Tales from the Deeps of Time: The Beginning and First Age Free RP

[Zôrzimril]

Tales from the Deeps of Time:
The Beginning and First Age Free RP


Exile by steamey on deviantart

Timeline
This thread is for free RPs which take place before and during the First Age. For the purposes of the thread, that means the time beginning with the Ainur entering Eä and ending with the Host of Valinor departing Arda after defeating Morgoth in the War of Wrath. See the below Tolkien Gateway articles for reference:

• The Years of the Lamps

• The Years of the Trees

• The First Age (includes a note on the uncertainty as to when the First Age began, but see also the timeline)

Locations
Stories in this thread can be set in any location - canon or otherwise - that existed during the time period specified above. All are welcome to roleplay in canon locations or to invent locations suited to their stories.

Rules
1. All are welcome!
2. Read and enjoy other people’s hard work but respect their privacy (go to the RP Request Form if you would like to join an existing story or start a new story). You can mark your stories as private, open, etc. if you choose
3. Keep any OOC comments to the Fangorn Forever - OOC thread
4. For accessibility reasons, no overly bright colors
5. As stated above, feel free to RP in canon locations from the beginning of time through the First Age or simply make your own
6. Anyone can use any canon characters in their stories, there is no ownership in this thread
7. If you decide your post warrants a content or trigger warning, please place it at the top of the post to help others decide what to read
8. Icons and small images are welcome, but no moving gifs

[Dungeon Delver]

We Could Be Heroes
VY 100, The Lost Lands of Hyperborea
(Private)

In the days before the Children, before the Sun and Moon and even the Lamps and the Trees, the world was in flux. There was infinite creation matched with infinite destruction. The world never existed longer than a moment in a state of static bliss. In truth. There was no peace to be found, no rest, no long deep sigh of relief. Even as great mountains were lifted majestically into sky to cast silhouettes of black and purple, to provide barriers and to affect weather patterns, and to provide challenge, they were cast down and destroyed, turned from beautiful peaks to sundered, ash choked valleys. Oceanic wonderlands were drained and left to wither and die, waterfalls picturesque enough to make even the most serious and taciturn weep were cut off and strangled. Mazelike twisting caverns with measureless depths were laid bare and exposed, their secret beauty forever stolen from them. Gems were hidden within the earth, only to be thrown away and melted in destructive fires. For every act of wondrous creation there was a forceful act of destruction. The waves against each other were ceaseless. Days and days stretched into years and years. Nothing changed because everything changed. What might one moment be a beautiful river valley filled with a hundred kind of trees and bushes and wildlife beyond count might, the next moment, be a valley of dried bones. Nothing could last, nothing could be sustained. The only thing that thrived in the earliest of days was conflict. Conflict was the very nature of the destructive force. It could not understand or comprehend anything else. The more the world was filled with light and life the more it must be destroyed and thrown down and made ugly. It was not just Arda that suffered, it was not just the physical world that went throw such pains that not even the Weeper could conceive, the very fabric of reality was stained and mangled. Colors were once vibrant and lively, spectrums upon spectrums were created by the Dreamer and his army of spirits. They filled with world up with imagination, with the hint of possibility, but it was all taken from them. Dreams were cut short, imagination was shattered, and colors were muted and muddied. Happiness became an unreasonable goal; joy became a myth. It was not long before many of the Ainur gave up hope of seeing their dreams and visions come to pass in the physical world. They resigned themselves to the world of the metaphysical, the ethereal plane of dreams. They abandoned the world that they had made because they could not bear to see the hundreds of wounds it had endured in those early days. But some refused. Though the world was in constant tumult around them, though no peace or relaxation could be found, they did not stop their work. They knew, intrinsically, that if they did not hold their ground, if they did not create more and more, if they faltered and did not create a world of color, then the world would be lost. Arien was one such.

She and her seven brothers were spirits of fire, blazing and intense. They were wild and atavistic, seeking the depths of the earth to bring forth the great fires of and spread their heat and glory. Others feared fire, seeing it as a tool of He Who Arises in Might, a force of death and destruction good for nothing else. Yet she and her brothers knew otherwise. The valleys that had been choked with ash, they healed. Through the destruction of the fires that went before them, they brought up new green shots and new, cleaner air. In the early days, Arien delighted in her younger siblings. They were all wild and rambunctious, eager to explore and to create treasures and to show them off. It was with their heat and their intensity that gems could be created. No other spirits had the resolve, fortitude, or patience to craft the things that shone the way Arien and her brothers did. As the Starkindler and her maidens filled the skies with dewy, twinkling stars, so did she and her brothers create matching stars on the earth to twinkle back. Even though the work was exhaustive and often thankless, they continued. No amount of destruction could sway them or bring down their spirits.

When He Who Arises in Might would throw down the peaks, Arien and her brothers would soothe the hurts of the broken stones and shattered rubble. They rebuilt the mountains and brought with them the fires of the inner earth to live inside those renewed peaks. They were filled with fire and life. Others might have feared the destructive capabilities of fire, but Arien and her seven brothers knew the truth: that fire was another part of creation, another cog in the great wheel of life. It was not to be fear, but to be harnessed and directed. When valleys were struck and filled with poisonous fumes, they brought up fiery islands that spewed forth the flames of inner earth and cleansed the lakes and seas of their poison. When life was drowned by thousands and thousands of feet of water, they set thermal vents at apertures to provide heat, minerals, and sustenance. They countered the moves of destruction, never letting him get a foothold in the grey wastes he wanted to manufacture. Arien delighted in hot springs, finding places in the earth where she could bring up the inner fires just enough to warm the waters. She spread them far and wide, hiding them from everyone so that only she knew their locations. Each one was special to her, a place where she might find rest and relaxation, where she could wash off the toils and tribulations of her daily grind against chaos and disorder, they were a way to purify the blackness and bring forth bright and shining radiance. She gathered spirits about her, tiny specks of lively flame that followed her, scampering and playing like children as she wove streams of fire. She called them salamanders. They were similar to the serpentine creatures of the gardens and jungles, but they were inborn with fire. Their eyes were like hers, bright and intense, so much so that they could not be borne long by her fellows. They burned with the smoldering heat of the inner fires and moved the grace of dancing flames. They could swim in the magma the way a frog swam in the pond. They were, like her, secretive and aloof, preferring their own company as they grew older and older rather than the raucous crowds.

She was alone when she received the message from her eldest sibling, the self-appointed leader and spokesman of the younger seven fire spirts. He wished to speak with her, to see her. How long had it been, he asked, since they had taken counsel together, or created something in the fullness of their familial might? How long indeed? Arien had gone to work her own projects, carving out her own secret places, leaving her brothers to work amongst themselves. She had never regretted such a choice. They were capable of working without her, and she without them and although she missed them, she was far too interested in her own work to stop and find her brothers again. They delighted in the mountains of fire, in displays of power and magnificence. She was the quieter one, scattered earthy stars to the four winds to land where they might. She heard his voice in her head. It was different, changed somehow. Had it been so long that he had chosen a new raiment? Could it really have been so long since she’d seen her siblings that they had inescapably changed? The idea did not scare her, nor fill her with regret or trepidation. She was happy where she had been, doing the things she had done. If they had changed, then it was for their betterment, to suit the beings they indeed were. He asked to see her. They all wanted to see their elder sister again. They longed for a chance to see her and tell her all they had done and accomplished. Why not? She thought. Why not see them? The world was always better when she and her seven siblings were together. They were a force of nature even the greater ones were wary of. They accomplished wonders together. Their imaginations were boundless. She left her hot springs, left her salamanders and their inner fires, and went to the appointed meeting place, a newly raised land without mountain or valley or river or stream. A land called Hyperborea.

--- * --- * --- * ---

He liked the darkness. He hadn’t expected to, being a spirit of vibrant flame, but the more and more he worked with the Powers, the more he found that the dark crevices suited him best. After all, were not the inner fires of the world found in total darkness? It was only naturally, he thought, that he and his younger brothers should be children of shadow and flame. They were not built like their sister. She was a beacon of flame and radiance. She could outshine all the lights of the Starkindler if she had a mind to. Gothmog as his younger brothers were the darker flames, the smoldering, less beautiful ones. That suited them, however. While their sister loved the fires for what they could bring after, he and his brothers loved the flames in and of themselves. Fire was power, and fire was theirs to command. They went where they wanted and did what they wanted. They created monuments of unsurpassable beauty, breathtaking magnificence with their flames. They lit the world and cast shadows across the world that served them as well. Gothmog and his brother began to understand something, something that none of the other great Power did. They learned that with the brightest flame came the darkest shadows. They were those shadows. Arien was the brightest of flames, the brightest of all things to exist within Eä. And yet, the Power tried to temper their flames, tried to direct and dictate where their fires belong and where they did not. They were reduced to workers, laborers. They were no such thing! They were mighty and powerful!

