Companions on a Quest by oshun

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Hero’s Journey Challenge – May-June 2017 – submitting this one to meet the deadline, although I would very much like to expand and continue the story. Although it should have been much longer, I met all of the required prompts. I've enjoyed working in this world I have begun to build. I love the characters and the backstory I created, seventy person of which I am not able to use in this short story. I hope readers can enjoy it as a stand-alone, but I definitely will return! I am (maddeningly perhaps) leaving my full cast at the end of the story as a teaser.

1. A day in the life: Within the first 1,000 words of your story, show what
ordinary, everyday life looks like for a main character in your story.
Once you reach 1,000 words, open the next prompt.

Istarnië

Gazing out of the kitchen window beyond the distant mountains and the rolling hills before them, Istarnië could tell it was going to be a spectacular day. The mingling of the lights had warmed early into golden-hued glimmering light and shadows, while the silver faded more rapidly than usual for this season. Despite all that, a crisp coolness lingered in the morning air foretelling that the zenith of Laurelin would not be accompanied by stifling heat.

She could hear the voices of the students on their way to the bathhouse—arguing softly, laughing and greeting one another—not boisterous yet. Once she’d fed them they would get a lot louder. Nerdanel had already been into the kitchen to say ‘good morning’ and ask permission to head down the hill to the neighboring farm to see if they had any strawberries. The entire household was in a dither over the pending arrival of the young prince. They had agreed to take upon themselves the wardship and education of King Finwë’s most precious possession.

She dried her hands on a linen dish towel worn wonderfully soft and absorbent from daily use. Why did her favored toweling have to reach perfection shortly before it began to sprout holes? One had to accept that nothing in life could remain unchanged. She reluctantly turned away from the window and opened the oven door to check on her rolls—not quite finished, but their fragrance was wonderful. There was nothing quite like the smell of yeast bread baking in the morning.

Mahtan entered the room, humming to himself, and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. Her kissed her neck, as he always did, tickling it with a scratchy beard still damp from his morning ablutions. Well, most things changed, but Mahtan’s calming presence was as constant as the northern star.

“Do I smell sweet rolls with cinnamon?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Rolls on the verge of burning! Ai, Rusco, let me go!” she teased him, wriggling free of his embrace with a playful slap for good measure.

He exhaled in disappointment, as though he might actually consider sweeping her back into the bedroom for a spontaneous dalliance! Mahtan did not take days off.  On the most important holidays or seasonal festivals, he had been known on occasion to work shorter hours. The nights belonged to her, however, and she was more than content with those. He was still amorous after all these years. She considered herself a lucky woman indeed.

“Sweetheart, did you remember that today is the day Prince Fëanáro is arriving?” he asked.

“As if I could forget!” she snorted. “He is all the lot of you have been talking about for days.” When she opened the oven door, the aroma of cinnamon flooded the kitchen again. She smiled remembering that he had once told her that cinnamon improved brain function—a likely invention on his part. The spice did make the house smell wonderful. She had baked it as a treat for Finwë’s offspring. She did hope to start on the right foot by making their home seem warm and welcoming to the poor motherless child.

Nonetheless, Istarnië did not look forward to the arrival of her husband’s newest student. She usually anticipated meeting each additional apprentice with curiosity and a feeling approaching hope. One of these young men could someday marry her daughter. Today, she was overcome more by dread than hope, fraught with anxiety that Nerdanel might actually find this one of interest. That would not do at all. Nienna Weeper! Being a mother in the best of circumstances was hard.

Reports had not made him sound anything like the other youths Mahtan nurtured and taught. With the exception of their own daughter, Mahtan’s pupils were more often than not male these days. Although there was never a shortage of applicants vying for her husband training, the interest of young women in the heavier crafts ebbed and flowed. The tide had been receding for a while during the current period, but Mahtan expected an influx of the gentler sex seeking his instruction after Nerdanel’s first exhibition in Tirion the following summer.  Nothing inspired like rumors of a bright new star on the ascendance. Nerdanel’s debut, coupled with the news that Mahtan had recently accepted the eldest Prince of the Noldor, was likely to change their comfortable routine.

She had also heard that young Fëanáro was a unique boy, odd in ways that Mahtan was bound to admire and appreciate. His practical skills were rumored to be preternaturally precocious. Aulë already predicted he could well be Mahtan’s greatest student ever, insisting the boy was a creative genius. How could one even describe an inexperienced youth, however noble and well-schooled, in such a excessive manner?

