The last gift of Oromë by SkyEventide

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The last gift of Oromë

Language notes:

1. Quenya names are used throughout. Celegorm is referred to as Tyelkormo or Turco, his familial nickname (c/k spelling depends entirely on my aesthetic preferences and there's nothing I can do about it). Aredhel is ĺrissë, she is at one time called Arafániel, the Quenya adaptation of Ar-Feiniel; I additionally decided to have Celegorm call her Arelda as the Quenya adaptation of Aredhel, though I haven't made up my mind about whether Arelda/Aredhel is another sobriquet or a mother-name. In any case, the names used here are ĺrissë Arelda Arafániel.
2. Elwenon is a name that is weirdly close to Elwë and I know it, but the compounding is made from elwen (heart, Lost Tales) + on (stone), not Elwë+non. Andaleptë is taken from Qenya anda-lepta, long-fingered. Indilerë is indil (lily) + erë (draft word for iron, Lost Tales). Sartaldir is from sarta (loyal) and I don't remember how I compounded it, I'm very sorry. Hlarindë is a neologism for hearer, and Rániel, it's intended as wayward-daughter but also an easter egg for the alternative name of moon, once it comes into existence. I know there's no reason at all to explain the names of all these OCs but I'm like that.
3. Arǭmēz is the Valarin name of Oromë. Nielíqui is originally, in early drafts, the daughter of Oromë and Vána, here I reinterpreted her as a Maia of Vána who also follows her not-dad sometimes.
4. Thou/thee is used as the informal singular form to remark a difference in rank. Celegorm uses it with his lord, Oromë uses it with Celegorm, but not the other way around.

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*

 

All his brothers hunt differently.

Maitimo often seeks new grounds, stalking through the foliage, blending in like a young maple tree when the Maiar of Yavanna trick the leaves into blushing red by whispering cold words. He learns the new land carefully, until he knows every clearing, groove, and path. He plans the hunt with the joy of discovery and the pleasure of control.

Macalaurë is a bait hunter. He waits in stillness, so much he could be mistaken for one of mother’s statues, and swiftly grabs his bow when game has scented the bait, walking warily into the clearing, walking to its doom. But he is a cheater also. He sings tunes so beautiful that his prey is too stunned to flee, staring prettily at the arrow’s head.

Carnistir is like Maitimo: he moves through the woods with quiet movements, his heartbeat in the cadence of his steps. He is silent, intent, intense, following the tracks of boars and stags and solitary wolves bow across his torso and spear in hand, chasing them into the dark glades until they are cornered.

Father hunts more gladly from his horse, pursuing large prey across the highlands near Formenos and shooting at them with thrilling accuracy; Atarincë is the same, if not for inclination then certainly out of a sense of obligation. It is amusing enough that both get distracted in the woods, by the shape of rocks, by the challenge of a climb, by the bed of streams where gold gathers in little nuggets, specks of light under the cold water.

As for Ambarussa and Ambarto, they are true hunters. Bait, stalking, horse, pack of dogs, birds of prey, each of those techniques they have mastered and gladly employ. They move in unison, better alone than with any hunting party. They have never come home without game, for which Tyelkormo is most proud.

And when his brothers are all together, and ĺrissë also comes with them, they all often walk or ride in a closing circle through the undergrowth or the tall grass, pushing the deer toward one who lies in waiting, arrow nocked; and sometimes they’re all gracious enough to let the White Lady claim the kill.

 

*

There are two of them. The deer, that is.

As far as hunters go, there are all of his friends and servants, and their dogs, and Huan as well, dotting the deeper forests like shards, chasing boars. The hounds had barked and sniffed with excitement and anticipation – this way, yes, I smell it, I hear it, this way, follow, run, wait, come, this way –

Hounds do not truly speak, not with the words of the Eldar. But their language takes shape in him, so that, if he wanted, he could make words out of it. Rough-hewn, stout, sharp, like their snouts and teeth and throat calls.

That had been Oromë’s first gift.

The hounds and their voices had faded in the thick shrubs with soft rustles.

Only he and Tilion, however, remain to pursue the deer.

They step onto and around great rocks, the stony children of an ancient landslide that lie between the beech trees, and each of the boulders is blanketed in green, crawling with bugs and other lesser forms of life. Tilion’s scent is like moss when crystalline waters drip from it, a wet necklace, like moss when it is fresh under the rain.

The body that stalks in front of him is Elda-like, but indeed, the scent of Tilion’s skin is liminal, and honeyed, and as humid ferns.

The deer sometimes do not mind, or perhaps are too confused by its signals to fear it. Nonetheless, they move downwind.

In-between the beeches, standing as carven pillars, Tyelkormo spots their prey again: two minute things, standing on dainty legs and grazing, their coats the sweet brown of cooked sugar, their ears turning to follow sounds. Between the tall trunks, then hidden by them – leaves trembling all around in the breeze.

He and Tilion creep up closer, soft-footed, the string of the bow held loosely, the arrow nocked.

They circle a large boulder. Then Tilion, much to Tyelkormo’s surprise, jumps out of the cover from the other side. Arrow aimed. Arrow loose.