The seed of rage was planted, the mistreatment, the ill response. Gothmog and his brothers harbored a rage within them against those they worked with. No longer did they show off their prowess and their power. They would come late to rescue the woods and hills and mountains. What did it matter to any of them? He Who Arises in Might sought to destroy all they sought to build, what was it to Gothmog? The creations of his and his brothers were eternal, they could not be destroyed. No amount of drowning or throwing down could end them. It was the fault of the other Powers, the fools and the cowards, to create things he could destroy. It was his right to destroy, was it not? He was the mightiest among them, why did they not follow his lead? The more time went on, the more they understood the man who wanted to break everything.

The less he and his brothers went to aid their fellows, to rescue them from the follies of their own lack of imagination, the more they took counsel with themselves. They would have had their sister there, but she was nowhere to be found, hidden in the depths of the earth, concealing the blinding light of truth. They all grew angry and upset with her. If she would be claim her rightful throne, force the others to bow to her light and submit to the black shadows she cast, the world would be set right. The Wind Lord, the Starkindler, the Smith, the Evergreen, He Who Arises in Might, they would all submit to her. Yet she hid, unconcerned and unbeleaguered. Her brothers missed her, but soon that longing turned to envy and anger. What right did she have to deny her power? And to in turn deny their rightful place? Gothmog and his brothers seethed. The more they seethed, the more they sought out ways to bring out about destruction. It felt good to destroy. He Who Arises in Might would be blamed for it, leaving forests and mountains as ash and rubble. They boiled away seas and tranquil lakes, take back the power and authority that should have been theirs all along. They reveled in their secret treachery. They didn’t care what happened around them, they didn’t care who built what, all they wanted to do was tear it down. And they succeeded. If they saw a mountain, the tore it down and filled it with violent fire and wrathful intent. They filled lakes with sulphur and brimstone and watched them turn angry. Finally, after aeons of thankless toil, they found their calling, and they rejoiced in their chaos.

And that was when he came. He found them out, their revelry was loud, they brought up fire from the inner earth and spread the magma across the fields, burning and torching anything unwilling to move. It was glorious. And so said he. He marveled at them, called them craftsmen of fire, beautiful devastation, and tortuous, malignant power. He heaped on them praises as they had never heard before. He delighted their pain ears with the palm of gratitude and thanks. He was the only one that ever gave them their due. He told them the stories of all he’d seen, the destruction he’d caused, but at the end of each story, he told them that they were far more creative and violent. He set them on pillars and stroked their egos. He told them that they were worth all the stars in the sky and all the gems of the earth.

He knew them. He knew their lust for power and their reverence for destruction, for he too reveled and lusted. He commiserated with them, angered by their ill treatment by the greater powers. He cursed the Smith and the Starkindler for throwing them aside and letting them rot as helpers only. He told them that if he were in charge, if he were to command the order of construction, they would be held in the place of highest honor. Their designs would be honored, their work sung in hymns of praise that would wipe clean the memory of softer, more tender voices.

How could they resist? They did not. Gothmog and his seven brothers vowed upon their eternal flames to serve and work alongside him. They agreed to dominate the world and aid him in casting down the works of the Smith and the Evergreen. They formed new shapes and raiment for themselves. They threw aside the fair forms they had used. Once they looked like the others, tall and proud with smoldering skin and crackling fires boiling beneath them. Their eyes had once cast light and shadow mixed so that none could look upon them for long, the inverse of their dear, absent sister. They needed those shapes no longer. What use were they? They were spirits of fire, meant to be free and unrestrained. For aeons they took the form of living flames, black and umber and orange. They tore across the land, moving faster than the eyes of the Wind Lord could see, cutting swaths of death amongst the verdant fields. They destroyed everything for the sheer sake of destruction. It felt good, it felt powerful. They did not need to care about the work after, the rubble was meant to stay as rubble. They tore into the mountains and breathed shadow and flame into them, awakening the spirits within and urged them to spill the fires of death and destruction across the land. He saw it all, and saw that it was good.

They were inexorably changed. At first, they didn’t even notice the changes were so slight and so slow. Out of the naked flames was born something else, something bestial and horrific. The Hunter and all his ilk quailed to see them; they were the predators now. No longer did they need to run at the sight of silver and blue. They charged forth and tore the earth apart. They were the masters of earth and flame. They would never be stopped. Their power was supreme and undeniable.

And yet, it did not feel like enough. Through all the destruction they caused, through all the death and dismay, there was something missing, someone missing. Gothmog could feel it. How long had it been since he’d seen his older sister? How long had it been since he’d felt her blinding light? Did he miss her? He was unsure. None of his siblings could say for certain either. What was she to them now? Was she still their sister or was she something else? They had grown and changed and, while they had all gone through this metamorphosis together, she had left them for brighter flames and deeper fires. Was she their sister? Or just someone that they used to know?

The question came to a head finally, when He Who Arises in Might sought to find her and bring her to his cause. He came to Gothmog and asked where she was, and what might be done to bring her into the fold. Gothmog reached out to her, seeking her in his mind. The pathways were long and dangerous, long unused. He searched many days, casting an ever-widening net until he finally caught wind of her, finally saw a glimpse of that bright radiance that was her raiment. In that moment, and only for a moment, he wanted to turn back and tell his master that he could not find her, that she remained hidden and out of his sight. She was still his sister, after all. It was his duty to protect her, was it not? Or was it her duty to protect him and his siblings? What had she done to that end? She’d abandoned them, left them to be slaves of Powers that did not care about them and left them to rot, their fires die and their embers scattered across the winds. Gothmog and grown stronger without his sister. They all had. They did not need her. They did not want her. Whatever the master wanted with her, they did not care. Snuff out that light forever, bring out the primordial, stygian darkness. Within that darkness they could reign supreme. It was their right, their calling. He called out to her, singing her praises, and extoling her creations. He told her how they all missed her, how they all wanted to see her again. It was not all a lie. And she told him she would come. She, too, desired to look upon the faces of her brothers once more, to take counsel together and, as they had in the old days, make something glorious.

They all made their way to Hyperborea, a land beyond the lands already cast in ruins, a land begging to be wreathed with flame.

[Romeran]

The Sundering of the Elves
YT 1105 - Cuiviénen, shortly before the first sundering
(Open to All)

The stars twinkled brightly over the Sea of Helcar as Lirelen sat on a rock by the shore. A gentle wind played across the sea and blew his hair weakly. Lirelen’s hair was golden brown which was unusual among his folk whose hair was more traditionally brown or silver. While Lirelen was counted amongst the Nelyar, the third host, his mother was that of the Minyar and his hair had taken on a more golden hue as was characteristic of his mother’s people. But Lirelen was a great singer and lover of the stars and he felt a stronger kinship with the Nelyar.

Cuiviénen, or so it was being called, was a beautiful place, Lirelen thought, as he sat on the boulder overlooking the sea. He removed a small silver harp from his loose fitting robes. It was not long after the first generation of elves had awoken had they started to name things and shortly thereafter the Nelyar began to combine the words and sing songs, most often about the stars which were beloved by all elves. By the second and third generation (Lirelen’s generation) they had already begun constructing small instruments, harps and flutes and the like, to accompany the songs which they sang. Lirelen was a great singer but he also delighted in the music of instruments and so he had chosen the harp for it allowed him to both sing and play.

The notes of the harp floated over the sea as Lirelen began to pluck at the strings on the silver instrument. The harp was small and so the notes were in a high register. After a few moments, Lirelen began to hum in a lower pitch, harmonizing with the melody he was playing on the harp. He did not add words to this song, instead preferring to hum and sing in sounds rather than words. The stars would speak for themselves tonight, he thought, as he continued to sing and play. Lirelen remained like this for half an hour before he was interrupted by the approach of Aerin.