But then both Aulë and Mahtan were prone to enthusiasms when it came to their latest wards. She tried to tell herself that Prince Fëanáro was only the most recent of a long line of impressive Noldorin youngsters who would pass through her husband’s workshops and forge. But she’d heard enough to have no doubt that Mahtan was going to enjoy this student more than he usually did. She ought to be accustomed to Mahtan’s keenness for each gifted apprentice sent to him recommended by Aulë. He loved to teach and he loved new challenges. If he hadn’t loved teaching so much, they might be wealthy. She'd long ago put aside that frivolously optimistic idea that he might reduce the number of his pupils and spend more time on the creative projects he loved and which always proved lucrative.

Aulë insisted Finwë’s boy might be called arrogant by some, but was not afraid to get his hands dirty. She chuckled to herself. She’d see about that! Perhaps she’d stick him on the roster for after-dinner scullery duty, after giving him a few days to settle in. She certainly could not grant him favors over the others simply because he was Finwë’s heir and a current darling of Aulë—not that she really expected either of them to object.

What Istarnië feared most was the effect he might have on her daughter. Neighbors returning from Tirion over the past period had exclaimed over his appearance. Girls of Nerdanel’s age were impressed by pretty boys, even the strong-willed, sensible ones. Those who had seen him claimed he resembled a young Finwë with a hint of his mother’s more delicate features. Finwë had always been handsome, but unusually appealing as a youth. She recalled the boy Finwë, his bright blue-grey eyes and high, broad brow, which gave him a look of rare intelligence. His ready smile and easy laugh drew people to open their hearts to him. ‘Goodness gracious!’ she thought. If the lad had inherited half of Finwë’s charm and any of Míriel’s heart-breakingly stunning looks. He could easily become a problem.

Nerdanel had never had a sweetheart. There were times when Istarnië almost thought she might not be interested in young men at all. The truth was that Nerdanel was obsessed by her art and mastering the craft of it. But recently she had seen warning signs. She’d caught Nerdanel pinching her cheeks and fussing over her hair in front of the mirror in the hallway when they had unfamiliar male guests for dinner. If she had taken notice, albeit only fleetingly, of aging bachelors with no exceptional charms, how might she respond to a handsome and gifted prince of her own generation?

2. At any point in your story, the character encounters an enemy who turns
out to be a friend, or vice versa.

She heard voices in the courtyard and looked to the doorway just in time to spot her daughter’s smiling face and, shoulder to shoulder with Nerdanel, stood the very picture-perfect image of a Noldorin prince. The tall young man could be no other than Finwe’s eldest, Prince Curufinwë, known to all of his father’s subjects by his mother-name of Fëanáro. He’d secured his long hair with a simple leather tie, revealing finely sculpted features—high cheekbones and a strong jaw, with eyebrows arched like the wings of a raven taken to flight. His startling silver-grey eyes belonged to his mother, as did his sensual yet vulnerable mouth.

Istarnië knew at a glance that she was going to see this handsome face copied over and over onto everything from scraps of parchment sketched in a rough-hand to busts polished to perfection in the finest marble. Whether she fell in love with him and married him or simply wheedled her way into his good graces to the point of convincing him to model for her again and again, she knew Nerdanel might well have found an enduring muse. The adoring look on her daughter’s face confirmed her prediction beyond all argument or denial.

“Ammë! Atto! Look who I found wandering lost as could be a short distance up the main road toward the crest of the hill. He missed the turnoff to the house.” The long-legged, withy lad blushed and dipped his head in a modest obeisance, first in Istarnië’s direction and then to Mahtan.

“Fëanáro, may I present my mother Mistress Istarnië and my father Master Mahtan.” So, they were on a first-name basis already. ”He will be asking you to call him ‘Mahtan’ before the end of today.” She was her father’s daughter. She had asked him to call her ‘Nerdanel’ and, courteous youth that he appeared to be, he had responded in kind.

“Master, Mistress,” he said bowing more deeply with the grace of one well-drilled in courtly politesse. “May the stars shine upon our meeting.” He raised his head, sighing with a hint of nervousness, and then shot them a tentative grin. “This is truly an honor. I cannot adequately express my gratitude to you for permitting me to join you here.” His smile was that of his father indeed and she found it hard not to open her heart to him as effortlessly as her daughter had.

