Young Bucks of Cuiviénen by heget

Indis tells her mother the name she has chosen for her second daughter, Lalwendë the laughing maiden, in a soft voice as she holds the golden-haired infant to her breast. Finwë had given his name to both sons, her first daughter had been named for both of them, but beautiful Írimë Lalwendë can be free of the burdens of the ruling Noldor, carefree and bright and joyful. Indis’s mother Mahtamë smiles at the name, looks down at the peaceful infant, and agrees it is a fitting name, one Lalwendë will grow into.

“Her spirit reminds me of Alako,” Mahtamë says. “He was always laughing as well.”

“Truly?” Indis asks. Her mother speaks rather of his father, who had died before Indis had been born, nor does her brotehr Ingwë speak of him. Indis knows her father had awakened at the side of her mother at the shores of Cuiviénen, that he had been a swift hunter and well-liked, and that when he had been grievously injured in a hunt, the toll had been too great and he had chosen the release of death. As Míriel had chosen, which perhaps explains some of the silence on the subject.

“Oh yes,” Mahtamë says, and the faraway look of her eyes is light and pleasant. “Your father could never stop smiling, was always amused at something or another, even if it was just the feeling of the wind in his face. Never still, always drawing Ingwë and I into a jest or dance. Delighting in movement. The stillness of your brother, that reservedness, that was not your father. Alako was always running. I am amazed your solemn brother came from him; you are far more like Alako. Your speed and your dancing. Wishing that everyone around them are smiling. Your joy. He would be pleased to see you, and pleased with our Lalwendë.”

Mahtamë reaches with a hand to tickle the infant’s belly, causing her to giggle and kick. Indis joins in on the laughter, and hears the echo of a wind.

Chapter End Notes

Helps to have read this chapter first. 

Írimë (or Írien) whose mother name was Lalwendë (Lalwen) is the second daughter of Indis and Finwë, mentioned in HoME XII. Her prefered mother name means "laughing maiden". 

Alâkô, as alluded here and elsewhere, means "rush, rushing flight, wild wind" 

Imin awakes loudly, with a great gasp of air as if he had held his breath during sleep, and only upon this cession of sleeping does come up like a diver from the great lake Cuiviénen reaching the surface. It is almost a fearful sound.

His gasp, like the very first gasp of air that the first of all elves ever took, wakes his wife Iminyë from her sleep. She opens her eyes and turns to her husband. Sometimes in these moments she will reach a hand to touch him. She reminds him in these simplest of movements that he did not sleep alone, nor does he wake alone.

He is always the first to wake, and that moment between his gasp with eyelids flying open in alarm and the opening of his wife’s eyes is the shortest of moments. And yet it is the longest and most fearful of times.

It is the great fear of the first generation of elves, spoken lowly amongst themselves. They fear sleep and a return to the oblivion in which they laid before their awakening before they cried out at the sight of stars above them with the first opening of their eyes. They fear returning to the dumb unknowing unwaking, and it is the closest the Firstborn of Ilúvatar ever come to the mortal fear and understanding of death. They know not what woke them first, so they know not if this awareness will end.

The deep sleep, when eyes are closed and minds are blind, isolates the elves. They learn how to sleep with eyes open and thoughts quiet but still able to sense other minds around them with that feeling which involves neither eyes nor ears. Imin and his people have honed this skill to the point that they can read even the thoughts of other minds, but it was a skill formed out of the need to just reach for the warmth of another consciousness in the coldness of the unknown. Isolation is the fear that drives the first of elves, the fear of reaching out and feeling no echo of other minds, to call out in a voice and have only dumb silence answer. In this twofold fear of the sleep he will not wake from and the fear that only he alone shall wake does Imin, the First of all elves, gasp and turn for Iminyë.

As his wife reaches for him with grateful eyes he hears the flicker of her thoughts return to him. She is relieved that he is here, that he has called her from sleep, that she is not alone.

The consequence of waking separately is this disruption of synchronization between Imin and Iminyë. As their eyes and minds meet to banish the lingering fears of sleep, their heartbeats and the inhaling and exhaling of breath settle into accordance with each other. Their minds echo to each other like the rhythmic two-point pulse of their heartbeats, just as comforting and present. Together as one they blink, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the light from the many bonfires and torches that have turned the village into an island of illumination against an endless sea of dark.

Their children are accustomed to light, having entered this world surrounded by elves holding torches and who have encircled their sleeping areas with large fires for warmth and glow. The dark unknown is now an expanse with understandable features, illuminated by fire. The light of the stars above delights the children of elves, but not the same way as the stars did that first moment Imin awoke. Their children open their eyes first in these safe places of the village, already knowing the touch of their mother and father’s hands and the sounds of many voices. Iminyë and Imin think of their son and daughter, each who entered this world single, without knowing who their other half was, yet at the same time connected to others. They were carried for months under the sound of Iminyë’s heartbeat, knowing the presence of mother and father. They do not fear silence as their parents do, treat the stars with the exact same wonder, or understand.