“How can you sing such a beautiful song at such a troubling time?” Aerin asked, approaching Lirelen behind. Like Lirelen, Aerin was the host of the Nelyar but unlike Lirelen she had hair of dark brown, nearly black, and she delighted most in dancing. Many hours had Aerin and Lirelen passed him playing and singing and her dancing beneath the stars. Neither could believe that soon the elves might be sundered from each other.

“I do not blame the stars for their brightness nor the sea for its depth, beautiful these things remain though tumultuous our times may be” Lirelen said, stopping playing and turning to Aerin,

“so, I see that the great debate of our people is drawing to an end?” Lirelen asked. Behind Aerin, and where she had come from, was a slowly disseminating group of elves of the third host, departing from what would be the most significant debate of the elves' history thus far.

“Your absence was noted,” Aerin said, not answering the question. Lirelen had already made up his mind and he did not want the guilt of having to convince others to do something that they did not wish.

“I’m sure you managed without me” he retorted, Lirelen had been approached before the debate to help in convincing the rest of his host to make the same decision he had. The Minyar were unified in their decision to accept the summons of the Valar but the other two hosts were divided in their desires. Aerin remained silent in response.

“So what was decided?” Lirelen finally asked, breaking the silence. While he had stood apart from the group when they made their decision, truthfully he wanted to know dearly what was going to happen. Would they all be unified in going? Or staying? Or would this be the first separation of their people?

“There will be a sundering of the elves.”

[Aikári Salmarinian]

Cuivienen YT1050

Eru knew what he was looking at, his creation of thousands of years before, sleeping still under a now newly clad sky, full of stars completed by Varda. It would have otherwise be so dark, you saw no hand before your eyes. It was still dark around, but the starlight was so strong good eyes saw all forms and shapes. The rich forests of Yavanna and the waters of Ulmo were quiet on this nightly day, a good day for a performance, that would change everything in this natural world. His Valar and Maiar knew nothing of them yet, and this had been his preference when the third theme of the Music was solely created by him. His First Children had worn nothing on their creation, but were covered by their very long hair. Difficult it was to make out who was really masculine and who was feminine, as they laid still cradled together with arms and legs. He had made sure that there was a variation in hair colours, between silver, dark and gold. He had chosen for more differences in minds and characters, and after awaking this would become hopefully right. So he nudged the first pair with the golden hair, then the second pair with the dark hair and after that the third pair with the silver hair. He gave them all their names, Imin and Iminyë, Tata and Tatië, and Enel and Elenyë. They were first confused, but Eru saw they created allright, he vanished to leave them to their own devices. And so the gathering of the elven peoples began, and would become eventually the Minyár, as they kept calling themselves that, the Noldor and the Teleri.

Imin and Iminyë had their smallest number over the original twelve members. Unlike Tata and Enel, who had claimed each extra numbers soon they came upon them, Imin had withheld his choice in hope there was even a more larger group. But in the end there were none. He had the desire to be the very first in everything and saw this feat returning with the goldenblond elves he had chosen. Among them fourteen together, they formed seven couples totally. And the start of a people looked rather grim for them. So they were the first to sit together and talk about this elementary problem, so their children and grandchildren would not fall in love with brothers and sisters, or nieces and nephews. Depending on how many children really were born, they solved this in a peaceful way, all fourteen members agreed upon and kept to the decisions they had made. The Tetyar and the Nelyar especially didn’t really have to avert to matrimonial agreements as the Minyár had done. They held more freedom how to choose their lives. The Minyár seemed to live rather strict at first, but it cemented also a collective bond, that reflected fiftyfive Valian Years later when Oromë discovered them.

The rather wordless singing of the Teleri was not admired the Minyár, or the craftsmanship that the Noldor developed, but also a passion to have words with each other. This disruptive behaviour made the Minyár turned away and seek their own grounds, where they preserved the life of the first days and remembered that in the poems they crafted and memorised in oral tradition. They lived without strive and became excellent debaters without losing regard for any other. Careful family planning was left behind largely while their numbers grew in a healthy way. But it remained forbidden to marry between first, second and third generations. The Minyár recited poetry, but didn’t sing with loud voices so they were heard from afar. They had reason for this choice, because they perceived a darkness so black in the north, it was difficult to pierce through and knew it was not part of the world they were born into. Suspicious they were for the dark spirits that roamed around and they kept being together than wandering around in small numbers. And when such spirit tried to descend on them, they chased him off with strong musical poetry, where their words held power to ward the darkness off.

YT1085 – 1105

Such was the day in YT1085 when finally a rider on a creature appeared, the Minyár knew straight he felt not dark in the hidden world from sight. There was a light in his face and eyes they hadn’t seen before, so clear it could not be dark. And their curiosity was aroused they wanted to search for this light, and a short debate resulted into an unanimous agreement, this light could enrich them even more. This person Oromë as he called himself returned where a came from and appeared once more and live with them for a while, teaching them things they didn’t know yet. From 1090 – 1092 there was a great war fought deep in the north, the results could be seen by the elves as great fires lightened up the starry sky over them. There was a guard to protect them, but was solved when the war was shifting, and the darkness lifted. And the guard travelled north. More than seven years would still be fought before this war finally ended, Melkor was chained and peace began. A new council in YT1101 an invite came from the Valar and was carried toward Cuivienen by Oromë and more of his people who came. His summons were first not very welcome among most of the Eldar. So a solution was found. The youngest son of the House of Imin was sent out to see what this light really was by 1102. Oromë brought a new language with him, they were curious to. But for now he called them the Eldar in their own tongue. Quendya had to them the richest flow of words, due to the invention of poetry and not only just the naming of the things they saw. They preserved the oldest form in their tongue and which was already quite distinctive from the Noldor and the Teleri spoke in the other areas around the lake Cuivienen. But the Minyár could still speak pretty easily with the Noldorin and Telerin brothers and sisters. Unbeknownst to them this would change very much in the times to come, as Minyárin developed to a tongue only heard still over the Pelóri and nowhere else in the later Ages.

All of the twelve mothers and fathers had produced their own six Houses among the Minyár, and among their sons and daughters new ones came to life. Just as the House of Imin, also the House of Námorin emerged. It was not one of the first Minyárin houses, but came through a daughter who married a younger son of first houses and they settled together on what her name was, Námorinyë. The Minyár didn’t shy away for male or female importance. Man and woman regarded the voices of each equally. With the just fourteen members at first, seven men and seven women, there had been no room for masculine dominance. They had no idea how the march would become, as there was already spoken about. But what Ingwë knew on the day (YT1104) he returned to them, it was really worth to make the passing over two mountain chains that lay in the wake, and along the way were many temptations that could make them stop for a while. Námorinyë would make the passing eventually, but she ever reached those dreamt lands? There was no loremaster or – mistress among them who could tell a ballade about it yet.


@ Romeran

Edit Aikári: Amended for some technical faults and missing facts and expanded for RP use.

[Romeran]

The Sundering of the Elves
YT 1105 - Cuiviénen, shortly before the first sundering
(Open to All)

The news came to Lirelen like a shock to the heart. Suddenly the breath had been forcefully expelled from his lungs. When words which had so easily come to Lirelen suddenly abandoned him he was unsure what to do with himself. For several pregnant moments he stood there, silently staring out into the water.

“It was inevitable” Aerin said, breaking the silence. “Too many dissenters, too many unwilling to leave these shores” she said, filling the silence as Lirelen stared off.

“I knew this would happen. But hearing it as reality is far different from arriving at the conclusion in prediction” Lirelen said finally. He had not wanted to sway those who would choose to stay and truthfully he did not feel like he could have swayed them even if he had chosen to do so. Not that he would have been able to live with the guilt if he had done so. That being largely the selfish reason he had chosen not to try and convince the others to go.

“So when do we leave?” Lirelen asked. He didn’t want to debate any further, now was the time for looking ahead. He had made the decision to go and he would see that through.

“Soon, I think. The elders of the three hosts will meet to agree upon a time, they well meet soon as they were waiting on the result of this council.” Aerin replied. And truthfully the Nelyar leaders had presently left to meet with the leaders of the other two hosts to see who would march and when then they would leave. Lirelen’s mother had gone earlier, having also not chosen to attend the council, to be with her family among the Minyar for she dearly wished for their counsel. Lirelen’s father was chief among the Nelyar who had argued to heed the call of the Valar and Lirelen’s choice not to assist in the argument had created a rift between them. The news of the sundering would salt the wound, and Lirelen had no desire to seek his father yet.

