Ambassador by Kaz

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Chapter 1

Because my brain insists on taking linguistic accuracy to new and absurd heights, this fic uses Primitive Elvish names (thankfully, for the most part, not too different from the ones people are more used to) along with Valarin for the Valar. A glossary is provided at the end. These aren't canon, they're just my best attempts at creating PE names that could have become the ones we're familiar with later. If anyone who knows more about PE->Quenya development wants to correct me on any of them, please feel free.

Content note: There is mention of/hinting at Indis/Míriel, but not enough (Míriel never actually appears) that I'd categorise this story as femslash.

"Finwê says you're going with them."

Ingwê looks up from his mending, startled, to see his sister glaring at him. He hadn't expected her to be back from her hunt for a few hours yet. The game must be plentiful because here she is, the hunter's marks painted on her face joined by the splotch of drying blood on her forehead that signifies success... and apparently she's had time to stop by the Tatjaî as well.

"Visiting Mîriseldê, were you?" he asks, nodding at the new cloak slung over her shoulders. It's a vivid shade of blue Ingwê has seen on a few of the Tatjaî recently. Mîriseldê had mentioned she was planning to experiment with a new type of dye when he'd last spoken to her; Ingwê guesses this is the result.

Ndissê blushes. "You know Tatjaî and how they get distracted with their new inventions. Mîriseldê's been so busy with her dyes and that new type of loom she says will let her weave wider cloth - someone has to make sure she eats!"

"Oh, really?" Ingwê, sensing weakness, puts on his most skeptical look. "Are you sure there was no other reason? Because I think your hunting-paint is smudged around your lips..."

"We only- I-" Ndissê splutters for a few more moments, then takes a deep breath. "Stop changing the subject! Are you going with Finwê or not?"

Ingwê sighs. He should've known Ndissê wouldn't be so easily distracted. "I am."

For a moment, Ndissê just looks at him, saying nothing.

Then she punches him in the arm.

"Ow!" Ingwê thinks he can already feel the bruise forming. "Dear sister, I would be ever so much happier if you remembered your strength-"

"You're going with them? You don't even believe Arômêz is telling the truth!"

Ingwê sighs, sore arm forgotten. "No, I don't."

It's something he's been quiet about - he's not certain, and his fellow Kwendî are too much in awe of him these days, too quick to agree with him without thinking things through on their own. Ingwê, who knows there are far wiser and more cunning among their people than him, finds himself uncomfortable with the weight his opinions are given and ventures them less and less. All the same, he supposes it shouldn't be a surprise that Ndissê noticed. She is the one who knows him best, after all.

"It's..." Ingwê pokes at the torn seam he had been mending when Ndissê interrupted him, then puts tunic and needle down. He will need all his concentration for the upcoming conversation. "So many seem convinced he cannot be the Rider because some of our people have been alone with him away from camp without vanishing, and because he found Elmoyô when we feared he was taken. But I... I've long suspected that the Rider is intelligent. Certainly enough so to infiltrate us, letting the immediate opportunity pass him by in favour of being able to lure many of us into a trap later. And Elmoyô... how did Arômêz even find him? One possibility comes to mind. It would be easy to find him if Arômêz was the one who took him in the first place."

"You speak sense, brother. For once," Ndissê says, shaking her head as if in memory of countless brotherly foibles (Ingwê thinks, a little indignantly, that there have not been that many). "Of course, the question remains - if this is what you think, why, by all the stars, are you going with him? Have you been drinking that foul liquid Morwego insists on making?"

"No, no, I value my wits - never to mention my sense of taste - more than that!" Ingwê laughs. But the scowl on her face makes it clear that Ndissê will not be put off without a full and complete answer, so he sobers and continues. "There are two reasons. The first..."

He readies himself to dodge. Ndissê is not going to like this, and Ingwê really feels one bruise is enough.

"Arômêz has spent enough time among us that he knows how... important... people consider me." Ingwê can feel his cheeks heating up; it's undeniably true, yet saying it out loud seems so arrogant. "And I haven't left camp alone since he first found us, have always been careful not to risk being taken. It's my hope that if this is some cunning trap of the Rider's, dangling myself as bait will make him spring it early. I'd rather I be lost than half our people, or whatever he may be planning for."

