imin’s son listened with growing alarm as his mother, already appraised of the details, saw no need to listen to a tale repeated and commentary made upon it, more concerned with the final food preparation. Iminyë’s displeasure with her son’s recent failures was subtle, but of its two most recent causes which had more weight was unclear: that his judgment on the hunting trip resulted in little quarry to show for the expenditures or that Inkundû had not been ready to greet his father at the village gate. Inkundû regularly disappointed Iminyë. This Imin knew and accepted, as he knew and accepted Inkundû’s jealous and untrusting moods. To his father alone did Imin’s son make his displeasure known.

“If to be sent as scouts to the homeland of the Powers is a task of great trust and honor, then why do we send Ûkwendô? Father, why not me?” Inkundû petulantly asked.

Imin framed the choice as one that the three leaders had come to independently of Oromë, and perhaps in Imin’s mind he had refashioned the decision as a debate that he had won, such that was his pride. Inkundû would have still protested Oromë’s decision had he known the truth of who made it. He would have argued that Imin should counter Oromë’s decree, as Imin had once done to a poor decision of Tata’s or his reprimands to Enel about the various Nelyar that ran free, like wandering Denweg or Awaskjapatô who lived out on rafts on the lake. Imin’s role was to rule over all elves, even fellow chieftains, and curtail their blunders.

Again the twinge of dissatisfaction with his first-born child bobbed to the surface of Imin’s thoughts before sinking once more, like one of the giant salamanders that swam in the lake.

“Ûkwendô can be spared, and if mortal doom befalls him, our tribe is not greatly harmed by his loss.” Disposable, like the Noldo orphan, the chieftain did not say aloud. Or that the third one, the Nelyar young chieftain, had two capable brothers as suitable replacements. Great Imin frowned. “I have decided that the scarred ones’ child has proven himself useful and able to fulfill responsibilities to his tribe that he has neglected. This is my test of the gift of my trust, as it is also a test of the Powers and if Their promises can be believed or honored.”

“And what if the Powers speak the truth of how wondrous their Paradise is? Do we believe then that Ûkwendô will return to us?”

Imin turned to stare across the village to where Maktâmê struggled to adjust the infant daughter strapped across her chest, shifting Indis’s head so that the small infant could nurse with ease. “He will return for his sister, even if the sullen boy has no sense of duty towards his tribe.” Inkundû scoffed at this evaluation of Ingwë’s motivation, how unbalanced the scales were if the home of the gods was half as glorious as promised. His younger sister, Ravennë, watched her father and older brother in keen, frownful silence.

...

With a leather satchel packed tightly with freshly smoked mutton, Ingwë waved a greeting to his two best friends outside the palisade of the Minyar village. To the west, under the dark shadows of the encroaching trees, Nahar shone brilliantly white. Oromë waited.

The travel kits of Elwë and Finwë were many parts: reed woven mats slung as rolled knapsacks across the hip, heavy bags full of tools, blankets, and food, belts hanging with more items like the fine pouches for flint and dried moss to quickly tinder a fire, and in their finest clothing. Everything spoke of their villages’ collective efforts to outfit these favored sons with the wherewithal to face every imagined possible disaster and a hope to impress the Valar. Finwë in particular carried the illusion that he had half his weight in borrowed beads and copper jewelry. Elwë’s hat shimmered with the iridescence of bird feathers, and this was not the only garment of his that played opalescent in the village light.

The Minyar dressed not their Ûkwendô in fancy garments. As a hunting party scout, he was given dried food and a filled water skin to carry him on the long trek. The only addition to his normal appearance was a line of ritual paint across his heart and outlining his jaw.

Before he joined his friends, Ingwë turned back around. His mother, standing a few feet away from the others at the gate, knew that her son would need this final farewell. Dried paint flaked off of her one good hand as she raised it for a gesture to beckon him towards the patiently waiting Oromë.

Strong hands caught those fingers and lowered them.