“I’m going to seek my mother” Lirelen announced abruptly and stood up. He looked over to Aerin and attempted a warm smile. “I’ll be back before we leave” he said assuringly. Lirelen and Aerin had a close relationship but both were yet too young for marriage. They embraced before Lirelen took off towards the host of the Minyar.

The hosts stood apart now, especially as they had grown in size, but they still lived well within walking distance of each other, although a young elf could travel a great distance without great weary. And so Lirelen arrived among the Minyar in short order. The people were not gathered together as they had no need for a council such as they Nelyar had, being in agreement about the call of Oromë. Either the council of elders would not be held her or else Lirelen had beaten them for he saw no others from the other two hosts, only the golden haired Minyar of his mother’s kin. Lirelen did not seem out of place, as he had the golden hair of Mia mother, and so he did not draws much attention as he wandered looking for his mother.

[Aikári Salmarinian]

YT1105 – The Great Travel (2)

Cuivienen was a land of outstretching beauty as all fourteen original members remembered from the very first days they had awoken. Imin and Iminyë could tell of a man with a strong light in his eyes and an aura around him. But all other twelve members were woken by Imin himself and never met this elusive being their leader described. Never they had to doubt his words, as Imin knew Lord Eru had wanted them to live and form over time a people. It was to themselves if all six woken leaders would unite into one Quendya speaking people, or in different strains. But from day one Imin’s character hadn’t been liked so strongly by Tata and Enel. So they had become three different strains of elves since YT1050. Fiftyfive Valian years were needed to create this small rift. It seemed not much in the sense of the elves, but for the latter children it would feel as roughly about fivehundred solar years, and many generations of them, by the time they woke in Hildórien at the dawn of the sun and moon and the start of the First Age. The Minyár expanded their people by quite many children in those fiftyfive Valian years, and mothered and fathered some generations as well, just as the leading house of Imin did, up to the lastest son Ingwë.

Námorinyë was the only daughter of her father, who had about nine older brothers and sisters himself. She was allowed to choose from a few choices qua men, when it came to marriage, but from the arrival of Oromë and his company, her interests were moving somewhere else. Among the elves surrounding Oromë were a couple of very pretty faces, but one was outstanding that she felt her heart flutter. Instead of straight hair, he got long wavy blond golden hair, so somehow he had to be Minyá as well, just like her. Would he have also an unique name? She had to ask him that, but how? Would he speak Quendya? Had she missed that members of her people had also seen those faraway lands? She got no idea when she faced the masculine individual, but even more odder was his rather cute smile and beautiful teeth. “What is your name?” she asked in Quendya. “Eh.. Omárin,” he replied with a voice deep but melodious. Probably he could sing enchantments very nicely. “I am called Námorinyë,” she said. She reached out a hand, which he answered himself by taking it. Did he like what he saw? Just as she was seeing him? Had she something captivating, or was he just looking beyond her? But Omárin was not doing that. He came from faraway, but he had not expected there would be a lovely elfmaiden who even got the guts to approach him and even speak, revealing his name a few seconds. He had replied without thinking, and just given his original name. Stupid really. But she didn’t ask what kind of name it was.

Námorinyë couldn’t say what was happening to her. But none of the Minyárean candidates were interesting compared to the man who stood before her. And if she could have him, why not? Neither knew anything from each other, no ideas, no convictions, no opinions. But something did dawn on her. “I would swear I knew all my tribal members, but apparently not,” she frowned slight. “Well,” he coughed conjuring up a story, and concealing the truth. “I… eh… have been out in the woods a lot, trying to learn the languages of the birds and the deer and such.” He got tremendous skills in languages, but would not tell that. “Oh I see, you can talk with birds and deer?” she said at an admiring tone. He nodded. “Basically.” He sighed deep looking around where his lord had vanished to. With the Vala Oromë more Eldarin men and women had come, but when she got a good look she saw that Oromë did have pointed ears as well. The Eldarin peoples were much bigger than the three groups around this lake. They must have sprouted in other lands also. And now they had come to bring them there. Or so what Prince Ingwë had shared about them. Námorinyë was curious to two trees that shone with a silver and golden light. “Can we go as fast possible to where our new lands are?” she asked him eagerly. “Oh wow… eh.. I am not a leader of that kind,” replied Omárin. “But you walked in the woods? You know the way, don’t you?” said Námorinë eagerly, yet also a bit disappointed. She was young and perhaps adventurous. He got the impression the lady in front of him wasn’t attached to these lands. “How long was the travel from over there?” she asked. “Good year or so,” he shrugged. Oromë had been a fast traveller, but still it was a stiff journey, on foot.

The time of counselling was over among the Minyár. A decision had been made, preparations for the journey were underway, and it was then waiting for the execution of it. Ingwë’s people were mostly concerned about what they could and would meet on the journey. With Oromë came also a flock of horses, of whom he rode one, and some of the Minyár used their skills to befriend some of these creatures. Listening to a total other tongue as they found it, they used their experiences with poetry to bridge the language gap. Oromë’s people did speak something else and it was time to crack the nut they were using for communication. A few of their members did set out to learn what they could from those new arrived elves. A few language was good for communication. If they arrived in Valinor, then at least they spoke the local tongue. Or was their philosophy at the moment. “How many Valar are there really?” asked Námorinyë. “Seven men and seven women…” said Omárin. “Mānawenūz, Ullubōz, Aȝūlēz, Arōmēz, Mandostŏz, Tulukhastāz…” He summed up a few names that came to mind. Námorinyë memorised all the names. “So Arōmēz is that person over there? Who discovered us?” “Yeah, it is the name he was born with, yes. Though to Quendya it translates as Oromë,” said Omárin. They had settled down on the rocks, talking of matters neither knew much from each other.

Some days went by that Omárin was more of a shadow in Námorinyë’s wake. He spoke a variety of languages, but the dialects were a chapter apart. She had theorised he was an elf, and he left it with that. The Minyár had been also seven men and women. Was it a coincidence, that their numbers were so few? Or had Eru Ilúβatar, as the Minyár had already shaped the name in a different direction, another plan for the smallest group of the Eldar? But suddenly he was walking into someone, or nearly into another man (Lirelen) he hadn’t seen. He muttered something in Valarin and weaved himself around the walker to avoid collision. Then the girl of his occupation had vanished out of sight, and he felt a bit of panic. But Námorinyë was just at ease, walking around deliberate where she liked, sharing something a bit of conversation with whom she met. Then she spotted someone, another Minyá surely. “Looking for someone?” she asked in her own dialect, guessing Quendya was not needed. But well the developing Minyárin was still much like Quendya. The young man seemed somewhat lost. This had to be interesting after her conversation with Omárin.

@ Romeran

[Ercassie]

The Beginning of the End - Part 1

‘Now as has been told, one Lenwë of the host of Olwë forsook the march of the Eldar at that time when the Teleri were halted by the shores of the Great River upon the borders of the westlands of Middle-earth … Therefore Denethor, the son of Lenwë, hearing rumour of the might of Thingol and his majesty, and of the peace of his realm, gathered such host of his scattered people as he could, and led them over the mountains into Beleriand. There they were welcomed by Thingol, as kin long lost that return, and they dwelt in Ossiriand, the Land of Seven Rivers.’

(Excerpt taken from 'Of the Sindar', in 'The Silmarillion')





Solchon and Nidhes (the parents of Laegon and Mallosel)
Ossiriand, 1350 YT

The mighty elms were orbited by the cavorting, colours of revelry, as were the fair heads of maidens adorned by wreaths of flowers, and their mates by crowns of curling leaves. The Nandor were come to Beleriand, and celebrated there, where rivers ran with waters clear and the great chain of hydrangea-blue mountains reigned like a pastel diadem to veil their past trials behind them. Though amidst the throes of gladness, Nidhes found her feet to wander, and her head tilt, to decipher the altered direction of a lilting breeze. Glancing the hands of folk either side of her, together, she departed from the game and made steps to she knew not where yet. But why.