There is a long moment of silence as Ndissê digests this.

"Brother," she says finally, a dangerous light in her eyes. "Fair warning. If your second reason isn't better than your first, I am going to knock you out and tie you to a tree until you come to your senses."

Well, that's better than Ingwê had thought she would take it.

And as for the second reason...

"Fifty-two." The word escapes him.

Ndissê blinks at him. "Fifty-two what?"

"Fifty-two people. How many we've lost to the Rider in all. Starting with Eredê, who always travelled the furthest on his hunts and one day never returned. Then poor little Kukûwâ, straying too far from our camp when she played. And..."

Ingwê grows silent, but the litany of names continues in his mind. Berittâ, who had been the second person he had found after Ndissê, the only one of the Kwendî who shared Ingwê's odd yellow eyes - who'd scoffed at the whispers of some terror stalking the darkness and refused to take a companion when she explored. Khiswego, who had gone barely beyond the light of the fires to pick berries; when they heard his scream they immediately ran to help, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. Giljânî, Tamrô...

Ingwê remembers them all, sometimes dreams of them at night. Why did you not save us? they cry. We believed you, we trusted in you, but when we were taken you did not come for us. (I tried! he wants to shout back, I tried! I looked and looked, I searched for you until I could no longer see the stars for weariness and Ndissê had to carry me back to camp, I could not find you! but he stares into fifty-two pairs of accusing eyes and finds his voice gone.)

"Sjalotto, Asmalê..." Ndissê is whispering now, eyes haunted, and Ingwê wonders if she has those dreams as well.

"Two this year alone. Three, it would be, if Arômêz hadn't saved Elmoyô." Ingwê bites his lip, thinking of little Elmoyô, whose laughter can bring a smile to the face of even the grimmest hunter, almost lost forever. Of his playmate Morôkû, who always ran to Ingwê and begged for stories when he visited the Minjaî, for whom there was no miraculous rescue. "He tells us stories of paradise, a place where there are no dangers lurking in the dark - a place where there is no dark, two great trees lighting the world - a place where the dead are brought back to walk among us again, hale and laughing-" Ingwê laughs himself at the thought, incredulous, disbelieving.

"I think it's fantasy, sister," he states baldly. "I think it's a lie he spun from our dreams and hopes, no more substance to it than the tales we make up for the children. Nothing I've ever seen even hints that such a place could exist. And yet. The others believe him, the others think it might be possible. Even Neldê, who is certainly among the wisest and most cautious of us, gives his tales great thought and does not dismiss them out of hand. Even you."

"Even me," Ndissê nods, agreeing. "I find the stories he tells... unlikely, but not entirely impossible. And I know Skalnâ doesn't believe some of the details," the dead walking again, she does not have to say, "but still thinks there to be a core of truth to the tale, believes he is exaggerating because he wishes us to come to safety. But then again... perhaps we're all deluding ourselves, believing in him because we want him to be telling the truth, and you're the only one who sees anything clearly."

"Or perhaps I've grown narrow-minded in my old age," Ingwê says wryly. "Perhaps I'm arrogant, thinking that nothing should come as a surprise to me, that I should have seen all there is to wonder at in this world. I've been worrying that the respect our people pile on me undeserved shall eventually go to my head."

Ndissê smiles at him sweetly. "You should have told me, because that is one thing you don't have to worry about. I swear to you, Ingwê, I will make certain to bring you firmly back to earth whenever I think you are getting carried away. I view it as my solemn sisterly duty, in fact."

Ingwê finds he has to smile back. "So it is. I apologise for my lack of faith in you, sister." A pause. "And yet..."

"And yet?" Ndissê prompts.

"And yet far too many people give credence to what Arômêz says for me to be able to dismiss him completely. There must be a chance he is telling the truth, even if I don't see it myself. And as long as the chance is there..."

For a moment, Ingwê makes himself believe in Arômêz's words.

"Imagine," he says, voice low, "a land where we would not have to live in fear. Where our people could travel freely without worrying what would find them, where we would not have to clutch the children close to us so as not to lose them." (Too many of the lost have been children, there are too many grieving parents- Ingwê does not have to say it, Ndissê knows it as well as he.) "Imagine a land where the number of taken would stay at fifty-two. A land with no Rider - what that would mean!"

