106: The Hunt Begins

They spent another hour or so being tutored by Tulkas and Oromë before they were deemed ready. Ingwion still had a cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he handled the sword, going through the motions which Tulkas had taught him.

"You will not use these weapons to maim or kill," the Vala insisted firmly as he led them through the exercises. "I am teaching you these moves so you don’t do an injury to yourself or others as you’re waving your swords around. These weapons are for intimidation purposes only, but you may have to defend yourselves if others attack."

"Who would be so foolish?" Ingwion asked.

Tulkas gave him a considering look. "Oromë," was all he said without even raising his voice and the other Vala, who had been working with Valandur and Eccaldamos on the other side of the arena as they refamiliarized themselves with handling a spear, suddenly gave a terrible yell and without warning leaped towards Ingwion with a ten-foot long spear in his hands. Ingwion’s heart leaped to his throat and he barely had time to react, clumsily raising his sword in defense while Tulkas shouted instructions to him and both Arafinwë and Intarion scrambled out of the way, their own swords raised in readiness in case Oromë decided to attack them as well.

Even as he attempted to parry Oromë’s thrust, Ingwion realized he was doomed. There was no way he could effectively counter the Vala’s move and not suffer some injury or even death. Only at the last second did Oromë change his tactic and use his spear to knock Ingwion off his feet, sending the ellon to the ground while his sword went skittering away. Ingwion landed hard enough for him to lose his breath, leaving him gasping in a combination of fright and relief that he was not dead as he stared up along the shaft of the spear that hovered over him, its deadly point touching the area above his heart.

For a moment or two only the sound of Ingwion’s heavy breathing was heard. Oromë flipped his spear up and reached down to give Ingwion a hand, helping him to rise, smiling at him. "Those guarding your atar have spears," he said. "They have a longer reach than your sword, but you have greater maneuverability. That will be to your advantage, if, and I stress this, if you can get under their guard."

"How?" Ingwion asked humbly, looking about for his sword. Intarion retrieved it from underneath the bench and handed it to him.

"We will show you," Oromë said and with that the next phase of their instructions began with Oromë, Valandur and Eccaldamos pairing off with Ingwion, Intarion and Arafinwë while Tulkas taught them the moves they would need to disarm the guards. By the time the two Valar had put them through their paces, they were all drenched with sweat and breathing hard, but both Tulkas and Oromë nodded approvingly. Naturally, neither of them had a hair out of place and they were as fresh-looking as if they’d done nothing more strenuous in the last hour than lifting a goblet of miruvórë to their lips.

"Go and bathe," Oromë ordered them. "The bath is ready for you and you will find fresh clothing as well. Do not linger, though, for we must be on our way very soon."

Ingwion gave the Vala a concerned look. "You keep saying that we are late. Is there something you’re not telling us? Is Atto in danger?"

"No questions, youngling," Oromë said not unkindly. "You’re wasting time. Go."

And Ingwion went, trooping upstairs with the others where they wasted little time in talk, but quickly stripped and entered the baths waiting for them, remaining there just long enough to wash away the sweat and the grime before climbing out and heading for their rooms to dress. In minutes they were back outside, standing in the front courtyard where Oromë was waiting for them. Of Tulkas there was no sign. With Oromë were horses for each of them. Nahar, Oromë’s steed, was also there, looking at them with an intelligence that told them that he was more than just a horse. Ingwion found himself bowing to him in greeting. Oromë smiled knowingly.

"Let us ride," he said, and he gestured to each of them, letting them know which horse was theirs and what the horse’s name was. Ingwion found himself sitting on a bay gelding named Nasar. Once they were mounted, Oromë led them through the streets of Eldamas until they were on the north road heading towards Vanyamar. At that point Oromë halted and turned to Arafinwë.

"I believe you wish to check on something first before you tell the others your theory as to where Ingwë is being held," he said and Arafinwë nodded. "Then lead the way, Pityahuan."

Arafinwë grimaced slightly at the name, but then he schooled his expression, giving the Vala a nod before urging his steed forward, taking the lead. Ingwion forbore asking his cousin where they were going, for he had a suspicion as to their destination. It was only when they reached the place where the road to the hunting lodge met the road that would lead them on to Vanyamar that he knew for a certainty. Arafinwë called a halt and dismounted, telling the others to remain where they were while he hunted around a nearby copse.

"What are you looking for?" Ingwion could not help calling out.

