Kellinar Trevellion
The midnight coloured stallion, Haryon'leo, restlessly stood upon a hill, shifting from hoof to hoof while his vanya rider gazes intently at the patch of dark flowers nestled at the base of the next distant hill. The rider reaches down and caresses his steed's neck, speaking softly in Quenya to quiet the prancing. This was as close as he dared to come and view the ominous flowers. King Ingwë of the Vanyar elves tightly clenches a gloved hand over the pommel of the saddle, remembering that the fair Linhröa and her intended Rillë are no more. Casualties of yonder flowers, their voices stilled and physical presence absent. Ingwë frowns deeply as he recalls the reactions of those he encountered on his way here. For most were not closely acquainted with the couple and only expressed sadness and concern for their unfortunate passing.
He was surprised that his citizens would simply avoid that part of Valarinde woods and continue with their lives and await their King's resolutions. They offered no debate as they look to their king with guileless eyes. Ingwë's body tensed, eyes flashed angrily and Haryon'leo responded with a quick breath and forceful snort. "When did his people become so complacent?" he thought grimly. Granted, the Vanyars have known a peaceful existence since the beginning of the Second Age, and many have since been born without experiencing any strife or loss. Only the Eldars will remember the deceit of Melkor and all the disharmony he wrought in Aman before he was finally imprisoned after the War of Wrath.
The war that caused such upheaval of Middle Earth and sunk Beleriand beneath the ocean waves. A battle he did not participate by order of Lord Manwë to safeguard Valinor. A bone of contention that he has picked to dust in his mind since but never voiced to anyone. So, instead he sent his son Ingwion to lead the vanyar troops with the Ainur host. A shadow of fear gripped Ingwë when he thought of the day he almost lost his son during that battle if it was not for the appearance of Eärendil and the great eagles of Gondolin.
A faint and almost indiscernable sound of a snapped twig broke Ingwë's thoughts. Tensing and immediately attentive both he and the stallion quietly watched in the direction of the sound then relaxed as a doe cautiously walked out from a grove of trees. As if sensing danger behind, the doe suddenly bolted away. Ingwë's visage darkened as he thought of the correlation between his people and an innocent creature of the woods.
Once more he observed the wretched patch wishing it would be gone never to trouble the vanyars or the fair land under his charge. Softly he muttered with disgust in his voice, "Mornalöte nuruhuine", (Dark flowers of death). He abruptly turned Haryon'leo around heading back to the northern gates of Valimar. After talking to the couple of guards posted near the mornalöte and most within the city of Valimar, he realized that something must be done about the Vanyar defense. As long as the patch of flowers exist, Ingwë strongly felt that an ancient evil has subtlely taken root in the heart of Aman and that it was time the Vanyars become vigilant once more.
Quickly he rode through Valimar not wishing to stop and speak to anyone then slowed Haryon'leo to a walk after some distance from the eastern gates heading home. Without giving any indication, he noticed that his determined and rapid ride through the city caused a stir among the citizens. His countenance, looking most likely stern, and disturbed for all to view. "Good", he thought, "maybe they might start thinking of the gravity of the situation!". Night had fallen, twilight long past when he reached the palace stables. Disembarking and with a gentle pat he gave thanks to his faithful steed and let him be led away by a waiting vanya.
Seated on the balcony outside of his study facing the eastern night skies after a hot meal, he felt weary from the long day of travel, yet his mind would not stop. Ingwë knew sleep would not come for some time yet, so he continued to ruminate about the current circumstances. His left hand rested on the arm of the chair and the bright glint from his silver ring with a mounted cabachon caught his eye. It was the first stone Olwë picked up upon reaching the shores of Alqualondë, and with tears of absolute joy Olwë later gifted him with it. He was greatly surprised that his artisans of jewelcraft had polished the rough stone and claimed that the deep azure gem was of great worth. Olwë, his beloved Teleri brother. Olwë, his tormented Eldar kin. Fear settled in the pit of his stomach as he thought about a barbaric ritual soon to happen to Olwë. A ritual of cleansing...a ritual to cure....a ritual he might not survive. Ingwë felt grief and mourn welling up tightening his chest, his eyes on the verge of spilling tears at a possible loss.
Slowly, Ingwë rises and steps forth to grip the banister railing with both hands. His golden head bowed then raises upon first light of the coming dawn. Usually heralding a bright new day, he felt no joy as his eyes vainly sought for the Morning Star that should now be flying overhead before him. Ingwë clearly remembers the day when mandated by Eonwë and commissioned before Lord Manwë in Valimar that Eärendil take the Silmaril upon his ship Vingilot and sail the skies bringing hope and stability every morning. And now as another dark omen, even Eärendil and the Silmaril have vanished like the Teleri clan without a trace. Trembling now with pent up anger and anguish, his hands now fists, Ingwë lets out a forced cry towards the heavens with his heart reverberating his pain and plea into the morning still.