Too soon! – Tyelkormo shoots the thought loudly; for the deer’s heads turn sharply, and at once they spring away, and the arrow is lost in the foliage. A soft thuck against wood. But Tilion chuckles, undismayed, and throws away the pretence of the hunt by stalking – he launches himself in pursuit.

A bemused, energetic shiver pushes Tyelkormo to his feet, giving chase to Maia and deer both.  

Fast and yet faster, it feels like flying, leaves whip at his face, vines threaten to grab at his feet. Spurred forward in elation, he bursts into a clearing and jumps past Tilion. Tilion, whose bow lies on the ground of leaves and whose hands are gripping the deer’s velvety horns. It kicks and flails, its head held low, bleating.

« What is the point of hunting », Tyelkormo asks breathless, lungs burning, « if you catch them thus? »

But Tilion laughs, releasing the animal, who darts away in a panic. The Maia walks to him, reaches up with his hand and swipes at his cheek. Blood, now, is on his thumb.

Tyelkormo is startled into a snort. « The leaves were not kind to my cheekbone. »

Tilion licks the blood away from his finger, then turns and bends to pick up his silver bow. « I hunt deer only for your pleasure. »

« Then let me pick when to claim the prey, since you move too quick and too soon. »

The Maia’s teeth shine in his grin, as pearls. « I am cursed with your own flaws. »

Tyelkormo scoffs and shakes his head.

 

*

Tilion’s hand is in his hair.

He has laid a pelt on the wet grass, moist with nocturnal dew, glistening in the distant light of Telperion. Here, deeper in the woods, the stars shimmer milky white, as jewels peeking between the black crowns of the trees, and Tilion’s hand is in his hair.

The Maia sits next to him, running his fingers through Tyelkormo’s locks, and Tyelkormo accepts the soft ministrations with uttermost peace.

« If I could but weave the strands together », Tilion whispers, « I would fashion a silver string for my silver bow. »

Tyelkormo huffs a small laugh, shifting his back against the ground. « It would break. It is but hair. You would have to gut me and take my bowels for a good string. »

« Surely those are not silver. »

Tyelkormo laughs again, a deeper sound, shaking in his chest, in his ribcage. « I wouldn’t know, but it seems unlikely. »

Tilion’s hand trails down his cheek, hovers on his chest, and rests on his belly, feather-soft, and the Maia’s eyes shine with amazement at what might hide inside. Tyelkormo, too, wonders how the Maia would appear unveiled, naked, truly naked, shedding the flesh he has fashioned for himself into a body. Perhaps as a being of pure light, like the wisps and lesser Maiar of the gardens of Lórien, where Tilion often retires in search of rest; perhaps as something wilder and more startling.

« Ride me », Tyelkormo requests under his breath.

Startled, Tilion looks up. « I cannot claim your spirit. »

An eye roll. « We are hardly exchanging marriage vows. »

How do the Ainur wed? Things of Eru’s thought, surely they don’t rub against each other like rabbits in a rut and call it union—

Tilion lifts a leg and brings himself astride Tyelkormo’s lap with one swift movement, weighing on him, stirring him to sudden arousal with a roll of hips. And then again, pressing down and forward, he elicits a coiling pleasure that unfurls in the bulge constrained inside Tyelkormo’s trousers.

That scent – musky and mossy, even Tilion’s sweat smells like new leather and has the tang of fresh blood.

He would love to see him naked, bare, open. But this, with Tilion’s arse pressed on his crotch and his thighs clenching around his body, and Tyelkormo’s hands gripping at them, this is how he likes it, urgent and demanding and uncaring of the softness of a mattress or lack thereof.

This rubbing, it must be the happy middle ground, something a Maia will do without feeling guilt or—

It draws a moan that is half a growl out of him.

The suggestion of intercourse, making him throb with pleasure, and squirm, arching his hips upwards. Tyelkormo’s thumbs dig into the softness just above the bones of the pelvis, forcing a rhythm, and Tilion bends over him, elbows on the pelt on the ground and mouth to mouth.

Tilion panting on his tongue is the fresh air of the dark hours, cool as a shiver, as a barefoot run in the woods. And the movement of his hips grows faster, pushing on him, stroking him without even undoing his garments; Tyelkormo bites on another moan, and another, and at last his toes curl in his boots and his legs tense, and he’s rolling his eyes to the stars through the shots of pleasure.

Tilion didn’t split into a being of light.

But his fingers still split Tyelkormo’s tresses, until he sighs in satisfaction and says, « Help me undress and find a stream. »

 

*

 

Elwenon had been born to two mason parents who had toiled on the walls of Tirion and Alqualondë alike, and for that reason his mother had called him stone-heart. It had come as a great irony, then, that he had taken to the woods, to bows and arrows, and to the hunt.

As for Andaleptë, the long-fingered, daughter of tanners, leather weavers, she had already learnt how to skin her game before her fiftieth year of age.

It had been in the terraces of Tirion, facing northwards where the golden light more easily shone, that they and four court ladies had spotted a hoopoe, black, white and orange and boldly crested, hopping on the grass and on the rail of wrought iron.

