Feasting with the Lions of Valmar by heget

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Chapter 1

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

His father, Ingwë Ingweron, High King of all the Elves, did not reply immediately. It was rare for him to be in Valmar, to sit in state with the simple feathered crown of high kingship on his brow. The palace of the Vanyar in the foothills between the sprawling city of Valmar and the true slopes of the Pelóri Mountains did not often see its king in residence, and Ingwë seldom gave decrees from the throne room here. Back during the first few years his people lived in Tirion among the Noldor, in the Mindon Eldaliéva where Ingwion was born but had few memories of, his father did not sit often in court and proclaim many laws. It was not the style of Ingwë Ingweron, for the will of the king was absolute among his people, and the Vanyar were loyal and obedient. In return the king asked little of them. Once they reached the safety of Valinor’s shores, he commanded of the elves only that they obeyed the strictures of the Valar who brought them to their land. For his part the king, once his children had grown, retreated often to the slopes of Taniquetil, the holiest of mountains, and there he meditated on the meanings of the world, wrote poetry and music famous throughout Valinor, and delighted in the antics of countless litters of cats. Ingwion thought fondly of those cats, and peace of the mountain retreat where the high winds sang purely, and the softness in his father’s large hands as he pointed out the beauty of their home.

It was that peace, that love, that begged to Ingwion to convince his father to allow him to take command of their forces.

Ingwë was in Valmar now, having come for the feast of the Lord of the West. That great feast had been interrupted by the Peredhel mariner from the Hinder Lands, the one that had finally turned all of Valinor into frantic motion. During the excitement that followed, there was no lack of intention in the king of all elves to be absent as such momentous decisions were made. Ingwë sat with the herald at the Elder King’s side to listen to the mariner’s plea and approve the new plan for his people. The raising of Vingilot and the Silmaril aboard it was herald of their intentions and a warning to their foes that all the might of the West had not forgotten.

The Valar said now the time was now ripe to go to war against the Black Foe. The Vanyar must gather old weapons and forge new, this time with the wisdom of the Maiar to guide them. All that wished to hearken to the Valar and the Blessed Mariner must go - but there was still need for some to remain in Valinor. The Lords of the West would not leave their homes, their backs, unprotected. And Ingwion wished to be the one to go, not stay.

Ingwë nodded slowly, but did not yet speak.

Ingwion glanced to his mother. Ravennë, queen of the Vanyar ever since her father had been defeated by Ingwë back in the time of Cuiviénen when the Minyar had decided if to listen or not to the ambassador of the Valar and march to Valinor, smiled. It was not a gentle smile, but then little of Ravennë was gentle even in the ages of peace of Aman. Lionesses of her namesake glinted in gold thread of her gown and upon the combs in her hair, shining in the light of Anar and asserting her power. Ravennë needed no crown to proclaim her rule, for with Ingwion’s father often away from Valmar, meditating in solitude in his monastery atop Taniquetil’s slopes, the queen of the Vanyar handled the day-to-day affairs. Since his majority Ingwion had joined his mother and two older sisters in the task of rule. He felt confident of his abilities to lead his people. So he told himself as he met his mother’s dark purple eyes.

Ravennë leaned over to his father and murmured low into his ear.

Ingwion hoped it was in praise of him, knew it must, stood tall and proud and prayed he honored his name.

"You will lead our people with wisdom and glory," Ingwë said, his voice like the slow rumble of rocks crashing down the mountainside. "As my son, raised well in the embrace of the Valar, a source of great pride to myself and your mother, we see no other outcome. Go with our blessing, Ingwion."

Exultant joy coursed through Ingwion, which he knew was readable on his face, but did not care. He felt as if again a young boy not a century grown, crowing the victory songs of how his father had defeated the old first chieftain of the Vanyar back in the days of darkness. Of a victory unblemished to lead all the people of his tribe to the land of the Valar, of how when his father had washed the blood off his body with the water of Cuiviénen’s lake, there had been no mark from the enemy’s weapon. Boastful songs, war songs, songs Ingwion wanted for himself. Songs he wanted to sing to the stars of the Outer Lands, so no songs of sorrow or woe or defeat would echo through the mountain passes of his home.