Imin stretches his arms, Iminyë mirroring his movements like a reflection. Together they slide off the large pallet of woven reeds sandwiched with other woven mats and stuffed with the fur scrapped from treated hides, topped by the fur of a giant bear. It is a softer bedding that the clay of the lakeshore they once had. Together they fold the bearskin at the foot of their wide sleeping pallet. A small clay vessel next to it holds fresh water. Someone must have refilled the bowl as they slept. Imin reaches for it and hands it to his wife, who accepts the dish without looking, lifts it to her lips and drinks, and hands it back to Imin’s waiting grasp without checking with her eyes. Their movements nonetheless are perfectly smooth, the water still. There is no hesitation or need to ask. Together they gather their feet under their bodies and push with hands and feet and stand. In one moment they breathe, chests expanding with air; together they exhale. Like perfect reflections they stretch their arms again, unfurling fingers like young ferns, straightening out the left arm on Imin’s side and the right on Iminyë’s. Rotating their heads to pull the stiff muscles of their necks, together they turn their heads. Outside their sleeping hut they can hear one of their people shuffling feet and waiting to speak to their leaders. “Come in,” Imin and Iminyë call as one voice, and the silhouette outside the door of the hut startles. Abashedly Imin and Iminyë look to one another, forgetting they had not delegated which one of them was to speak aloud. Two pairs of eyelids close, and Iminyë breaks the synchronization by the slightest nod of her chin. “Enter,” Imin calls, but it is only Iminyë who bothers to open her eyes and look at the person who enters. It is one of their hunters, one of the fellow first awoken who has pulled aside the hanging hide that functions as a door.

“A hunting party has returned,” Lasrondo says. They can feel worry on the taste of his words, a wrongness. Imin does not remember sending any hunters out, and if he does not, Iminyë does not. There are many in their village when once they were few, and yet Imin and Iminyë know each of their people, had witnessed their first breaths and memorized their manner of walking and the sounds of their laughter, and while their tribe has grown large it is not yet too large to split into more than one village, to separate away from Imin and Iminyë. All should be in the village, and it takes only the slightest of hesitations to reach out with the touch that is mind instead of hands, groping blindly for who is missing. Blindness lies at the root of that hesitation, for there should be no disobedience or oversight. Either would be unwelcome. This feels like secrets.

Imin feels cold; Iminyë wraps the warm felt around her hips to make a long skirt, then pulls the new poncho of soft felt over her head. Now they are warm. But the disquiet does not ease, so they reach for one another, echoing back heartbeats and breaths until the sounds become one, until there is no difference between two bodies in tempo, eyes staring back as two reflections until what division is between them is meaningless.

They have no secrets between them, Imin and Iminyë.

They have nothing between them except for that terrible lonely waking moment.

Chapter End Notes

erikwa : single, alone

If a character is only going to have the feminine variation of her husband's name, I decided to explain it in a slightly creepy direction. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Belekô did as asked.

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

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

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

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

“Heavy,” Elwê hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our son!” Elwê’s father shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elwê’s people had their own pride.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the pots.”

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

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

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

Rúmilô snorted. “And next I should expect nectar from stone.”

“Worth the attempt.”

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

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

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

Elwê recited the list of his mother, splaying his hands wide to indicate girth of the desired pottery and other hand gestures for height. He needed a large egg-shaped container with its narrow neck and double handles for holding water, two large lidded vessels for holding seeds, at least one cooking pot, and as many serving plates as the boy had. The Tatyar boy nodded and scrambled back into his hut, pulling out finished pieces from the stacks of plates and jars. He called the pots by unfamiliar individual terms, pointing out each vessel. “Water vessel you have to carry back, but you’re tall so that shall be no trouble. And not near as heavy as that fish! Empty that is. Would not desire to carry it full, but don’t be deceived, I am stronger than I look! I have to carry all my clay myself and that’s as heavy as it is messy. So this water vessel, best one in the village! Mine will never leak!” The boy tugged on Elwê’s arm. ”Here, you want this one, on the left. All my stripes are painted straight. If you turn the other one next to it over, you’ll notice I errorred on the pattern and the lines aren’t as even. You don’t want that one.” The boy had a running commentary for each selection. “What of the storage vases? What pattern? Smooth finish? I think it better to smooth out the finish, even it takes more time, especially with different pieces of bark and leather to get the smoothest feel. Or if you had a coat of colored slip -that’s was I call the water clay mix I use as glue and coating. But I have to cook it twice. Mahtân says I should do that for all my pieces, but he also likes the color of the regular pieces. This one I wrapped a rope around before firing it, so the indent of the cord spirals around. I didn’t have enough to do the whole vessel, only the bottom for a handspan. I was so angry with myself for misjudging the length I needed. I twisted the cord myself. That drinking cup over there I used the same rope-coil method. I didn’t invent that, of course. But I did add salt to the kiln as I fired it - that’s when we heat the vessel in the fire-pits so it turns hard. Like making charcoal. Nelyar use charcoal instead of just firewood?” Elwê recognized the question addressed to him in the midst of this rapid patter and chose to ignore the implied condescension. “See how it has that shiny texture? Almost like glass, and no water soaks into it, but I had to melt a lot of salt, and Sarnê only trades me enough for small pieces. That drinking vessel! You’ll want that one. I inscribed a pattern that looks like fish scales.” The boy held up the cup so Elwê could see the pattern in the firelight. “You have to take it. And what other designs do you like?” Though his parents gave no limitation on design, Elwê admitted that he personally preferred the green and blue pieces, as he had not seen so many pieces of that color. He told the potter that was amazing. The Tatyar boy smiled eagerly, pointing to the plates that closely matched. He began to describe the clay he used for each piece, the places he had dug for the clay and how long the journey back to the village had been for each trip, and that he discovered that mixing various clay together meant less pieces breaking, though not everyone had believed him. The other potters thought not staying pure to one source was folly until the boy prove it by tallying all his pieces and theirs, and then how many they had to discard because the pottery cracked during firing, and then Rúmilô had recorded the results. So now they were testing to see which combinations were best and how many color variations they could create, and he was in the lead. The boy grabbed one of the shallow dishes and began to indent a series of lines along the rim, describing the proportions of its construction and plotting out the color he would try to create. Even while in the middle of crafting, the torrent of words from his mouth did not abate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Smiling and shifting so he sat comfortably on his heels, Elwê watched as Phinwê used the wedge of a stylus to mark a pattern of ray bursts around the plate. There was a dark blush to the face turned to focus on the act of crafting from the discomfort at being addressed with warmth so quickly and openly. Yet there was a happiness in Phinwê’s movements, and he did not flinch his body away from Elwê. In fact he seemed to lean towards the older boy as if he was a fire to provide warmth. Phinwê’s hands were steady and quick as they completed the design. Elwê found it mesmerizing to watch, like observing the movement of the shore against the sand. The Tatyar craftsman murmured as he worked, a soft narration of his movements, counting the stars and their points as he inscribed each one. It was not a song, had not the same music as the flow of water or wind through the trees, but there was a quality of delight in listening to the sound. Phinwê held up the leather-hard disk for inspection. “Stars, for your name.”