Tyelkormo had come with soft steps in softer boots and had pressed a finger to his lips, shushing them as they followed the bird at careful distance, stifling chuckles. So he had lightly walked closer to the small salmon-pink wonder of a bird, and he had whispered –

What do you look for?

Birds also do not speak with words in the way of the Eldar, but their gurgles too take shape in him, and the hoopoe had scratched its feathers with its thin beak, answering, grasshoppers.

Full of coiled elegance, Tyelkormo had leaned forward, had extended his arm clad in ruby red silks, and he had said, you shall have plenty if you but hop on my finger and let the ladies see you up close.

A beat of silence, of consideration, of held breath, and then the hoopoe had unfurled its wings, flying to perch itself on his outstretched index, its small talons gripping his skin; thus the ladies had gasped, Andaleptë had given a silent little clap, and Elwenon had let go of a startled laugh.

That had been Oromë’s second gift.

To understand the birds that hunt, their minds and not merely the signals of their bodies. Tyelkormo had soon found out that all birds hunt – some large animals, some the worms. But all birds, in the end, are birds of prey. 

 

*

 

He and Tilion reach the rest of the hunting party in the morn, two days later.

Hlarindë cooks skewers of meat, roasting them over a campfire, the scent herbal and delicious. It makes the dogs restless and eager. Food, meat, they pant, me first says the pack leader, tongue hanging out their mouths, salivating, and then play! calls one as Sartaldir throws them a stick, making them tumble, drawing out of their strong chests the closest thing to a laughter –

« Your Highness », greets Hlarindë, her voice the swish of leaves. So does Elwenon, rising from the soughing stream that glass-like unwinds through firs and ferns, where he was whetting his blades.

« Holy Tilion », they call next, as the Maia strides into the clearing, smiling as quicksilver to the gathered hunters.

« My lords, ladies, and servants – and dear ĺrissë’s friends – tell me, what did you catch? », Tyelkormo asks, bright of voice.

« Two boars », Hlarindë declares.

« One my catch, your Highness », says Elwenon, with endearing smugness.

« Hares and a fox also », cries another over the dogs’ barking.

And just then, from the thickness of the bushes, does the large frame of Huan appear, his steps a prowl, sliding to Tyelkormo’s side with the softest headbutt. Welcome, he says, welcome, well-met again, I waited. And Tyelkormo smiles with softness and a glint in his eyes that is mirrored in the dark, watery pupils of the great hunting dog.

« My dearest hound », he says, plunging his gloved hand into Huan’s plush fur.

He too had been a gift of Oromë, if one can possibly count a friend as a thing to be given. Tyelkormo had never named him as anything other than what he was, thinking that, if Huan should ever want to be called otherwise, then he would have spoken his will and his name himself.  

« Will you stay for our next hunt, Holy Tilion? », Sartaldir asks then.

« Though there is little I would love more, I already delayed joining Arǭmēz for long enough and cannot stray any further. But I wish you all a bountiful day. »

The true name of Oromë buzzes and quavers through the undergrowth, a sound like an arrow loosed, swishing too close to one’s ear. Tyelkormo, leaning on Huan’s great frame, feels the name in his marrow, almost unrepeatable. Though his father at times speaks Valarin, the name of Oromë in that language is like prayer; not the hymns of Valimar, but the carving of the heart from the body of the wolf. 

« My lord », Tilion continues, « will blow the horn soon. Join me then. »

Sartaldir bows, caressing the back of his sighthound, and Tyelkormo nods to the Maia, and smiles. 

Tilion swings his silver bow over his shoulder with the shadow of a smile, then crosses the stream in one long stride, soon covered by trunks and foliage until he is no more. 

In the following silence, Rániel, who was arranging her tunics on a branch to dry, calls out, « Well, Hlarindë, is that meat ready? »

« Ask again, and you shall eat nothing. »

« Have Sartaldir do it, is it not his job? »

« I am keeping the dogs from seizing our lunch. »

Lunch, yes, food!

« I shall take the dogs », says one of ĺrissë’s people. 

Tyelkormo smiles against the fur on his cheek, then straightens and turns to the chinking sound of blades slid fast over the whetting stone. « Come, Elwenon », he says, straightening in one swift movement, « let us catch some deer. »

« I would have expected you to arrive with a few already won, my Prince, but I don’t see them », Elwenon answers with something of a smirk. 

« No fault of mine, that! », Tyelkormo replies pointedly. « Now come, I’m itching for a good trophy. »

 

*

 

The wood is verdant and the arrow’s only sound is the dull thud it makes when it buries itself in the deer’s ribs. Its black eyes dilate, it throws its slender legs in the air as it jumps convulsively, then lands and flees. Not for long. From the downwind position on the slope, Tyelkormo watches it through the foliage, the lithe frame jumping, stumbling, then falling behind the bushes.

« It’s down », Elwenon declares.

Tyelkormo can hear the grin in his voice, even as his eyes remain on the fallen animal. He smiles and hums his agreement, his feet already flying down the slope into the dark undergrowth, the gold of Laurelin falling on the forest floor in patches, slow dust twirling in the light.