Bird song. It beckoned, always, for it recalled him in her mind. Solchon. They had been a ‘them’ since wakening, and yet as is the comfort with having a soul mate, there was no concern when either strayed to find their way. She knew he was hers and she was his, and no amount of time or distance would ever alter that. So as he had been drawn to learn more of lands they had not yet seen, so she had been loath to depart forever from the lands they had already grown to love. And for all that there was peril and for all that there had been some of their kind sundered forever, still she knew in her heart that she would see her ‘him’ again. That was perhaps why she followed every snatch of solitary birdsong, in case it led her back to him. Mimicking back the call of the winged wonders had been such a delight of Solchon’s. It both hurt and helped to hear it when she stood alone amidst the others who had loitered. She would smile sadly and they knew not why, it was a something shared by her and hers alone.

As on this day, that saw her feet stir the silver skin of puddles, skipping through the fragranced grass, she formed her own song to answer the small bird she pursued.

“I wonder, I wonder, I wonder why each little bird has a someone.
To sing to, sweet things to, a gay little love melody ?
I wonder, I wonder, if my heart keeps singing will my joy go winging ..
to someone, who’ll find me, and bring back a love song to me ?” **


He saw her in the same moment that her eyes found him, and without thought or fancy, sprang to have their reunion properly realised. The embrace took her from the grass below, one leg hitched to a crook at the knee as she turned in his effortless hold. As the spin met it’s conclusion, Nidhes bowed her head and raised her doe eyes up anew through their lashes. Solchon could not quite bring himself to drag hands away from slender waist.

“I am bid by our King, Elu Thingol to have you welcome,” he recalled, as though the telling of his long estranged love, would somehow inform all her belated kind that were come to that land. The kiss which he endowed upon the waiting petals of her lips was though, for only her. “Most welcome indeed,” his smile mirrored that of Nidhes.

“We need all not be made quite so welcome as that,” another Elf spoke up, raising a hand to stall the Sinda’s laughter, and all threat of receiving a kiss in his turn. There was no hesitation though as the two old friends found arms about each other in a hearty embrace.

“Silandhas* ” Solchon remembered, for how could he forget. With a subtle nod of head he refrained from bestowing kisses on this second familiar face. “So you had your fill of the East yet ? Come, there is much of mighty Beleriand to enthrall you.”

“I shall not argue that point,” Nidhes smiled, swinging her hand clasped close in his. “Though it was unexpected. We had thought you long gone since across the water. But then tidings came of even the intrepid struggling to bid farewell to this side of the shore.”

“There comes for all, a point he can not pass.” Solchon took up the hands of his long-absent love. His fingers wove about hers, blending the roots of their hearts before the ambassador remembered himself. “Ahem .. err .. Our King has made clear that we are quite able to live well in sight of, if not quite inside, the Valar’s reach. Doriath would have you call her home.”

“We have one long come to be considered as King of our kindred, one whom has seen us this far in the absence of your Lord; and we are grown mightily fond of him,” the Nanda troubled over the realisation, recognising it not until this moment. "Are these lands enough to have us each our world both at the once ?”

“No bond is laid upon you to give up what you love,” Solchon assured her. “As does Lord Cirdan and his people dwell about the shores, there are hearts too which love best the mountains, or the lakes they would not leave. Mighty Doriath sits at the centre of all, the base from which all explore and abound in this Beleriand. And at times, in need, a place where all may find the safety of the woods. We may be all most merry neighbours. And retain an affection for the welfare of one another ..”


Then Nidhes bowed her head into the silent smile of assent. And when her bright eyes rose, his met them, and they too stood there a time unaccounted. And the Sinda Ambassador understood at last what his King had spoke of, why he had froze while time itself could not invade the togetherness. Of a two come to be one.

“I should then see you to our leader, so this kindness be painted opportunity in his mind also. But first, I would have you to myself a moment,” she cast a glance back to Silandhas* behind her, and that Elf laughed away, waving comprehension of their need. Somewhere out of sight, the merry making all about the trees drew out the stars to gaze in fond repose. The coming together of two long sundered folks. The reunion of an Elf with his heart.



** (The lyrics of ‘I Wonder’, are credited to the song in Walt Disney’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’)
* (The character of Silandhas and his involvement in this scene was approved by the character’s creator, known on this site as Aigronding/Eriol)

[Ercassie]

The Beginning of the End - Part 2

‘Evil indeed were the tidings that came at last to Angband, and Morgoth was dismayed. Ten days that [Dagor-Nuin-Giliath] lasted, and from it returned of all the hosts that he had prepared for the conquest of Beleriand no more than a handful of leaves.’

(Silmarillion: Of the Return of the Noldor)




Of Solchon Ulichaer, the father of Laegon and Mallosel;
a survivor of the First Battle of Beleriand
And of Doltag and Grudhor, Orc Survivors of the Dagor-Nuin-Giliath
Unhappy company. 1497, YT

The dissonant spew of their speech polluted the air. Despairing, the Elf closed his eyes against the two Orcs as though he might thus close his ears to their repugnant fracas. How the pair had not yet fallen to slaughtering one another was a marvel and still his greatest hope here for salvation. All intended efforts he had laid trust in so far had made matters but worse, and their squabble over his fate more fraught with each passing day.

It was the more squat example of the grotesque pair who had wished, from the start, to make meat of the Immortal. Doltag was the term most often applied to this menacing fiend and so, the Elf assumed, the Orc’s name. The heavier-set brute was Grudhor, by that same reasoning. And it might have been these harsh sounds were just the more common belches or emissions offered by his captors, but he cared more to comprehend their motives than their alias. Elusive as their minds proved though, there was one certainty and that was nothing good. For they were headed north and the dejected prisoner knew well enough that none of his kind ventured north. And why.

Everything about the Orcs was an affront to the world. Their flat feet which stomped the earth into submission, the menacing tools with which they hacked through anything that stole their path. The harsh croaking reprimands they flung at one another .. without it seemed the slightest of provocation. What delusions the Sinda had suffered when they set out to cleanse their lands of this fell infestation had only been furthered evidenced since then. As much as he had often begrudged ever having left his home, he also resented now that cause, his enemy’s abomination of being, had not in fact been expelled. The pair who had seized him did both seem perturbed at the new scarcity of their kind, and fearful too of the mighty StarEyes who had roused them from desolating the Falas. A horrific defeat had dispersed their unit and put their survival into peril. The StarEyes they were determined, above all things to avoid. All that the Sinda could think was that this must mean Singollo, the only Elf he’d ever met with eyes like stars. The king had seen the might and glory of beyond seas, after all. He had been accounted worthy of the admiration of a Maia. Having never seen nor heard of the Noldor’s return, the optimistic Sinda held to faith in his king. Folk had said they would never see him again, and yet they had. So faith, he knew, was rewarded.


“If we come across Stareyes, I’d rather have some shield to keep us from being butchered,” Grudhor was ascertaining his argument, again, for keeping the captive alive. “Or did you think we can lope up home with empty hands to pay for our delay ?!”

“We’ll have starved to death before we ever get there !” Doltag recited his favourite refrain, flicking out his tongue aggressively. “I’d rather a full belly to stand us some strength, not drag behind some bait that will only have the Stareyes more keen to attack us !”


How this pair had managed to escape the ambush which their fellows had apparently all fallen foul off, the Elf did not know. That they each saw him as the means to secure their sorry lives one more measly day was the matter at hand. He’d already lost a toe from each foot when Grudhor had lost all other means of compromise. That had further removed running as an option, even if they did not have him at the end of a rope. Much more meat robbed from his feet or legs, and the more foresighted Orc warned they’d be forced to carry the Elf, which they’d almost murdered one another in an argument of who should. Until an alternative was sought for. Fingers, hands and arms had been considered, and discarded as options, for what would be the point in presenting a slave to Angband which lacked any capacity to serve there ? An ear had come close to being casualty, until the unexpected massacre of a randomly passing hedgehog had left them with a weariness of plucking, and hands pierced by unforgiving quills. Any other animal about the land had surely heard their ruckus, or smelt their filth, a good league away, and granted their unhappy party a wide berth. So there was nothing close enough to hunt and otherwise sustain them. Moreover they’d been walking about aimlessly for some days now, unwilling to concede that they were lost. Desperation had seen them demand the Elf uncover ‘foodstuffs’ of the land, but the very deliberate attempt to poison them with forest berries had flushed out that unpopular trial, along with flushing out most of their bowels. Doltag in particular had been almost folded in two as he marched along, grasping at the spasms that still wracked his intestines this very morn. Which no doubt had encouraged his renewed wish to be satisfied, and avenged, both at once.