When he returned to his wife, Laitissë, he told her of what his father had agreed, and that more-so they were expected to attend a private meal tonight with the royal family. Their two young children were welcome to join, as would any family that was in the palace at the moment. His wife smiled, though he made no mention of the faint hints of red at the corner of her eyes. “Helinë and Ingil will be pleased to see their grandfather. It is so rare for him to be in the palace at Valmar instead of his retreat on Taniquetil.” And to spend time with you, she did not say, for which Ingwion found himself grateful. She still had not decided if she would be joining the armies as well, for Ingil was not fifty, and their eldest child trained with the phalanx, questioning Oromë on how to turn the spear wall into a defense from all angles. Laitissë was a fine wielder of spears as well, and more importantly a loud voice that did not panic or react with rashness under pressure. Ingwion wanted her strength at his side during the war, but wondered if he should ask her to stay and guard the homeland with his father and mother. He had not, for he also felt that would be an insult to her commitment and devotion to the Valar. And Ingwion was honest with himself. The presence of his wife made him less nervous.

 

 

Dinner was in one of the more intimate rooms of the palace. This wing of the palace was far from the public offices, and the room itself was of yellow wood carved to look like a spring-blooming forest, not much larger than Ingwion’s sitting room. The table, lacquered wood covered in a white cloth, was low to the floor, and the seating were small backless stools which his oldest sister, Minyë, who was born during the Great Journey and remembered a little of how their people lived before Valinor, said were the norm before Valinor. The throne of the king used to be a simply carved stool, and not the giant gilded monstrosity in Tirion that the Noldor covered in bright white and blue gems. Ingwion knew his father always seemed more comfortable on the small stools.

The family arranged themselves at the table, Ingwion with Laitissë and two youngest children on one side and his father and mother on the other side. Two of his sisters had also joined them, Minyë, the oldest who like his mother had placed gold combs of the shape of running lions in her hair, and Netyarë, who was many years Ingwion’s junior. Netyarë, Ingwion noticed with a faint stir of displeasure, was wearing a Noldor-style gown, the wired lace of her collar making her head look like it rested on a serving platter and fabric stiff with embroidery crinkling as she bent to sit on the stool. “A gift from Findis,” she whispered, seeing her brother’s face. “Our cousin was tired of staring at it in her closet and gave it to me. I thought to wear it once, and then give to the maids to break down into some more useful garments. The fabric of the skirt is very soft, and I think the gold thread would be good to add to the banners we are making for the soldiers.” Ingwion nodded.

His sisters flanked him at the far side of the table, and the room was empty of others until a servant in plain livery entered and poured water. With only the family in attendance there was no need for state formalities, and the table settings were simple. Only one fork and plate each, a large shallow basin of spring water cold and clear from the slopes of Oiolossë, a centerpiece of artfully arranged oranges and blossoms, and the soft chime of a hanging bell in the corner that would move thanks to a breeze that passed through clever vents through the palace, heated by a large furnace in the depths. The heat came from Aulë’s geothermal forges, but the scent of sulfur had been long removed after the elves had complained about the smell. They waited for dinner.

The server entered with a large plate of venison, and announced the name of the Vanyar notable who slew the deer, that with permission from the Valar Nessa and Oromë the hunter took down the prey using the old ways of speed and stamina, disdaining the use of hound or horse. The queen smiled and praised the succulent flavor of the meat, and the king bowed his head in royal recognition of the deed. The hunter had won great honor and acclaim by this act, and for his part Ingwion took a large helping and deposited generous portions on his children’s plates. “Eat,” he told Ingil and Helinë, “and remember the name of the one who has gifted this food to you. And of the Valar to whom the strength of the hunter and the nourishment you receive of the deer itself have ultimately come.” Ingil was young enough to not protest when Ingwion cut his meat into smaller chunks, and Helinë quickly muttered her thanks to Yavanna’s handmaidens as she grabbed two sourdough pancakes to sop into the stew.

Gossip at the table was light, the decisions of going to the Outer Lands, of taking pity on both the Noldor who abandoned Valinor and the peoples who had never reached it, were long settled. Ingwion had one of King Arafinwë’s missives about their preparations in an inner pocket to read over after dinner, and one of the Maiar had informed him that the Lady Elwing still spoke among the Teleri, beseeching the use of passage to save her kin. But tonight Ingwion wanted the warmth of family. Ingwion knew come the morning his focus would turn to the task the Valar had set before them, of marshaling Arafinwë’s grief over family gone and praying Elwing’s pleas of kin dead in the strange woods of many rivers would outweigh the kin dead on Alqualondë’s shores. That he must divide his people into legions and begin their training in earnest, work to understand the powers the Valar would bring them to use and what they could expect from the Black Foe.