“You are most welcome, young sire," Mahtan said, gruff of voice, but warm in tone. "You come with the highest recommendation of my own first master! Aulë has never sent me an apprentice he praised so highly before. Nerdanel, show Prince Fëanáro into the dining room. We’ll join you there. My lady is just taking cinnamon rolls out of the oven.”

“Thank you, master. They smell amazing,” Fëanáro said, all but drooling with anticipation. He was probably starving having arrived so early. He had either ridden all night, or stopped to sleep and started again before the first mingling of the lights.

“Mahtan always claims cinnamon is brain food,” Istarnië interjected.

“Seriously?” he asked in an awed voice. “I recently read an article by a naturalist in Tirion who claims that cinnamon enhances memory. He recently performed a study, on a small but significant sample, that suggests its fragrance alone can improve performance of several types of tasks of memorization.”

He gave a sidelong glance at Nerdanel, who was alert to his slightest movement and clearly enthralled by him, though she had barely met him! And the lad was flirting with her daughter—this extraordinary, gorgeous young man was flirting with Nerdanel in front of her mother and father. He must be either very bold or more than usually oblivious to the impression he made.

“You’re making sausages too!” He sounded excited at the thought of such humble fare. Oblivious was more likely, she thought. Did he think she would not make an effort on the first day the son of their king presented himself to the household where he would make his home over the next few years? He could not be too arrogant if such a simple pleasure was a surprise and an occasion for joy. Nerdanel noticed also and giggled at his disarming transparency.

At that he stammered, a little embarrassed, “We hardly ever have sausages at home. Indis doesn’t eat red meat or even fowl—Manwë’s feathered friends and all that. Oh, oops, sorry if that was offensive! I did not mean to be rude on my very first day. I just assumed that Aulë is favored among the Valar here.”

“Ha!” Mahtan barked in appreciation, slapping him on back. “We certainly are not Vanyarin in our level of devotion, but you will find a wide range of opinions in this household. Our apprentices come from every social class and political persuasion. All are treated equally, all opinions respected, yours as much as those of anyone else.” The subtle inference was that within their small community he would be granted no more respect than anyone else.

“Atto’s not being entirely honest. I doubt if he would accept anyone who did not revere Aulë and he carries that Old World Tatyarin loyalty to your father like a torch.”

“Then I think we shall be compatible, master. Atar has lectured me about what is expected of a good apprentice and I intend to apply myself.” He certainly did sound earnest. “I also deeply respect Aulë. He has been most generous with me. As for my father, I love him more than life itself!”

The passionate intensity of his voice on the latter phrase, and his obvious sincerity, pulled at her heart. Ai, the motherless child in him was going to be hard to resist. Might as well give the boy a chance to prove himself, he had already won over her daughter and her spouse.

o0o0o0o

Nerdanel

3. A character has something that everyone wants. Once you've completed
this and any unfinished prompts, you can finish the story!

As her parents stirred at last from the dining table to return to their morning routine, her mother suggested she take Fëanáro outside and give him a quick tour of the grounds on the way to the bathhouse. The apprentices should have finished by then and be dressing to go into the house themselves and inhale their own morning meal. No one eats more than a handful of smiths, the majority of whom had not yet passed through their final growth spurt.

She and Fëanáro left through the kitchen door leading into the courtyard. The morning mist had cleared; silver light had morphed into pure gold.

“I think I am going to like it here,” he said. She already had decided that she hoped he would. When she had heard that he was joining them, she wasn’t sure if she liked the idea. But having met him, if first impressions were to be trusted, she was going to enjoy his company enormously.

The boys filed out of the washhouse and trudged across the courtyard to their quarters to change into work clothes, oblivious to their surroundings and the refreshingly cool air. They did not even glance in the direction of the main house, not expecting Fëanáro until later. Fëanáro himself appeared mesmerized by his first glimpse of his new companions. She studied them also, straining to freshly observe them through his eyes.

“There they are!” she said obviously, feeling her cheeks redden in embarrassment at the inanity of her remark. And you want him to think you are intelligent, she told herself.

“Who is that tall blond fellow?” Not surprising he should ask. The lad did not look much like a smith or a Noldo at first sight. But examining him more closely, one could see he certainly did not fit the Vanyarin mold either. His figure was straight and manly. His strong features and clear-eyed expression might have been an artist’s illustration of a fine figure of youthful nobility, merging the blond beauty of the Vanyar with the virile figure and intensity of focus of a Noldo. Despite having the broad shoulders and muscled arms of a smith, he moved with the androgynous grace of a dancer or a gymnast.