Stuttering, aware of the eyes of the First Tribe upon them, Maktâmê repeated the instructions that she had given her son before the feast started and Imin had dropped his world-shattering proclamation.

Ingwë gripped his mother’s shoulders and pulled her close to him, foreheads touching as he pleaded for the final time. “If I don’t return- if you cannot stay, Mother, if you cannot stay in the village,” and the young man could not articulate which dire outcome he feared as more likely, that his tribe force his family out by a formalized banishment or merely through the absence of communal aid or via the internal grief of his absence driving his mother to despair, “then you go to Rûmilo. You go to the Tatyar. The journey is quick. Is safe. You take the goods that I left for you, the knives, you trade. Phinwê left some pottery in your name. They will help, the Tatyar. And if you cannot settle in their village, go only as far as the river. The next village is Elwê’s. It is the closest. The braided river to the shore, the lights are easy to find, reflecting off the water. His brothers lead their village. Kind boys. Promise me, Mother. You take Indis to them. Do not stay in this place.” Years of negligence and cruelty from his people forced Ingwë’s whispered words in a cornered snake’s desperate hiss. “Go to them. Elmo’s spouse is gravid; soon their first child will be born. A new mother will welcome you and Indis. Someone to help nurse, if nothing else. They have food to share, a place at their fire. Please, promise me.”

Crying, Maktâmê kissed her son’s brow. “Stop. This fear, do not carry it with you to the land of the gods. We shall be safe, your sister and I. We are provided for. Go with hope, my son. With joy and excitement. Explore this new land that they have promised with the same wonder that filled your father and I when we first stepped away from the lake-shore. The beautiful light when we first saw the stars.” Her voice shook. “When Imin lit fire and gave us all warmth and light. The Powers promise greater than that. Go. See if it is true.” A thumb smoothed away the deep creases of his brow. The dried paint did not leave a mark. “Look forward, as a brave scout of our people. As Alakô’s son, fleet-footed light and sure, Star-beacon. A torch is for the unknown path before us. So look forward.”

Ingwë closed his eyes and willed his heart to steady and slow its rhythm. “I promise.”

[squirrelwrangler]

(rewritten once more, for @kazaera, my overall Avari and other group interrelational thoughts and how everything ties back to Cuiviénen):

We have to start with Imin, Tata, and Enel, their temperaments, and the limiting logistics of their initial starting groups. Now 14 people is NOT anywhere close to the seed population to start a people, but I will keep, as we are in a fantasy universe, the whole Cuiviénen as a creation concept for a people and ignore anthropological realities. But the Minyar under Imin are still a small group, under or around fifty at most. The Tatyar (56 to 14) are thus larger, and Nelyar (74) follow that same proportional expansion. Now by the time that Oromë is discovered, the Quendi are starting on their third generation and have established some rudimentary societies. They are hunter-gathers, but even a hunter-gather society will have stationary settlements that they stay in for full seasons (and even stone buildings and what we would think of as cities, but that’s another convo.) Imin’s Minyar are still at a population level that they can all gather into one village- and that plus Imin’s extremely forceful and commanding personality means that there is no Minyar splinter group. Had there been several more generations, the growth would have eventually demanded it, or the herds depleted and these hunters forced to leave Cuiviénen, but we weren’t at that point yet. Ingwë’s status was too tied into his status of ill omen and his unwillingness to work against his pariah status within his tribe to gather a group to break away from Imin.

Now Ravennë does ponder what might have happened had Imin died before Oromë was found or before Ingwë came back from that first trip from Valinor to have The Duel. She would have quarreled with her brother Inkundu over who would lead the tribe, and she wonders if then she would have chosen Ingwë as a spouse, thinking him the least threat to her power and most biddable as a child-provider, or if pressed to fight Inkundu she would have overlooked Ingwë’s hidden cunning and strength and chosen another. Before The Duel Ingwë didn’t really have a number of Minyar allying with him- Asmalo at most.