The fact that Grudhor had begun to grow a plan of his own, based on this incessant plea, raised the Elf to concern for his life anew. And sure enough, within the hour, the larger of his captors had staked the miserable Immortal out to the ground, raw wounds raked across his brow clouding his dwindling thoughts until only the pain and discomfort remained. Bait, Doltag had randomly referred to for the Elf, and so bait it proved that he would be. For the nearest predator, or even Elvish rescue party that might be raised by the tart rise of blood upon the air, the smothered wheeze of agony that escaped him, to the delight and expectation of the awaiting diners. When it took far longer to yield up results, the entire spanse of a horrifically endless night, the larger Orc quashed the smaller Orc’s frustrations (and his smaller body) with a brute swing of a bloodied machete, and so the surviving fiend enjoyed a hearty portion of meat that fulfilled him the length of their remaining journey to Angband. Not to mention the prospect of seizing all credit for himself. For his part, the Elf was coming to wonder whether he ought to have wished to have been killed, before they finally rocked up to the fortress of the most Fell Overlord in their world. And then it was not sole credit the Orc received, but the entirety of blame to fall upon his lonely shoulders.

The formidable form which met them did not conjure any promise of reprieve. Indeed, the talons which served her for hands dug for appeasement in the gut of Grudhor, until even that immense Orc’s torso was a blood-rimmed hollowed shell. Awaiting, expecting, a similar fate for himself, it was not a comfort for the Elf to be informed that his death would be endless. A slow bitter malingering wait with only the hope of his almighty King, or the almighty Valar one day salvaging him out of the darkness to sustain him. This notion did not stir the abhorrent monster who herded him down to the depths, except to laughter. For that hope, she declared, would keep Angband’s latest slave from despair for long enough to serve the enemy of all those he put faith in.

The agonizing, terrifying ordeal with Doltag and Grudhor had been but the prelude. To all that was left of his excruciatingly long, disappointing existence. And long years after any real likelihood of rescue dwindled, it was only the lingering memory of his family that kept him, free as they were from all knowledge of what had become of him.

[Ercassie]

The Beginning of the End - Part 3


Mallosel and Lhosdir (the latter of whom was later given the name 'Laegon')
Sinda children at play in Linaewen, Nevrast. Early FA
Before Turgon and his Noldor show up thereabouts

The vaporous mist crawled slovenly through the vast thicket of reeds, as though to skulk so close about the slick surface of water would prove sanctuary from the ever rising spears of dawn's glorious flare aloft. But no, already the almighty daystar surged higher about its assumed seat with every hour spent, and baked the glassy mere and all the world beside it, that with time the haze dissolved entirely unto a clammy though not unbearable climate that allowed the wide array of life to steam and bask about the tarn with easy pleasure.

Egrets strode amongst the mire upon elongated stilts, as though they were too noble to soil their spectral silver-white plumage about the moist salve of the sodden bank. The tern were far more careless, cackling their gossip from the shelter of numerous floating nests. Though anchored in the shrouds of murky vegetation, all knew that these constructs housed many a clutch of young potential. The gushing babble of their noisy swarm bespoke proclaimed their vigorous numbers, as a forebode toward any that might seek them harm.

The morn was far too listless to explode it's myriad of residents upon one another. The waters prevailed in their calm unbroken respite, the orchestra of harmonious vocalists all blended as one. One calm, unruffled perfect spell of pure serenity.

The Sindar fell upon the scene with as much commotion as a romp of ethereal otters. Light feet fell in bouyant dance about their approach, and even as some sliced with purpose through the sheer skin of the nebulous depths, their supple limbs detonated no alarm for the more subtle residents. Clear voices carried snatches of fair song as not unlike perilous sirens, they drew their brothers and sisters further into the aquatic wonderland. The swarm of dragonflies were not driven away, but rather tempted to gauge better view of the newcomers. Mallosel sculled an ivory hand to steer her gliding floating form, tantalisingly close to a bemused and winged skater, which dared poise within her reach. Her long hair spread like dark honey in waving sway about her head, and hazel eyes fell to a content close.

The abrupt pull about her waist was unexpected, and as she broke from peaceful repose, her foot brushed against some thing that passed by her, underneath and where she could see not. Immediately, she straightened to a vertical and vigilant position, treading water softly, as she cast keen eyes about all sides for any indication of attack. As yet she had not summoned aid or made voice of concern. She knew not yet what she was facing and a lifetimes spent in easy vacation about the idle lake had swaddled her within a cocoon of perceived safety.

She was not quite swift enough to turn when she heard her brother break for air behind her. Lhosdir shuddered through the surface of the great lagoon with grace and caught his sister by the shoulders, turning her with shock, shortly succeeded by annoyance. As he withdrew back into the inky abyss of the lake, she dove in his wake with fluid ease and gave chase through the undersurface of the water.

The siblings made a game of gliding through their underwater playground, startling a bale of black marsh turtles who snapped their small terrapin jaws harmlessly and disappeared into the gloom as swift as they had ever presented. Finally the Elvish pair broke surface and came to bask in a cradled respite of the gathered reeds.

All about them now their friends were busily engaged in gathering the fruits of this rich environment. The lance-leaved water violets were congregated in colourful platoons all about the sluggish fringes of the fens, and here the Sindar looked to reap from the edible flowers, equally sought to mix for perfumes as for food, and medicine alike. Swampy milkweed was betrayed by multitudes of butterflies who flocked to kiss the pretty, aromatic head of flowers. A tea made from it's roots would serve as a powerful emetic. The fleshy stems of a particular water iris would serve as a poultice to relieve pain, and extract a potent green dye. Likewise the great spires of purple loosestrife swaggered under the weight of their brilliant magenta bells. Aside from their beauty, the plant extract could staunch bleeding. This last was a voraciously contagious species, with few natural enemies. It would swiftly crowd out all and any other rivals to utterly dominate the pondlife, if not carefully controlled by regular harvesting. The Elves delighted in it's uses and gathered more sparingly from the other contenders. A day spent about the lake might prove vastly beneficial to their community a whole, but it was the joy of languishing about the chromatic conditions which saw such a mass of volunteers.

It was days such as these that saw Mallosel truly enlivened. Some of the Elves had uncovered a lounge of salamanders and were deep engrossed in illustrating the vividly coloured creatures in the mud with errant reeds. The elleth smiled, as one of the tiny lizards dared close to her grasp. She seized it swiftly in a gentle hand and presented it before her brother's face, startling him with great satisfaction. The blunt snout flicked from side to side, and Mallosel released it into Lhosdir's lap, from where it flicked it's tongue a time and then crawled on it's belly back toward the cover of the slender marsh stems. The beautifully decorated reptiles secreted strong toxins about their skin which could prove horribly poisonous, and the Elves made use of this unlikely resource, at need. But not today. Today, they gather medicines, dyes, foodstuffs, and perfume. Today they knew the glories of their gentle world.

Today would all too soon become tomorrow and all that had been would change. The Noldorin Exiles would come to Endor, and little Lhosdir would lose his heart to one of their number, follow her to Gondolin, that Mallosel's heart would recall him only ever after in days as such as these, carefree bittersweet memories.

[Ercassie]

The Fall of the Phoenix – Part 1



‘Feeling broken, barely holding on ...
but there's just something so strong, somewhere inside me
and I am down, but I'll get up again.
Don't count me out just yet ..’

(Lyrics from ‘The Last of Me’, by Cher)





Feapoldie Aiwenariel with her brother Tirindo Aiwenarion
Crossing the Helcaraxe

Death was cruel. It stared out from the small unmoving bundle that was indisputably it's prize. The utter unfairness and complete lack of all proper understanding assailed the children and the adults of their clan in equal measure. The baby was theirs, one of their own. No longer. The cold had robbed his tiny spirit from it's shell and forsaken but an empty husk of bitter memory. For the rosy cheeks were locked into a stillness from which no degree of laughter could release them. The bright, singing eyes were no longer full of life, but cool and cold and colourless as a dead fish. The baby's form was hard as stone, where once he had been soft and fair. He was dead. And Athayie refused to leave him.

Feapoldie watched her sister, still cooing, and cradling the silent rock, as though through love itself she might resurrect her sweet beloved child. Her firstborn. Feapoldie had no words that she might offer to the counsel of her kin. They huddled in their uselessly organised circle and debated what had best be done. For the ground was too hard to bury even the small infant, and Athayie would surely fade if left to bear her sorrow onward. He would chill her arms until she could not have released him, even had she wanted to. But the mother's heart was already blackened and charred by the cool burn of her grief.

