#of ingwë ingwerion

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë of Cuiviéven, (9/?)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Look. yes. I know. hasn’t been a real update in years. Didn’t think it was four years. Pretend it’s only been one or two. Oh god please I’m sorry just pick it back up.

Some of the delay was because this wanted to be the short pre-Road Trip chapter and I worried that it won’t be enough without starting to include Oromë ferrying to boys to Valinor. Final scene of family angst means I could delay the Maiar fun times.

Primitive elvish names and terms still left mostly untranslated, but context clues should explain them. More world-building in my mode from Klingon-Promotion-Vanyar and young bucks of Cuiviénen.

...

The earth tremors ceased, and as the duration of their absence lengthened so grew the easing of the Kwendî’s tension and fear. Such mollification was not universal. Enel, chieftain of the Third Tribe, monitored the volume flow of the waterfall beside his village with lingering trepidation, for the quantity of water had diminished in the shakes, and the song of the waterfall had altered. Nervously he awoke and listened for its roar, irrationally fearful that if the cascading water was ever silent, then he that was The-Third-to-Awake would no longer wake. In those first seconds of life, opening his eyes to see the bright stars without knowing what he saw, only their beauty, Enel’s ears had not yet opened as his eyes had. But in the irrational yet deeply emotional center of his mind Enel thought that it was music, not starlight, that woke him. He could not prove this thought, but he believed that when the first drops of water poured into the lake the beautiful sound that was created was the cue that awoke the Kwendî. He wished not to hear of logic establishing that the waterfall flowed over the rocks beside his village in a time before he awoke, because to Enel all time before his existence was null. The song of water hitting the surface of the lake only started when his lungs took in breath, and the working of his lungs only persisted with that song. Waterfall and wakefulness were one and same to him that was The-Third-to-Awake.

Enelyë, his spouse, chastised her spouse for his paranoia, dragging him away from the stakes that he had driven into the muddy bank to measure the water depth and fret over each shift in the watermark and change in color. She told Enel that he saw nothing more than the progression of tides, ignoring the evidence of the receding shore. The Great Mother Lake was eternal. Enel must be wrong. The hammer blows of lightning had not dislodged the stars from the black sky. Thus it followed that none of the earth shakes had touched the water. The shells and beads of her netted cap rattled as she shook her head. Her hand on her spouse’s arm, tugging him from the riverbank, her own ankles sinking deeper into the mud, her voice pleading with Enel to return to their village and attend his duties as leader of the Third Tribe - all noise of Enelyë, all pointless. “Something eats my lake,” Enel muttered. “Something drains it. Enelyë, release me. I must see it. See the proof. You must see it, too. My waterfall.”

Daunted by the ineffectiveness of her efforts to erode the stubborn stone that was her spouse, Enelyë returned to their village and her cold pillow.

Enel stood at that waterfall when the Vala Oromë rode out of the northern shadows atop the luminous silver Nahar. A piercing horn blast heralded Oromë’s arrival, so Enel was not startled when the rider pulled out of the mist. He did not care. The call faded into the darkness beyond Enel’s torch lamp, and silence hung over their meeting. Enel’s wide umber eyes met those of the Vala, unconsciously begging for reassurance but wary of what new missive might upend his world. Before the unseen war to capture Melkor Enel would have treated the arrival of Oromë with glad hope, most eager of the first awoken three to celebrate the Vala’s arrival and aid, but now after the earth tremors and lightning-filled skies he was chary of the Rider’s gifts. His trust had receded with the shoreline. Enel did not yet directly blame Oromë for all the ills that would follow, cursing the Valar along with their apostate Melkor, as they who would name themselves the Penni did. Those were the words of the Unwilling and the first division of the Eldar, a time that had not yet come to pass.

Nahar’s footsteps slowed, the horse reluctant to approach the waterfall, as if he sensed the doubt and coldness of Enel’s thoughts. “I know of your fears,” Oromë called above the roar of the water and the mist that hung above its churning wake, “and I bring a proposal that shall soothe it.”