And Ingwion knew he should feel fearful of going to war, of the challenge of facing the Valar’s enemy, the enemy of the world. But he felt excitement, the same anticipation at the idea like before a final wrestling match in the Games. Ingwion looked at his father slowing eating the meat before him. Ingwë had said little throughout the meal, but then Ingwion’s father rarely spoke. Poetry and songs on numerous subjects Ingwë was famous for, praised for the beauty and flow of his words. But his father carried himself like a hunter, like a warrior, unwilling to waste movement or breath. His mother declared it was part of his strength, and that same strength flowed through her son and daughters. Chief of chieftains, she would say with glowing eyes, fiercely proud of Ingwë’s prowess, of his greatness in battle. Ingwion knew without asking that his mother was pleased at this opportunity for her son. Ravennë saw no ill in fighting, in the urge to proclaim the will of the Valar. That secretly she had felt the Vanyar had become soft, that her worry was that they would shame the powers that brought them here, protected them, and gave them the very earth from which they drew substance. Ingwion told himself to banish all weak doubts of worry. He was the prince, born of the fierce womb of a lioness, leader of the first people of the One. He would ride out under the unblemished banners of Ingwë and the powers of the world. That it was not unnatural for idea of leaving Valmar to wage a war of retribution and wrath to fill him with a sweet song of joy. He will goes for justice and loyalty.

Still, his father sat at the table with the contented peace Ingwë had earned on the slopes of Taniquetil, small and gentle smiles for Ingil’s antics and Netyarë’s diverting stories of their quiet and wickedly funny cousin Findis. When he spoke it was only for praise of the food and the scent of orange blossoms, or the way the lamplight highlighted the gold in his wife’s hair. The simple courses of the meal were brought out and shared around the table. Ingil did not spill anything on his new clothes, which pleased Laitissë. If not for the knowledge of the preparations spreading throughout Valinor, the spears and swords to be forged and gathered, nothing about this meal distinguished it from any other private family gathering that they have had over the long years.

Ingwion thought perhaps he would successfully finish a family dinner without incident.

Then Ingwion’s mother leaned over to their father and grabbed his earlobe with her teeth. The entire table froze as Ravennë pressed against Ingwë's side, watching her lips nibble and tug at his ear. Ingwion’s father was the stillest of them all, and Ingwion watched as Ingwë turned as rigid as a statute, his eyes no longer focused on anything on the opposite side of the table. The muscles of the king’s body, what little were visible like the ones of his face and the tendons of his neck, seemed to pose like the still air before a lightning storm. His father was often unreadable, famous for the carved countenance that offered no openness. But one needed not the ósanwe of the Valar to understand the darkening of his father’s blue eyes or to see any actual quivering of muscles to feel the surge of energy like a great hunting cat about to spring. Ingwion swallowed the exasperated sigh he would have preferred to voice loudly, and side-eyed his sisters. Minyë shared his expression of martyrdom, her fork dropped on her plate and her posture so straight she almost leaned away from the table. Netyarë, however, had leaned forward eagerly, watching with unconcealed fascination as their mother began to unlace their father’s clothing. Fingers skilled from long practice tugged at the cords that fit the fabric snugly around the bulging muscles of his father’s arms. Ravennë had pulled the lower half of the laced doublet sleeve off Ingwë’s right arm and was beginning to attack the row of buttons on his chest, the white fabric of his linen undershirt spilling out. Her lips moved to the flesh behind Ingwë’s ear, something that sounded suspiciously like a purr rumbling from her throat.

"I think we have covered the details for tonight," Ingwion choked out, realizing he could not see the location of the rest of his parents’ hands. There were some things he wished he did not know, and visions he would prefer his youngest son not handle for a few years more. The concepts of what was considered appropriate to a king’s dignity had changed in Valinor, and let Ingil think the favorite pastime of his king and grandfather was boring meditation and petting cats for a little longer. It was not as if those books of poems had left any detail to the imagination. Ravennë removed the doublet, and Ingwion could see his father’s hand pulling at the combs in the pile of curls atop his mother’s hair. A few golden locks spilled down her back, and the dark purple of his mother’s eyes burned with lust under their heavy lids.