Now the Tatyar are different. Tata wants to be the style of leader that Imin is, but even from the beginning there are too many of the Second Tribe to support in a single location. And the Tatyar aren’t producing great quantities of food on massive hunts like the Minyar. As the budding artisans and crafters, they are not working in large group efforts like the Minyar but on their own or teacher to student. Almost immediately this resource pressure and individual outlook is going to cause issues and divisions. The dissidents to Tata’s knowledge and choices will band with the cleverest of this “rebel” faction (not that they are truly rebels, yet, in this dawn of elves) beside Rúmilo. Rúmilo isn’t really their Chieftain- they haven’t gone that far and they aren’t structured into a hierarchy yet, but for intents we’ll treat them as Rúmilo’s tribe. It’s only a little smaller than half the Tatyar total. Rúmil’s tribe wants to get as far away from Tata’s village as possible to create their own. At the moment, Imin is on the western side of the Lake, and Tata is northeast and Enel to the southeast. Finwë, the orphan clever darling of Rúmilo’s western Tatyar, will become the King of this faction and they will pretty much, to a man, become the Noldor. Now these Noldor are the more questioning and adventurous ones and because they place themselves close to Imin’s Minyar village and the nearby Nelyar village of Estiri, they are in contact and sharing ideas with both of the other Quendi groups. This makes them less insular and receptive to Oromë and the idea of leaving Cuiviénen.

Now Enel’s tribe is vastly larger than his fellow chieftains- and he found many of them already exploring the waterfall, so they have an autonomous streak, and Enel isn’t the control freak of his two fellows (at least when it comes to people). The Nelyar splinter into dozens of loose family/friend groups immediately, all around the lake and fully migratory through the forest and rafthouses out on the Lake itself. Most are barely fifteen people max. Because they are decentralized, they don’t escalate their divisions as much even if they don’t unify their proto-culture. Estiri is the village between the Minyar and Noldor, and because it is between the two, it benefits from their goods and exchange of ideas and friendships. It, quiet naturally, develops into the most prestigious Nelyar group, cosmopolitan and wealthy. Elwë inherits this burgeoning cultural status (and why Ravennë lets slip in Chapter 8 that Enel wanted to install his son, Nurwë, as leader of Estiri instead of Elwë to curtail what he rightfully predicts will become the rival to overshadow him). Elwë post-Valinor trip will go among all the Nelyar groups to pitch his plan, and his status as Estiri-chief is an element to his success. Elwë will semi-convince groups from all the types of Nelyar, but he doesn’t have the entrenched division like there is growing between the Tatyar and Noldor that is becoming group identity to cement one side to him and repel the other. Instead his is that mixed coalition, and that’s also why some groups peel off during the Great Journey to become Silvan or the largest group coaleases behind Dan to become the Laegrim throughout the stops in the valley of Anduin and later Eraidor. But that also means that there are Nelyar groups that Elwë didn’t fully convince before he left Cuiviénen who do eventually decide was right, and those groups of technically Avari leave and join up with the Silvan, Laegrim, or a few rare ones all the way to Beleriand itself. Now the ones that are still ‘Avari’ when they make it across three mountain ranges into Beleriand have done so without joining up with any elven (or otherwise) group previously come across. Which means they will continue to hide out of the notice of anyone- or if they join, it won’t be with the people that they already know most recently and have rejected aka the Laegrim. They will pick complete strangers or decide to appeal further up the chain-of-command and inspiration. Depending on how late in the First Age this is, that means our few Nalyar Avari stranglers are either joining the Fëanorian outlaws - or if earlier and smarter, they go to Doriath itself. Hidden cave but with added wealth and prosperity and divinity via Melian, Menegroth suits them more, and the Sindarin policy is you are Sindar and not Morben once you decide to pick their side in the fight against Morgoth. These Sindar are counted as full Sindar (just not Eglath with that history of the betrayal on the beach), and a causal outsider has not a clue.

