The Fledgling

Linwë stood at the edge of the field of waist-high wheat. He knew that his son was in there, hidden among the bright stalks, but the only motion was the slight rippling of a summer breeze across them. He opened his sáma and reached out with his senses, but the child was evidently fast closed, hiding in thought as well as body. Linwë sighed, then smiled a little sadly. He hated to spoil the boy's play, but this was no place for him to be, as Veryandil well knew.

Linwë called aloud: Come out now. I do not think the Lady would appreciate your trampling her grain. There are better hiding places.

At the far side of the field, he saw a movement, then the dark head of his son appeared just above the wheat. A moment later, the child was racing toward him through the grain like an erratic arrow. Linwë braced himself as Veryandil ran out of the field, arms flung wide, then, ducking low, slammed into him twining himself around his father's legs. Linwë obligingly let himself fall backward onto the grass at the field's edge, with the boy on top of him, yelling in triumph.

Veryandil: I have you, atto! I have you!

Linwë: You do indeed hína. Now, if you will please get off my stomach, we need to talk. Veryandil, stop—now!

Giggling, the boy rolled off his father, and Linwë sat up, looking at his child gravely: Listen, small whirlwind. There is an entire forest to hide in. The Lady's grain is not to be treated lightly. Do you understand?

Veryandil dropped his eyes briefly, then looked up at his father, laughing: All right, atto, but I did not damage it.

Linwë: You did not, yonya, but only the Lady and her servants are to touch the coimas grain. So, remember that.

Veryandil: Atto, can we talk to them, the Valar I mean?

Linwë: You know that we can, beloved. Your nana is studying with Heru Irmo at this very moment.

Veryandil: I know, but she is his servant; she has the gift of Sight; but could I talk to them?

Linwë: Any of us can. Why do you ask?

Veryandil: I just wanted to know.

Linwë: Shall we go and explore the woods? Who knows, we might even meet the Lord of Forests.

Veryandil sprang up and ran, keeping well away from the edge of the wheat-field. His father followed two steps behind, baying like one of Oromë's hounds, to the delight of his son.

*******

In the quiet after loving, Linwë took his wife's hand: Melda, how did you fare today?

Oloriel turned her head and kissed him: Well—it went well. I learned how to guide someone out of nightmare. Do you know, love, that evil dreams can sometimes serve good purposes?

Linwë: How so?

Oloriel: They can bring what needs healing to our attention. Heru Irmo told me this is especially true among the Atani. I wonder what their dreams are like? Can they weave them intentionally as we do.

Linwë: I do not know, never having met one of the Secondborn, but I have heard that they can not. Do you think you will be one of Heri Estë's healers for the re-housed?

Oloriel: I hope so. And you, husband, how did you and our child fare?

Linwë laughed: You know, if ever we need a source of power, I think Veryandil would serve the purpose quite well. I almost needed an afternoon rest!

Oloriel: Do you mind, beloved—caring for him?

Linwë: It is a joy to me. Besides, your gift needed training. You were tormented by your seeings. Listen. Thunder. Perhaps I can convince our son to stay inside tomorrow, though I doubt it.

Oloriel: It still delights me that he chose your father-name at the Essecilmë.

Linwë: It fits him, do you not think. He is bold and a friend to all he meets.

Linwë and Oloriel lay and watched through their open window as the storm approached. The deep eaves of the guesthouse prevented rain from blowing in, but permitted its freshness to flow into the room. At the height of the thunder, they heard a tentative knock. Oloriel smiled at her husband, rose and went to the door. She opened it and gathered her son to her. He was not frightened; he simply wished to share the storm with his parents. When she had settled the child beside his father, she lay down by them on the wide bed. After a while, Veryandil said: They are dancing; or maybe it is catch-me.

Oloriel: Who are, little one?

Veryandil: Heru Manwë and Heru Ulmo, nana.

Oloriel: So they are, but it could be either one.

Veryandil: Who is winning then?

Linwë: They are both winning, for they are friends, hína.

At that moment, there was a blaze of lightning and a crash of thunder.

Veryandil laughed: They touched, nana!

Oloriel: They did, yonya.

The thunder rolled away westward, while the rain fell steadily. Father, mother and child drifted into dreams.

When a soft dawn came, the family rose, bathed, dressed and breakfasted with the others in the house. Most of these were students like Oloriel, but some were simply traveling through the region or seeking a time of rest. Afterward, Oloriel donned a light cloak, kissed her husband and son and went out into the gentle rain.

Veryandil: Atto, can we go to the Gardens today. I want to see where nana studies.