“Thank you, my friend.” Elwê pitched his voice low and soothing, trying to hide his self-satisfied smile at the deepening blush his words caused. The trip was worth the pain of carrying that heavy fish, he thought.

Phinwê twitched his now empty hands, shocked into silence. The corners of his mouth flexed as the uncertain smile waited to emerge.

Elwê considered the necessity of balancing the values of each trade. His new friend had offered almost all the words for their conversation, and now that he had finally paused for breath, it was Elwê’s turn. “Have you any siblings yet, Phinwê? I have a brother a few star rotations younger than me. He was not allowed to come with us, or to swim unattended too far out into the lake, though he is very skilled and can hold his breath longer than anyone, even Nôwê, who used to be the best swimmer in our village.”

Phinwê shrunk in a manner than was not physical. “I have no- my parents -they disappeared- there was some accident ...no one has the story for me. I was alone as an infant; Tata and Tatiê assigned others to nurse and watch over me if they had time, and Rúmilô offered a place with his village when he and the others left. Everyone has been kind to me. Everyone in the village is my family.”

Poor trade.

“As a village is,” said Elwê, hoping his words suggested comfort and not offense, for there was a prickly challenge in Phinwê’s too-bright eyes. He cast his thoughts desperately for new words like a freshly repaired net. “Denwego saw a beast in the forest when he was searching for linden. Did he speak of it when he visited your village?” Elwê took the encouragement from Phinwê’s headshake to continue the topic. “It was like the long-nosed behemoths the Minyar spot when they hunt far into the grasslands, as tall as a hut, but much longer than it was tall. It had tusks like those beasts, a pair that curved out from its mouth and were as long as you are tall, not just curved and small like boar.” Elwê copied the sketch Denwego made of the creature in the dirt at his feet, borrowing Phinwê’s stylus to outline the trunk-like legs and long head and nose. He gave special attention to the tusks. “Denwego saw it eating pine needles. I wonder if such a beast could be hunted. It might feed everyone in all the villages, enough for all to have a bite. And the tusks! Imagine crafting something from so large a tooth. You would carve it like a beech mast, make the center pole of a most magnificent hut.” Phinwê joined in with Elwê’s enthusiasm, speaking of house he would have if he could make it of any fantastic material.

“A roof made of clay tiles. Ñalatiê is making one, a small hut, but if I had time, I would want a house as big as the tool-making hall and the roof glazed blue. And bright patterned mats on the floor so my feet are never dirty or cold. And light - I want many oil lamps, even some hanging from the ceiling, from a fat that does not have smoke or a strong and terrible smell.”

“And I will come and visit you,” said Elwê. “And when you visit me, the hangings on the walls of my house shall be of blue, green, and white feathers, soft to the touch and woven in patterns like the surface of the lake.”

“Like your hat? I love how colorful it is,” Phinwê interjected.

“Exactly so,” said Elwê. “The posts shall be carved to look like beech trees. And it shall smell like the sweetest forest glen, so that if you closed your eyes you would not know you were inside.”

The boys laughed over their dreams, wavering their wishes between earnest goals and the ridiculous. When you visit me, though, were the words woven throughout their conversation that mattered.