Again in Beleriand the Sindar decentralized until war forced them otherwise. Círdan’s ocean-loving but strongly Elu-loyal (else they would have gone with Olwë but because they chose not, the Falathrim ironically are going to be some of the staunchest pro-Elu) faction have multiple settlements, and there’s probably a Eglarest versus Brithombar rivalry. Another group in Nevrast, one in Hithlum, a large group between the Falathrim and Doriath, some of the most nomadic out on the plains and far east into Maglor’s Gap. The Northern Sindar (Mithrim) are a diverse group and nominally under Eredhon, but split into his two sons, Laewlas and Ereglas. During the first Morgoth’s monsters attacks of fell wolves and shit that kills Elmo, some of these groups combine or dissolve or go to Menegroth. In the First Battle of Beleriand they are hit hardest. Laewlas dies. Eredhon is turned by Morgoth and when he makes it to Menegroth with his refugees, he assassinates his sister Linkwinen and tries to kill his nephews and king. Laewlas has a son, Finnelach, who was supposed to be heir for Hithlum that also died. Laewlas’s daughter, Meril, survived the First Battle by fleeing to safety and stuck under siege in Eglarest with Círdan. She, by the way, was to build up a following to expand out in the Gap of Maglor, but the population is gone and the Noldor have taken over her lands and that of her family. She focuses on Hithlum, gathering the Mithrim survivors that hid in the caves or were with her in the Falas or decide that they can’t stay in Doriath. (Annael was just a herdsman but he led the hiding in caves group and thus emerged post-First Battle as a Mithrim leader. Eventually he is last guy standing for them). As a calculated move, Meril befriends and marries Fingon, seeing the only real chance to preserve/restore her people’s autonomy and her lordship. She thinks she can control Fingon. Fingon’s problem is that he will rebel against his aunt’s control and resent his wife and in seeking to become his own king will plunge into the Union of Maedhros, cementing the impression of him as just a puppet of another.

This is also where some of the Tatyar Avari come in. First we backtrack to Cuiviénen just after the Great Journey. The Valarin War against Morgoth that created mountain ranges is also going to dry up the Great Lake, thus part of the Three Prophets’ motivation for trying to convince the Quendi to leave it. It’s not an instant event, but the drying of the Lake is noticeable. Resources grow scarce. Tata tries to strengthen his grip on his people, resenting the Rúmilon-Finwion betrayers. The remaining Tatyar are the less intellectually adventurous and partisanly Tata, but there will be those that turn on Tata and his family. Morwë is the figure that we shall name the leader that tries -unsuccessfully, mind you- to oust Tata and Tatie. Tata crushes this rebellion, but a portion of the followers of Morwë flee. They style themselves followers of the unjustly martyred Morwë. This is the group that makes it eventually to Beleriand and up to Hithlum. Less than fifty years or so before Morgoth returns to Middle-earth, oops. They have no goodwill ties to the various Nelyar groups and thus avoided the Mithrim, and they decide to reveal themselves first to the newly arrived Noldor because of ancient ties. But this is Fëanor and Celegorm and the Morwian Tatyar are repulsed by these arrogant assholes. (It’s fucking Tata all over again, they hiss.) Sighing, they decide to turn back and give these Mithrim a chance. Annael has a heart-attack. Meril has a second headache to compound her first, but sure, the Morwians are hers too now.

Bao, the Tatyar father of Eöl, is just a rando that joins the Great Journey/the son of a random Tatyar that did so and thought that Elmo’s second daughter, Egnith, is the raddest person to exist, whatever she does or goes, he does.