Finding the deer, he pulls the arrow out of its body. Huan slides to his side, a muffled woof calling for attention, his snout and tail pointing eastwards as if the hound were ready for renewed pursuit. There’s more, he says, more that way.

Tyelkormo scratches him once behind his ears. « I am satisfied. And we should ready ourselves to meet Oromë soon enough. Say, Elwenon, where is ĺrissë anyway? »

« Bathing down the stream with Andaleptë », he answers, sliding a rope from his belt to tie the deer’s legs and carry it.

Turning to his lord, Tyelkormo lifts a brow. « Oh. »

The picture in his mind creeps into Elwenon, eliciting something incredibly close to embarrassment. « Arafániel needed someone to guard her things. »

But Tyelkormo chuckles, an insinuating warmth in the vibration, and shakes his head. « Oh, I know ĺrissë. And Andaleptë. As for thee… », and he slides close, his arm around his vassal’s shoulders, « thou shouldst ask thy favourite tanner for a betrothal before she wafts away like a chaffinch. »

Elwenon almost scoffs. « Ah, your Highness, please. »

« In the meantime – »

Huan woofs again, so very pointedly, the thought to follow the cut off sentence pulsing like a quickened heartbeat – the thought of Elwenon on his knees for him, panting for him – guessed at once by his hound the same way it is felt and known by Elwenon himself. And Tyelkormo laughs again, lifting the deer with one single exertion and securing it to the dog’s back. « Indeed, I know you are right here. Take this back to the others, yes? »

Huan acquiesces with a huff, his tail swinging whip-like and hitting Tyelkormo’s side once.

« I love you, lad », he replies, grinning to the great hound as he disappears in the shadows of the trees, with great grace despite the size.

A birdcall whose meaning is lost among the branches, faint and confused, mingles with the shudder in Elwenon’s breath. « …Should we not move, perhaps, a little farther…? », he asks, acceptance implicit, excitement in the dark ripples of his spirit that come forth through his eyes.

« We are distant enough – unless thou wouldst rather play the deer in the bushes, then I shall chase thee into the deep of the woods and catch thee there. »

Elwenon gapes, colour blooming on his cheeks even in the leaf-filtered penumbra.

So Tyelkormo smiles, slowly. « Oh, thou likest that », he drawls, his fingers trailing along the string of his bow, his spirit stirring the wants of his flesh. « Go on, then. I will give thee a head start. »

 

*

 

It is a kind of hunt. Not in the way of the Eldar, but in the way of sighthounds and perhaps of the wild beasts in the east of Aman, or Arathar. Blood-pumping and euphoric, he would know the way from the panting of breath, from that slight scent of sweat, from the rustle and crack of twigs and leaves.

Tyelkormo, jumping over a fallen trunk in a nigh reckless run, grasps for Elwenon’s shoulder. For Elwenon, in the end, doesn’t mean to elude him.

At once they’re almost tumbling, entangled, Elwenon gasping, their things falling on the ground, the quiver, the bow, the restraints of custom and spoken word.

Ah, my faithful friend, Tyelkormo murmurs thoughts to thoughts, his mouth open in a grin, his tongue teasing at the too-long incisor, I have thee, and he grips Elwenon by the collar and by his wrist in a controlled fall onto the ground, all but lowering him as he sways on his feet and follows.

Elwenon’s hands disappear below their waists and soon Tyelkormo feels them groping, looking for the buckles at his waist, for the laces that tie his trousers closed under the layers, and in the midst of this groping and fondling Tyelkormo’s mouth presses on Elwenon’s – warm breath, gasping breath, nothing like the fresh-scented sacred coolness of Tilion’s panting.

His clothes loose, halfway naked between his belly and his thighs, Tyelkormo hauls himself to straddle his lord’s chest, his prick in his hand, the fingers of the other digging in Elwenon’s dark hair; dark hair as rivulets of ink spread on the grass and the leaves. Elwenon, gripping his legs, flickers out his tongue, licking below the shaft, licking warm and humid at a spot that makes Tyelkormo see stars even at the zenith of Laurelin’s shine – he gasps and twitches.

« Thou wouldst see me spill on thy lips », Tyelkormo accuses. Elwenon’s mouth closes around the tip of him and Tyelkormo’s hips buck forward, only to pull back from the wet heat entirely a moment later. « No, I will have thee. I will have my prize. »

« Whatever— », Elwenon pants as he’s grabbed by the shoulder and turned roughly to the side, « —my Prince desires. »

Tyelkormo hooks his fingers under the hem of his lord’s trousers and pulls them downwards, unceremoniously, uncovering the firm curve of his arse. He will not suffer the wait of a long preparation; no, he must feel him at once – so Tyelkormo pushes himself between the clamped thighs, constrained by the clothes, sliding himself back and forth under the pressure of the leg muscles.

His knees on the carpet of crushed leaves and moss and grass, propped up palm against the earth, he watches Elwenon moan and squirm.  

Tyelkormo gazes upwards, toward the intricacies of the great canopies where branches cross each other like stitches, their chaotic geometries confused – an endless pattern that comes into focus and then fades with each thrust, chasing a climax the way he chased Elwenon.

