Along Came an Elf by dalliansss

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The Beginnings of Coas

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Turkafinwë Tyelkormo, in his full Hunter’s regalia, was always a sight to behold. He was already tall for an Elda, more Vanya than Noldo with his blond hair that was often styled in thick swathes of braids and pinned up at the back of his head in a crown, so as not to inconvenience him. He wore the fur and pelt of a great lion that day, the lion’s head and mane acting like a hood for him, sitting atop his head. War paint in deep metallic indigo and greens dotted his skin in the swirls and dots and spirals of the hunt, from his neck all the way down to the backs of his hands, signifying his rank among Oromë’s Hunters. After all, he had served the Vala of the Hunt since he was twenty. Another impressive sight beside him was the presence of his silver-furred wolfhound, named Huan, who had been gifted to him as a puppy by Oromë himself. No other Elda could boast of having been held in such high regard by the Vala, enough that he was gifted by a creature created by the Song of the Hunt. 

 

Elves dotting the streets of Tirion-upon-Túna paused in their tasks and conversation as Turko made his way among them, on his feet, Huan trotting ever by his side, the eyes of the Hound alight, tail wagging eagerly. Turko ignored the scrutiny, though for every nod and greeting sent his way he returned with a nod. He didn’t make his way to his father’s house, but instead took to the street that would take him to the university circle of the elven city, intent on the house of his eldest brother, Maitimo. 

 

Maitimo’s house was a small, three-floor townhouse with a bright blue roof, all of the windows opened during Laurelin’s hours to let in the light. Curtains, usually of soft, subdued hues, hung from them, fluttering in breezy days. That day, Maitimo’s curtains were of a pale peach hue. 

 

Turko found that Maitimo’s doors were already open. His brother often had guests and visitors: fellow loremasters and politicians from the three royal courts of the Eldar residing in Valinor. But that day, Maitimo’s house was devoid of the usual crowd, and even their cousin Findarato (who had been a frequent houseguest in Maitimo’s place, for some reason, for several years now) was not present.

 

“Nelyo!” Turko called. He entered the living area, Huan following after him. Turko looked at his dog and gave him pats and scratches. “Ready for another adventure, huh? Another? Another? Who is a good hound? Who is? Yes, you! That’s you!” Huan licked at his face and Turko laughed, further messing with his friend by playfully (but gently) tugging on Huan’s ears.

 

He heard a clatter from the second floor of the house, and soon Maitimo was descending the staircase, clad in a worn tunic converted into loungewear. He had fresh dots of ink on his fingers. “Turko! Is it that season already?”

 

The third son of Fëanáro straightened up, and, grinning widely, held his arms open as if asking for a hug from his eldest brother. Maitimo chuckled, stepped forward, and indeed embraced his brother. 

 

“As your eldest brother, I send you off to your Hunt with the blessings of our House, and pray to Iluvatar of your safe and prosperous return,” Maitimo says, invoking the words of the Hunt’s traditional send-off. 

 

“I promise to return safely and prosperously – else return with my weapons in honorable repose,” Turko echoed the traditional, age-old reply as he squeezed his brother in the hug, and, feeling playful, he even lifted Maitimo off his feet. His eldest brother laughed.

 

“Turko,” Maitimo began, awkwardly clinging to him. “I do not understand why you keep asking me for your Hunt blessings, when Atar is perfectly alive. As is Amil.”

 

Turko fell silent, smile tempering. He indulged himself for some more minutes, hefting his brother up and hugging Maitimo this way. Eventually, he set his brother back onto his feet – not that Maitimo was a small elf by any means; he was still the tallest out of all the seven sons of Fëanáro. 

 

“If Atar would have his way, I would cease being part of the Great Hunt,” Turko replied eventually, pulling back from his brother. He looked at Huan, who had now curled up by Maitimo’s tea table. “Long have I ascribed to our family’s beliefs, and the Hunt have never begrudged me for it, nor does Oromë. Yet Atar would have me betray my old friend, for the simple reason he is Ainu. I am a grown Elf, Nelyo. I can decide many things on my own, else the Release Atar granted me when I attained majority is naught but empty words.”