A high call came from the center of the village, Elwê’s parents calling for him, and the boys ended their discussion of fantasy.

Phinwê helped Elwê carry the vessels back to where his parents had finished butchering the sturgeon and transferring the allotments of salt for clam and fish. The three hides were tightly rolled and tied with cords, stacked beside the pile of salt. Elwê’s father was fanning himself with his hat. Together they loaded the salt into one of the storage jars, securing rope around the jars so they could hang off the carrying pole along with the hides and placed the eating plates and drinking bowls in Elwê’s mother’s basket, lining them with soft grasses so they would not break. As they worked, Elwê introduced his new friend to his parents, a hand resting on Phinwê’s head as the boy blushed and waved his arms in gestures of greeting. Tall Elwê often rested hand or arms around his little brother Olwê, so the fraternal gesture came unthinkingly to him. Phinwê did not pull away. “This is good that you have made a fine friend,” Elwê’s parents said. “Your work is as beautiful as it is needed by our village. And Rúmilô says you are clever, which is high praise from a Tatyar. It is good to have a clever friend, my son.”

“See, they approve,” whispered Elwê, leaning down to speak into Phinwê’s ear.

Many of the Tatyar villagers watched Elwê and his parents hoist the bartered goods for the journey home, russet-haired Mahtân and a few others stepping forward to help lift the carrying pole and the jar of salt. Phinwê fussed over the knots tying the water vessel and second storage jar to the pole, worried that they might swing wildly during the walk back and smash.

“Leave be; they shall not break,” Morisû chided. Beside him a small boy with a slightly less polished and handsome version of his face, a younger brother, smiled apologetically to Phinwê. The sight induced a pain of longing in Elwê, the desire to tell Olwê the details of this trip and hear the answering thoughts of his younger brother. He wondered if Olwê was waiting by the gate fires that Nôwê was tending, hoping to catch the silhouettes of Elwê and their parents emerging from the canebrake, or if his younger brother was reveling in their absence and playing in the lake. Knowing Olwê, the likelihood of his brother enjoying the freedom to venture where he usually would not be allowed unattended was high, and Elwê hoped his best fishing line was untouched. A forlorn hope. He regretted the lost opportunity to make a bet out of the possibility of Olwê snapping or tangling Elwê’s fishing lines and net with Belekô. Such a dare would be a clever way to trick his friend into guarding his possessions from his little brother -not that he suspected Olwê of malice, but a baby brother was the spring of ever-flowing trouble, or so did Elwê reckon. Such observations were important to the growing collective knowledge of the elves. Elwê resolved to ask Eredêhâno if a younger sister was less tiresome.

Elwê’s mother dipped her torch into the fire-pit beside the opening in the Tatyar village palisade, bowing her head to the black-haired woman would tended to the flames. Behind them the villages of the Second Tribe stood much as the villagers of Elwê’s home had crowded around them at the start of this journey. For all the familiarity, the lack of the river-song or the rustle of reeds in the wind only intensified the home-longing. That same longing was reflected back in his parents’ faces. Elwê’s father tugged on the pole carrying their new belongings, and Elwê winced at the pull against the flesh of his shoulder.

As they departed for home, Elwê turned to wave farewell to his new friend. “Soon you must come visit my village, or I return to yours!”

Elwê’s father laughed. “Yes, you must come! You must learn to swim like a Lindar, and how to pull fish from the river. Rúmilô does not accept my offer.”

“Because Rúmilô is too busy,” say the Tatyar village leader. His expression and tone was wry, but he patted Phinwê’s back encouragingly. “Little one, you should visit when you have none of your pots and plates in the fire pits. It is good to learn new skills and see new things. Find me new names for these things and experiences.”

“I am good with new words,” remarked Phinwê.

Morisû’s little brother looked up towards the older boy, head tilted at an angle and forehead furrowed. Whatever the remark he made Elwê could not hear, too far away from the village gate, but it make Phinwê squawk and shove at the boy.

Shadows stretched long before them, Elwê and his parents walked down the path lined with moss that would eventually lead to their home. Soon the path flattened away into the stretch of ferns and small bushes between their two villages. To the left the lake sloshed softly against the nearby shore. A patch of darker black in the distance was the nearby forest. Somewhere in those trees was Denwego’s creature and the outcropping where Phinwê found the best clay.

Before they reached the crossing stones of the stream outside their village, Elwê’s mother stopped and bade them lower what they were carrying. She had already placed her burden on the ground. The salt could wait. There was something of great importance she wished to tell them and wished it said where the rest of the village was not around to interrupt. She did not stand and speak as one afraid, as if her words would cause fear and alarm if spoken to the village, but Elwê was worried and cast his mind back on their journey to decipher what his mother wished to tell. Their barter had been successful, and he could not think of any item they had forgotten or that the village needed that the Tatyar could have provided. Nor was there an incoming storm to which they needed to find quick shelter.

Elwê’s father had a look to his face that said he had expected this and could reasonably guess the news Elwê’s mother wished to impart, and his calm demeanor prevented Elwê from panic. Elwê’s mother smiled, noticing her son’s semi-suppressed alarm and the smugness of her spouse. “It is good news, Elwê.”

