Evergreen by Fadesintothewest

Chapter 1

Findekáno watched the eagle land atop an evergreen. Its nest was perched atop, secure in the needly foliage. The river was larger than anything he had ever seen. Endórë was wild and vast. Endórë was limitless. Findekáno felt the surge of Endórë’s naked power assault him, its melody bold and unchained. The Song of Endórë whispered forbidden stories, told of creation not as the Valar would tell. No, indeed, Endórë had her own voice, her own Song, and she would whisper it to those willing to listen.

The mountains ascended into the skies, the tops capped by snow. While they did not reach the heights of the Peloris, these mountains stretched across the horizon as far as his elf sight could see. They were expansive! The sound of the raging river filled Findekáno with a strange sense of beginnings. The water tumbled down from the distant mountains, carving a path, finding, giving life. So much life, so much abundance, Findekáno breathed in the essence of Endórë. It was invigorating. He felt his fëa open, teased apart by the energies that surged around and within him. Findekáno was laid naked. The powers of helda-- the first laws of the Quendi, potent in the magic of Endórë--were claiming him. 

Findekáno heard Calmacil’s voice like a distant murmur in his mind: “The veil that separated us from Endórë is now lifted Nolofinwion. That which was Halda in Valinórë--the rituals from the time of Awakening-- is no longer shadow. That power is now Helda, that which is stripped bare, naked. The powers of Awakening are more potent than you have ever imagined or felt. Be weary kala-kwendī, though you were born to the light of that place, here there is ambiguity.” [1] Calmacil was of the Unbegotten who made the Great Journey and now was returned to the lands he had left long ago. Only for his oath to protect Finwë and his line had he made the Journey. What it must have cost Calmacil to sunder himself from the lands he loved for a man he loved. Yet Findekáno was now coming to understand Calmacil for coursing though his body was the raw power of Endórë, a thunderstorm of whirling greens and blues, the most primal and elemental energies of creation buzzing, pulsating, threatening to burst through his fingertips…

Before him, Findekáno saw a vision of Endórë past materialize: Endórë innocent; Endórë as it once was before the Journey. Calmacil and his grandfather were running, laughing along the wild river. They were carefree, quiver and bow strapped to their backs, simple leather boots on their feet. They were young, yet unjourneyed. Darkness surrounded them. They were vigilant but their joy was new to Findekáno, a strange thing he almost did not recognize. Joy had been sundered from him, from his father’s host. Yet this joy was something distinct from Elvenhome. This joy was young; the weight of time not yet cast its shadow upon it...

The vision faded into the mists that clung to the wet grasses, dancing along the river. The wind swept up the grasses in the meadow he stood in. It dawned on Findekáno in that moment that these were the type of grasses that Calmacil sent him to retrieve. They would make thatched roofs from these grasses and repair those of the structures left behind by the Fëanorian host. Findekáno did not allow his mind to linger too long on that name, on that people. It was enough to be drowned in the sorrow of bodies lost to the Grinding Ice, of Arakáno the Impetuous, slain to deliver Nolofinwë’s host unto the lands they now claimed as home. Findekáno could not, would not linger on the ghost of another who had been his love, on the other side of the divide. He too was lost to Shadow, and though elven memory is vivid and detailed, Findekáno fought hard to blanket the name and memory of Maitimo in shadow though Maitimo himself was lost, whether to life or death, Findekáno was not sure…

Another vision descended upon Findekáno, tearing him away from the ghost of his lover. This vision plunged him into another place and time. Findekáno could only see tall grasses around him, grasses at least three rangar in height. The wind teased the tops of the grass forest, the dancing stalks creating a lulling melody. The light of the sun touched the heights of the grasses, filtering through in isolation, leaving Findekáno in a shadowy thicket. He was utterly lost within the grassy maze. Finwë emerged before him, a broad smile on his face. He looked as he did before his death, but his eyes reflected his youth, revealed the eyes of a man unburdened by a crown. Finwë started dancing, a beautiful dance, his booted feet, shifting back and forth along the roots of the grasses. “Yes,” Findekáno whispered, watching Finwë’s dance flattening the long grasses in patterns, breaking the grass at the dense root. It was hard work but Finwë’s dance made a joy of it. They had lost this in Aman, the faerie joys, replaced by the weight of time and sad memory…

Findekáno found himself back in the field, the vision retreating, fading into the past from whence it came. These grasses aren’t tall enough, Findekáno thought, inspecting the meadow. His eyes searched for taller grasses. He could see none from where he was. Feeling emboldened by the crisp weather, he ran towards the mountains, crossing hills and creeks, lined with forests until he came onto a new meadow. The dried grass towered above him. He ran carelessly into the dense thicket, loosing himself amongst the grass, relishing like a child, lost amidst the towering stalks. He felt diminutive. “Oh Arakáno you would love this,” Findekáno whispered to his brother’s memory.

Findekáno began dancing in the meadow, mimicking his grandfather’s steps, imagining Arakáno next to him, laughing, whooping and hollering, as they danced in the meadow though Findekáno did none of that for he knew the enemy lingered so he took to his task silently. He felled enough grass and gathered it in long bundles tying it with the same grass. He remembered Calmacil’s words, “Break the grass close to the root. Otherwise it dries and kills the roots beneath the earth and the grass will not regrow.” Without the vision of his grandfather dancing, would Findekáno have begun his labor stooping over to cut the grass? It would have been harder work had he not danced. Nevertheless it was not an easy task, but he had not let himself feel such joy for a long, long while. It was not lost on Findekáno that he was for the first time thinking of his brother without loosing himself in misery. For the first time he felt Arakáno was not sundered from him.

Quickly, Findekáno braided a handful of grass to carry the large rolls on his back. He could manage five large rolls. It was a daunting task, but if he kept good pace, he would be back at his camp by mid afternoon, but more than anything he wanted to make his way home--his new home--before the dark and dense clouds that loomed in the distance reached him and loosed their waters. Findekáno paused, a smile appearing on his face, lighting up his somber features. The rumbling of the distant thunderstorm and the bright shards of lightning piercing the grey clouds announced their intent: We bring life, primordial and violent, gentle and newborn.

Oh thunderstorm, Findekáno offered his words in prayer for the winds to carry to the nearing storm, bringer of hope and life, I offer you these simple words of thanks. May they be enough.

)()()()(

Chapter End Notes

[1] Calmacil shares these words with Findekáno during the first days Nolofinwë’s host find themselves in Middle Earth. You can read more about that adventure in The Plunge.