Young Bucks of Cuiviénen by heget

Eight Blessings

Wind's Reunion.

“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.”