Dreadful Wind by heget

In the trenches, the Vanyar foot-soldiers called it the foul wind. It was a cruel spirit that punched through all their defenses, barreling through the fortification lines in a gust of un-light, a screaming gale of hate and despair. Light and song were consumed in its path. It blinded eyes and shoved into lungs, causing convulsions and suffocation to those trapped in its attention before rushing onto more victims. It raced always upon the earth, rarely leaping high, but bold and unmindful of light, song, or ward raised in futile effort to thwart it. A dark wind swift enough for the deaths it dealt to almost be merciful, if not for the mocking intent. Worst of all was the mind behind the torrent, an envious intelligence that hated them personally. Eönwë’s lieutenants only confirmed what the elves who faced the attentions of that black gale knew, that the spirit was not a Maiar like the balrogs or Sauron the Cruel, but one of the Houseless long corrupted by Morgoth, twisted in hate and made unbelievably powerful. Disembodied elven souls could be dangerous to the unaware- yet remained pitiable. The borders of Taur-nu-Fuin had been home to many of those phantoms eager to stalk and strangle any lost wanderers, and during the campaigns to free and purify that forest of darkness, the Vanyar and their Ainur allies had worked tirelessly to overpower the Houseless phantoms and send them to Mandos for healing. Fighting phantoms depended on a bright strong will. Ingwion had never attempted it, but those that had said it needed aught but a clear voice and patience, and a familiarity with using ósanwe. Yet this spirit could be neither caught nor given the luxury of pity. Eönwë himself had tried to capture the dark gale, shooting after the rushing wind swifter than his king’s eagles, and could not touch it.  Among both his soldiers and generals that Ingwion commanded as supreme leader of the Vanyar, not even Sauron himself was more hated and feared - nor inspired the same great feeling of helplessness. “The foul wind could not be bested”, was whispered in the trenches.

Ingwion doubted that the black gale was only an elven soul, even as he beheld the shadowy force barreling towards their central headquarters deep in the rear trenches, a dart of hate hurling right towards him and General Imin. “It has finally come,” one of the bleak-faced captains whispered.

General Imin grimaced and hefted his lance, barking at the various aides-de-camp to move out of the way as he stared down the incoming gale. The first awakened of all elves and long-deposed first leader of the Vanyar, Imin had retained his towering self-confidence even after his restoration from Mandos and acquiescence and public acknowledgement of Ingwë’s High Kingship. Usually this annoyed Ingwion; right now it was a slim comfort. Deep within the shadows Ingwion could sense a presence, a feeling of a consciousness and memory of a body, something his mind wanted to paint in familiar golden light. But all his ears could hear was a snarling voice that shattered into high-pitched screams of envy. Ingwion strained to discern words amidst the howl instead of mere emotion. The darkness, swiftly passing from the outer ramparts into the interior of the fortress with unreal speed, had narrowed into a shape no bigger than a man’s form, a shifting column barely taller than Ingwion. It was like -and yet not- the forms of balrogs they had encountered. Unlike the popping flames, the sounds and sensations behind this shadowy form were familiar, completely akin. Mind-speech, a resentment so deep it was given shape, but of motivations that hinted that an elf could understand, if only able to pierce the black cloud surrounding the soul. And the syllables through which the wind screamed promised comprehension, dangling just outside the range of language understood - not at all like the discordant alien notes of Valarin. Imin sensed this too, stronger than his grandson, for he gazed nonchalant upon the incoming gale, a puzzlement on his brows as if scouring his memory for a match. Imin boasted that he could recognize and remember the face and voice of every elf that had first awakened, a talent he practiced with all of the army’s captains and underlings. Fear as well - Ingwion had practice now of discerning the elements of facade in his grandfather’s overwhelming bravado. A mental shout of recognition as the maelstorm devastated the room, racing around General Imin to fling him into the air like a child as Ingwion dove to the floor, then holding Imin aloft, mocking and toying and slowly constricting like a serpent. Ingwion could not say if that call of recognition came from the spirit, General Imin, or both. It was clear the elven soul beneath the black wind knew who Imin was, which spoke of the Houseless spirit’s incredible age, for Imin had died in Cuiviénen before the Great Journey. Words it began to speak to Imin, in a voice horrifying similar to Imin’s own. Titles, Ingwion thought the phrases might have been, a mocking greeting, but the words were old.  One of the First, Ingwion thought to himself as he tried to crawl away, that is why it is so strong.