 

Maitimo watched his brother. Turko had now started pacing, his hands slack by his sides. 

 

“There is nothing wrong in befriending the Ainur,” Turko continued. “I agree– I have always agreed, that they are supposed to be our mentors, our guides – to teach us much if we are willing to learn – yet they also look upon us as their own mentors. Oromë has long told me he can sit for Ages to learn everything about Incarnates, yet in the end, little of it makes sense to him. And he does not seek to be worshiped by me! No, never. He has never asked me that. You know this.”

 

There were things Maitimo could say to counter his brother’s words, but he had long promised he would not be like their father, blinded by paranoia and pride. So he stayed his tongue. 

 

“Come. I shall at least feed you before you go to the northern reaches of Aman.”

 

==

 

Two teams of Hunters were dispatched by Oromë under the lead of two Maiar captains, Wenyawë and Fairë. They pushed to the extreme north, where the Light of the Two Trees reached but faintly and the terrible cold of the Helcaraxë could be heard as shrill winds. There had been an anomalous number of Ice Giants traversing the borders, and though the power of the Valar kept them at bay, Ice Giants gathering and hammering against a spot of the barriers could prove to be disastrous if left unchecked. 

 

The Ice Giants were creatures of great stature, akin to Yavanna’s Ents, but instead of leaf and bark they were shards of ice and freezing cold. Beneath the plates of ice that made their skin and armor both was blue, primordial flesh, which could be pierced by hot arrows and blades. Still, getting that close to land a killing blow was the challenge, and when the two groups of Hunters arrived, they found a dozen Ice Giants battering at an ancient barrier stone set by Aulë upon the ground. The barrier hummed with unseen Song, and Wenyawë and Fairë enchanted the weapons of all the hunters and wove protection and warmth around them with their Singing, and the fighting began.

 

Turko wasn’t sure if they were there for days – time took on an odd shape while in the midst of a ritual-induced battle frenzy, amped up by the power of hunter Maiar in enchantment. Time slowed when Huan got injured, however – the hound’s left rear leg getting caught in an Ice Giant’s sweeping blow, the limb freezing. His friend’s pained whine was the only thing that pulled Turko back, back from his battle frenzy, and he ran to Huan’s side, rescuing his hound, lifting him onto his shoulders and racing back to safety just as Captain Wenyawë sounded the notes of victory on their trumpet, the last Ice Giant having just been felled.

 

Huan and three other hounds of the hunting party were injured, and two perished. Wenyawë and Fairë used their power to take the group back to the Woods of Oromë, bending time and space around everybody. Vána was able to thaw the frozen limbs and keep at bay the toxins from the freezing nicks and scratches on the hunters and their hounds, but she could not do more for them, and those with injuries, elves and animals, were thereafter quickly transported to Lórien to be under Estë’s care.

 

While he was injured with nicks and cuts, Turko could never stay still in Lórien, and after one of Estë’s Maiar had reluctantly given him the green, he packed up his belongings and went to see Huan. His hound had not recovered yet and had to heal fully, and Turko gave his dog a great many pets and scratches, telling him to just follow him home to Eldamar when he got well. Huan let out a last reluctant whine, eyes on his friend and master.

 

Turko, in turn, gave his friend a last wink before he left Lórien to turn back to Tirion.

 

==

 

Carnistir, who had just come from business with the Weavers’ Guild of which he was the master, had just returned to the townhouse he owned in Tirion and was not surprised to find his older brother Turko’s boots outside his door. He had a feeling this particular sibling would show up one of these days, and he pushed into his own home and was brought to a stop by the hallway, the scent of simmering stew on a pot over fire greeting his nose.

 

He’d inhaled – deeply, and could enumerate the ingredients of the dish: deer meat, about six herbs, pepper… Carnistir then closed the door behind him, and shrugged off his cloak. Turko’s own cloak was already hung, and his brother’s bow and quiver of arrows were propped by the wall just beside the hearth, as was his hunting spear and sheathed sword. 

 

“I heard your last Hunt almost went badly,” Carnistir called into his house.

Turko’s blond head peeked at him from the kitchen. “Almost. Huan is still in Lórien.”