Back to the dynastic entanglements of the Sindar. Elu married Melian and had Lúthien, of course. Olwë and Elmo married fellow Estiri women of their second generation. Hwindië is Nowë aka Círdan’s sister. Elmo married Linkwinen, Eredhon’s sister. Elmo has three children: Ilsë, Egnith, and Galadhon. Ilsë goes with Olwë, along with a large chunk of the Telerin Eldar. Of the raft-builder subset that chose to follow Elwë, a large portion goes with Olwë; the ones that stay are Falathrim. Again, Teleri, so the divisions aren’t neat. Egnith (and Bao) die before Elwë and Melian are discovered- not before they produce Eöl but his role is small. Eredhon’s family we have established. Ereglas stays with Elu and doesn’t blame him for his father’s death, and his daughter Eregiel marries Orodreth. His Sindarin followers make the bulk of the non-Noldor half of Finrod’s kingdom (and Orodreth, Angrod, and Aegnor). Some of his people are stuck under the Fëanorian kingdoms, same with some of the people of Laewlas. These are Sindar like Consael’s family. (Consael also has that Avarin grandma).

When Denethor leads his people out of Eriador to the safety of Beleriand, these Laegrim are leaving behind other Silvan groups that did not choose to follow Denethor. The rivalries will be local in scale, but the Second Age will have some issues. Canon confirms that the reunion of Elu and Denethor was joyous. Now Linkwinen will play matchmaker to hook up her son, Galadhon, with Denethor’s sister or daughter, Danaril. It’s a sickeningly cute love match. Slow-mo romantic music between them whenever they stare at each other. Elu makes a snarky remark about it and the sheer irony of HIM saying that makes the entire court choke. Galathil and Celeborn are born. They aren’t Denethor’s heirs, as theirs is a distaff line and Denethor has plenty of sons. One of those sons is being prompted as the only appropriately princely husband for Lúthien. Amon Ereb happens.

Now the Laegrim have split. They have no Laegrim king anymore and won’t accept one nominated. Half do decide to stay in Menegroth and plead direct loyalty to Thingol, but are still treated as Laegrim instead of completely assimilated and absorbed into the Iathrim. Some do go fully into underground caves, some stick to the trees inside the Girdle. It’s not homogeneous. And while the Iathrim have been a city-dwelling civilization for centuries now, they didn’t start as that and they are all Telerin. Example: Nellas. Saeros is as a royal advisor a spokesperson and advocate, but not great and ends poorly. To take over is an Iathrim Sinda, Oropher, who is genuinely advocating on behalf of the Doriathian Laegrim. The Laegrim that completely reject kings and living underground and fighting against Morgoth retire to Ossiriand. Galathil, who has married Oropher’s sister, eventually moves from Doriath to live among the Ossiriandic Laegrim as outreach. He makes some headway as Danaril’s son. Nimloth is born there. Oropher, politically ambitious on behalf of the Laegrim, is over the moon with joy with Lúthien and Beren decide to live in Ossiriand and even more ecstatic when Dior is best friends and later marries Nimloth. He sees before him the chief advisor role, uncle of the Queen, when Dior arrives, he will help usher in the Second Golden Age. Oropher is a little peeved at how mortal Dior is and how his Green Elf influence and expectations are molded by the anarcho-tree-roaming Ossiriandic Laegrim then Second Kinslaying happens and Dior and Nimloth are killed and Galathil killed trying to sprint his grandsons to safety. Oropher’s intra-Lindarin squabbling is second fiddle to anti-Noldor rage now.

Elwing, despite all, ends up most like a Falathrim version of the Sindar, or like her distant relative Meril juggling all her factions of subjects trying to save them in hopelessness, or most like her great-grandmother Melian.

Back with the purely Avari: Cuiviénen dries up completely. This time the civil war that wracks the Tatyar destroys the city and splinter groups scatter. Of the Nelyar decentralized groups- the wood groups left to join the Silvan long ago. The raft-builders, under pressure, attack others, both Nelyar and Tatyar, or flee. Nurwë, son of Enel, leads his own exodus south and east. Perhaps this is that first group to encounter the mortal men.

[squirrelwrangler]

Imin

Re-embodiment for the elves is not something that can be forced on an unwilling and unready soul. Imin was one of the first souls to find himself in the care of Mandos, but not one of the early ones to leave Mandos’s Halls for the hands of his brother and sister-in-law. Patient and implacable, Mandos worked with Imin to convince the soul to seek re-embodiment.

