Some Things You Can't Punch by heget

Chapter 1

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Indomuinë loved the epessë she earned in this place, Dondwen. She was no crafter or maker of things, and aside from some minor talent and enjoyment of playing musical instruments, she did not exemplify the pinnacle of Noldor maidenhood, even if she had been praised as if she did throughout her young life. Her father had been the reeve of their village, her family wealthier than their neighbors, and she had been the only girl in her generation, which made the attention of boys almost unbearable once she neared her fifth decade. She hated the hollowness of that regard. As Indomuinë left childhood, she chose Princess Artanis as her role-model, for she found training her body for physical exertions was something she did excel at, more so than lute-playing or sewing, and mapping the trails into the mountains surrounding her village kept her away from unwanted suitors. Wrestling was a joy, though competition itself taxed her. Costawë’s mother approved of her training, for the older woman was Vanyar, and honing the body to peak strength and health was valued by the Vanyar just as being a powerful debater was among the Noldor. Indomuinë entertained plans of running away to one of the Vanyar monasteries, but she did not wish to abandon her family and hometown. Nor did she really desire to repudiate her people or their ideal of femininity. 

People had already left, and had yet to return. He had.

The stronger she grew, the more distantly she was treated. Her strength and toughness became expected, and no one praised her beauty -unless to point out how large her bosom was- or remarked how shy and kind she was. No one offered her flowers or said her eyes reminded them of stars. Her lute lay neglected for no one wished to hear her play. Indomuinë wanted to be the sort of Noldor beauty that was praised in song, one who truly had earned admirers with her wisdom, talent, and loveliness, and whom some gallant knight or prince would dedicate poetry to. Just once she imagined how nice such adoration would be, if it came from an honest heart. 

He had promised.

Indomuinë loved her long straight black hair and spent hours brushing it smooth each night. She wore gloves to keep the skin of her hands as undamaged as possible, even as she used her fists to crush stone - and later would pulverize orc jawbones. She had owned fine gowns shipped from Tirion that mimicked courtly dress, though she never wore them for long. She hated the hindrance towards movement that the long skirts caused, that she could not kick freely, and how the hanging over-sleeves felt like a pair of useless wings, though at least she could squash her chest down with those square bodices. She did not like to wear the fine gowns. Still, Indomuinë would lace herself into them in front of her mirror and stare at her reflection, dreaming. She had not been so foolish as to bring any of those fine dresses when she joined the Army of the Valar, only her simplest of white cotton garments and the heavy leather clothing she wore on the mountain trails. And it was not practical to wear her hair long or loose, though she could not bear to cut it. 

He liked me; he thought I was beautiful even though we were both children. I cannot bear if he no longer thinks me beautiful. 

Indomuinë rubbed her eyes, scowling at the tears on the leather of her gloves. 

I am so shallow and foolish.

Trailing behind Airanis, who looked the part of a princess, ethereal and soft and kind, the type of maiden that people fell over themselves to protect, only highlighted how Indomuinë fell short. Airanis was a healer and could identify plants by scent and brew any tincture by memory, the type of woman praised by Noldor court and song: ability and knowledge paired with beauty and elegance. Indomuinë could not suppress her envy. Nor could she dislike Airanis; that was likely impossible for anyone. True friendship was still difficult for Indomuinë and her guarded heart. Airanis loved openly. Worst of all was Airanis’s humility coupled with a bold personality. She naturally had what Indomuinë did not, a great ease with other people, be it flirting or consoling, and thought nothing of it. 

He would have loved her. Should have. Did?

She felt a deep fulfillment in her role as Airanis’s shield, guarding her and the other healers from attacks. Airanis would bandage her knuckles and gush over how wonderful Dondwen was, oblivious to her greater necessity and worth.

I could have been a truer friend to him. 

Indomuinë could see the falsehood in Airanis’s eyes when the other woman said she did not know of Costawë, that she could not offer any clues of the whereabouts of her childhood friend. “Am I not Dondwen, crusher of stone and smasher of orcs’ faces? Do you not think me strong enough to hear a sad truth?” she wanted to shout to Airanis.

The softer voice of the girl that twirled in her blue dresses and blushed to think of a boy promising her that he would return as her hero replied, “Is this not what you wanted, to be the one shielded?”

Indomuinë curled her hand into a fist, and had nothing to punch.

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Chapter End Notes

donda hand/fist, especially for punching (S)
indo heart/will  +  muin secure/hidden (Q)