“Run to your grandmother!” Imin shouted as his eyes began to bulge, a scream in ósanwe more than physical vibration of air, and Ingwion could feel the attention of the hateful spirit turn from Imin to himself. The screams of envy shifted and focused as well, and Ingwion could feel the shapes of those thoughts, of the anger that Imin lived with a body seemingly untouched, still a powerful and confident leader, accompanied by not just a son but a grandson. The feeling of that hate was sharp enough to strangle, and Ingwion ran out of the room faster than he had ever in his life. Gibbering hind-thoughts were screaming at Ingwion to dare presume that he could possibly outrun the dreadful wind. Yet Ingwion prided himself on his speed - if not to the levels of egotism his mother’s father conducted himself in- and there had been a cry of triumph in Imin’s command, a surety that the wind be defeated if Ingwion’s grandmother reached in time.

Mahtamë, Ingwion’s paternal grandmother, stood at the other end of the courtyard, called forth by the screaming. Her presence here was an anomaly, the culmination of a touring visit to assure the troops of stability and incoming supplies back in Valinor. Mahtamë was not wearing any armor, unlike everyone who had years now fighting a war on this ancient shore, only the richly pleated robes and heavy lace afforded her as mother of High King Ingwë, her golden crown a simpler version of the one Ingwion’s mother wore. 

Ingwion raced towards his grandmother, hating himself for bringing this foul thing behind him, for he could hear clear the words of disdain now interlacing with the wind’s howls, the spirit’s hatred of bright, perfect Ingwion, a son beloved and spoiled, of these people whole and splendid. That Imin kept what he could not, his child, his family, his body and life, happiness, all. The wind overtook Ingwion, blocking out his sight, then abandoned him, aiming straight at Mahtamë in her lace veil and golden crown, arms raised as if to ward off the shadowy mass. Ingwion could not turn away as the wind slammed into his grandmother, then suddenly retreated as Mahtamë screamed.

The sound from his grandmother’s throat, echoing stronger in ósanwe, was not the cry of pain Ingwion expected. It was a scream of pain - but of a far deeper anguish. A wound of the soul, not physical pain. The sound itself was like a column of searing white, a fountain of Laurelin’s purest light, with Mahtamë at its center, her arm outstretched towards the fleeing shadow, reaching for the vaguely man-shaped figure sobbing in pain beneath the light-devouring shadow. The scars of her long-healed injury shone white against her skin, fingers like the teeth of a desperate starving beast.

“Alaco!” Grandmother had screamed to name the swiftly fleeing wind.

Chapter End Notes

ósanwe - telepathy

The language of the Valar - Valarin- was noted to sound especially harsh and unpleasantly alien to elven ears.

Phantoms strangling people in The Forest under Nightshade comes directly from Chapter 18, though the Houseless themselves from various notes and essays about elven fëar.

The rushing wind retained his sense of self.  His master, the true king of all Arda, had not deluded or erased that from him. If memories were fogged, details forgotten, it was only because they had not been important enough to preserve.  He still knew of the joy he had so cruelly lost, of a wife and young son (pride, such pride, and such sorrow, such hatred on their behalf), and his master had not discouraged those feelings but helped the wind to retain them.  It had been a long time since the rushing wind had been confined to a body -and oh! what a limiting torment that cage had been!- and unlike the other mere Houseless phantoms, the rushing wind did not hunger to be confined to that physical pain again.  What was the taste of food to this freedom?  Here on the plane visible to the soul and not sight, his body was whole and beautiful and powerful. He could run with perfect balance, without heed to blood or lung.  Faster than Nahar, more agile than the skittering brood of Ungoliant, he was uncatchable.  Death was a memory abandoned, for what use was he that need no longer fear it?  He was a storm wind loyal to Morgoth, a prize stolen from the Dark Lord’s younger brother.

