Yávië in Formenos by oshun

Harvest

The word yávië in Quenya refers to autumn or harvest time; it’s stem is yávë, meaning fruit. In my story verse, a Noldorin settlement at Formenos pre-exists the exile of Fëanor from Valinor. I stole that idea from Dawn Felagund years ago, along with the idea that the family of Fëanor spends summers there over the years and often takes Fingon with them. I also borrowed Fingon's nose from Darth Fingon (I've used that one so much that it feels like my own). Simply to be consistent with my dictionary, I changed waggon to wagon (common American spelling) within my text. The word aicer means sharp one in Quenya. Atto means dad or daddy, also in Quenya. One last thing, for purposes of this story, Finwë is begotten after Cuiviénen. Canon holds no definitive answer to that question.

Read Harvest

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Harvest time came early to Formenos and, so far from the direct light of the trees, only once a year. Aicer liked the sensations that the changing of the seasons brought: the leaves turning red and gold; the fresh bite in the morning air; the short, cold days and long nights of winter in front of a warm fire; and, finally, the smell of damp earth and newly flowering fields and trees with the coming of springtime. The winter was more than long enough to satisfy the most extravagant of his slightly underdeveloped Noldorin creative urges--in his case, to make decorative objects out of metal. He did not often admit it outright, but he was a rarity among the Noldor, a farmer at heart, an artisan only by sporadic inclination.

Last year’s harvest had been good. This one appeared to be better still. His youngest shrieked as he jumped down from their new wagon, pulled by two handsome asses, best to be found that side of the mountains. "I say, Atto, here's a new boy! He’s a little ‘un."

At his son’s cry, Aicer turned his attention to the slender black-haired boy with his nose buried in a book, sitting on a stump at the edge of the field of golden, ripe barley. One of the young princes he suspected, from the quality of his boots alone. The lad looked up at him through shockingly bright blue eyes. Those and the incipient curve in the bridge of his nose labeled him as a scion of the House of Finwë.

“And who might you be, lad?” Aicer asked, unable to hold back a smile at how much he did resemble his famous grandfather when they had been lads together trudging through endless sloppy marshes and scrambling up rocky hills and down again, all under a pristine starlit sky, long before the existence of fancy riding boots and leather-bound books.

Pausing to push down a touch of shyness with sheer nerve, the boy slid the book into a deep front pocket of his jacket. There was something irresistibly attractive about the pleasant face of this slight child with its determined chin. Going to have his grandfather’s charisma, and guts, Aicer thought. Finwë had come into his height late also.

“Findekáno,” the lad chirped, before clearing his throat and continuing in a deeper tone, “Or Finno or Káno. Whatever you like, sir.”

“Well, then I think I’ll call you Little Finwë. Come to help with the harvest, have you?”

“Aye, sir. We only have two more days before we return to Tirion,” he nodded in the direction of the cluster of his three cousins leaning with good-natured insouciance against their own shiny red wagon, “but uncle said it would do us all good to spend a couple of days in the fields before we leave. To see how it is done. How hard farm laborers work at harvest time.” He straightened his narrow shoulders, and offered a cheeky grin. “I’m ready. I am stronger than I look.”

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