Oromë’s proposal irrefutably did not.

...

Of the grave conference between Oromë and the first three elves: Imin, Tata, and Enel, little is known and details unspoken. Only Oromë’s words were recorded, his offer of the Valar’s own homeland to the elves, that the Children of Eru should relocate across the vast sea and be enriched by their protection and gifts, greatest of all being the light of the Two Trees. The reluctance of the three chieftains is known and their reasoning easy to guess at. The shores of Cuiviénen, the Great Mother Lake, was all of the world that they knew, and Oromë’s words alone would not cleave them from the site of their birth. The war against Melkor to lay Utumno to its foundations had fostered dread in all Powers that were not the familiar Hunter and his shining horse. Oromë anticipated their reluctance. “Let me choose three to bring with me to Valinor, one from each of your tribe, to see the truth of my words and return to you with their validity, as I myself tarried among you to learn your ways before I returned to my king and kin.”

It is said that Imin nodded first, and that Tata tapped his lips and agreed, and that Enel turned away to look at the waters behind them before he turned back to Oromë and said, “We know the three that you wish to take with you, the three boys that found you.”

“It is fitting,” said Tata, and Imin looked, it is said, to the stars above them as if seeing solace or sign.

“Those three I wish as the ambassadors,” Oromë replied. “They were the first to speak to me and speak on behalf of all Speakers, to inform me of your woes brought upon you by Melkor, of your lives and joys and sorrows, your needs and dreams. Let them speak again in the Maharaxë before the full council of my peers and let them see and hear of what we offer up to the Children of Our Father. They are the three that I choose.”

“Who else but them?” murmured the first leaders of the elves.

...

After their discussion with Oromë, each of the three elves mounted a horse and rode towards a village, leaving in one direction whereas they had rode in from three. To the village that Rúmil founded did Tata ride, and Finwë greeted the news of his task with loquacious delight. Praise flowed like a torrent from his lips, and Tata applauded himself for his wisdom. This orphan boy with his mountain of words and ingratiating attitude was the perfect choice to send to Valinor and bring back accountings of its land. Rúmil and the other Unbegotten adults of their village watched as clever Finwë charmed Chief Tata, nervous that the clever lad would tip the scales into an unctuousness of obvious falsity or his clever tongue edge into an offense. The villagers piled gifts onto their chieftain: beautiful items of metal and ceramic and salt. With loaded bags to weigh down his horse, Tata rode home, head full of new words and Finwë’s eager promises.

Further west at the village at the river’s mouth Enel beheld tall Elwë appoint his brothers as stewards to watch over their people, officially bequeathing their parents’ hut to Elmo. “I know we promised a telu celebration to build you and Linkwînen a new house in which to welcome your firstborn child, but if I am to leave to this land of the Balî, there is no time, and our parents’ house has space,” Elwë said as he clasped his youngest brother’s shoulder.

“I will help,” Olwë added with laughter in his voice to mask his fear. “And sleep in the house of Nôwê when the infant’s cries drive me to tears.” Olwë smiled at his brother, and Elwë rolled his eyes and pointed his knowing gaze to Nôwê’s comely sister. The teasing interplay between the three brothers amused Enel. The-Third-to-Awake regretted that his own son had no siblings, thinking that Nurwë would be strengthened by the support of a brother or sister. The shift in Enel’s mood -and the return of her husband’s attention to her- pleased Enelyë. Of this thought’s naivety one should not be quick to judge, for the third generation of Kwendî were yet unborn and dynastic struggles between siblings and cousins likewise nascent. And the sorrows that this began among the Nelyar Avari, grave as they were, paled to those of other tribes.