"Time to go," Minyë said firmly, pulling at their sister’s arm to drag her out of the room. Ingwion motioned to his wife, and they also dropped their napkins hastily and ushered the family out of the private royal dining room. Ingil looked at his father with an expression that said he was still half-confused as to what has happened, though Helinë snatched one of the oranges from the centerpiece and winked at her grandmother. As neither Ingwë nor Ravennë were focusing on anything outside themselves, Ingwion doubted they noticed.

Ingwion was the last to exit the room, his face firmly turned around to look into the hall and block knowledge of what was happening behind him. The act of closing the doors behind his back, setting the latch without seeing it, took more fumbling than a graceful prince of the Vanyar would wish to see himself. Ingwion glared at his sisters and children, ignoring the hot sensation of a blush on his face, daring them to make comment of it. Behind him he could hear the grunts and sharp moans of his parents. Some days, Ingwion thought uncharitably, he wished those sounds were not so familiar to him. “Tell the servants they should wait an hour before going in to clear the meal,” he commanded to Minyë. Privately he doubted any such command was necessary, the servants of the place being very accustomed to the foibles of its king and queen. Through the all-too-thin wood of the door Ingwion was interrupted by a piercing exclamation from his mother, her voice, sounding very strained indeed, demanding that his father repeat whatever he had just done. No, Ingwion screamed mentally, time to walk away and put as much distance between the dining room and himself as possible. Perhaps there was a good reason for all that cumbersome, inelegant stone construction of the buildings in Tirion. He remembered the walls of Mindon Eldaliéva did not have quite this problem of sound carrying through rooms. Another dark glare to his family, grateful that Minyë had pulled Netyarë down the hall, and Ingwion nodded to his wife. It was time they exited this wing of the palace. At the sound of a drawn-out moan and something that sounded suspiciously like dishware clattering to the floor, Ingwion amended that. They needed to leave swiftly.

Ingwion threw his thoughts into the details of planning the campaign, of first how he must have an estimate of how many soldiers he could rely on to come. All of Valmar, he knew, for this was scared duty. The excitement of the Vanyar ran high, for what person of his tribe, when then chieftain commanded, would dawdle behind? Not the Minyar, first on the March, people of Ingwë, obedient and bold. Not when the Valar themselves had commanded, said the time for hunting was upon them, time to pack away the scythes and flowers and pick up the spear. Time for the hunting songs of old, the ones from Grandmother and Eldest Sister, calling out which direction the prey had stumbled. Ingwion smiled, and began to hum that ancient tune in his mind, the sweet anticipation of running the foe of his people and the powers of the world back into the dust. He allowed it as a momentary indulgence before contemplating the serious problems of insuring each soldier had a full kit of armor and weapons, and the need to calculate how many years of harvest must be set aside. He shut another door behind him, the honey-golden panels of the hallway glowing in the lanterns of mid-evening. Little good it did, when another cry broke the concentration of his song.

By all the scared winds of Manwe, did not they know by now how loud they were?

Chapter End Notes

Time is between FA 542 and 544.

Ingwë Ingweron = "chief of chieftains" leader of the Vanyar and High King of all the elves, here not Imin
Ravennë = "lioness" wife of Ingwë and surviving daughter of Imin and Iminyë
Inwgion = "son of Ingwë" only son and second child of Ingwë and Ravennë
Minyë = "first + feminine suffix" oldest child of Ingwë and Ravennë, born during the Great Journey
Netyarë = "pretty" fourth child and third daughter of Ingwë and Ravennë
Laitissë = "praiser/blesser" wife of Ingwion
Helinë = "violet (flower)" daughter and second child of Ingwion and Laitissë
Ingil = (an alternate name for Ingwion in older versions) third child and son of Ingwion and Laitissë

Findis is the oldest child of Finwë and Indis, and Arafinwë is the Quenya form of the name Finarfin.

All female characters are non-canon names but implied by the text. Finwë's speech makes it clear both Olwë and Ingwë had more than one child by the time Míriel refuses re-embodiment, and Ingwion is old enough to have children if not grandchrildren and even great-grandchildren by the end of the First Age.

The stool as a throne, feathered crown, and sourdough pancakes are very oblique nods towards ancient Ethiopian kings. The poetry is a nod to King Solomon's Song of Songs.

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