On Such A Night As This by polutropos

On Such A Night As This

Enellië - people of Enel, the firstborn of the Third Clan, the Nelyar
Tatalië - people of Tata, the firstborn of the Second Clan, the Tatyar

I am using the notes given in The Nature of Middle-earth for the lineage of the Elves (Ch. XVII), the version in which Finwë and Elwë are of the 25th generation in direct descent from the first elves of their respective clans to awake. This note also says Elmo (Elwë’s third brother) was born on the March, so I haven’t included him. 

Elwë watches the glimmering fires of their two villages across the bay – the Tatalië up in the hills and the Enellië down along the water’s edge. There are none who dwell here on the opposite shore yet, but Elwë and Finwë come here often and dream of a time when the Quendi will spread across these lands, once they have grown more numerous and can resist the creatures that ever seek to snatch them from the encircling shadows. 

The crunch of the forest floor draws his attention to the forest at his back. Out of the darkness between slender white birch trunks, Finwë emerges. His cupped hands bear a heap of fiddleheads.

“Here we are!” his friend says, grinning – there is little Finwë does without that sparkle of blithe enthusiasm lighting up his expression.  

He crouches down over the fire, dropping the greens in a clay pot of steaming water. Elwë inhales the subtle scent of the forest released by the first touch of heat on the gifts it provides them. It mingles with the fresh and briny scent of the filleted trout suspended over their fire on a framework of driftwood and fallen twigs. 

Finwë pinches a piece off the edge of the fish. Its tender flesh crumbles between his fingers and he pops it in his mouth. “Mm! Nearly done.” 

Elwë continues to gaze out over the water in silence. He senses his friend’s slight unease, but his thoughts are not readily forming into words tonight. When he looks for them, all he finds is a blur of greys like the muddy waters where the creek by his home trickles into the bay. Then he feels the touch of Finwë’s mind sliding against his. The spray of stars seems to sharpen when their thoughts collide. 

Finwë’s mind is like the purple ripple of fire caressing the edges of a charred log. Elwë allows it to swirl through the mire of his own. They have always made a painting of their thoughts this way, for as long as Elwë can remember. Not even with his brother Olwë does his mind mingle so willingly. Finwë’s fire dances and flickers until his dark imaginings are pale and light as ash. 

He turns to Finwë beside him and his mouth twitches around a smile.

“Stars, no!” Finwë exclaims in response to what he has understood. “No one would ever replace you! I love Míriel, but it is not the same as the love I have for you.”

“No?” Elwë asks. He has only ever felt two kinds of love – for his brother and for his parents, and for Finwë. Others of the Quendi all seem to be drawn, in time, to one who is their opposite, with whom they might fulfil the desire to procreate. It is not a desire Elwë has ever had. In fact, when he considers it, he feels only the ache of fear, its meaning obscure.  

“What is it like,” he asks Finwë, “the love you have for her?”

Finwë hums, pensive, before answering. “Like the surge of energy before you create something whole and beautiful out of many disparate parts that you never imagined could be combined.” He gestures excitedly and his black hair shifts over his shoulders, smooth and shining like the surface of the water. “When I am with her, I am filled with desire and inspiration.” He laughs and tosses a small stone into the water. “I think I will have many children with her.”

“I see,” Elwë says, taking his turn with a stone. It breaks through the ripples radiating out from where Finwë’s sank beneath the surface. That ominous tightness coils in the pit of his stomach. “I do not think I will ever have children.” 

“Why on earth not!” Finwë is practically sputtering with amazement. “And how in all our lifetime of friendship have you never said so!”

“How can I disappoint the seers? They say, ‘You will be leaders of our people, the greatest fathers the Quendi have yet known.’ But when I imagine being a father, a sickness comes over me. A foreboding, perhaps.” 

He shudders and sucks in a deep breath. Finwë shuffles over and the smooth pebbles clatter musically under his weight. His knee falls onto Elwë’s crossed legs as he wraps both arms around his shoulders.

“Ah, Elwë!” he says. “Why does it need to be foreboding? I, too, am filled with a kind of heaviness when I think of it, but for me it is only the weight of ambition, of potential!  Look at all those glowing homes,” he gestures across the bay with his chin, “full of families and companions, their minds and hands working together to give substance to their ideas! When I think of all we’ll do it's like a burst of fireflies leaping from the underbrush. Perhaps you will not be a father of your own children, but you will be a father to the Enellië.” He cups the back of Elwë’s head, threading his fingers through his hair. “Trust me, if there were anything to forebode, I would feel it, too.” 

Elwë turns to respond but Finwë presses a kiss to his mouth before he can. Stars well up from the blackness of his pupils and Elwë can only sigh and let his forehead fall against his friend’s. 

“For as long as you and I stay together,” Finwë whispers, “I assure you there is nothing that can quell my hope.” 

Chapter End Notes

For those who may not know, fiddleheads are the furls of young fern fronds. The way they are preparing their trout is based on a method used by pacific northwest indigenous peoples.