Only to his own village did Imin return, the sprawling singular Minyar home ringed by a mighty palisade and pasture pens full of horses and sheep. His son, Inkundû, was not at the gates to greet him and turn the horse loose in a pasture. His son’s absence neither surprised nor consciously aggrieved Imin, and Inkundû was found, as expected, in the cleared circle of the dueling ring, wrestling with Asmalô over leadership of the next hunt. A minor squabble, the bout lasted only to the first ground pin, and Imin watched his firstborn win the match. Inkundû failed to notice his father’s observation, preoccupied with crowing victory as Asmalô rolled his eyes and grumbled a final time about herds moving away from depleted grazing fields. Nor did the chieftain stay to congratulate his son. The dueling ring was a sour reminder of the one that never partook in the rituals. Imin asked if the young man that would be Ingwë was inside the palisade or once more roaming the darkness far from his people. “Skarwô-iondo, where is he?”

Feinting an ignorance of the peevish tone of Imin’s question, Elnaira bowed to her chieftain and answered, “Inside, as he has been since before the Nelya messenger came for you.” Imin turned to the approaching Iminyë and sighed in relief as his wife looped her arms through his and led him deep into the village. He poured his concerns over the meeting into her waiting ear.

“The scarred ones’ son is with Elnaira’s spouse, dutifully helping him butcher and dress meat. I decreed that we roast a sheep to celebrate your return. And if Great Arâmê graces us, a lamb we shall roast.” Iminyë smiled as she walked her husband to the large campfire prepared with grilling racks and beyond to where several elves knelt over animal carcasses with various stone knives. Two elves who were butchering a young sheep carcass, carefully separating the ribs into beautiful racks, lifted their heads at Imin and Iminyë’s approach, but it was the third elf still focused on the least-desirable offal that Imin wanted. “Skarnâ-Maktê’s son, attend us.”

Ingwë raised his head. 

“Great Arâmê made a request for you and your friends. End this task and hear what you have been commanded to do,” spake Iminyë.

With blood-dried fingertips the young man answered Iminyë, “If the Great Hunter calls for me, I obey.”

Imin’s eyes narrowed. There was an insult buried in those words that he could not see, but Iminyë smiled. Imin trusted his spouse. Her judgment was his.

Judgment was not foresight.

Imin and Iminyë believed that there would be no danger to himself or his position as the chieftain paramount of all Kwendî in sending this boy to the abode of the Valar.

One person who slept in the finest house in the Minyar village was still doubtful. Inkundû returned from a disappointing hunt to learn the specifics of his father’s meeting with Oromë and the other two chieftains. He sulked through the feast repurposed into a farewell gift for the chosen ambassador. Imin’s son listened with growing alarm as his mother, already appraised of the details, saw no need to listen to a tale repeated and commentary made upon it, more concerned with the final food preparation. Iminyë’s displeasure with her son’s recent failures was subtle, but of its two most recent causes which had more weight was unclear: that his judgment on the hunting trip resulted in little quarry to show for the expenditures or that Inkundû had not been ready to greet his father at the village gate. Inkundû regularly disappointed Iminyë. This Imin knew and accepted, as he knew and accepted Inkundû’s jealous and untrusting moods. To his father alone did Imin’s son make his displeasure known.

“If to be sent as scouts to the homeland of the Powers is a task of great trust and honor, then why do we send Ûkwendô? Father, why not me?” Inkundû petulantly asked.

Imin framed the choice as one that the three leaders had come to independently of Oromë, and perhaps in Imin’s mind he had refashioned the decision as a debate that he had won, such that was his pride. Inkundû would have still protested Oromë’s decision had he known the truth of who made it. He would have argued that Imin should counter Oromë’s decree, as Imin had once done to a poor decision of Tata’s or his reprimands to Enel about the various Nelyar that ran free, like wandering Denweg or Awaskjapatô who lived out on rafts on the lake. Imin’s role was to rule over all elves, even fellow chieftains, and curtail their blunders.

Again the twinge of dissatisfaction with his first-born child bobbed to the surface of Imin’s thoughts before sinking once more, like one of the giant salamanders that swam in the lake.