“Why did you leave him?” Carnistir asked. He got out of his own boots and padded into the kitchen in his socks. True to his thoughts, Turko had a large pot of deer meat stew simmering over the fire.

“I got work here, and anyway it’s not like I leave him often,” Turko countered.

 

Carnistir hummed and moved about the kitchen, taking up the heavy plates Curufin had made for everybody, and began setting the table.

 

“Turko,” said Carnistir as he looked for cutlery next. “How much did you earn from this latest hunt?”

“Don’t know,” the other elf replied. “I told the household manager to just send the money directly to you or Curufin. The maia made me sign papers.”

Carnistir paused. “Why directly to us? It should first go through you, it is your compensation, and you must at least be aware of how much you earn after every hunt.”

Turko waved his brother’s concerns away. “You and Curufin handle all my money. Bother with it.”

 

Carnistir rolled his eyes in consternated exasperation and dropped the topic.

 

==

 

Turko rarely lingered in Tirion. After resting for a few days at Carnistir’s townhome, he visited his parents Fëanáro and Nerdanel at their manse, where aside from themselves the only other residents were his youngest brothers Telufinwë and Pityafinwë. For his Amil he brought home sanitized and enchanted ice shards, materials for her sculpting projects. For his Atar he brought some ores which could only be found by the borders of Aman with the Helcaraxe. For the twins he brought pelts and small trophies from his hunts, for Telvo and Pityo were fond of the outdoors as much as he was. 

 

“Are you avoiding me, Turkafinwë?” Fëanáro asked him that evening after supper, and he lingered in the kitchen washing the pots and pans, elbow-deep as he was in soap suds that smelled of lemon peel.

 

“I’m not avoiding you, Atar,” Turko replied easily, though inside, his gut clenched momentarily, as it always did when he was about to have an unpleasant conversation. “Who can avoid you these days? None I think.”

 

He was aware of Fëanáro trying to burn a hole into his back by the intensity of his stare. Turko shifted subtly from foot to foot. It had been a while since he had been an elfling, yet even as a grown man his father was capable of making him uneasy.

 

“Do you not think, Turko, that your place should be here in Tirion, with your family, your proper status, and not…putting your life needlessly at risk because of the Valar?” 

 

He stopped scrubbing the gravy pot. Turko held his breath and shut his eyes, and in his head began to count very slowly from one to one thousand. It worked, and his temper, just crackling beneath the surface, ebbed down. He resumed scrubbing the gravy pot, scowling as he felt some rough, oily spots still. 

 

“Atar, you know that Oromë has ever been one of my oldest friends,” He says instead, reiterating the explanation he has given over the years. “He may not ask me anything I do not consent to. I do it because I love the outdoors, and the thrill of the hunt, and I adore going around Aman with Huan and my other dogs by my side.” There was a bit of quiet. “What do you need from me when you have sons like Nelyo and Carnistir and Curvo? I care not for politics. I do not want a wife and children who will just entrap me here in this city. I love mine own company, Atar. Leave me be, and let me keep my peace.”

 

The heavy scouring pad he set aside back onto the holder, then Turko opened the faucet to begin rinsing the gravy pot free of soap. He heard Fëanáro leave, and only when he was certain that he was truly alone did he let out the frustrated exhale from his chest.

 

==

 

Turkafinwë had taken on another Great Hunt after that conversation, this time venturing to the wild, far south of Aman to evaluate the growing threat to the frontier settlements of the Eldar past Mount Hyarmentir. At around this time, the drawing of the sword between Fëanáro and Nolofinwë took place, and the incident reached all the way to Taniquetil, to glittering Ilmarin which was Manwë’s abode. Before the Valar announced Fëanáro’s exile, Oromë the great hunter had already received word of the disastrous failure of his errand in the far south. The Vala then promptly sent his wife Vána to stall for time before the exile was announced, as he exerted all efforts to assemble a rescue party in the hopes of finding at least Turko’s hröa, if indeed his best elven hunter had perished in the encounter with the creature Ungoliant.