> Next Vanyar > Next Morning Star
He was surprised that his citizens would simply avoid that part of Valarinde woods and continue with their lives and await their King's resolutions. They offered no debate as they look to their king with guileless eyes. Ingwë's body tensed, eyes flashed angrily and Haryon'leo responded with a quick breath and forceful snort. "When did his people become so complacent?" he thought grimly. Granted, the Vanyars have known a peaceful existence since the beginning of the Second Age, and many have since been born without experiencing any strife or loss. Only the Eldars will remember the deceit of Melkor and all the disharmony he wrought in Aman before he was finally imprisoned after the War of Wrath.
The war that caused such upheaval of Middle Earth and sunk Beleriand beneath the ocean waves. A battle he did not participate by order of Lord Manwë to safeguard Valinor. A bone of contention that he has picked to dust in his mind since but never voiced to anyone. So, instead he sent his son Ingwion to lead the vanyar troops with the Ainur host. A shadow of fear gripped Ingwë when he thought of the day he almost lost his son during that battle if it was not for the appearance of Eärendil and the great eagles of Gondolin.
A faint and almost indiscernable sound of a snapped twig broke Ingwë's thoughts. Tensing and immediately attentive both he and the stallion quietly watched in the direction of the sound then relaxed as a doe cautiously walked out from a grove of trees. As if sensing danger behind, the doe suddenly bolted away. Ingwë's visage darkened as he thought of the correlation between his people and an innocent creature of the woods.
Once more he observed the wretched patch wishing it would be gone never to trouble the vanyars or the fair land under his charge. Softly he muttered with disgust in his voice, "Mornalöte nuruhuine", (Dark flowers of death). He abruptly turned Haryon'leo around heading back to the northern gates of Valimar. After talking to the couple of guards posted near the mornalöte and most within the city of Valimar, he realized that something must be done about the Vanyar defense. As long as the patch of flowers exist, Ingwë strongly felt that an ancient evil has subtlely taken root in the heart of Aman and that it was time the Vanyars become vigilant once more.
Quickly he rode through Valimar not wishing to stop and speak to anyone then slowed Haryon'leo to a walk after some distance from the eastern gates heading home. Without giving any indication, he noticed that his determined and rapid ride through the city caused a stir among the citizens. His countenance, looking most likely stern, and disturbed for all to view. "Good", he thought, "maybe they might start thinking of the gravity of the situation!". Night had fallen, twilight long past when he reached the palace stables. Disembarking and with a gentle pat he gave thanks to his faithful steed and let him be led away by a waiting vanya.
Seated on the balcony outside of his study facing the eastern night skies after a hot meal, he felt weary from the long day of travel, yet his mind would not stop. Ingwë knew sleep would not come for some time yet, so he continued to ruminate about the current circumstances. His left hand rested on the arm of the chair and the bright glint from his silver ring with a mounted cabachon caught his eye. It was the first stone Olwë picked up upon reaching the shores of Alqualondë, and with tears of absolute joy Olwë later gifted him with it. He was greatly surprised that his artisans of jewelcraft had polished the rough stone and claimed that the deep azure gem was of great worth. Olwë, his beloved Teleri brother. Olwë, his tormented Eldar kin. Fear settled in the pit of his stomach as he thought about a barbaric ritual soon to happen to Olwë. A ritual of cleansing...a ritual to cure....a ritual he might not survive. Ingwë felt grief and mourn welling up tightening his chest, his eyes on the verge of spilling tears at a possible loss.
Slowly, Ingwë rises and steps forth to grip the banister railing with both hands. His golden head bowed then raises upon first light of the coming dawn. Usually heralding a bright new day, he felt no joy as his eyes vainly sought for the Morning Star that should now be flying overhead before him. Ingwë clearly remembers the day when mandated by Eonwë and commissioned before Lord Manwë in Valimar that Eärendil take the Silmaril upon his ship Vingilot and sail the skies bringing hope and stability every morning. And now as another dark omen, even Eärendil and the Silmaril have vanished like the Teleri clan without a trace. Trembling now with pent up anger and anguish, his hands now fists, Ingwë lets out a forced cry towards the heavens with his heart reverberating his pain and plea into the morning still.
> Next Vanyar > Next Morning Star