And Elwenon’s thoughts swirl free as his mind is undone – he feels claimed, he feels taken, won and pierced –

It is enough to send Tyelkormo’s body into a great shuddering rapture.

 

*

 

Following the path back to the camp is simple indeed: they have broken through enough bushes in their inebriated run. It is not unlike stalking a wild hog or a bear or another large beast where the undergrowth doesn’t allow it easy passage.

The stream runs as a thread through the thickness of the forest and, in finding it again and following it, their boots moving from humid bank to wet stone, the scents and sounds of the hunting party reach them soon enough. Between the verdigris and lime shades where Laurelin shines on the leaves and the grass, Tyelkormo sights a bright flash, white as the northern snows.

He grins as he approaches, and calls out, « Arelda, my dearest cousin! How do you ever catch anything, clad like so? I could spot you from a mile away. »

« It may be », she answers, with a warm trill of voice amidst the buzzing of the camp, « that I am just that good. »

Elwenon, walking forth in high spirits, heads straight for the campfire and claims a skewer of meat for himself, finally cooked, and glazed with something that smells herbal and inviting. Tyelkormo comes into the camp and sweeps it with a gaze, pausing where ĺrissë now sits – which happens to be against Huan, who lies on the ground, his head resting on his paws.

Her hair is braided but still wet, falling over her shoulder and on her forehead like jet stone, rivulets of jet stone the way his mother might carve them.

Tyelkormo lifts a brow at her. « Sitting there is considerably ruining my embracing plans, cousin », he says, his hand nudged by a dog, who chatters vaguely of its contentment after being fed; he rewards it with a scratch behind the floppy ear.

ĺrissë smiles. « Ah, well. Whatever shall I do. »

« Stand up, of course. »

She snorts and shifts, bringing herself to her feet, with languid contentment in her limbs, that may be for the successful hunt or may be for the bath or whatever she and Andaleptë have been doing.

« Wonderful. » Tyelkormo smiles at her with great satisfaction, but touches her not at all, dropping on the grass right in the spot she had claimed beside Huan’s soft stomach, casting his arms around the neck of his wolfhound, burying his face in the fuzz of his fur. The huff that Huan pushes through his nose is the closest sound he can make to a chuckle.

ĺrissë scoffs, sounding oh so affronted. « Ah! Unbelievable, Turco. »

Lifting his head, he grins again, teeth all on show, and extends an arm towards his servants by the fire. « Hlarindë, my lunch? »

« Coming, your Highness. »

Make her space, Huan presses, his tail flapping slowly left and right, his eyes large on ĺrissë. So Tyelkormo laughs, and does.

 

*

 

The silver hours pass in relaxed merriment and when the lights mingle in the sky again, their haze a slow awakening, the hunting party decamps. Tyelkormo rises soon and eagerly, gathering his own nobles and servants about himself as ĺrissë does the same, and deciding which should return to Tirion early, carrying back the field-dressed game before it spoils.

At last they set forth, aiming to split by the monolith where Oromë often ties Nahar and blows his horn, calling his own to assembly.

By the edge of the woods, where the sharp rock pokes out of the earth as a broken rib through the skin, Tilion awaits, rather than Oromë. He sits atop the great splinter, fletching arrows, his hair glittering like a snowy owl, and smiles at their approach.

« Welcome, my friends of the House of Finwë », he says, and Tyelkormo catches the glint in his eyes. « The Huntsman will be here anon. »

So ĺrissë picks her friend and lady of her House, Indilerë, and bids her stay, sending the rest of her people on the way back to Túna; Sartaldir and Hlarindë take the pack of hounds with them, but Andaleptë and Elwenon stay. Soon the party has faded from the woods, lifting poles to carry the trophies, and they are left to wait.

But they do not wait long.

It is, first, a vibration, something Tyelkormo feels in the air like a lightning strike and on the ground against the palm of his hands.Then comes sound, a great neighing, and the clopping of gold-shod hooves. In the distance, in-between the sparser trees, flashes the white mantle of Nahar and the spear of Oromë, both agleam like the silver lamp atop the Mindon Eldaliéva. With him, Tyelkormo counts one more mounted horse, and six without a rider.

Tilion jumps down the monolith with grace, while Tyelkormo stands, first of the group, followed by ĺrissë and the others.

The gallop of Nahar leaves one breathless. He has seen it so often, and yet each time, when it comes to a halt and the horse prances, and the eyes of Oromë shine as stars in the north, Tyelkormo always breathes in deeply, his ribcage tightened. But then, then he always smiles. Oromë is a god of terrible beauty, and both the beauty and the terror are in the arrhythmic sounds of stirred heartbeats.

Tilion bows to his Lord and moves to claim one of the horses. Nielíqui, who seldom comes among the Ñoldor and is a Maia of Vána, but dear to Oromë just the same, sits on a stallion clad in hunting gear. 

Oromë tilts downwards his antlered head. Tyelkormo is still smiling when the Vala speaks.