First was the trauma of death itself, the violence and shock that clung to the memories.The unsettling change of being bereft of a body and the paradox that only becoming accustomed and accepting of this new state could one then being the healing process of choosing to reject it for the re-entry into a physical existence. The shock of the Halls of Awaiting, to no longer be in Cuiviénen, that took time for Imin to learn and overcome.

Fear of yet another drastic change kept most souls in Mandos.

Then emotional attachment to his past decisions and attitudes. Proud Imin, knowing that Ingwë had bested him in that final fateful moment of their duel, did not cling to self-delusional ego like other leaders that would join him in these halls. Malignant narcissist he was not - or at least seeing the example of one far more serve and destructive in their paranoia and grasping ego, his soul had incentive to reject such ugly behavior and strive for humility and healing. Ironically this was the block that prevented his re-embodiment. “Ingwë is High King of our people and does a wonderful job. He dies not need my disruption, my return to challenge him and cause ripples on the beautiful calmness of his rule.”

“Is thou self tied so closely to kingship that it must dictate your fate?” Námo asked, and this unsettled Imin. Arrogance still clung to his soul. Nobly he could proclaim to reject the desire for power as some ascetic triumph, but underlying it was that entitlement, that he was graciously ceding the leadership and loyalty of his people to another. Did he mean his words or was this a sop to his ego?

Námo sighed. Now there was another fear to work through to help Imin towards the healing and freedom to re-embodiment.

[squirrelwrangler]

One of my favorite passages from ‘OII’ - Oromë’s Hunt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë of Cuiviénen, (8/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

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.”

[squirrelwrangler]

Of Ingwë update - yes the long promised chapter isn’t done yet. It’s five sections, of which some of them have been finished or nearly finished for over half a year. But I can say today I finished the other Finwë part, so I only have Ingwë’s middle section to write. (It goes Elwë, Finwë , Ingwë, Elwë, Finwë).

[squirrelwrangler]

most recent wip-

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.

[squirrelwrangler]

On today’s “Author is Overthinking Of Ingwe’s Cuivienen World Building Connudrums” - copper smithing scenes are hard to write when trying to describe the very first methods - and having to decide that you really can’t justify the use of the Lost Wax method because that needs beeswax and if there shouldn’t be any flowers for any bees (yes, have fudged and handwaved that canon fact but bees are too blatant) so does animal fats or something else work as an alternative... thank you British documentaries for showing prehistoric gold jewelry and methods so I can fake some good details.

[squirrelwrangler]

Chapters: 7/? Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Ingwë, Imin, Iminyë, Indis, Finwë, Elu Thingol, Olwë, Elmo the Elf, Oromë, Nahar, Nowë (Círdan), Original Characters, Beleg Cúthalion Additional Tags: Cuiviénen fic, Prehistoric Elves, Vanyar aren't Boring, Klingon Promotion Vanyar, Ingwë Finwë and Elwë are not related to Imin Tata and Enel, Fun with Archaeology and Anthropology, Family, Violence, Minor Character Death, societal ostracism of the disabled, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Valar as Paleolithic Monsters, String Theory joke, everything is Tilion's fault, "the fascinating semi-scientific mythology of the 'Prehistoric’", cameo from Draugluin, Hunters & Hunting, In-depth Descriptions of (Fantasy) Domestication of Animals, Valar - Freeform Series: Part 1 of Vanyar, Part 11 of king of beech and oak and elm Summary:

Of the history of the Elves at Cuiviénen and the development of the the three tribes, of the family of Elwë and the discovery of Oromë, of how Indis received her name and Ingwë earned his, and of the honor duel between Imin and Ingwë to decide the leadership of the Minyar and the future of the Eldar.