The rushing wind remembered his life as an elf -greater though his form was now; he would not trade it.  He recognized his tribesmen -Minyar, Vanyar, the name did not matter- golden and beautiful, returned now, within his reach now.  And oh! no longer whole, were they?  No longer free from fear and misery!  What glee the rushing wind felt to see the twisted faces of anguish and torment on his kinsmen, his exaltation to taste their agony on the spectral plane.  Their deaths!  Now they were the twisted fearful things.  (That disgust, that fear, damn them!)  Now they were hopeless.

They deserved it, for his wife and child if not the man the wind had been.

The rushing wind saw his former leader, arrogant ungentle Imin, the vain fool.  A shock, but a chance for delightful revenge.  He hated Imin most, the one who had allowed his cruel ostracizing, who had had power and love and opportunities.  A full belly.  Praise from everyone, universal adoration.  Imin who stood garbed in strength and wealth, unchanged in authority, who had never suffered as the wind had suffered.  Outward accouterments had changed, but not to extent of other elves, and the soul was the same.  No one had disfigured Imin; no death had touched Imin.  Imin First of Chieftains, who thought he knew the rushing wind, thought he could challenge that which the Maiar of Manwe could not best, could compel the wind to obey him as if he was still one of his subordinate tribesmen - that fool!  Oh Mighty Imin!  The rushing wind was stronger now; untouchable Imin could be -would be- bested.

Slow, it must be slow.  Slow as his torment had been.

Imin called for a grandson to flee, and the rushing wind choked on rage and resentment.  The wind remembered his own son, a bright clever boy, one with such unjustly thwarted promise.  His son deserved to be here, assured by the company of father or grandfather of how precious he was regarded, given command and safety.  The rushing wind divided, uncertain whose attention was more deserving.  The boy was running.  The wind laughed.  How dare he.  The rushing wind had been unmatched in that skill, not even Imin or his favorites had outclassed him, and this was before he had been found and shaped by Morgoth.  (Such bitterness, those years he had barely been able to walk- no one else deserved to do aught but hobble as he had been forced to.)  The boy ran towards a woman -Grandmother?  Yes, but this woman did not feel like Iminyë on the plane of thought and soul; something was off.  Was his memory not untouched?

The rushing wind reached the Vanyar woman draped in fine lace and gold, this beautiful regal breakable thing, eager to revenge himself.  Revenge a wife and son.

He knew her. 

He knew this woman’s soul; how could he not?  It was the first soul outside his own that he had ever known.  More familiar than Imin, more familiar than his -their- long lost son.  His companion, the other whole that was half of their union.

She was whole, beautiful, restored in body, healed in soul - how?

That meant the grandson - hers?  Imin’s grandson?  But then how- was he the child of his son?  That beautiful child?  What of his son, the clever boy, the quiet boy?  Was he whole, happy?  And had they not conceived a second child - had he forgotten them?  What had been hidden from his memory?  What else had he lost?

She screamed in anguish- not the same anguish he felt, not the same memories of resentment and loathing (self-loathing, oh! that had been as strong as his outward hatred, as hers, as what had poisoned and stunted their son).  Horror, but not the horror he had meant to cause.  She knew him as he knew her, saw all of his soul from shadows to depths.  Echo of a scream of loss he had never heard, the scream of loss and horror and rage his death had forced her to make.  Fear, horrible fear.  For him.  Always for his behalf.  Love.  Arm reaching for him.  That outstretched arm, his Maktâmê.  Trying to capture him, her Alakô.

No!

Chapter End Notes

Spelling differences in the names reflect the changes from Primitive Elvish to Quenya.