“Speak it,” said Elwê’s father, and there was a smile on his face as wide as Phinwê’s had been when Elwê had first called him friend.

“We shall have another child,” Elwê’s mother said. “I can feel him growing.”

Elwê’s father lept forward. “You are certain, and certain it is a son?”

She nodded. “I felt a second presence once more. It is not just memories,” she said, her hands lowering to cover her abdomen. “I wondered how it might change if the child were a daughter, but there is the sense when I sleep at night of holding a son in my arms, and it is a boy like Elwê and Olwê, yet not their faces, so I know it is the one I now carry.”

“I too have dreams at night of a child I did not recognize, but who felt, looked, and sounded like my family.”

“Ah! Did you hear clearly his voice or an image of his face? My dreams have not yet shown me, but I remember when I was heavy with our second a dream of Olwê laughing as he took his first steps as the tide rolled in.”

Elwê’s parents spoke often of their memories before Elwê’s birth, of how strange the unknown sensations of their growing son had been, and how they had nervously begged Enel and Enelyê for explanation. Dreams of the future had been new concepts to the elves as well.

“This is good,” said Elwê. He did not know if his thoughts weighed this news good or not, but his parents’ smiles said this was to be celebratory news. Elwê already had a younger brother, and he could think of no one who had two siblings, though he supposed it had happened in other villages. He thought of Olwê having to deal with worries of a younger brother taking his belongings and widened the smile. He thought of the problems two brothers could bring instead of one. Elwê knew his expression was no longer fooling his parents. He thought of how small his house would seem and how busy they would be to prepare what would be needed. Idly, Elwê wondered if Phinwê felt terribly lonely in that Tatyar village and if that small hut was enough for two to live together.

No, he could not withstand living away from his people and the comfort of customs he understood, the familiar patch of lakeshore and sounds of home. But if this new brother cried as an infant piercingly loud and persistent the same way Elwê recalled Olwê had during his first star-pass of life, then Elwê would be making many journeys to visit his newest friend. Elwê remembered the noises and smells his brother produced before he learned to walk and speak. Those were not fond memories.

“How soon until my new brother is born?” he asked.

His mother laughed. “Not for a great time, my son. A child grows slow, and a sapling shall be tall before your brother is ready to be held in our arms.” A pensive look came to her face. “Your brother will need your wisdom, Elwê. You have experienced this change to our family, and he has not. You are a good brother, even when he upsets you, and Olwê needs your guidance and example. And we may need to build a larger hut. That would be an opportunity to invite your new friend; a roof crowning is the best reason to have many companions around, and we shall have drinking and celebration.”

“Between the construction and the catching of fish, either way we will be very sore before the celebration,” said Elwê’s father. Even with his sour words, his face was giddy with excitement.

“Mother is right; that sounds fun.”

Still Elwê’s mother stared at her son, grey eyes appraising him while her lips were drawn tight. He fidgeted under her stare. With a soft word to herself, Elwê’s mother pushed the lit torch into the earth, packing the dirt around it so it did not fall over and extinguish. Then she walked over to her son and directed him to stand back-to-back with his father, chin and spines straight. Using her hands to measure the difference between the tops of her husband and son’s heads, she stepped back and shouted in triumph. “I knew it! You have grown taller, Elwê!”

“He is still growing?” Elwê’s father asked. He stepped away to look at his son, then made a cry of mock dismay. Throwing his arms up and slapping his forehead with the back of his hand, his  overblown antics dislodged his hat, causing it to roll away. Rather than acknowledge his father, Elwê lunged for the hat, dodging around the exaggerated prancing and wails. He landed behind the water vessel, fingers digging into the brim. Behind him Elwê could hear his father telling him to be careful not to crash into their new pottery, but when he stood up, his father faced his mother with a ridiculous look.

“I gave birth to a tree,” Elwë’s mother moaned, but her eyes were bright with amusement, so Elwê did not take their teasing to heart. “A son that never stops growing. As tall as a fir. No, taller!”

Fanning himself with the hat, Elwê bit his lip to keep from laughing. His father knelt down in front of his mother and encircled her torso with his arms. Melodramatically he addressed her lower abdomen, pitching his voice so that Elwê standing a few feet away now pretending to be deaf and blind could hear the remarks. “New child of mine, listen to your father. You must not be like your eldest brother. You must not grow beyond a reasonable height.”

Chapter End Notes

I'd be here all day with footnotes for the various researched facts and tibits that provided inspiration, be it the importance of salt in all human societies to various pottery techniques, bast cloth made from the linden/lime tree, papyrus and nettle cloth, the beautiful skilled basket-weaving of the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest, sturgeons as the perfectly ancient and dramatically large unique fish that was the real star of this story, mastodons and mammoths^[*], auroch, and wisents. The village set-up and separation of the first three elves (Imin, Tata, and Enel) and their wives from Ingwë, Finwë, and Elwë is the same as in the parent story. Other inspirations from the Cuivienyarna include how the Nelyar were found next to a waterfall, thus the location of the first Lindar village.