Ingwê's belief stretches and bursts like a bubble popping in a stream, like a pleasant dream that vanishes on waking. He looks at Ndissê, feeling the anguish creeping into his voice. "Don't you see? As long as I have the slightest doubt that Arômêz is lying, as long as there is the thinnest sliver of a chance the land he describes exists, I cannot possibly pass it up. I have to go see for myself."

The perfect trap: one where Ingwê can see the net closing around him and yet has no choice but to continue.

For a long moment, neither of them say anything.

"So?" Ingwê says when he feels the silence has gone on long enough. "Are you going to tie me to a tree?" He tries to keep his tone light and whimsical, does not add: part of me wishes you would, because I am afraid.

Ndissê does not answer in words. Instead, she steps forward and hugs him, her arms winding around his back and pressing him to her so tightly he almost has trouble drawing breath. Ingwê returns the embrace, lets his chin drop onto her shoulder and his eyes fall closed. For a moment, he can almost believe they are back in the beginning, newly awoken and nameless, embracing each other for the sheer joy of touching another person.

Finally, she releases him, steps back. Her eyes blink rapidly, trying to hide the unmistakeable sheen of tears. She reaches for something behind her. "Here. Take this."

Bemused, Ingwê accepts the cloak he'd commented on at the start of the conversation. Mîriseldê's inventions have borne fruit yet again, it seems: it's a finer, thicker weave than anything he owns, and so soft! The hide tunic he is wearing is gritty as sand against his skin in comparison.

"But-" he tries. "Mîriseldê made this for you-"

"What, are you worried it won't be long enough for you? We all know there's no need for that," Ndissê says, deliberately misunderstanding him. (It was only after they found all the other Minjaî that they were able to form some concept of average, realised that Ndissê being two finger-widths taller than Ingwê makes her quite tall for a woman and him unusually short for a man. Ndissê has never stopped teasing him about it since.)

"It's a precious gift from someone who loves you," Ingwê says, fingering the fabric. Up close he can tell Mîriseldê has stitched patterns into it, done in subtle variations of the blue. How much time did it cost her? "I can't possibly take it."

"Whoever said something about giving it to you? This is a loan," Ndissê says, chin raised in the expression that says she is going to be as stubborn as a Tatjâ. "Have you seen how fine Arômêz's clothes are? When you enter this paradise of his and meet his brethren, you should be wearing the best our people have to offer so as not to shame us. But as you say, it is a precious gift from Mîriseldê! I'll be expecting it back when you return."

When you return.

"Thank you, sister," Ingwê whispers. And then, because he feels he has not said it enough (because he fears he may not get many more chances), "I love you."

*****

Weeks later, Ndissê's cloak is soft and warm around Ingwê's shoulders as he stares wordlessly at the two great trees before him, eyes watering as he drinks in their light - as though every star in the heavens and more were shining from the same spot - Ingwê had not believed there was so much light in the entire world-

Every step of the journey he had been tense, awaiting the seemingly inevitable betrayal, and yet here they are and it turns out that Arômêz was telling the truth all along. Finwê and Elwê, who had believed him from the start, are less shocked. They are wandering now, exclaiming over the light, the plants, the bright clothes and glittering metal tools of the shining beings that watch them. Ingwê still stands where Arômêz left him - stunned, disbelieving, struggling to wrap his mind around this, the turn of events he had least expected.

One of the shining ones approaches. Mânawenûz, Arômêz had called him, and Ingwê had heard the same note in his voice then that the Kwendî have when they speak of Ingwê himself. This is Arômêz's chieftain, then. He is even taller than Arômêz, so tall that even Elwê would have to crane his head far back to look at him. Ingwê wonders if this is what it feels like to be a child and faced with adults: giants, with power and wisdom beyond comprehension.

Ingwê clasps his hands in front of his chest and bows. He wonders if he ought to kneel - it would be easier, his legs are trembling fit to give way - but practicality wins out. There is no way he can go any lower and still be able to look at Mânawenûz without breaking his neck.