"Evidence," was all the answer given and the others glanced at one another with bemused expressions. Only Oromë sat there looking more amused than anything. Then Ingwion noticed the Vala searching the skies, a frown on his face, but when Ingwion looked up all he saw was the stars shining as brilliantly as ever.

"Best hurry, Pityahuan," the Vala called out. "We must move on."

"Ah!" came the reply from somewhere within the copse. "I thought so."

"Thought what?" Ingwion retorted in exasperation. "Arafinwë, stop being so mysterious. You’re almost as bad as the Va... as some people I know," he hastily amended, remembering that one of those very people was in their midst. Oromë raised an eyebrow and gave him a knowing smile. The other three ellon were hiding snickers behind their hands. Ingwion blushed and refused to look at anyone, aware of his gaffe. He was saved from having to apologize by Arafinwë returning to them, holding something in the palm of his hand. Ingwion had to squint in the darkness to see what it was, and then gasped when he recognized the object. It was a cloak pin in the shape of an eagle made of silver and encrusted with gems.

"That’s Atar’s!" he exclaimed. "Ammë gave it to him for his last begetting day." He stared at Arafinwë. "How did you know it was there?"

"I didn’t," Arafinwë said as he handed the object to Ingwion who stared at it in trepidation. "I was actually looking for evidence that your atar was attacked."

"And did you find such evidence?" Valandur asked.

"In a manner of speaking," Arafinwë replied as he remounted his horse. "From the looks of things, a group of people stopped here to rest, building a small fire. That, in itself, would not be proof, but there was evidence of the ground being churned up, as if there had been a scuffle. And of course, I found that pin lying under some bushes."

"But why did you think you would find anything at all here?" Intarion asked as Ingwion passed the cloak pin to him so he could see it.

"Based on what I was told by Lord Manwë," Arafinwë replied, "I figured Ingwë must have been waylaid before he made it to Vanyamar, but well after he left Eldamas so there was little chance of there being any witnesses. This juncture is the most logical place. Whether Ingwë was already here taking a rest or met these people here and stopped to visit or what, I do not know, but certainly something happened to him and that pin is our proof."

"So where could they have taken him?" Ingwion insisted. "We’ve already discounted the hunting lodge, even though we haven’t actually been there to check. Eccaldamos pointed out that the lodge is too open. There’s no place where you can put a prisoner unless you chained him to a post."

Arafinwë nodded. "So I thought as well, but we should check it out even so if only to eliminate it from our list of possible locations."

"And if Atar is not at the lodge, what then?" Ingwion insisted, growing angry. "Why do you not tell us where you think he is being held? Why are you being so mysterious?"

Arafinwë gave him a considering look. "You need to practice patience, Cousin," he said calmly. "One thing at a time."

"Damn you, Ingoldo!" Ingwion shouted, wheeling his horse around, though even he did not know where he was heading. He only knew that he was tired of non-answers to simple questions. His heart had lurched at the sight of the cloak pin and all he could think of was his atar lying somewhere, perhaps even injured. Before he had gotten very far, though, Oromë was blocking his route, his expression more sympathetic than angry, which just made it worse as far as Ingwion was concerned.

"Your anger is misplaced, child," the Vala said. "Arafinwë is not the enemy."

"He’s been among you Valar for too long," Ingwion snarled, unwilling to give in. "He’s become as impossible as you or the other Valar, never giving a direct answer to a direct question."

If Oromë was upset by his words, he didn’t show it. Instead he shook his head. "Sometimes, even direct questions have no adequate answers. Arafinwë is correct. You do need to practice a little more patience, but at the moment we have other concerns." He glanced up at the sky again, pursing his lips. Ingwion saw the worried look on the Vala’s face.

"What is it, lord?" he asked, glancing at the sky as well, but he saw nothing amiss.

"Changes are coming," was all the Vala said. Then he lowered his gaze. "If we’re through here we should go."

Everyone looked at Ingwion and he realized that he was the one holding them up. He nodded, looking at Arafinwë as he spoke. "Yes, let us go and check out the lodge."

Arafinwë said nothing, merely nodding and taking the lead once again. Intarion rode next to Ingwion, a puzzled look on his face. "Why did you call Arafinwë Ingoldo?" he asked his cousin quietly. "Did you think you were speaking to my atar?"

Ingwion gave him a surprised look. "No. Sorry. Surely you remember that Arafinwë’s amilessë is Ingoldo? Indis named him after her brother, though I’m at a loss as to why. I didn’t think she was that fond of him."