“That’s Valdanésë. He has been, to this moment at least. . . .” She flashed him a challenging grin. “. . . the most skilled and artistic of Atto’s students. Except perhaps for me and I don’t count.”

“Why wouldn’t you count?” Fëanáro raised his chin and scowled at her. He looked fierce when he drew his dark eyebrows together like that—an incongruous expression on such a lovely face.  His mother’s son, she thought approvingly. Míriel Serindë had been known as a passionate advocate of respect for and recognition of women as both artists and craftsmen.

“Well, I don’t count because I started earlier than all of them and so I have had an advantage. Also, more importantly, I have learned as much as I want to learn of the craft of smithery. I am more interested now in working in stone and also drawing and painting. For myself, I want to be an artist.”

“And this Valdanésë. . . he looks to be a Vanyar but different.”

“Like your brothers perhaps?”

“Half-brothers,” he corrected her. They laughed together. At least he had a sense of humor. His reputation preceded him and he would have heard that there were many who considered his quick attempts to remind people his brothers were not his full-brothers-in-blood to be immature.

“Do your brothers resemble him?” She could not resist teasing him a little by refusing to accept his correction. He seemed to like her better for her contrariness and what amounted to an implied offer to trade information.

“Not really. Nolofinwë looks a lot me. My younger brother, Arafinwë, is completely Vanyarin in his appearance, except he has our father’s nose—otherwise he would resemble a pretty little girl. But he’s still little. They’re not bad kids.” He shrugged with studied indifference. “So is Valdanésë Vanyarin?”

“He was raised in Tirion as you were.” That seemed to please Fëanáro less than Nerdanel might have thought it would. “His father is a Noldo from the north. His mother comes from a small village on the slopes of Taniquetil.”

Humph, Fëanáro huffed. “Indeed. And what do his parents do?”

“His father is a butcher and his mother is a seamstress who works in the lower city in an establishment which produces burlap bags for produce,” Nerdanel said, watching him closely to see his reaction.

“That is interesting.” The more proletarian background had notably raised his level of curiosity. “And how did he find himself training with Mahtan.” They both were keenly aware that working under the tutelage of her father was a coveted privilege.

“He solicited an interview and brought some samples of his work. Atto says it was his combination of talent and determination that brought him here. He also has a unique aptitude for both the science and the artistry of smithery.”

Fëanáro laughed and grinned at her. “I’d like to think I do too. We’ll see soon enough I suppose if your father agrees with me.”

She grinned back and wrinkled her nose at him. “In any case, you should get along well with Valdanésë. Nearly everyone does. One might think he would cause envy within such a small group, but he is kind and always pleasant.”

o0o0o0o

Istarnië  - A couple of weeks later.

This was her favorite time of day, sitting at the rustic kitchen work table across from Mahtan--listening to his wry, and often salty, account of his day, watching the light in his bright green eyes, inhaling the scent of him fresh from a quick shower. Observing the movement of the strong muscles of his chest and shoulders under a clean work tunic never got old. Pots simmered on the stove while they sipped from two glasses of red wine from one of the cases of their everyday favorite vintage. No doubt they served better wine with dinner in Finwë’s palace. Their favored local red—never too dry nor too heavy—did an excellent job of taking the edge off any remaining frustrations of a hectic day in their none-too-peaceful household, providing its own quiet satisfaction. 

If one required perfection and elegance, one did not marry a glorified working-smith—however big his reputation! —and move into a household crowded with cocky adolescents and lacking in the expected amenities of most reasonably prosperous families in Tirion.  Mahtan’s income from commissions and the stipends he received from parents, or the Crown, for the education and maintenance of his wards, all went back into raw materials—iron, tin, silver, gold, and copper for starters—and maintaining the house and its extensive grounds. In the forge and workshops, he insisted upon the most advanced tools and equipment.

They were never in need, but did not live in luxury. It would not have suited them anyway. Their sprawling residence of two stories and its collection of freestanding buildings of stone, brick, and wood— a dormitory for the wards, the forge, the workshops, a warehouse, a bathhouse, and a stable—could not be compared to the splendid stone homes of the privileged bureaucrats, scholars, and nobles of the center of Tirion. The separate buildings were not unbeautiful, but they were far from grand. She found a certain charm in their eclecticism. Their compound served function and not beauty and they often told themselves that this utility presented its own aesthetic. Mahtan the greatest and most praised smith of the crafty Noldor, often reverentially called Aulendur meaning servant of Aulë, sought his pleasure in work and Istarnië had always supported him in that and never regretted her choice.