“Ûkwendô can be spared, and if mortal doom befalls him, our tribe is not greatly harmed by his loss.” Disposable, like the Noldo orphan, the chieftain did not say aloud. Or that the third one, the Nelyar young chieftain, had two capable brothers as suitable replacements. Great Imin frowned. “I have decided that the scarred ones’ child has proven himself useful and able to fulfill responsibilities to his tribe that he has neglected. This is my test of the gift of my trust, as it is also a test of the Powers and if Their promises can be believed or honored.”

“And what if the Powers speak the truth of how wondrous their Paradise is? Do we believe then that Ûkwendô will return to us?”

Imin turned to stare across the village to where Maktâmê struggled to adjust the infant daughter strapped across her chest, shifting Indis’s head so that the small infant could nurse with ease. “He will return for his sister, even if the sullen boy has no sense of duty towards his tribe.” Inkundû scoffed at this evaluation of Ingwë’s motivation, how unbalanced the scales were if the home of the gods was half as glorious as promised. His younger sister, Ravennë, watched her father and older brother in keen, frownful silence.

...

With a leather satchel packed tightly with freshly smoked mutton, Ingwë waved a greeting to his two best friends outside the palisade of the Minyar village. To the west, under the dark shadows of the encroaching trees, Nahar shone brilliantly white. Oromë waited.

The travel kits of Elwë and Finwë were many parts: reed woven mats slung as rolled knapsacks across the hip, heavy bags full of tools, blankets, and food, belts hanging with more items like the fine pouches for flint and dried moss to quickly tinder a fire, and in their finest clothing. Everything spoke of their villages’ collective efforts to outfit these favored sons with the wherewithal to face every imagined possible disaster and a hope to impress the Valar. Finwë in particular carried the illusion that he had half his weight in borrowed beads and copper jewelry. Elwë’s hat shimmered with the iridescence of bird feathers, and this was not the only garment of his that played opalescent in the village light.

The Minyar dressed not their Ûkwendô in fancy garments. As a hunting party scout, he was given dried food and a filled water skin to carry him on the long trek. The only addition to his normal appearance was a line of ritual paint across his heart and outlining his jaw.

Before he joined his friends, Ingwë turned back around. His mother, standing a few feet away from the others at the gate, knew that her son would need this final farewell. Dried paint flaked off of her one good hand as she raised it for a gesture to beckon him towards the patiently waiting Oromë.

Strong hands caught those fingers and lowered them.

Stuttering, aware of the eyes of the First Tribe upon them, Maktâmê repeated the instructions that she had given her son before the feast started and Imin had dropped his world-shattering proclamation.

Ingwë gripped his mother’s shoulders and pulled her close to him, foreheads touching as he pleaded for the final time. “If I don’t return- if you cannot stay, Mother, if you cannot stay in the village,” and the young man could not articulate which dire outcome he feared as more likely, that his tribe force his family out by a formalized banishment or merely through the absence of communal aid or via the internal grief of his absence driving his mother to despair, “then you go to Rûmilo. You go to the Tatyar. The journey is quick. Is safe. You take the goods that I left for you, the knives, you trade. Phinwê left some pottery in your name. They will help, the Tatyar. And if you cannot settle in their village, go only as far as the river. The next village is Elwê’s. It is the closest. The braided river to the shore, the lights are easy to find, reflecting off the water. His brothers lead their village. Kind boys. Promise me, Mother. You take Indis to them. Do not stay in this place.” Years of negligence and cruelty from his people forced Ingwë’s whispered words in a cornered snake’s desperate hiss. “Go to them. Elmo’s spouse is gravid; soon their first child will be born. A new mother will welcome you and Indis. Someone to help nurse, if nothing else. They have food to share, a place at their fire. Please, promise me.”