"Neither did I," Intarion said somewhat ruefully. "I don’t think anyone is fond of Atar, except Ammë."

Ingwion looked chagrined. "I am sorry, Intarion. I did not mean to cause you any more grief. Here I am worrying about my atar and you have said nothing about your own. I know you must be very concerned about him and your ammë."

Intarion nodded. "I hope when all this is over, Uncle Ingwë doesn’t punish them too severely."

"Do you think they should be punished?" Ingwion asked, frowning.

Intarion shrugged. "I cannot imagine the High King not meting out some kind of punishment for what Atar has done." He sighed, his expression sad. "He’s my atar and I love him, but... what he’s doing is wrong."

"It’ll work out... somehow," Ingwion said, feeling the assurance to be woefully inadequate but not knowing what else to say to comfort his cousin, who had to be feeling torn by conflicting loyalties. He had never stopped to think about that and he silently castigated himself for his lack of compassion for his cousin.

Intarion gave him a thin smile and leaned over to whisper in a conspiratorial manner. "From your lips to the Valar’s ears."

Ingwion snorted good-naturedly but said nothing as they continued to ride northwest towards the hunting lodge. He noticed Oromë still scanning the skies as they rode and he wondered what had the Vala so worried. He felt his gut tightening in concern and decided that a worried-looking Vala was not a good thing.

****

When they came to the path leading towards the lodge, Arafinwë dismounted, unsheathing his sword. The others joined him, each taking his own weapon in hand. Oromë remained on Nahar. "This is your Hunt, children. I will not interfere with what you do. Go and learn what you may. I will guard the horses. Do not linger, though. I fear we will be very, very late as it is."

"Late for what?" Ingwion couldn’t help asking in exasperation.

Oromë’s expression never changed, yet something cold crept into their fëar as he spoke and Ingwion had to suppress a shiver. "Late for many things," the Vala answered. "Go. You are wasting time."

And they went.

The lodge lay about a quarter of a mile from the road. Of them all, only Eccaldamos had never been there. Valandur walked beside him quietly explaining the layout of the lodge and the clearing in which it stood. When they reached the clearing, they stopped to look around. There was no light coming from behind the shutters, which would have been open, at least those on the ground floor if anyone was staying there. All was dark and silent.

"I did not think they would be here," Arafinwë said as he gestured for them to follow him back to the horses, "but I wanted to be sure."

"So where is Atar?" Ingwion asked. "Where do we go next?"

But Arafinwë only shook his head. "Wait and see, Cousin. I may still be wrong."

Ingwion resisted a sigh as he trudged alongside Arafinwë, suddenly feeling weary though in truth he had no reason to be. Yet, his fëa seemed burdened and he could not seem to find a way to lighten it. Then he glanced at Intarion walking on Arafinwë’s other side and he mentally kicked himself for being a selfish fool. Others were in deeper pain than he was and it was time he acknowledged that.

When they reached Oromë and the horses the Vala nodded. "He is not there," he stated.

Ingwion gave him a sour look. "You know where he is. You’ve always known, and yet you just sit there looking smug and refuse to help us."

"Ingwion," Arafinwë admonished him, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him a slight shake. His expression was more exasperated than angry as he looked at his cousin standing there glowering at him. "Do you want to be a thrall?"

The question was so unexpected that Ingwion could only gape at the Noldo. He vaguely noticed that the other Elves were looking askance at Arafinwë as well. "What do you mean?" Ingwion finally asked.

"I mean, do you want to have every decision made for you by another," Arafinwë replied. "I mean, do you want someone else to dictate to you your every move, your every thought, your every desire, because that is what you are essentially asking Lord Oromë and the other Valar to do. You want them to lead you by the hand to where your atar is, but we are not thralls and we are not children. Did not Lord Oromë tell you that he would join in the Hunt?"

"Yes, but...."

"But the operative word is ‘join’ not ‘lead’ or ‘dictate’," Arafinwë went on. "This is our Hunt and its success or failure lies solely with us. If Ingwë is meant to be found, meant to be rescued, it will only be through our efforts and no one else’s."

Ingwion glanced at the Vala still astride Nahar, his expression unreadable. "Then why are you even here?" he demanded of the Lord of Forests. "Why do you even bother if you’re not going to help us?"

Oromë glanced up into the sky, then down at the Elves. "We’re wasting time," he said. "Stay here or go on. What will you do?"

Arafinwë answered by mounting his horse. "I’m going," he answered firmly, looking at the other Elves. "What about the rest of you?"