Since roughly half of the Tatyar decided to follow Finwë to Aman, I divided them into two villages, with the majority of the Noldor who would follow Finwë living in his village - Rúmil, Mahtan, and most of the parents of his followers. It was important to me that Finwë, unlike his best friend, have no experience with siblings or parents, which fed into his desire to have a large family and his mistakes. Rúmil's invention of the sarati occurs in Aman, as Daeron's invention of runes is an example of multiple discovery/simultaneous invention, though the concept of pictographs before the use of symbols for phonetic sounds during the early settlements around Cuiviénen shouldn't infringe on canon.

The unnamed child, of course, is Elmo.

I'll note the name translations, as I'm using the spelling and terms from Primitive Elvish.

General note: names ending in ê = ë

Kwendî = Quendi/Elves
Minyar = First Tribe/Vanyar
Tatyar = Second Tribe/Noldor
Nelyar = Third Tribe/Teleri. Also called Lindar

Elwê = Elwë/Elu Thingol (el star + ending )
Olwê = Olwë
Hwindiê = Hwindië (hwind eddy, whirlpool ) - Olwë's wife, mother of Eärwen (technically OC)
Belekô = Beleg Strongbow
Eredêhâno = Eredhon (OC)
Nôwê = Nowë/Círdan the Shipwright
Aklara-inkwa = Alcarinquë (the planet Jupiter)
Rúmilô = Rúmil - sage of Tirion, author of the Ainulindalë, creator of the first writing system and basis for the tengwar
Etsiriwen/ Etsiriwêg = etsiri river mouth + feminine/masculine name endings (technically OCs)
Denwego = Lenwë/Dan - eventual leader of the Nandor
Sarnê = Sarnë (sarnâ of stone) - (OC) grandfather of Aglar from "The Band of the Red Hand/Release from Bondage"
Morisû = mori black (OC)
Phinwê = Finwë
Mahtân = Mahtan 
Ñalatiê = ñalatâ radiance, glittering reflection (from jewels, glass, polished metals or water) - (OC) the mother of Míriel Serindë 

^[*] There is a word in Primitive Elvish (Proto-Quenya) for elephant = andambundâ "long-snouted". Thus the discussions of mammoths and mastodons is perfectly acceptable, and sadly have less canon contradiction that the presence and usage of flowering trees and plants.

The Dowager High Queen of All Elves, Mahtamë of the White Arms, Mother of High King Ingwë, of the First Generation of the First Tribe of the First Children, sat on a rock. It wasn’t an impressive rock. Mahtamë was in the middle of a rapidly drowning Beleriand ravaged by the final year of centuries of war -one that was rather swiftly going to end thanks mostly to the efforts of her people- and she was not alone. A mother of a High King should not be alone, especially not in the middle of a nearly desolate wasteland only a few miles away from an active battlefield (it was a really nice rock). Her company, however, was not ladies-in-waiting or attentive soldiers, not even elven. They were a pair of old mortal women. One was far older than the other, a stooped figure with bleary cataract-blinded eyes and toothless mouth who needed the other gray-haired woman to hold her upright. Mahtamë had greeted them cordially and offered to share her rock (it was a lovely rock). The women introduced themselves, fumbling over language and the fact that the older of the two mortal women was almost deaf in one ear and loosing hearing in the other. The one with gray instead of patchy-balding white hair explained that the woman was her mother’s sister, and they had been separated from their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Mahtamë delighted to learn the new vocabulary. “I too am a grandmother’s mother. And at least one more generation down.”

“But you look so young!” the gray-haired mortal woman said, pointed at the unwrinkled face and golden hair of Mahtamë, and the elf woman laughed.

“I am as old as is possible for my kind.” 

“We couldn’t tell,” said the woman as she helped her aged aunt get comfortable on the rocky seat, rubbing the arthritic knees to try to return feeling to the swollen flesh. The toothless woman smiled.

“Sounds like,” the older of the two mortals croaked, “young woman.” 

Her companion laughed, “Indeed, Prababa-a.” She turned back to her fellow companion on this (nice and wide, quite fortuitous) rock. “The elves are fortunate to escape these ravages of time that cripple us. Are we the first you have met, Lady Elf, mortals afflicted by what age does to us? Turns us into to feeble old crones, the pair of us!” the woman said these disparaging words, but for her all her bitterness, she held her companion tenderly.

Mahtamë, who was but lately come to this war in Beleriand, answered truthfully. “Mortals, yes, those who are thus by the mere advancement of age.” She pulled back her sleeve to uncover the white scars of her arm, the limb that once hung dead and useless at her side.

The older of the two mortal women mumbled something to her companion in the whispery, creaky voice of a centenarian. Her caretaker turned back to Mahtamë, “Gracious Lady, why-”

“Why am I out here, all alone in this wilderness?” Mahtamë interrupted. “I am searching for my husband.”

“Your husband?”