« Five of you », says the Huntsman, « and five horses I brought. This is no hunt for hog or deer. I lead you to prey on the predators, far south, where the lights fade. Will you all come? »

« Indilerë and I will come, Lord », ĺrissë answers.

Tyelkormo’s hand sinks in the thick fur of his hound, Huan steady by his side, he would not doubt his presence for any reason in Aman; so he turns to his two friends and his smile is all teeth and buzzing fervour. « So, then, are you coming? »

Andaleptë’s grin is sharp, and Elwenon answers for them both. « Anywhere you ask of us, my Prince. »

 

*

 

Oromë is to the front, Nielíqui at the rear, Tilion traces curves between the trees, evergreen cones sprouting out of the hard ground, and ĺrissë has clad herself in a dark mantle to cover her white garments. They ride south, until the more temperate forest turns to prickly firs and azure spruces of sharp needle leaves. Until the glow of Laurelin is caught perpetually in a soft dusk and the stars shine through the aureate light.

It is so free. Wind on his face and the shifting of the horse’s muscles under him, his fingers gripping tightly at its mane; the burn of cool air in his lungs, the blank thoughts of his mount as it gallops, Huan’s excitement as he wildly runs – it is so free.

And freedom turns to a lust of the spirit, the kind that brings the body tautly into focus but leaves the heart ablaze, when Oromë guides Nahar in a trot and at last lifts his spear and points to a rocky upland. To a thing that stalks there, large and silent, and watches them.

Tyelkormo might mistake it for a mountain lion, yet it has grown larger and more threatening. Two great teeth protrude from its mouth like sabres.

« It is here for us », Oromë’s voice softly rumbles, « and us for it. »

And Tilion, under his breath: « Nock your arrows. »

The arrow’s shaft slides between Tyelkormo’s fingers, a long brushing like lovers’ hands intertwining, then he pulls it out of the quiver and grabs his bow with firm grip. The horses trot ahead and the beast follows, fading from the edge of the rocks and then reappearing, a grey mass slowly descending.

ĺrissë’s voice sizzles in his mind – what is its name?

I know not, Arelda.

We should give it one.

I shall leave you that privilege.

It is no tracking hunt; the beast sees them, follows them, giving them glimpses of its long teeth; Tyelkormo teases his own canines with his tongue, behind his closed lips.

This time, it’s Tilion who speaks to his thoughts, the sound of his words like the shudder of held breath – are you afraid, my friend?

I am elated.

Some fear might here serve you well.

I have no use for it. Even if I were blinded, I would trust my company today to guide my steps.

And Tilion rides next to him, and surpasses him, and smiles.

Between the spruces, in the moments where Tyelkormo rides behind the tree and then emerges on the other side, the beast has descended, has jumped down the rocks. It is him, then, who reaches into the minds of his two followers and commands, aim well and true – it will be a fine trophy.

Nielíqui rides her horse under the wall of rock; veers leftwards; the beast leaps. It lands on the ground, baited, and at once Oromë calls for them to spread out, to circle the cougar-like creature, press it from all angles.

It chases Nielíqui as the Maia, a shadow of determination on the fair face, rides around the spruces – an arrow flies; it isn’t Tyelkormo’s, it is no Maia’s either: from the rear of their party, Indilerë has loosened it, quiet, unsuspected – and though it misses, now the beast has changed course.

ĺrissë guides her horse in its path, her mantle flies backwards, her doublet a beacon of light, her arms pulled tautly shooting her bow, the arrow’s head pointed; her mirror image, Tyelkormo pulls the bowstring high to his cheekbone and lets go.

Both arrows sing. But Tyelkormo steers the horse with a tightening of his legs and an order of his mind too quickly behind a fir to know which of the two strikes.

Yet when he emerges on the other side, there stands the great creature, a few leaps away, its jaw open, all its teeth on show and its body coiled and ready to pounce. His eyes land into the beast’s and its thoughts pierce him through, and they are dreadful thoughts, strange and mangled, such that he would have trouble relaying them in words. Even the wolves he understands with ease – yet not this tiger-like thing –

And as it finally springs towards him, Elwenon is in its course with a breathless sudden shout, arrow loosened, striking it in its strong shoulder. Tyelkormo digs his heels into the horse and makes it turn left, then right. He next appears from around a green spruce, his whole body poised as if ready to jump from his mount as he aims downward and shoots another arrow into the beast’s frame.

Ah.

He knows, then. He knows why he cannot make words out of its ghastly thoughts: they are full of hunger, and full of anger, and full of pain.

The hit hardly deters it; it presses behind Elwenon; Andaleptë cuts off its path; a gasp as the monster slams into her horse, throws it on the ground as she flies into the dark air, its pained neigh cut short by the sabre-teeth sinking into its neck; Andaleptë scrambles away, Tilion’s mount jumps over the fallen horse – another arrow.

« ĺrissë! », Tyelkormo yells. And then – grab her, pull her on your horse –

She does, the princess’ hand closing about his servant’s forearm, dragging her upwards not without difficulty as Andaleptë climbs on the steed with uncoordinated hastiness.