Fea turned from them all in despair. Noone looked to ask for her opinion. They had none of them spoken to her in days, and she felt quite sure that they blamed her entirely. She had followed all the pride and vanity of love into the bleakest Exile from glory lands, and her reluctant family had all been forced to come and claim her. Even now, loitering amongst the rear host of Ñolofinwë, they regretted having followed in her wake. They had no need to speak it, for their eyes screamed of the misery she had brought down upon them all.

She wished she could regret her own decision. But want still led her heart, and that same treacherous organ raged against a love that had advanced before her and not since chanced a single remorseful look behind him. For if he had, Sarnirion would surely have been moved enough to come to her. Would he not ? How could it be true that Athayie would refuse to be sundered from a babe already devoid of breath, while the Elf who had vowed to love Feapoldie and only her, beyond all stretches of all time and more so, would not even look to find her. Wild curses uttered of the elleth still were not enough to rouse her sister from vacant expression. Such was the strength of Athayie's love. Where is yours, Sarnirion ? Fea swallowed the gut-wrenching heartache that threatened to overwhelm her. How could you leave me ? Why do you not come to my side now that I need you most. As you promised to do ever regardless ... How could you … ?!!!

Against the backdrop of some pointless and far belated argument, on whether the family should have brought the children with them from the first, Fea left her victims and their camp behind her. The rich crimson and golden brocade of their family pavillion no longer whipped and flailed to fly loose on freezing winds. The world was still and eerie quiet, as though the almighty storm which had whipped the Elves upon their vain endeavour had now taken pause to see if they were ready to admit defeat. Stepping just beyond the borders of their meagre camp, Fea balled her fists and refused to cry. All about her, families were huddled behind the screen of what shelter they had managed to construct against the heartless land. They all bore some manner of a similar affliction to her own. Horror and fear strove to take possession of the elleth's soul. Grief elbowed it's way toward the forefront of all likelihood. But it was anger that won out.

She heard their thin and persevering voices even as she stormed away. Defiance took her from the plight to which she knew her family could never find good resolution. She was wearied of hearing about what they could not do. What they dare not try. She was Feapoldie. And she had yet to meet a difficulty which she could not manipulate escape from, if it should displease her. There was no real plan in her intention here but to be done with all this nightmare. She would have it over, swifter, and if that meant increasing her pace, and setting out blindly, that was what she would do. They had followed once, they would do so again. And if even the lives of the Elves were not to extend forever more, then neither could the Helcaraxe.

Fea carved her own path through the wasteland, anger and wrath absolute compelling her feet on a trek ever forward when no other force might have enlivened freezing limbs to move. Hatred coursed through her like blood. How dare anyone believe that she would endure this ? Curufinwë, He and all that followed him, those who dared to forsake her ! When Feapoldie caught up to them, Morgoth would be the last threat upon their mind ! She swore it.

Blue eyes blinked against a sudden onslaught of pure white cold. The gracing flutter of a gentle snowfall descended, with a chill that sank beneath her skin and refused to stir from immersing her bones. The wind had changed, hurling tiny flakes of winter to flower the great gale that very soon kept her feet from advancing. Snow began to churn up underfoot, and Fea held one arm before her, peering into nothing. With annoyance, she glanced back to where her family were no doubt all still arguing ... but there was not even a muffled whisper on the wind, no glimpse of the coloured tent. How far had her fury carried her ? Where was ... everyone ? Fear and panic clamoured with the screaming wind to make her their wretched puppet. She cried out, and saw her shrill cry stolen by the mocking wind before ever she had rightly heard it's sound. She was alone. And only in the absurd clarity of afterthought did she now miss the solitude she had cursed at before.

Grasping wild hair out of her face with the one hand, Fea sought to shield her face against the gusts of misery that hampered even Elvish sight. Everything was white. Cold. Nothing. Stubbornly she persevered on legs like stilts, though the wind buffeted her slender figure first the one way, then the other. To be utterly and truthful honest, she was not entirely sure any more, which direction she should be attempting, if indeed she ever had been. Onward toward one who clearly cared not half so much as he had proclaimed. Or backward, toward the heart of her kin whom she had utterly betrayed. Frustration threw her down within a milky nest of burning ice beneath her and she pulled her knees up to her chest that she might compose her will properly. Hair like fire fanned her face, bereft of any real warmth but that of tears which streaked her cheeks and threatened to freeze fast upon them, like crystalline jewels. Where were they ? Anyone ?

Wilful heart had fuelled her thus far with a strength that she could vainly hope might see her through. But finally she cast her face into her propped up knees, and clung to what remained within her sense of feeling. Should she die, she cared no longer. She had no want to dwell in a world so scornful. She had killed her nephew, and the rest of them would not be far behind. Her love, far off with the vainglorious host of Curufinwë, he would survive them all ..

NO ! In fury she rose, and all but fell back down to her knees. If she had to walk through sheets of ice to slap his face into some recognition of her fate, that was what she would do. Only, .. only now her feet refused to move. And just as she began to submit to utter abandonment of all point for surviving, there arose a cry.

"Here ! Over here ! I see her !"

Tirindo. Her brother closed his great arms all around her, and pulled Fea like a babe herself to face him. He drew her brow in to meet his own in some quiet inclination of relief. The notion of rescue, of real love, caused the elleth to collapse. He came down with her as though the carpet of ice beneath them had opened up and swallowed both unto a freezing chasm. But no, they remained upon the cold skin of the freezing ice cap, he clasping her close to him, taking on her shiver to enhance his own. There would be no flight for Fea from his arms. Nor for him, from the duty of kin. For now, with moments, all their number one by one emerged out of the overwhelming blankness of the swirling storm. They packed in tight together, bereft of their tent or all else proper safeguard against the horrendous storm. Love the only shield that they wore. Feapoldie wept then, at their absolute epicentre. Not a word was spoken. Not a word was required. Still Tirindo held her, and refused to let go. Her parents, sisters, brothers in law, nieces, nephews ... A total of seventeen Elves.

They loved her, she acknowledged. Despite all that they suffered because of her, they loved her still. The blizzard deepened and howled in the face of their insolent protest. The Aiwenare family, encased in love, amassed by heart. The tiny fire that was Feapoldie's renewed affection blazed within their midst and they sheltered it from harm.

*************

Come dawn, the blizzard had dissolved, and death slunk from where it could no longer slither, all amongst the huddled, snow-packed forms of the small circle. Isolated from the rest of their host, the House of Aiwenare stood as testiment to those who had resisted untimely demise. They remained steadfast, discoloured statues, icy, cold and unmoving. Death had painted them in hues of rigor mortis. And even the relentless fingers of frost would bother them no more.

At the midst, in the centre, the small frail heart of them was not yet utterly extinguished. It floundered wildly, like a bird beating futile wings against a securely closed window pane. Feapoldie and Tirindo, together, and alone. They two were all that yet clung to the frantic strand of life. And only just. They held on. Sister. Brother. That cold that tears could not even thaw from their eyes to melt the beautiful, terrible scene.

The hard stone of her brother’s stare bored blame through her, stronger than the beasts of wind that tore about them. But Fea did not pale at his hate, for her’s at least met and matched it. And it was blame for the one who’d led her to believe he loved her .. so much that she, that they, were all come to this. She’d come for him. And he had not come for her. And she would live, she would live and he would live to regret ever fooling her into thinking that he had loved her.

[Ercassie]

The Fall of the Phoenix – Part 2


‘I've been brought down to my knees
and I've been pushed, way past the point of breaking.
But I can take it. I'll be back, back on my feet.
This is far from over.

You haven't seen the last of me ...’

(Lyrics from ‘The Last of Me’, by Cher)







Feapoldie Aiwenariel with her brother Tirindo Aiwenarion
Crossing the Helcaraxe.
Featuring Aranadhel Singaladion* and Halyanis Lomerielle

The world lay numb and blindingly argent. Feapoldie toiled with the lifting of her eyelids, an act that had become as strenuous as raising a portcullis. And each time she bordered upon success, she would wince at the resplendent glare of the unblemished wonder all about; withdrawing with urgency back into her small, far safer sanctuary of dark oblivion.