"We... thank you for your... for allowing us to come." As always, Ingwê's tongue struggles with the words of Arômêz's language, full as it is of strange clicks of the tongue, sounds you need to say breathing in rather than out, that dreadful creaking noise made deep in the throat that Ingwê cannot say without feeling as though he is about to throw up and the low stone-on-stone grind he suspects Kwendî are not, actually, physically capable of producing. "Your land is very beautiful... we are..." He fumbles for the next word, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. Had he truly been so certain Arômêz was lying he had not even bothered preparing something to say? A fine ambassador he makes!

Ingwê's chain of thought is lost when Mânawenûz crouches down before him. His large hands come up to rest gently on Ingwê's shoulders, covering the fabric of the blue cloak, then - hesitant, wondering - he reaches up further to brush Ingwê's cheek. His touch prickles, feels strangely cool and almost insubstantial, reminds Ingwê of a breeze whispering against skin more than living flesh as his fingers trail down over Ingwê's cheekbone to cup his chin. His eyes are an unnatural white-blue and glow like stars as he stares at Ingwê, rapt fascination and awe written on his face. Ingwê stares back, transfixed, thinks he acts as though he has never seen a Kwendê before - but, of course, he hasn't.

"We are so very glad you have come," Mânawenûz says in Ingwê's own language. His voice is soft, deep, brings to mind the singing of wind in the trees, the calls of birds by the lake-shore as it thrums through Ingwê's bones. "We have been waiting for you for a very, very long time." And he bends down further to kiss Ingwê's forehead in benediction.

It's like lightning in storm-clouds, like a fire lit to keep the Rider away, lancing through him and leaving him forever changed. Ingwê feels as if Mânawenûz is looking into the darkness in his heart and seeing every drop of the doubt and worry he had carried on this journey, every nightmare of fifty-two condemning faces, the conviction that Arômêz was lying and the deep-seated fear for his people that drove him here anyway - sees it all, shines light on it and blows it away.

Ingwê exhales, his eyes fall closed, his knees give way. Mânawenûz's tightening grip is the only thing that keeps him from collapsing to the ground as, for the first time since Eredê was lost, he lets the fear go.

In all the millennia that follow, Ingwë never doubts the Valar again.

Chapter End Notes

Linguistic notes:

Names:

All names are in my best attempt at Primitive Elvish except for those of the Valar, which are the canonical Valarin names.

Primitive Elvish
Finwê - Finwë
Ingwê - Ingwë
Ndissê - Indis
Mîriseldê - Míriel
Elmoyô - Elmo
Morwego - Morwë
Neldê - Enelyë, or really genderswapped Enel (in this 'verse, the first of the Nelyar was a woman who woke up alone.)
Elwê - Elwë

Valarin
Arômêz - Oromë; I am sure that the Elves are mostly calling him by a PE-ified version but I really did not want to have to work out something that a) was plausible and b) could turn into Oromë in Quenya along with c) Araw in Sindarin later on, good god, I MEAN Ingwë is CONSCIENTIOUS and tries to use his actual name. Yeah.
Mânawenûz - Manwë

Other PE words:

Minjâ/Minjaî - Minya/Minyar
Tatjâ/Tatjaî - Tatya/Tatyar
Kwendê/Kwendî - Quendë/Quendi (i.e. Elf/Elves, but in the inclusive pre-Sundering form.)

Notes on Valarin phonology:

I went and ignored what bits we can deduce about Valarin phonology from the Ardalambion wordlist, because the description of it being singularly unpleasant to Elvish ears and hard for them to say doesn't, to me, mesh with the words we're given: they're long, sure, but they really don't seem particularly far off from the various Elvish languages in terms of sounds and phonological constraints. Instead I gave them various bits and pieces we really don't see attested in Elvish and that would probably be pretty hard for them to say and differentiate without being used to them: Ingwë mentions clicks, implosives and an epiglottal fricative (which, yeah, does rather feel like you're going to throw up if you're not used to it). I handwave this by saying that the Valarin we know is transcribed by Elves who ended up just ignoring the sounds they didn't know how to deal with. >>

Other notes: Ingwë refuses to apologise for the "stubborn as a Tatjâ" expression, saying that you are only allowed to complain to him about unfair stereotyping after you've had to deal with Finwë and Skalnâ in council.

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