 

The two parties sent by Oromë recovered nobody, and this time, the Great Hunter himself went to Taniquetil, to beseech Manwë to delay the decree of Feanaro’s exile, since the House of Finwë was facing another tragedy. Manwë, of course, inquired what tragedy the Hunter-Vala was speaking of, and thus Oromë was constrained to tell the Lord of the Air the truth. 

 

“The evil in the far south of Aman has festered too long,” Oromë continued, dismayed. “If my Hunters cannot rid those wildlands of the primordial void creatures, then it shall be up to me and Tulkas to do the errand – we cannot risk any more lives. I pray to you, Manwë, to stall the sentence of Fëanáro – let him have time to process this blow, this is his son, born of his flesh and blood.”

 

Manwë, of course, was moved to pity. He considered long Oromë’s plea in silence. Eventually, he assented with a grave nod. “Then the announcement of Fëanáro’s sentence we shall hold in abeyance. The House of Finwë may grieve together in the aftermath of this incident. A year, or two, we shall give – before the decision of the Valar sitting in Máhanaxar be made known to all.”

 

==

 

But Melkor, who ever listened in the dark, heard tell of this news – the demise of one of Fëanáro’s precious sons. Realizing this was too great an opportunity to pass, he then took on the shape and form of one of Oromë’s lesser hunters, weary with toil, and appeared at the doorstep of Fëanáro’s manse in Tirion. There he left a note informing Fëanáro and Nerdanel of their son’s demise. 

 

On the same day, before Telperion’s light waxed full, chaos erupted at the household. Before the Mingling, Fëanáro was already on the road toward Finwë’s palace, maddened with grief, clutching the note. He informed his father then of the death, and then before Laurelin’s light could begin to bloom, he was already out of Tirion, on his fastest horse and with a spare steed, intent on charging right into Oromë’s Woods to confirm the news from the Vala himself. 

 

So great was Fëanáro’s grief that he rode the horses to their deaths. At the borders of Oromë’s woods he screamed for the Vala to come out, and the Maiar emerged first and attempted to pacify the greatest of the elves. Then Oromë emerged with Vána his wife, and Oromë was filled with dread – how could Fëanáro had come upon the news, when he had yet been planning to tell him of the news with utmost care?

 

But Fëanáro was mad with grief, and demanded if the news was true.

Oromë knew he could not lie. He confirmed the news, and tried to explain that he had sent his Maiar and a fresh group of his hunters to try to find Turko’s body, but Fëanáro would not listen.

 

The accusation rang in the air.

 

“YOU KILLED MY SON! THE VALAR KILLED MY SON! THE VALAR SENT MY SON TO HIS DEATH! AI! AI, AI! YOU KILLED MY BOY!”

 

Melkor, who had been at that moment nearby and unclad of any fana, listened to the fell words and curses that escaped Fëanáro’s lips. He fled as shadow, and in his mind his plans had just gained further impetus. Perhaps now this matter should erase the doubt of the Noldor who still lingered in uncertainty – that Aman was definitely a prison, and that the Valar shall sacrifice them all when needed, just like how Orome tossed away Turkafinwë Tyelkormo’s life, and did not even exert any true effort to secure his hröa back for a proper burial. 

 

~0~

 

Turko twitched awake. A groan escaped his lips, and he rolled onto his back, and opened his eyes. His vision was met with pitch darkness, and his memory came as a slow rush, reminding him about the events just a couple of hours ago. He and Ungoliant had crossed back to Beleriand, and that this crossing had happened after Melkor coaxed Ungoliant to consume the Two Trees of Valinor. He had taken a while to regain his bearings and wrap his mind around the fact that he was the first of the Noldor to return to the eastern lands. 

 

And I had always wanted to have an adventure like grandfather Finwë did, Turko thought as he lay motionless in the darkness of Ungoliant’s new lair. They had traveled further east, and she had found some nice mountains and there spun her webs of Unlight. Mine own adventure turned out to be very, drastically different.

 

He sat up. He wondered if he could hunt – he had no food. Blindly, Turko fumbled around and he felt his hunter pack. He took out the wrapped lembas, and consumed a whole cracker before he stowed away the rest back to his satchel. He felt around – and found about ten more bundles at the ready. He could stretch it if he started rationing, and he needed to get some sense of direction here in the east, know where fertile hunting grounds were, or at least some fruit trees and root crops for starters. 