Crying, Maktâmê kissed her son’s brow. “Stop. This fear, do not carry it with you to the land of the gods. We shall be safe, your sister and I. We are provided for. Go with hope, my son. With joy and excitement. Explore this new land that they have promised with the same wonder that filled your father and I when we first stepped away from the lake-shore. The beautiful light when we first saw the stars.” Her voice shook. “When Imin lit fire and gave us all warmth and light. The Powers promise greater than that. Go. See if it is true.” A thumb smoothed away the deep creases of his brow. The dried paint did not leave a mark. “Look forward, as a brave scout of our people. As Alakô’s son, fleet-footed light and sure, Star-beacon. A torch is for the unknown path before us. So look forward.”

Ingwë closed his eyes and willed his heart to steady and slow its rhythm. “I promise.”

[feanope]

Eonwë!

How I feel about this character

Underrated 9/10.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

My absolute OTP is Eönwë/Glorfindel during the War of Wrath, i just love them. Have written them, have comissioned art for them because I just have a need.

Asides from that, Eönwë/Mairon, which I also adore - one of my absolute favorite fanfics ever is about this pairing.

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Manwë & Eönwë - they are my BrOTP. But also interactions with Ingwë; Ingwerion & Finarfin are dear to my heart.

My unpopular opinion about this character

Do I have an unpopular opinion about him? Perhaps, that he questioned Manwë’s decisions - and Manwëis okay with that.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

ARMOR P/ORN DURING THE WAR OF WRATH.

[squirrelwrangler]

Ingwë gripped his mother’s shoulders and pulled her close to him, foreheads touching as he pleaded for the final time. “If I don’t return- if you cannot stay, Mother, if you cannot stay in the village,” and the young man could not articulate which dire outcome he feared more as more likely, that his tribe force his family out by a formalized banishment or the absence of communal aid or via the internal grief of his absence drive his mother to despair, “then you go to Rûmilo. You go to the Tatyar. The journey is quick. Is safe. You take the goods that I left for you, the knives, you trade. Phinwê left some pottery in your name. They will help, the Tatyar. And if you cannot settle in their village, go further. The next village is Elwê’s. His brothers lead. Promise me, Mother. You take Indis to them. Do not stay in this place.” Years of negligence and cruelty from his people forced Ingwë’s whispered words in a cornered snake’s desperate hiss. “Go to them. Elmo’s spouse is gravid; soon their first child will be born. A new mother will welcome you and Indis. Someone to help nurse, if nothing else. They have food to share, a place at their fire. Please, promise me.”

Crying, Maktâmê kissed her son’s brow. “Stop. This fear, do not carry it with you to the land of the gods. We shall be safe, your sister and I. We are provided for. Go with hope, my son. With joy and excitement. Explore this new land that they have promised with the same wonder that filled your father and I when we first stepped away from the lakeshore. The beautiful light when we first saw the stars.” Her voice shook. “When Imin lit fire and gave us all warmth and light. The Powers promise greater than that. Go. See if it is true.” A thumb smoothed away the deep creases of his brow. “Look forward, as a brave scout of our people. As Alakô’s son, fleet-footed light and sure, Star-beacon. A torch is for the unknown path before us. Look forward.”

Ingwë closed his eyes and willed his heart to steady and slow its rhythm. “I promise.” 

[squirrelwrangler]

Dreadful Wind

Hey, y’all know that one plot-hole in “Of Ingwë Ingwerion” and its connecting stories that no-one has yet to ask me about? Here’s the answer.

Author Note: Imin, the first leader of the Minyar/Vanyar, is reembodied right as the War of Wrath begins. He submits to Ingwë’s royal authority and becomes a general under Ingwion (his grandson).