Every night in the kitchen while she finished up dinner for a dozen or more, Mahtan told her what was going well about his work and complained laconically, with his slow, disarming smile, about the projects that he had not yet bent to his will. Working with young men there was never a paucity of stories relating to their bristliness, insecurity, need for approval, and often cocky posturing. More and more recently, he had been telling her anecdotes of how pleased he was by the seriousness with which the prince took to working with the other lads in the forge.
 
“He seems quite smitten with Nerdanel. But who can blame him. As her father, I cannot deny her ability. Of course, she is beautiful to me, but has none of the polish of Tirion. She rarely wears a dress! But there might be something more to the two of them. . . . Would it upset you if I told you that I think they might develop another kind of interest in one another?”

Usually there was a period, even if brief, where a new apprentice adjusted to the routine and the others tested him. But this had passed in an instant in the case of Fëanáro. He listened with genuine interest to his peers and was pleasant and cooperative as a workmate. Showing humility when asking questions, he offered advice in a spirit of generosity and helpfulness. It was obvious to Mahtan that he had good tutors before coming to their little community. Fëanáro possessed a rare quality that inspired men and women to cleave to him with unshakable devotion.

He kept up with the more senior apprentices, but did not by any words or mannerisms express awareness of his superiority over their years. He was coming into his own. The question of his position as one of royal blood had been dealt with before he arrived. Finwë and Aulë both had insisted that he be treated as the equal of his fellow pupils, rank or nobility notwithstanding.

Mahtan - Three months later.

A short time of country life in modest surroundings had toughened up the boy and added to the muscle on his lithesome frame. But Mahtan found the boy’s devotion to craft a bit obsessive even amongst the rarified ranks of the best young smiths amongst the Noldor, a dedicated lot if ever there was one.

He spotted her slip out of the side door of the dining room into the courtyard. Nerdanel ducked her head and pulled her cloak over her head, allowing it to hide her face. But it also hid her unique hair color. The cloak was her attempt at privacy in a setting in which everyone knew what everyone else was doing at all times.

Fëanáro stepped out the shadows--ah, waiting for her!

“What did Valdanésë want?” Her voice sounded thin and reedy with tension—unusual for his restless, energetic, and strong-willed daughter.

She was undoubtedly starry-eyed over the prince. One had to admit that they were well-matched. He sensed that Nerdanel was willing to accept this as a given and offer herself to him whole-heartedly. Despite her inexperience with physical love, she did know a great deal about young men. Fëanáro, on the other hand, had been more sheltered in many ways. Mahtan did not know, could not even begin to guess, whether Fëanáro had ever even had a flirtation with a girl before. He could not read him in this matter.

“Don’t know what he wants. He asked to speak with me when I have time.” Fëanáro sounded evasive with his lack of information. He was never one to be short of words.  In fact, he communicated fluently, unlike many lads, with words both earnest and heartfelt, except when he occasionally clamed up, seeming to pull a curtain over his innermost thoughts.

“What did you tell him?” It was not a request but a demand. That’s my girl, Mahtan thought.

Fëanáro relaxed and laughed. “I told him that I was occupied at the moment. I didn’t tell him—didn’t think that he needed to know—that it has taken me the better part of week to convince you to find a small amount of time to spend with me, Lady Nerdanel.”

“Don't use that smarmy tone with me. I am no lady of your courtly circles of Tirion!”

“Not my circles! And you certainly are not one of those ladies. You are more like a queen!” Mahtan could easily imagine the boy’s color rising, as it often did when his voice took on that tone. Spirit of fire indeed. “You’re stubborn as a mule.” He wasn’t wrong about that. “If I have done something that has upset you, your gracious highness, I would appreciate it if you would tell me what it is.”   

She snorted at him—not ladylike at all—and they both laughed. Mahtan did not really fear that the lad would hurt his star-struck daughter. They both seemed to him to be fonder and fonder of one another every week and neither struck him as the type for casual liaisons. Quite the contrary, he thought they each had an enormous capacity for passionate and profound love. He did not think that Fëanáro would be satisfied with a lesser young woman than his daughter, no matter how highly-born or beautiful she might be.

Chastising himself for eavesdropping and spying on the youngsters, he left them to their need to meet without watchers.