"But where are we going?" Ingwion pleaded, even as he went to his own horse. "Why will you not tell me?"

"Can you not guess?" Arafinwë asked. "Has it never occurred to you that if Ingoldo did not bring Ingwë here to the lodge, there is only one other place where he could take him?" He pointed north.

"Formenos?" Ingwion asked in disbelief.

Arafinwë gave him an amused look. "Where else?"

"But... but Formenos is... is...." Ingwion stuttered and then stopped, realizing how wrong-headed his thinking had been of late. That Ingoldo would take advantage of the fact that the Noldor had deserted the valley in which lay Formenos and use it for his own purposes as a prison for the High King was something that had never occurred to him. He glanced around at the others and saw something indefinable in Valandur’s eyes that told him that perhaps he, Ingwion, had been the only one who hadn’t thought of Formenos as a likely place to look.

"I’ve been such a fool," he snarled and without another word he strode angrily away, uncaring about anything or anyone else, heedless of his path or the others calling after him. What a sorry excuse for a prince he was! He could just imagine his atar’s reaction when he learned that his first-born was a hopeless, useless ellon. All this time — all this time! — the others apparently had known or at least suspected, but none of them had said anything to him, not even a hint. They had let him lead, let him make the decisions. Ha! And now it was Arafinwë, the youngest of them, who was leading and he, Ingwion, was just a bloody useless fool!

He was jerked out of his angry reverie when something tripped him and he went sprawling to the ground with an exclamation of surprise that turned into a curse as he landed with his face in the dirt. When he looked up, it was to see Lord Oromë standing over him, his expression unreadable to the ellon.

"Get up," the Vala said quietly and Ingwion found himself scrambling to his feet to stand dejectedly before the Lord of Forests, waiting for the reprimand that was sure to come. Oromë stared at him for the longest time and Ingwion tried not to squirm.

"You are not a fool," the Vala finally said, "though you are beginning to act like one."

"They should have told me," Ingwion protested in a quiet voice, not looking up. "Why did they let me flounder around, making all these wrong decisions when we could have just gone to Formenos and rescued Atar?"

"And had you done just that, you would have failed," Oromë said baldly.

Ingwion looked up in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you would have failed in rescuing Ingwë," Oromë repeated. "There is a time and place for everything, Ingwion. Whether you realize it or not, you need, not only Arafinwë, but also Intarion, to succeed in rescuing your atar. Without them, any plan you may have had would have failed. Valandur and Eccaldamos said nothing to you because one of Manwë’s Maiar came to them and the others while you had your audience with the Valar and instructed them not to speak of Formenos to you. The time was not meet... until now."

Ingwion sighed. "Everything has been going wrong," he whispered. "Nothing has gone right since... well, since the Trees died."

"So it would seem," Oromë allowed, nodding, "but the story has not ended and anything can happen in the meantime." He gave Ingwion a considering look, speaking more briskly. "Now, there is still the Hunt to be had. Are you ready to join it?"

Ingwion hesitated for a second or two, wanting to ask more questions, but realizing this was neither the time nor place. He gave the Vala a measuring looked. "Yes. Let us join the others."

With that, he turned back to where everyone else was waiting and without a word climbed upon his steed, giving a nod to Arafinwë, who nodded back, and then they were on their way once more.

****

They rode in virtual silence for a time, stopping once to rest the horses. Intarion happened to be looking west and pointed. "Look!" he cried. "The stars are going out."

Everyone looked to the west and Ingwion felt a frisson of fear. It was as Intarion had said: something was blotting out the stars, something that was moving fast. And then there was a flash of incandescence that caused them all to flinch. It was followed by a deep rumbling and Ingwion felt himself beginning to panic, not understanding what was happening, fearing it was some new mischief perpetrated by Melkor.

"Fear not!" Oromë called out calmly. "It is not what you think."

"What is it, though?" Ingwion cried out as another bolt of light flashed across the sky and the earth trembled with the deep rumbling once again.

"Clouds," the Vala answered. "Storm clouds."

Ingwion and the other Elves stared in disbelief at the sight. Clouds they knew: white, fluffy and high up. Storm clouds they knew as well, the lightning and thunder that came with them and the rain that came at the bidding of the Valar, but such storms were brief and there was always the Light of the Trees. But these, these were massive giant clouds that even if there were light, Ingwion suspected they would have been black and threatening. The wind had begun to grow and the horses became skittish. The Elves had to exert all their effort to keep them calm. Only Nahar and Oromë appeared calm and unconcerned.