“He’s dead,” Mahtamë answered briskly. “Oh, don’t fret. You know by now that elves can be killed same as mortals, and he has been dead for a very long time. Even for us elves.” Mahtamë chuckled. “But elven souls stay instead of going off like mortal do, so his is still here. Somewhere here,” Mahtamë stressed, slapping her hand firmly against the rock (a really nice guiltless rock who did nothing to deserve that). “So I mean to call him back to me, by singing.”

Unsaid was how her husband died, or why, or how familiar to her was that clutch of loved one’s arm so that they may stand upright, to be their eyes and balance when in need of such assistance oneself.

“I heard a story like that!” the gray-haired woman said brightly. “T’was another elven lady, sang her love back from the grave.”

“Were you abandoned by your people?” Mahtamë asked delicately, looking with pity at the old mortals.

“Oh, not intentionally,” the old women laughed. “They’ll be quite worried for us, our grandchildren.”

Mahtamë read deeper into the causal dismissal, placed these old women against the wounds of her personal history, saw the difference made when every member of a people knew that eventually they too would become infirm and reliant on another’s care. As if it would be unusual, unnatural for a tribe to otherwise. Deep rage welled up through her body, shaking her like prey in a cat’s mouth, but to the mortal women observing her, she was as still as the rock that she sat on.

“Yes, well, until your people find you, I shall keep you company, if that pleases you. And tell you stories about my kin. That lady that sang her husband from Mandos wasn’t one of mine, but her-” here Mahtamë paused and did some quick calculations, “granddaughter married the grandson of one of my grandsons.”

The old women agreed that would be nice. (The rock would have agreed, if it weren’t a rock).

This is the story sung by Vanyar troops as they disembarked one last time from the gangway of the Falmari ships to stumble onto dry land, weary but relieved to be home. Coming to Beleriand the elves had embraced the tale of Beren and Lúthien, the lovers whose daring and steadfastness kept them together through twice-death, but the Vanyar had discovered their own story amidst the horror. Nowhere near as grand a tale, but one that truly belonged to the First Tribe, to the golden-haired shepherds and plowmen and singers and mathematicians of Valmar and the mountain slopes of the Pelóri. This is the rumor spread throughout their barracks, the story retold on troop transports home:

Mahtamë, the Mother of King and Queen, dignified matron of the elves, chooses to stay in Beleriand until the end of the War. Mahtamë of the White Arms, Mahtamë Dowager Queen Mother, yes, that Mahtamë. She has a quest, and will not leave, no matter how much this disrupts anyone’s plans or distresses her family. The council of generals tried to dissuade her; she was not dissuaded. Mahtamë is going hunting, and it has been a long time since she hunted for herself. ("Going Hunting," the Vanyar monks now soldiers say, in the old accent for those words, with a reverence and meaning. None of them have gone hunting in Valinor, not as those archaic tones mean.)

Mahtamë marches along the borders of Valar-controlled territory, hunting for her husband. ("Who is her husband? The Dreadful Wind, aie. That cruel wraith of the enemy.") She will lure this spirit of Morgoth back to her. Everyone is aghast and terrified for her- then mildly terrified of her. ("Will you travel to the No-man's Land to tell the High King's mother to return from her Hunting? Me neither.")

Mahtamë’s plan is simple. She sings. Old songs, her songs, their songs. Songs that had been buried by grander or more appropriately fitting songs in Valinor. Hunting songs, running songs. Love songs. Bawdy descriptive songs of love-making with her husband from in those early days when the elves were first figuring out the mechanics of love-making. (Mortified, Ingwion realizes where that trait came from. Then he has the songs transcribed and sent back to Valmar, petty revenge) Songs about the pure joy of running beside someone. She sings and sings and when her voice is spent, she waits and then as soon as she is physically capable, she sings.

The elves know how powerful song can be to reunite lovers and defeat the power of Morgoth.

("I heard the echoes of her song as we approached Angband.")

A few months later, vocal chords a little raspy from the strain, with a supremely self-satisfied expression on her face, Queen Mother Mahtamë boards a ship and sails back to Valinor. The other passengers regard her with awe. A light wind tickles her cheek as it brings whispers of their stories about her quest to her ears, so that she may laugh about them. 

Chapter End Notes

Author believes in happy endings.

“Our grandchildren are many,” his Mahtamë speaks to him -and how lovely this new form of her name is, having smoothed out both the sounds and the ugly wounds. “Our Ingwë has three daughters and a son; our Indis has two sons and two daughters.”

“Eight!” Alaco laughs, and Mahtamë’s eyes shine with a happiness that the Star-kindler could not make brighter, her joy to finally hear that laughter once more, for that joyous sound was the sound that first awoke her, the sound that pulled her from the primordial mud and into life. “The auspicious number!”

“Yes,” Mahtamë says, opening her arms to gather the weightless mass of air and light that is her spouse’s soul. “Our people’s eighth-born, our well-blessed. Oh,” she cries from happiness that she had walked away from so long ago that no star could light her path back to it, or so she thought, “blessed. So blessed.” 