Linwë: We will, yonya, but remember, they are a place of rest, not of play, so you must not run and shout there.

Veryandil gave his father an impatient look and said: I know. I will not. What shall we do now?

Linwë: Now, while it still rains, we will write together. I must finish the new verses for Erulaitalë, and you must finish the tale you are crafting, for I want to read it.

Veryandil: Atto, I wish I could chant it instead. Writing is so slow!

Linwë: You can, yonya, but fixing it in Tengwar will allow others to enjoy it when you are not with them.

Veryandil: Is that why you write your poems down?

Linwë: It is.

For a while, father and son worked together. The only sounds were the scratching of pens on parchment, the tapping of rain and the song of a blackbird. The light in the room brightened as the clouds thinned, and at last, the full light of Anar poured through the window. Linwë laid down his pen and smiled at Veryandil: So, hína?

Veryandil: Mmm. This part has almost come, atto.

Linwë: I understand. When you are ready, meet me in the garden.

It was nearly mid-morning before Veryandil came to him. His eyes had the slightly unfocused look of abstracted thought, and Linwë marveled that his son could flow so easily from playful to studious. It was a characteristic he admired, for he knew that he himself was often too serious. He liked his boy's enthusiasm, but it did tax him at times. Now, the child came to him and leaned against his knees like an affectionate hound: Atto, it is not yet complete. Will you read my tale later?

Linwë: I will. Let us go.

The guesthouse sat at a crossing of two of the paths which served as roads in this part of Aman. People walked more often here than rode, for the grassy plains were rich with wildflowers, and closer to the Gardens, there were groves of trees through which ran clear streams.

Veryandil skipped ahead of his father, darting here and there as things caught his attention, whether a red squirrel or the bright flicker of a butterfly.

He sang a cheerful nonsensical song, which made Linwë smile, for the child seemed to be trying to invent a new form of noun declension for the sheer joy of it. They had just come within sight of the Gardens, when Veryandil shouted: Atto! Look! A talan tree!

Linwë: Oh? I have never heard of this species. Do you mean beech?

Veryandil: I do not know, but it looks as if you could build a lodge there. Can I climb it, atto?

Linwë: I do not doubt that you are capable, hína; but if you mean "may I…"

Veryandil: Oh, atto! May I then?

Linwë: Let me come and see first, melda.

Veryandil ran off the path to the left, His father following, into a stand of young beech trees. In a clearing at the center was one which was more mature, its first branches only a little way above Linwë's head. He walked around it carefully, looking for boughs which might be too slender to bear his son's weight, as well as to be sure that he could climb the tree himself at need. Satisfied, he said: Do not go to the top, Veryandil, for I do not think the crown of the tree can support you, but try for that fork in the trunk up there. It is a good place to look out over the land. Take off your shoes so that you can touch the wood with both hands and feet.

When the boy had removed his shoes, Linwë bent down, and Veryandil sprang lightly upon his back and onto the lowest branch. He balanced easily, and reaching up began to climb. When he came to the place where the trunk divided, he stood up, holding with one hand and called down to his father: I am a hawk, atto! I have reached my eyrie!

Linwë: You have indeed. Now sit down, please, and tell me what you see.

Veryandil complied, and looking out over the tops of the trees and over the green hedge which surrounded the Gardens, he said: I think there are malinornë trees, for I see their yellow blossoms. There are winding green paths and I see a lake. Atto, there is a fire! Not fire, for there is no smoke, but something very bright is moving near the lake. Oh, it is Heru Irmo or Heri Estë, but do they not wear bodies when with us? Maybe he or she does not know we are here.

In his excitement, the boy had risen to his feet again and was holding on with his left hand only, gesturing with the right. Before Linwë could answer,

Veryandil's right foot slipped on part of the branch which was still wet with rainwater. He tried to catch his balance, nearly succeeded, fell, twisting, and caught the branch on which he had been sitting. White-hot pain tore through his left shoulder, and he screamed. He was able to grip the branch with his right hand also, but all he could do was to hold on; he could not move to climb down.

Linwë leaped, caught the branch above his head, and was soon on the one directly below his son. He spoke in a calm voice, which belied his fear: Let go, yonya. I will catch you.

For a moment, the child did not move, whimpering, but then, he dropped into his father's arms. Linwë held his son to him, turned carefully so that the boy's back was against the bole of the tree, and said softly: Now wrap your legs around my waist, for I will need my hands free. Good. Now we will go down.

Veryandil's breaths came in gasps, and tears of pain began pouring down his cheeks. He clutched his father's neck with his uninjured arm, but the other hung at an unnatural angle. Linwë murmured softly to him as he descended, moving slowly but steadily from branch to branch. When they came to the lowest bough, he said: I must jump here, yonya.