 

“Heritúra,” he called to the dark.

 

Somewhere by his left he heard Ungoliant clicking her chelicerae in answer.

 

You are awake, tittandil, she replied. You were making pained sounds in your sleep, and I was worried.

 

Turko gingerly pushed himself onto his feet. “Lady, I need to venture out of this place. I cannot rely on lembas alone to feed me. I need to find fruiting trees, or edible plants. And then when my leg is convinced it has had enough healing, I need to hunt.”

 

There is a great forest a few steps away from where we are, Ungoliant clicked. Perhaps tittandil can find fruit trees there.

 

A few steps…Turko frowned in the dark. What could very well be a few steps for Ungoliant could be a journey for him for days. 

 

Turko, can I help? Ungoliant asked through a series of clicks.

 

“Well, uh, if you could take me to the borders of your new lair, I’d appreciate it,” Turko replied as he slung his hunter’s pack over his shoulder, then fumbled around for his spear, bow and arrows.. “And then I’d ask you to wait for me here. I’d like to take a look around. If there are any settlements, if they’re welcoming.” Turko had a wry guess that, wherever this way, a giant walking darkness wouldn’t be welcomed anywhere.

 

He felt himself being lifted. Turko relaxed into the hold and closed his eyes, and soon Ungoliant was placing him carefully down onto his feet. 

 

Be careful, tittandil. I will await you, she tells him, clicking, and Turko could tell she was retreating. Return to me?

 

He stood there for a moment, eyes shut. Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes to let them adjust to the presence of starlight. Ungoliant had dropped in the midst of what looked like a valley: he looked about, and saw shadowy mountains behind him, and up ahead the faint outlines of a great forest. He could hear the rush of a river by his right, and smell the water as well. 

 

This way, then, I believe, Turko thought to himself as he made his way toward what was the River Mindeb. 

 

==

 

Melian, Maia and Queen of Doriath, joined her husband’s council that day with ill news. Bauglir, Great Enemy, had returned from the Uttermost West. Not only this, but the return of Bauglir had also brought with it a thick darkness that had settled by the mountains south of Dorthonion, and the gloom there had gotten so thick and impenetrable that the Marchwardens started to refer to the area as Ered Gorgoroth. 

 

“There is something else,” Cúthalion, Chief of the Marchwardens, reported after the discussion concerning Bauglir’s return had dwindled down. “My scouts and patrols have reported that the new darkness surrounding the mountains of Dorthonion is so thick and choking that no light could penetrate it. It is ill-advised to send anymore scouting parties, my King and Queen. Only Amarthor and Hwiniriel survived of the last group, and until now the healers are still working with them. Their terror was very great.”

 

“I shall visit them in the healing houses myself,” said Melian. “Lúthien shall be with me. Fear nor, Captain Beleg. We shall aid your surviving scouts.”

“Thank you, my Queen.”

 

Thingol brushed his right hand over his face. “The return of Bauglir upon these lands is very concerning. Word must be sent to Círdan. There could be something else chasing after the Enemy on his return here. We need to be prepared.”

 

Mablung nodded to his king’s words. He and Beleg exchanged some urgent whispers.

 

“Captain Beleg says they have captured an elf by the banks of the River Mindeb,” said Mablung. “This elf, who speaks not a word of our tongue, has Treelight in his eyes.”

Thingol looked up so fast. “What?”

“Tis true, my King,” said Beleg. “He wore the raiment of a hunter, and had the weapons beside. He was limping upon his right leg and had been grilling some fish by the riverside when we came upon him.”

“Injured? I hope you treated them with the care they need,” said Melian.

“He is under heavy guard but is presently with our healers, my Queen,” Beleg supplied. 

 

Melian and Thingol exchanged a look. Thingol gave a short nod. Then Melian arose and the lords and marchwardens arose with her. 

 

“I shall go to the healing houses,” said the queen. She turned to one of her handmaidens. “Talathiel, tell Daeron and Lúthien to join me.”

“Yes, my Queen.” The elleth curtsied and departed to obey the instructions.