She toyed with the notion of no longer taking up defiance. Her spirit seemed as though entombed, the once glamorous body she had once so unashamedly promoted was a suffocating crypt. She could not manipulate her own limbs into wakefulness, much less command them to move. Her brother's head lay at her shoulder, his almighty arms encasing her still in his bear-like grasp. She could not compel his dead weight to shift any more than she could master her own body. If she ultimately stretched and struggled, she could touch one of her side-lain legs with her left hand. But the limb felt no longer a part of her. She might as well have been stroking at a snow-encrusted log of wood beside her.

Her eyes shifted without hindrance in their sockets, that she was awarded a better rounded understanding of the state of things. As much that she wished she were not. For it seemed at first that she were captive to some twisted contortion of memory. The circled throng of statues that surrounded them. Just like in the sculptor's courtyard where she and Sarnirion had .... where they had ..

Fea's train of thought arrested as she painfully acknowledged the distinction. The statues here were just as lifelike as those they had once danced around and threatened at the height of swordplay. Just as still and silent, just as though they once had lived but had become trapped forever in time. But the artisan of their conception was no Elf, not even a skilled Noldo of Aulean influence. Death had gripped the whole Aiwenare family within his vice-like grasp. It seemed to Fea then that her own end was so inevitable. For how could she hope to live when all others had not ? Why would she even look to ? Fea's flickered vision observed her mother, and father, ... everyone that had loved her and followed her .... dead. Frozen. The blizzard had claimed all.

Slow but surely, an uncultivated scream erupted deep inside, and forced it's passage through her throat. But by the time it reached the surface, broke through bald and splitting lips, there was only a small squeak to make amusement for the scornful wind.

This slight though, of her marginally warmer breath, caused Tirindo to stir within his own personal congealment. The grey flint of his eyes forced through the rim of frost-bourne lashes, in the gentle ripple of arousing consciousness. He made as though to startle but found he could not. He sought to strengthen his hold on his little sister, and found that the pain of tearing even an inch from where he had fused his bare hands about her now woke searing pain. He glanced into her wan face, and took on his miseries as his own, in the moments that they came apparent. Fea's blue eyes widened with surprise and hope. Not all were dead. Not yet. Might be that together, ... a muted summons heralded in the back of the elleth's mind, as though the very notion of survival had nurtured suggestion to tease her. Somebody was calling out her name.

Glancing with great urgency toward her brother, Fea willed him to know her unspoken thought. Did he hear the herald of potential rescue ? Tirindo blinked with deliberate intention. Fea would have smiled if her face possessed the means. She could hear for all that she could not make them hear her. Folks, friends perhaps, who must have found the family's abandoned camp. Now that the (most recent) storm had ceased. It was time to move on. Always onwards, never backward. It was dangerous to stall ..


"Call out," his heart bade her in a sudden, silent demand, and the startled Elleth blinked, surprised to conceive of the thought. The art of ósanwe was a thing little practiced in such days even amongst Elves; except in times of great urgency. It is said that the means of communication, from the one mind to the next, possessed the greatest strength within bonds of familarity and kinship. It had little occurred to Fea, even now, the potential for such a custom. There were few to whom she felt such strong connection, that she might be able to reach ..

Indeed the greater potential at hand was for the resuers to pass them by, oblivious. Fea saw it conceived in her thoughts. Their small stoned-throng was so encrusted by snow about it's borders, any could believe the mound no more than yet another snow bank. But fortune was, belatedly, bestowed upon them, or perhaps it was cruelty, to bring them to the point of end and then haul back. The celebration was smothered by a sheen of low cognition.

“Aranadhel !****” Her silent scream reverberated through the wasteland, out of her unwilling body, and hopefully unto his receptive heart. Again, she tried, again and again. For her best friend who had taught her such a trick at all, when they were at study together. When he had possessed a want to show her something clever and she had possessed a want to delay doing any real study …

If there were any who might hear her desperation, it was the one who had taught her how to trial what she now must try, or die ..


But nay. It was a yay ! Shouts ! Shouts and whoops and calls for more assistance rang out, as the truth was revealed. He was come ! He had heard her ! The Elves even then were hampered about their efforts by due diligence in awarding the dead respect. They could not, should not, willingly smash through the glacial forms of their one-time associates. On the other hand, the two young Elves yet breathing at their centre, did not have much time before the stabbing cold utterly penetrated all of their bodily resistance. The salvation party worked with finesse and great urgency, to finally liberate the near-frozen pair from their icy catacomb of frozen kin.

If Fea felt inclined to battle when her friend lifted her, nigh lifeless from the brink of death, her protests were robbed by the sight of her great tall form of a brother, huddled just as frail as a child in the arms of Aran’s father, close by. Thus bourne away from such proximity to death, they hastened back toward the main camps, where the host had wisely gathered near an overhang that had warded off much of the wind. Still many small gatherings of folk had undergone sore trial through the night. The Aiwenare family were not the only ones to have endured great loss. All about, those Elves less affected by this latest wintry tirade tended to the needs of those less fortunate.


******

Strange it felt soonafter for the siblings, to be sat aside serene. Safe from shivers, wrapped in all there was to hand. Her pale face more so against the burning russet of her hair. Fea shook the furs and blankets aside, unwilling to be so cocooned as she had been by the cool frost. Tirindo was of another mind however. He had given orders to dismantle the mocking and grandiose .. the foolishly abandoned …. Aiwenare encampment. To distribute all they could neither carry nor make use of themselves, to others who were of lesser well-financed a family. Money or nobility was no longer a currency that mattered to any. Still the smallest survivor pouted to lose sight and grasp of all that remained of her kin. Her brother would heed not her tears nor even the less mild objections. For they alone could not make good use of all that their clan had relied on. Other Elves might live longer for the gift of a dead Elf's wrap. It would not serve the dead any at all, except that if they knew and saw, and approved of the kindness. That their deaths should not have been in vain.


His sister watched Tirindo lay a beautiful cloak of their mother around the shivering shoulders of a pale, dark-haired Noldorin maiden. That was the last of their late parents’ trappings. The very last. Halyanis moved to set a kiss upon the brow of the ‘generous’ Noldo, and blushed, embarrassed as Tirindo instead set out his hand, to make her acquaintance, without the need for more tender contact. He would tell himself, and later his sister, that he was still sore. The frostbite was agonising, but Aran, who the siblings had taken now to calling Etehlehto****, their saviour … had assured them, he had read in his books of the best ways to treat such a malady.

It was more than Fea could bear though. Not the fact of Aranadhel**** and his constant crowing about books and academia … But the fact of Tirindo, now laying claim to their late father's mighty bow and quiver. His sister turned from all sight of his efforts in horror, certain he should snap their father's frozen fingers off, to entangle his most cherished weapon. As her brother rose with success from the delicate undertaking, Fea had commenced with striding, ... hobbling, .. at no great speed for all the prideful glance about her porcelain features. She would neither speak nor look at anyone. Only when she wandered too far from their party for her own good did her brother call her back to rejoin their gathering.

“You give away all that we are and were !” she commenced with berating.

“All that we need not,” he countered coolly.

“You need your means of war ?" she could not let him have the weapon without spite. "And forbid me the merest comfort of mother’s most favourite of all cloaks ? Something to remember ..” a sniff stole the end of her sentence. Still it would have made small difference.

“We are at war,” Tiri reminded her, a hand held out to lead his little sister back unto the fold. “And you already have a cloak of your own that will see you warm. Halyanis does not come of such a family. She needs it more than you ..”

“We are at war !” Fea threw back his own words in a furious rebuke of temper and hurt. So had he declared it, and so it would be. She would see to it. He had asked for it ! She shook him off and almost fell, but shot a glare like lightning when he tried to help her rise. Rather ungracefully, she resumed herself, and started hobbling anew.

"Wander not so errant," her brother called out in her wake. And when that did not stall her .. "Feapoldie ! How many more are you intent to see know ruin in their want to keep you safe ?"


Furiously heartbroken at his insinuation, Feapoldie held still a time to proper subdue her wrath. Hate and need and fury and pain all welled up within like a great fireball, just waiting to be unleashed. An icy inferno had leapt up about her heart and mind, that no act of love or compassion such as he might offer her could thaw.


*(Credit due to the Plaza member, Aranadhel, for his co-creation of this portion of our characters' collective history.)