Veryandil cried out as they landed softly on the grass at the tree's foot. Linwë bent and laid him down, though the child was reluctant to let go at first. He knelt beside his son and gently ran his hands over his left shoulder and arm. It took no healer's skill to see that the shoulder was out of joint. Linwë kissed his son's forehead: Help is nearby, melda. We will go to the Gardens.

Oloriel was in a discussion with her teacher concerning the difference between directed and non-directed visions, when she felt as if someone drove a knife into her left shoulder. With a cry, she clapped her right hand over the joint. This was not her pain—she knew that much, but who, then, was experiencing it? Heru Irmo, who had been sitting beside her on the grass, rose and bent over her, ready to aid her if needed. Oloriel did as she had been taught—allowing the pain to flow through her, but without claiming it as hers. The next moment, looking up at her teacher, she said between clenched teeth: My son, lord. He has been injured.

The Vala reached down and gently drew Oloriel's hand from her shoulder, helping her to stand. In a quiet voice he said: My spouse is sending to me now. Her ladies met Linwë bearing your son into the gardens. They have taken him to one of the pavilions of rest, where my spouse will tend to him. Here is Linwë.

Turning, Oloriel saw her husband hurrying through the trees. His face was ashen, and though he did not appear to be weeping, his expression was anguished. She started to go to him, then looked at her teacher. Irmo nodded. She did not run, though she was tempted. When she reached Linwë, she grasped his hands: What happened?

Linwë's usual composure was broken, and when he spoke, his voice was almost inaudible: He found a perfect climbing tree—a beech—just outside the hedge. I saw nothing amiss. He climbed to a fork in the trunk and looked out over the land. Somehow, he slipped and fell, catching a branch with his left hand and twisting and badly dislocating the shoulder. I climbed up to him and helped him to come down. I carried him to the entrance of the Gardens. Some of the Lady's people found us there and guided us to a—a shelter. They told me where you were and—oh.

Linwë had caught sight of the Vala: For—forgive me, Lord—I…

Irmo: Calmly, my friend. Go to your child, Oloriel. If you follow this path, you will see a copse of malinornë trees on your right. The pavilion is set at its edge. Linwë, please remain.

Linwë started to protest, then subsided. Oloriel squeezed his hands, released them, and walked quickly away.

When his wife had gone, Linwë bowed to Irmo and said: How may I serve, Lord?

Irmo smiled and said: Your son needs your calm, Linwë, not your agitation. Come and sit with me a while and be easy. Veryandil sleeps and is even now being tended.

Reluctantly, Linwë sat down, for he longed to be with his child. Irmo's deep eyes twinkled with humor: Remember, friend Linwë, that there are two of you to parent the boy. Though you are not a weaver of olosi, your bond with your son will allow you to send him fair dreams while his sáma is open in rest. Shall I show you how?

Linwë did not answer, but looked away, out over the lake by which they sat. Finally, in a low voice: I should not have let him climb. He has but ten springs, Lord. I must have overlooked something.

Irmo: Perhaps, but this young one is an eaglet, as his mother has told me. I do not think you were remiss in your care. So, shall I help you to send him a fair dream?

Linwë looked up into the Vala's face: Please do so, Lord.

Irmo: You are a poet, as your name suggests, and a servant of the High King. I have been told that Veryandil is also a lover of words. Make for him, then, a song of words and send it to him. I will lend you strength.

Linwë nodded, unsmiling but willing. He leaned his back against the silver willow beside him, closed his eyes, and called words and images to him. The frightened face of his son came clearly before him, and he shuddered. Irmo said, with just a hint of sternness: This will not do, Linwë, for you will send him darkness. Waken a joyful memory.

Linwë nodded again, without opening his eyes, and thought of Veryandil's delight at the thunderstorm. Suddenly, the image of a young eagle riding fearlessly upon turbulent winds welled up within him and he spoke:

The king commanded me

To mount the flowing air

And speed his errand forth

Upon the rushing wind.

His friend was at his side,

With thunder's deep-toned song,

With swiftly falling rain,

With sky fire's leaping light.

I did not fear the storm,

For it was but a chord

Of ancient Music sung

Before the World was shaped.

I climbed the cliffs of cloud,

Rejoicing in their height.

With strong uplifted wings,

I soared from peak to peak.

To Middle-earth I came,

And sought the blighted land,

Where in humility,

Two strove to foil the Dark.

Above them on a rock,

Invisible in Night,

I whispered words of peace

Into their sleeping minds.