[squirrelwrangler]

Unfinished ’Of Ingwë’ Chapter

This is something like 91% of the next chapter of Of Ingwë Ingweron. Chapter Seven hopefully will be finished in the next few days and posted to AO3, at which point I’ll remove this post. As I feared, I had to split the chapter into two. Chapter Eight, therefore, is going to be short and more a collection of vignettes. Which I like the idea of anyway. (The dog domestication with tiny Huan and Thingol scene, the Finwë meets Uinen, Elu the protective big brother scene) 

But here’s Of The Great Hunt. Probably good idea if you’ve read the short stories ‘Erikwa’ and ‘Making Friends’. Feedback appreciated:

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lasrondo watched in disappointment.

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

...

The hunting plains of the Minyar had only starlight to illuminate its features and no large body of water to reflect back the light. In this star-dark only the keen elven sight could distinguish the individual herds that grazed among the ferns and grasses. Bereft of the shielding trees, the wind was free to press against their faces and sing loud against their ears. Such a place frightened the other Kwendî, but to the Minyar this place was more home than the shores of Cuiviénen. Here there were no false star reflections in the water, no distant roar of the waterfall or the constant lapping of tiny waves. Here the only fire was what they brought with them. This was the job of those without the greatest skill in aiming and throwing spears or possessing exceptional speed or stamina. They were the fire bearers, and in Valinor they would become the core of the devotees to Varda, but during the Great Hunt, these young men and women unrolled the long leather rolls to pull out bundles of fat-soaked reeds, dried moss, and their precious flint stones. Carefully they lit the tallow sticks and held these rudimentary candles aloft, freehands cupped to shield the pinpricks of light from the wind. Tallow reed lights held aloft, the hunters inspected the lashings of their spears one last time, gazed analytically out onto the grasslands for the locations and relative positions of landmarks and animals, and waited for their chieftain.

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

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

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

{add}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With perfect balance Oromë rode astride the galloping Nahar as the titanic horse quickly crested the hill and pivoted on his hind legs, shining silver hooves raised as if to strike. Oromë pulled another arrow into existence from a quiver of song and released it into the darkness. A split of air, a scream of pain, and the Lord of the Hunt smiled to see another servant of Melkor vanquished.

{add}

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

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

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

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

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

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

{add}

* Primitive Elvish = sheep

[squirrelwrangler]

For @crocordile, the piece of the next chapter of “Of Ingwë Ingweron” I mentioned. Off-screen war to capture Melkor, here is Uinen’s cameo. Finwë won the honor.

...

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 tree. Long green and brown hair flowed from her head into the waves of the salt lake, partly shrouding her like a fine cloak. 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,” she answered, 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,” said 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.”

[squirrelwrangler]

“semi-scientific mythology of the 'Prehistoric’”

Thank you, Professor Tolkien. I have the perfect tag to describe my Cuiviénen Fics now

[squirrelwrangler]

option 2) anything with any of the three brothers princely :')

Okay this doesn’t count as ABSOLUTELY NO ANGST, but the fic that will happen that does have young Elwë, Olwë, and Elmo hanging out with the other young elves and getting drunk and finishing the roof of a building has to wait a few days until I finish the next chapter of “Of Ingwë Ingweron”. But! here’s the scene from said WIP of that chapter (it’s right before the Finwë & Uinen scene):

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 terrible battles 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 into adulthood he was still much larger than either Olwë or Elmo. Sitting with his back against the wall of the hut, 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. 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.”

Look! cuddling! that counts, right?

[squirrelwrangler]

Looking at this, I think I’m still okay in not having to split the next chapter of Of Ingwe. (Every single chapter more or less except the third one has been divided or cut off early because it was too long for what I planned. That’s also why this particular fic is objectively a pacing nightmare.) The proto-domesticated wolf pack is definitely trying to steal the entire chapter. I need more documentaries and film clips of spear and persistence hunting to watch to expand the details for the opening scenes. But I am hitting that fast-foreword button to zoom through the War against Utumno. All this Valar-elf interaction stuff ironically was not what I planned to write

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë of Cuiviénen, (6/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

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.