Ravennë’s sister-by-marriage stamped to where the new Minyar chieftess had picked her half-tent by a tall oak. The location was set a little aside from the rest of the camp’s tents, angling to protect Ravennë from the worst of the wind as she sucked on the bones of her last meal. Licking the last bit of grease from her fingers, Ravennë looked up at the irate face of her sister. Indis had marched over with such forceful steps it was as if she was trying to crush an odious bug under each foot, and now the young woman was glaring down at Ravennë with a red face, her cheeks flushed and puffed out. “Yes, dear Indis?” Ravennë asked, curious if she needed to cut short her idle repose. This spot under the oak was quiet and pleasant and had fewer midges than the tents closer to the river.

“I refuse to marry him,” Indis half-shouted.

Relieved that this was not the request to help grind flour, for her arms were still a little sore and this blanket was too comfy to move, Ravennë sighed. A personal issue, thank the Powers that created their world. “Marry who?” she asked, already guessing at Indis’s answer. The anger attached to Indis’s outburst prompted one option of discussion as the most likely of the choices.

“Your brother. Inkundû. Just because you married my brother, I won’t marry yours.”

Ravennë laughed. “Please don’t. I demand that you never. In fact, an oath. You shall never espouse my older brother.” Though laughter colored her words, Ravennë’s intent was deathly serious. “I wish no spouse upon my brother; he is a trial and a pain. And I want him to have no power to attempt a challenge to me or your brother,” she continued, though remembering how easily Ingwë had bested Inkundû, like reprimanding an unruly child, undercut the sternness of her words. “Ignore any talk of solidifying or unifying our families through a tandem union. My brother is a loose end, but not a worrisome one. Well,” Ravennë waved a hand, “worrisome like the flies are worrisome. Sweet Indis, find a spouse that pleases you. That is worthy of you- though I doubt there are many choices.” Ravennë mentally congratulated herself on having the most worthy of all Eldar as hers, a smug fact that she touted to bolster her ego whenever she had a quiet moment. 

Indis blushed.

“Oh yes, your soft eyes for your brother’s friends. I have not mentioned it to your mother, though Mâktamê is sharp and wise. They are suitable.”

“Sister!” Indis hissed.

“You would marry outside the tribe,” Ravennë continued, “not ideal…but ideal for escaping my obnoxious brother. We could just duel him instead, if he has pressed you with any words or attention, or anyone else that has suggested this to you. Need not involve Ingwê; I could do it, or train you, or ask Asmalô. Asmalô would love to smack Indunkû around for a few rounds, I think.” Indis shook her head. “No? Well, then, worry not, sweet one. And I do mean it- either of the other two chieftains, Phinwê or Elwê. Though your eyes -and your cheeks- favor the short one.” Ravennë made a dismissive gesture. “He is the slightly less handsome one, but his personality is closer to yours and a more happy fit.”

Taking the implied invitation to start discussing Finwë, Indis knelt on the blanket besides Ravennë and began to extol Finwe’s virtues - and polish off the remainder of Ravennë’s snack.

The youths are foolish, to place their confidence and effort into elaborate posturing and flashy moves. Duels take one stroke, one stab, if the warrior is right. The fight is before, the hunt is the wait. It is to reach the mind out and feel the echo of the opponent and flow of his thoughts. That is the secret of the hunt, to sing without words and feel as others feel, both companions and prey. To know the challenger across the ring and judge his thoughts. To be either the spear, stabbing boldly forward, to overwhelm the challenger and cow him under force of will - or be the lake, to absorb the attack like the water swallowing everything in its depths, find the weakness and in the same instance push back.

Imin knows every trick, has watched every fight that has ever been. Oldest and first, he has no equal and no one before him. There is a pointless cruelty in accepting this challenger, for Imin has no weaknesses, and this boy has no hope. What pride compels him, this boy that hunts alone and has never challenged his companions in the ring, to think he can best the first among all? Imin reaches out to find the challenger’s spirit, to hear the beat of the other heart, and overwhelm it with his own. The boy is tall and strong, his grip on the spear relaxed but right. There is a strange gleam of health to his body and a light in his eyes that Imin does not trust. The boy speaks of a land of light without death, a land that has made him strong. Imin can feel the boy’s strength. He acknowledges it. But the boy is young, and Imin is oldest and first, with no one before him. He looks across to the calm face of his opponent and feels with mind instead of ears the steady heartbeat of the boy. Incredulous! that the boy has no fear. That the mind is as calm as the mask-like face, the heartbeat even, no trepidation to face his leader, no bravado to explain the boy’s presumptuous challenge. Not even the lake is this still, and Imin falters. It is a tiny thing, that uncertainty, which does not show on his face or body. But he is no longer first, alone, no one before him. Imin sees the boy across from him in the dueling ring.

‘Lo!’ he shouts in the quietest corner of his mind, as he feels the intention flow into the action, feels the other man stab forward with his spear, begins a strike than Imin cannot stop or deflect. ‘Here you are, my equal. I thought I was alone.’

The last thoughts of Imin, oldest of elves, as he falls dead to earth and his spirit flies west to a land of light, is this: ‘I am glad I was not. Lo! I see you. Ingwë.’

Chapter End Notes

Elé! is the first word that Imin or any elf said, the shout of amazement to behold the stars.