I flew above the smoke

Which veiled the suffering land,

For there I must await

The outcome of the tale.

When Sauron's power failed,

I loosed my cry at last,

A shout of sheerest joy,

And wheeled into the West.

Before I journeyed home,

I sat on city wall,

And sang the coming king

To kindle rising hope.

To Aman's shores I came,

And circled in the air

About Taniquetil

Upon a clean cool wind.

Beside his ancient throne

The king in sapphire stood,

And lifting up his hand,

He called me down to him.

I lighted on his wrist,

And there, with folded wings,

I rested from my toil

Within my dear lord's care.

Linwë had spoken in measured tones, pausing between each stanza to fix the images clearly in his mind. As he ended, Heru Irmo reached down and laid his hands lightly upon Linwë's head: Take a breath. As you release it, imagine the things of which you have spoken flowing to your son. See him at peace.

Linwë did as asked, and he felt a whisper of supporting power. The Vala withdrew his hands and said softly: It was received. Now, go yourself, my friend.

Linwë opened his eyes, and saw, to his surprise, that evening had come. He looked up at Heru Irmo, who was smiling. Getting to his feet, he bowed deeply: Thank you, Lord.

Irmo: It is nothing.

With that, the Vala turned and disappeared into the willows at the lake's edge.

For a moment, Linwë stood still. Then he began to walk. At first, his innate sense of decorum held him to a moderate pace, but he was so eager to reach his family that at last, he broke into a run, though making little sound even then. He found the stand of trees, and at its edge stood a shelter of gray silk. As he approached, he heard from behind it the soft sound of a harp. It was being played as if for lulling, and he thought that this must be one of Heri Estë's healers. He entered the pavilion. Oloriel sat on the grassy floor beside a low bed on which Veryandil lay asleep. She looked at him gravely, and Linwë felt sorrow and remorse again. Then she smiled and patted the grass beside her. Wordlessly, he sat down, and, leaning toward him and taking his right hand, she sent through their bond: One of the lady's people went to the tree, melda. There was nothing wrong there. Even the most sure-footed of us may stumble if distracted. He is well, as you see, and I think he was dreaming pleasantly a while ago, for he smiled.

Linwë: Heru Irmo helped me send him an olos.

Oloriel's eyes widened: Truly?

Linwë: He did; now I know a little of what you experience. What of our son?

Oloriel: The lady says he will wake by morning. She and a healer have dealt with the shoulder and it will mend, though he will have to remain here for some days.

Linwë: Is it the healer who is playing for him?

Oloriel: It—it is. I have not spoken with him yet, but I saw him when I was brought here. There is something—odd about him. I do not know what it is. He does not seem altogether present.

Linwë: A Maia?

Oloriel: I do not think so, husband. The customary light is not around him—at least…

Linwë: What?

Oloriel: There is a light, but it is not—his own. It is as if he holds it.

Oloriel shook her head, her expression one of bafflement: I would like to speak to him in the morning, if he is still here. He has been playing steadily since I came, and singing from time to time. He has a wondrous voice. There, hear him?

Through the muffling fabric of the walls, they heard a rich deep voice singing softly. After a moment, Linwë sent: He uses an ancient mode. One of the lore-masters demonstrated it to me once. I think it is called Light of the Stars.

Oloriel: It is lovely—and soothing to the mind as well.

Oloriel lay down on the grass beside Veryandil's bed and drew Linwë down to her. He laid his head on her shoulder, and together they listened to the softly flowing melody. Suddenly, Linwë said aloud in astonishment: Not Light of the Stars, but I Aldu, the Two Trees!

Oloriel: Hush, love; you might waken Veryandil.

Linwë smiled ruefully, but there was no change in their child's even breathing. After a moment, he sent: That is among the oldest modes of music, melda. This one, whoever he is, must be a scholar. I too would like to speak with him—but not at present.

Oloriel laughed softly, and together, they took The Road of Dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note from Alassiel: All Eldarin words in this chapter are Quenya.

Sáma—mind.

Atto—papa.

Hína—child.

Yonya—my son.

Nana—mama.

Heru—Lord, in this case part of a title.

Heri—Lady, in this case part of a title.

Essecilmë—name-choosing. See Laws and Customs Among the Eldar in _Morgoth's Ring_.

Erulaitalë—praise to Eru. I'm speculating that the Numenoreans adopted this festival from the Eldar.  See A Description of the Island of Numenor in _Unfinished

Tales_.

Melda—dear, beloved.

Malinornë—Mallorn.

Olos—dream, fair vision. See the essay on the Istari in _Unfinished Tales_.

Coimas—lembas.

Talan—floor or platform.