Tyelkormo looses another dart, yet it lands among the branches of a fir, crowned by distant golden light as if by a spray of glowing snow. The beast has jumped away, though now Nielíqui corners it, circles it, flees it in quick succession.

Tyelkormo gives chase betwixt the branches, the chilling air in his nose and in his chest – Elwenon flanks him, his hand extended: it holds a javelin.

Take it, your Highness.

And from the edges of their rapid hunter-predator dance, Oromë comes.

He sweeps in with swift power and a flare of bright grace, lifting high his almighty spear, and for a moment he is as a statue, as a verse of song; then comes the drum beat and the spirit bursts forth from the stone. Striking the ground afore the tiger’s feet, the spear-hit sparks white and the creature recoils and jumps backwards.

Indilerë appears behind the Vala, aiming with her bow.

So Tyelkormo flings the javelin up above his head and catches it mid-air, changing his hold on it. His chest full, his left hand holding the bow and gripping the horse’s mane, his knees tightly clenching its sides as his torso straightens – he pulls his right shoulder backwards and aims, throwing the bitter shaft towards its bitter end.

 

*

 

Oromë’s horn blows and trills through the starlit, gilded darkness, and his teeth rattle, but his heart sings.

 

*

 

Nielíqui dances in the great hall of the House of Oromë, clad in the soft brown pelt of the monster they killed. She weeps as she dances, and from each of the droplets falling on the moss-carpeted floor a daisy sprouts.

Tyelkormo doesn’t ask the reason for her tears.

He walks towards the arch of the great hall with Huan at his side, towards Tilion who stands bathed in starlight where the ceiling opens between branches and bones, a quirk of its architecture rather than a forgetfulness. For the House of Oromë is a house of bones, wrapped by living vines, cloaked in moss and ferns.

Tilion lifts a hand to touch Tyelkormo’s cheek, the Maia’s skin cool as the light of Telperion, then lowers it to his braids, and at last moves it slowly across the air, in invitation to cross the arch into the hall. He steps forth into the ribcage; the carven columns, great pillars of ivory, are remnants of an unfathomable being, hunted, Tyelkormo always thought, by Oromë when the world was in its cradle; the ceiling, an elongated dome of beams and branches and more bones; the stars shine through the smoke vent holes.

The long tables at his left and right are set for the feast to come, the red glow of the great fireplace burns in the hall’s heart, and at the bottom sits Oromë, his chair surmounted by the large antlers of an elk.

Huan lies on the floor next to the hearth, basking in the heat, but Tyelkormo walks to where the Huntsman sits surrounded by his hounds.

A stag hangs strung up by its hind legs, its white belly exposed, its head almost brushing the green floor, the fire’s shadows dancing on its fur.

« Is this the one I caught on our way back? », Tyelkormo asks.

« Indeed. » Oromë stands and from his belt he draws a hooked knife.

Tyelkormo takes it from his hand, the contact of skin to skin sends a shudder through his arm. With sure movement and a steady hand, he cuts the skin around the stag’s anus, loosening its guts, then bends, his hand trails down the body, the exposed belly, and presses gently near the diaphragm, finding the spot where the ribcage ends. There he cuts. Slicing through three layers of skin and tissue and membranes, he opens its abdomen, hooking the flesh with the curved knife. The steaming bowels pour forward and Tyelkormo cleanly detaches them from the ribs, then pushes through the chest, spreading those ribs open; a final practiced slash to the windpipe and they fall into the bucket.

A spotless work. He flips the knife in his hand, giving it back to Oromë.

But the Vala points to the bucket. « Take its heart. »

Tyelkormo’s spirit flutters as a blackbird.

It is a prayer. His breath trapped in his lungs, he slowly but readily leans down and finds the organ, warm and bloody, and cuts it away from the rest of the entrails.

It lies burgundy and heavy on his palm, outstretched towards Oromë.

The House of Oromë hums with a strange song, a wordless tune, so low in pitch that, the first time he had heard it, Tyelkormo had wondered if it was but an echo of something older; he still doesn’t know, but he no longer wonders.

The Huntsman takes it from his hand, then reaches down and lifts his chin upwards, his neck’s tendons stretching as he beholds Oromë’s face.

« Is this a gift, Arǭmēz? », he asks, the true name vibrating through him not without effort, a sacred tongue and a holy sound.

« A gift and a lesson. »

He lifts the heart and his fingers dig into the muscle, they dig deep and they pierce, blood dripping from the holes and falling lukewarm on Tyelkormo’s chin and mouth. Tyelkormo tasted once the blood of an old hound, thus one last time revered, and once the blood of a hawk, and this time also he parts his lips and lets the drops slide thick and ferrous on his tongue.

« Know thy prey », Oromë murmurs, squeezing the heart, holding his jaw with little pressure.

Tyelkormo shivers, his fingers tightening around the gut-hook skinner knife, holding onto it.

« Understand thy prey. »

Down his throat it goes, viscous, and down his chin like a peach too ripe.

His shallow breaths have an edge of sound and his eyes close to the sight, and soon the flesh is pressed to his mouth and his lips curl over his teeth and he rips away a morsel, the raw texture slipping down his gullet— then there’s a wet sound of something— of the heart, falling on the moss-covered floor. Oromë’s finger pries his teeth open and presses against his tongue.