"What does it mean?" Arafinwë demanded, his expression one of dread at the oncoming storm, a dread that Ingwion, too, was feeling.

"With the death of the Trees, Aman no longer is protected from the vagaries of natural phenomena," the Vala answered. "The Valar have decided to allow Nature to take its course. We will no longer dictate the times and seasons here in Aman. Once, we would have sent such a storm, which has been brewing for some time far out in the Ekkaia, elsewhere, bypassing Valinor completely, but no longer."

"How long do we have before the storm reaches us?" Valandur asked, and once over the initial fright, he appeared more curious than anything. Ingwion decided it was a loremaster trait, because Intarion had a similar expression on his face.

Oromë gave them an amused look. "We will not reach Formenos before it hits," he said.

"This is what you meant when you kept saying we were late, isn’t it?" Intarion exclaimed, the light of understanding brightening his eyes.

Oromë smiled. "Indeed. Your horses, fine steeds that they are, are too slow. We must ride like the wind." And with that, he reached across his back and for the first time the Elves noticed the Valaróma, the famed horn of the Lord of the Hunt. Oromë brought it to his lips and sounded a single high sweet note that seemed to deepen as it was played. Ingwion felt himself growing faint, as if he could no longer breathe, for there was a pressure in the air around them and then suddenly the fabric of the universe seemed to shift somehow in a way that Ingwion’s mind could not comprehend and he had to close his eyes for a second. Then, as the last note of the horn died away, the Elves found themselves surrounded by Maiar on beautiful horses, horses that made their own seem dull and stupid in comparison, for they shone with an inner light, it seemed, and there was an intelligence about them that reminded Ingwion of Nahar. These were the Horses of Oromë, specially bred by the Vala, with Nahar as their sire. The Elves would not know that in a later age in Middle-earth, their descendants would be known as the Mearas among the people of Rohan.

"Leave your horses, they will come to no harm," Oromë ordered the Elves. "You will ride with us." He gestured to some of the Maiar who casually offered their hands to the bemused Elves and soon they were all astride. Oromë nodded to them and gave them a brilliant smile even as the sky was lit with incandescence and the clouds that had now reached them opened up and rain poured down upon them, drenching them and shocking the Elves with its ferocity. The wind howled about them like some slavering beast. Branches were torn off trees that were nearly bent to the ground. Ingwion instinctively ducked as the wind whipped around them and the rain blinded them. He could not comprehend the violence of this storm. The storms he knew had been cleansing, bringing new life to the land. They had been fierce but invigorating, but this storm seemed bent solely on destruction. He wondered how Vanyamar would fare, for it seemed to him the storm was heading in that direction. Lightning suddenly struck a tree in the middle distance, setting it afire, and he cried out, cringing against the Maia before him, feeling stupid, trembling like some elfling, yet his fear was real and could not be denied.

"Fear not!" Oromë assured them. "You are safe with us, though I’m afraid you’re going to be rather wet for a time." He laughed heartily and the Maiar joined him. Then he leaped upon Nahar’s back and raised his horn to his lips again, but this time the note that rang was brazen, wild and deep, and Ingwion felt his blood singing with emotions to which he could put no names. As one the Maiar raised their spears and shouted, "Na i-roimë!", and then they were off, racing across the land at such a pace that all about them became blurred. Ingwion held tight to the Maia sitting before him, closing his eyes, praying that he would not fall off, or worse still, become sick.

Then the Maiar began singing and none of the Elves, except perhaps Valandur, understood the words, for they sang in the ancient tongue of the Valar, which none of the Eldar, not even Fëanáro, had ever completely mastered. The words seemed to blend in with the rumbling which always followed the flashes of light. The song itself was sonorous, yet it evoked emotions, hot and feral, that Ingwion hadn’t realized until then even existed within him. He struggled against them, to block out the voices of the Maiar, to keep some semblance of self and not be overwhelmed by the song. He almost succeeded, but when Oromë himself joined his Maiar in singing, Ingwion moaned as a wave of dark ecstasy swept over him and soon he was lost in the song, no longer aware of the storm crashing about them, no longer aware of riding swiftly across the plains of Valinor, no longer even aware of himself. He was one with the song and knew nothing else....

****

Nasar: Red, adopted and adapted from Valarin. According to Tolkien, the word is used only among the Vanyar. The more common word for red is carnë.

Na i-roimë!: ‘To the hunt!’