…

In the trenches, the Vanyar foot-soldiers called it the foul wind. It was a cruel spirit that punched through all their defenses, barreling through the fortification lines in a gust of un-light, a screaming gale of hate and despair. Light and song were consumed in its path. The foul wind blinded eyes and shoved into lungs, causing convulsions and suffocation to those trapped in its attention before rushing on to more victims. It raced always upon the earth, rarely leaping high, but was bold and unmindful of light, song, or ward raised in futile effort to thwart it. Water nor wall could hinder it. A dark wind swift enough for the deaths it dealt to almost be merciful, if not for the mocking intent as it slew its victims. Worst of all was the mind behind the torrent, an envious intelligence that hated them personally and delighted in their pain. Eönwë’s lieutenants only confirmed what the elves who faced the attentions of that black gale knew, that the spirit was not a Maiar like the balrogs or Sauron the Cruel, but one of the Houseless long corrupted by Morgoth, twisted in hate and made unbelievably powerful. Disembodied elven souls could be dangerous to the unaware- yet remained pitiable. The borders of Taur-nu-Fuin had been home to many of those phantoms eager to stalk and strangle any lost wanderers, and during the campaigns to free and purify that forest of darkness, the Vanyar and their Ainur allies had worked tirelessly to overpower the Houseless phantoms and send them to Mandos for healing. Fighting phantoms depended on a bright strong will. Ingwion had never attempted it, but those that had said it needed naught but a clear voice and patience, and a familiarity with using ósanwe. Yet this spirit could be neither caught nor given the luxury of pity. Eönwë himself had tried to capture the dark gale, shooting after the rushing wind that swifter than his king’s eagles, and could not touch it.  Among both his soldiers and generals that Ingwion commanded as supreme leader of the Vanyar, not even Sauron himself was more hated and feared - nor inspired the same great feeling of helplessness. “The foul wind cannot be bested” was whispered in the trenches.

Ingwion doubted that the black gale was aught but an elven soul, that surely such a powerful and hated thing had to come from something greater, even as he beheld the shadowy force barreling towards their central headquarters deep in the rear trenches. As this dart of hate hurled right towards him and General Imin, one of their bleak-faced captains whispered, “It has finally come for us.”

General Imin grimaced and hefted his lance, barking at the various aides-de-camp to move out of the way as he stared down the incoming gale. The first awakened of all elves, the long-deposed first leader of the Vanyar, Imin had retained his towering self-confidence even after his restoration from Mandos and the public acquiescence and acknowledgement of Ingwë’s High Kingship. Usually this arrogance of Imin annoyed Ingwion; right now it was his slim comfort. Deep within the shadows Ingwion could sense a presence, a feeling of a consciousness and memory of a body, something that his mind wanted to paint in familiar golden light. But all his ears could hear was a snarling voice that shattered in crescendos to high-pitched screams of envy. Ingwion strained to discern words amidst the howl instead of mere emotion. The darkness, swiftly passing from the outer ramparts into the interior of the fortress with unreal speed, had narrowed into a shape no bigger than a man’s form, a shifting column barely taller than Ingwion. It was like -and yet not- the forms of balrogs that the Vanyar army had encountered. Unlike the popping flames, the sounds and sensations behind this shadowy form were familiar, completely akin to elves. Mind-speech, a resentment so deep it was given shape, but of motivations that hinted that an elf could understand if only able to pierce the black cloud surrounding the soul, a core no Balrog possessed. And the syllables through which the wind screamed promised comprehension, dangling just outside the range of language understood - not at all like the discordant alien notes of Valarin. Imin sensed this too, stronger than his grandson, for he gazed nonchalant upon the incoming gale, a puzzlement on his brows as if scouring his memory for a match. Imin boasted that he could recognize and remember the face and voice of every elf that had first awakened, a talent for memory that he continued to practice with all of the army’s captains and underlings. Imin almost recognized this ghost. Upon that brow was fear as well - Ingwion had practice now of discerning the elements of facade in his grandfather’s overwhelming bravado. A mental shout of recognition as the maelstrom devastated the room, racing around General Imin to fling him into the air like a child as Ingwion dove to the floor, then holding Imin aloft, mocking and toying and slowly constricting like a serpent. Ingwion could not say if that call of recognition came from the spirit, General Imin, or both. It was clear the elven soul beneath the black wind knew who Imin was, which spoke of the Houseless spirit’s incredible age, for Imin had died in Cuiviénen before the Great Journey. Words it began to speak to Imin, in a voice and vocabulary horrifying similar to Imin’s own. Titles, Ingwion thought the phrases might have been, a mocking greeting, but the words were old.  One of the First, Ingwion thought to himself as he tried to crawl away, that is why it is so strong.