« Love thy prey. »

Tyelkormo bites down. The taste makes him quiver, it is honey, it is molten gold, and it sinks in him as he swallows. His body heated, stirred, yearning, quivers again.

« Love them », the Vala says, « for they are of my wife and must have thy respect even in their defeat. Their flesh feeds thee. Their hides are thy coats and leathers. Their livers give thee strength. »

The finger retreats slowly, between his lips pressed against it, resting on the tip of his tongue where the flavour of blood and that of glinting ichor mingle.

« Thou wilt know their tongues and see their hearts. »

A last gasp, his mouth still parted, and Tyelkormo lets the knife fall on the floor. Softly, it thuds.

 

*

 

The feast is full of laughter in the ribcage-longhouse as the meats roast away on the fire, venison and quail, and cured cold cuts, and vegetables and mushrooms rolled in sauce in the pans. The Maiar do not eat quite so much, but they join the tables, some with faces and bodies as the Eldar, like Tilion and blue-clad Alatar, and some with antlers and claws as if half feral, and some like Huan, who sits at Tyelkormo’s feet, his large head resting on his legs.

They toast often with berry wine, and ĺrissë sheds layers from her white gowns as she never would in Tirion’s court.

« To you, my Prince », calls Elwenon, and so they toast again, and cross their arms in an entwined knot before drinking each from their own cup carven out of horns.

 

*

 

The boar has fallen but is not dead. A spear in its hind leg, it lies on the grass in a patch of light, dust in the air as gold sand aflutter, in between the birches and their white trunks marked by dark slashes, as if the bark were wounded many times over by their growth.

Tyelkormo comes out of the emerald of the bushes and draws a new knife: the sabretooth fang of the mountain tiger, fashioned into a blade, the fearful symmetry of its face disrupted by immortal hand, whatever other immortal hand may have into Arda once wrought it.

He kneels on the dewy grass. The boar’s eyes are wide with fear and anger.

It isn’t as if he hadn’t always known – as if he couldn’t read the moods and attitudes and attentiveness of the deer grazing the foothills, of slow-walking pheasants, nervous hares. All hunters can, to a lesser or greater extent.

« You will grace the table of Finwë the King », he says under his breath. « Seven times you’ll be fruitful, and seven times be reborn. »

I do not want it.

His cut is mercifully quick.

« Your eater will do you honour. »

 

*

 

A pelt over the wet grass, Tilion’s hand is in his hair.

It brushes and it rakes through his loose locks, the freedom of the woods, the privacy, leaving him uncaring of the propriety of braids. Lying on his stomach, Tyelkormo observes the tiny movements in the undergrowth, the lights mingling in the fable of their dusk. Birds chirp, a salacious mating call to which he pays no attention.

« The mountain lion… the beast that we killed », he says, his whisper so soft that the breeze might carry it off, soft enough not to disturb the critter in the shrubs, « where did it come from? »

Tilion’s fingers pause for the briefest moment. « Hard to say, my friend. Perhaps Vána sang it, and then it was twisted. I do not know that story. »

Tyelkormo stretches out an arm, his palm upturned, his hand relaxed, gently curved. « And tell me — did Oromë love it when we struck it down? »

« I think perhaps he did. Perhaps… »

But Tyelkormo quietly hushes him. A brown rabbit ventures warily into the clearing, emerging from between the low leaves, its nose twitching as, careful jump after careful jump, it comes closer.

Danger?, it asks, its ears turning to follow the sounds of the woods.

Tilion is frozen next to him, hardly even breathing, the delicate weight of the Maia’s touch at the height of his nape; but Tyelkormo smiles.

No, he answers to the small animal as it leans forward, its whiskers tickling his fingertips. No danger.

Not this time.

---

Chapter End Notes

Hello, raiyana! I hope you enjoyed this story, and I hope my weird questions about blood and gore didn't sound too wild! I certainly had fun with writing this and with exploring the concept of hunting things you can very well understand, the inherent strangeness of it, and how it might relate to the god of the hunt.

I sort of hesitated to tag Oromë/Celegorm as a shippy relationship rather than gen, but I figured that the eroticism in their scene, which I entirely intended as shippy, should get that tag. Also I'm sorry for anyone who expected more of a role for Nielíqui... maybe I'll revisit this idea in another fic. (As for Alatar's cameo, I realised way too late that he's supposed to be a Maia of Oromë. His brief mention is a belated addition, or I would have loved to write him more, probably in the 8-character hunt scene.)

I would also like to point out to the following song, The Stag by Angelo Branduardi, which in one instance I almost literally quoted. It was just too perfect of a mood.

An immense thank you to athenais karthagonensis for the ever-present support and for providing me an ideas soundboard, and thank you to Grundy for the betaing. Two special shoutouts to samarqand and Zimraphel for letting me borrow some ideas, namely Maglor's hunting method that's briefly described at the top, and for letting me spitball more ideas of the description of Oromë's dwelling, which birthed the mossy ribcage longhouse.