Nerdanel

“Your father left,” Fëanáro murmured, his breath warm upon her neck.

“Hmm,” she responded.

“May I kiss you?” He asked. She tilted her head back to look into his big eyes, wide open and a startling silver-grey, like the eyes of northern forest wolf.

“Please say yes!”

She did not answer but allowed him to pull her close against his body, slipping a knee between her legs. A melting warmth between her thighs caused by the feeling of his much desired body pressed against her own startled her most fiercely. She stiffened, increasing the distance between them again. Her face flushed so hot that she imagined she must be glowing in the darkness.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s but a natural response of two people of our age to one another. I am sure that my reaction to the touch of your body is more extreme,” he whispered. “Would you like me to show you?” He took her hand to move it between their bodies. She knew nothing of making love but rumors and stories, snippets she heard whispered among silly girls giggling together and watching the boys at festivals. Yet instinct told her that he meant to place her hand upon his hardness. As much as she was tempted by curiosity, and perhaps even more by desire, she wrenched her hand free.

“You’re a bold and naughty boy!” She took a full step backward and was stopped by the wall behind her. She sighed in frustration that the wall had blocked her planned dramatic flounce.

He laughed softly, yet still it was a tender, affectionate laugh, impossible to resist. He might be bold of words, but he did take care at least that they not be heard nor did he try to pull her tight against her body again. She regretted at once her haste in trying to escape his embrace. His suddenly emboldened manner thrilled her. She scolded herself at refusing what she had wanted for months. So she did not try to resist her own impulse to reach up and slowly trace the sharp line of his jaw and chin, running a finger across his plush red lips, soft and satiny to her touch. He touched her finger with his tongue and then sucked it into his mouth. Her knees turned to water.

“You’re torturing me,” she said. “Is it not enough that everyone is aware of how lovesick Valdanésë is over you?”

“You injure me! To be honest, I have noticed myself that he is drawn to me. I cannot say that I am not flattered and find him attractive as well, and a most pleasing comrade, but I swear to you that I have never touched him or even put myself in any circumstances which might allow him to make the kind of advances that I have tried with you tonight.”

“Oh! So are you now saying that I am throwing myself at you?”

“Far from it! I’ve been trying for months to find an opportunity to be alone with you with no one watching us or trying to listen to us.”

She didn’t want him to stop talking. This was the point at which if she truly wanted him to stop his attempts at lovemaking she could turn and walk away. Instead she leaned comfortably against the wall and folded her arms in front of her. A small gesture of defense, while the waiting posture she had assumed encouraged him to tell her more. He was quick to pick up on nuances.

“I’m terribly fond of Valdanésë,” only faintly defensive. “Who wouldn’t be? It’s only you I think of when I am alone in my bed at night.”

She tilted her face upwards and leaned against him. “Fine. Then kiss me!”

Barely able to see his face in the shadows where they stood, she could make out his lips, curving slowly into a smile, half shy and half triumphant. His lips touched hers, softly at first, and then with increasing intensity. Any insecurity on his part had melted away. The wave of his urgent need swamped her and carried her with him. She had never felt anything as all-encompassing and knew that, whatever it cost her, she could never have enough of this.

o0o0o0o

Names

Istarnië is the name chosen for Nerdanel’s mother, an abandoned name that Tolkien once chose for Nerdanel herself.
Valdanésë (worthy youth) is his father-name and he has always used it, as do his fellow apprentices and his Master Mahtan.
Larcon (rapid) is an affectionate epessë assigned him by Mahtan for giving the appearance of never being in a hurry. He is the eldest of their little community aside from Mahtan. Not a student, but groundskeeper, instructor, and all jack-of-all-trades.
Calimon (bright) is his mother-name, amilessë, which stuck because he is one of a large family with two brothers and cousins on both sides and the name is easy on the tongue and appropriately descriptive of his pleasant disposition.
Avaso (shadow) entered into training with Mahtan along with Calimon and, by contrast, is a quiet, taciturn youth, but also well-liked. His fellow apprentices gave him Avaso as an epessë in comparison to his sunnier companion.
Silmaturmo (shining shield) is his father-name. He’s a somewhat insecure but ambitious boy, who likes the noble ring of this essë and prefers it to any other moniker.
Nuldalaimë (secret shade) is his mother-name, amilessë. He has always been introverted; he listens carefully, misses nothing, and prefers to keep his own counsel.