“Run to your grandmother!” Imin shouted as his eyes began to bulge, a scream in ósanwe more than physical vibration of air, and Ingwion could feel the attention of the hateful spirit turn from Imin to himself. The screams of envy shifted and focused as well, and Ingwion could feel the shapes of those thoughts, of the anger that Imin lived with a body seemingly untouched, still a powerful and confident leader, accompanied by not just a son but a grandson. The feeling of that hate was sharp enough to strangle, and Ingwion ran out of the room faster than he had ever in his life. Gibbering hind-thoughts were screaming at Ingwion to dare presume that he could possibly outrun the dreadful wind. Yet Ingwion prided himself on his speed - if not to the levels of egotism his mother’s father conducted himself in- and there had been a cry of triumph in Imin’s command, a surety that the wind be defeated if Ingwion’s grandmother reached in time.

Mahtamë, Ingwion’s paternal grandmother, stood at the other end of the courtyard, called forth by the screaming. Her presence here was an anomaly, the culmination of a touring visit to assure the troops of stability and incoming supplies back in Valinor. Mahtamë was not wearing any armor, even, only the richly pleated robes and heavy lace afforded her as mother of High King Ingwë, her golden crown a simpler version of the one Ingwion’s mother wore. 

Ingwion raced towards his grandmother, hating himself for bringing this foul thing behind him, for he could hear clear the words of disdain now interlacing with the wind’s howls, the spirit’s hatred of bright, perfect Ingwion, a son beloved and spoiled, of these people whole and splendid. That Imin kept what he could not, his child, his family, his body and life, happiness, all. The wind overtook Ingwion, blocking out his sight, then abandoned him, aiming straight at Mahtamë in her lace veil and golden crown, arms raised as if to ward off the shadowy mass. Ingwion could not turn away as the wind slammed into his grandmother, then suddenly retreated as Mahtamë screamed.

The sound from his grandmother’s throat, echoing stronger in ósanwe, was not the cry of pain Ingwion expected. It was a scream of pain - but of a far deeper anguish. A wound of the soul, not physical pain. The sound itself was like a column of searing white, a fountain of Laurelin’s purest light, with Mahtamë at its center, her arm outstretched towards the fleeing shadow, reaching for the vaguely man-shaped figure sobbing in pain beneath the light-devouring shadow. The scars of her long-healed injury shone white against her skin, fingers like the teeth of a desperate starving beast.

“Alaco!” Grandmother had screamed to name the swiftly fleeing wind.

[feanope]

do you like manwe? and why do you think a lot of people hate him :/

Hello there,

YES. I DO. A lot? Because to me he’s a very interested character and one that is often ignored by fandom, as generally the Valar tend to be.

Thankfully I haven’t come across much Manwë hate; at least not recently, might be that I am following the ‘wrong’ blogs for that.

Why a lot of people hate him though is probably something you should ask those who hate the character, though as said, I haven’t come across much hate. Lame jokes, yeah, also the mention that the Valar are either they are outright ‘bad’ (because they did not meddle in the affairs of the Firstborn, although they even did?), because Námo cursed the Feanorians (yes, the precious Feanorian babies; don’t get me wrong, i like them too, but for that I must not bash other characters or ignore their vile deeds). What I often came across however, is that he’s described as boring. 

Well, I don’t get why? Sure, there are other characters getting more ‘screentime’ in the book, but don’t leave all the blanks also so many possibilities to explore? 

There is interaction with all the other Valar, with Eönwë, with Ingwë and Ingwerion; with so many other Elves? Maiar? So yeah .. I try to add some content to the deserted Manwë tag every once in a while, but as my time is limited, i can’t as much as I’d like to. 

So yeah, this is a Manwë appreciation blog :D