Beta: Nerdanel Istarnie – many thanks for your continued support and encouragement.

Terms: Ner/neri – male elf(ves)
Nis/nissi – female elf(ves)
Hína - child
Hröa – body
Fea – spirit
Yeni – multiple periods of 144 years
Atar – father

Disclaimer: Much of this is Tolkien's. I make no money from it.

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The light of Ithil lovingly embraced the white city upon the mountainside, stretching forth silver arms which chased the buildings with shadows. All about him reposed in peaceful slumber.

He had designed this magnificent city, created it with loving care to house his people just as he had built this house for his own family. Always foremost in his thoughts resided the well-being of his people, his children. Every decision, every plan he made, every action he took was with those he loved in mind. Over the yeni, the distinction between blood kin and blood of his folk melded and ran together in his mind until all he perceived when he looked upon any of the Vanyar was a child of his. His subjects recognized this in him, calling themselves “Children of Ingwë”. He never perceived them as immature, inept, or simplistic babes, but rather as cherished progeny with whom the Valar entrusted him for guidance and protection.

When the Valar first chose him, he was eager and young, fearful of the calling he had received to travel across the darkness of the unknown to this land full of beauty and light. Yet, he answered the call just the same, coming to Aman with two who became dear friends to him, and later leading his entire people - every ner, nis, and hína across the vastness of Endor to settle here. He led the building of two of the greatest cities in Aman. He grew in faith and fortitude – and in fatherhood, seeing to the physical and spiritual well-being of his thousands of children. He loved his people, always willing to risk everything dear to him to see them provided for in every way he could.

But now…

Gripping the stone railing of the balcony outside his sleeping chambers, he bowed his head in shameful dismay.

What had he done?

The Valar told him this must be so. They assured him there were no other alternatives, but looking out over the dwellings of those he cared for most in all of Arda, he could not help but wonder…

The choice to leave Endor had been easy, though it meant the nightmare of moving many hundreds of folk across uncounted leagues of land and sea. Yet his faith never wavered. He never questioned in his heart that he was doing the right thing. Even uprooting his ever-growing population from their homes in Tirion to dwell at the feet of Manwë did not intimidate him. But that which the Valar asked of him now, and he in turn asked of his folk…

Every family would be touched by his decision. Without question, every house chose to commit a father, a son, a brother, a grandson, a beloved kinsman, or in many cases every ner in the entire family to their king’s call. At the behest of their beloved father – at his own behest – they trained in arms, learned to kill and destroy and do all of the things from which he hoped to protect them by moving them to Aman. And tomorrow, he would send them away to fight a war against the deadliest of all foes, the one under whose vile heavy hand even the Valar had faltered. Melkor. The Marrer of all of Arda. Morgoth, as Fëanor so rightly named him.

And even worse, Ingwë Ingwion was not to lead them this time.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears which he felt escaping. Pressing his lips tightly together, he swallowed the lump in this throat.

He did not fear the journey. He did not fear the death which may well have awaited him at the point of an arrow or the head of a spear or the end of a sword. He feared for his children. For the first time since the stars shone brightly in the Night before nights, he would not be the one to lead his children on the journey he commanded them to take.

Why would the Valar not allow him to go? While the absence of King Olwë and his Telerin warriors was understandable, he did promise to provide ships from his rebuilt fleet to transport troops. King Arafinwë, Ingwë’s own nephew, would lead the Noldorin army. But he, King Ingwë of the Vanyar, was not to go.

It was not that he did not trust his eldest son to the protection of their people. He knew he could trust his beloved Ingil with his own life and with those of the many generations of his sons – for every male of the line of Ingwë chose to go away to fight this war. Certainly as patriarch of the house of Ingwë, he feared for their well-being and for how they would be changed when they returned to Valinor whether by ship or by Mandos’ Halls. Yet he would be strong and let them go. But the muster of the other neri of the Vanyar to depart and face this evil as well…

Ingil embodied all of the traits of a true king - endearing the love, devotion, and loyalty unto death of all of the Vanyar just as Ingwë had earned this from his folk. No, he did not doubt his fearless, confident son. Ingwë king of the Vanyar, high king of all of the elves doubted himself.

Could he stay here every day looking on the faces of the wives and mothers and daughters and sisters, the kin left behind? Could he endure their eyes when they so obviously missed their men-folk and yet looked to him with loving trust, knowing he had asked their family to do the right thing? What was he to say when news started to come home to them - if it ever did - reporting the deaths of kin? How much would his own heart bleed every time he learned that a son of the Vanyar - let alone a blood son of Ingwë - had gone to the keeping of Mandos?

How would he bear this burden? How would he bear this pain? How could he possibly love away the grief to come with weak platitudes and simple reassurances and make it all better?

Sniffing quietly, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. How would he stand before his warriors tomorrow and send them away with pride and blessings knowing so many might not return?

A hand gently brushed his back, disturbing him in his misery. His mind filled with the comforting presence of the strongest most beautiful fëa he had ever known. Slowly, he raised his head and looked into the face of his lovely wife. A small smile lit her compassionate grey eyes as she shook her head in mild reprimand.

“Ingwë, my beloved, why do you torture yourself so? You are the king of a people, not the father of a race. Why do you take such burdens upon your shoulders? You know you will face each situation as it comes and you will make the choices you believe to be best and use the words you believe to be right, the way you always have. Your people know this and love you for it,” she softly admonished.

Reaching up, she brushed the remaining tears from his face with the backs of her fingers. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the caress, suddenly realizing just how desperately he needed her tender touch.

“My love, our children are grown, the Vanyar have grown into a fine powerful folk for whom you should feel nothing but pride and love. You nurtured them to this point, brought them to their greatest strength of hröa and fëa. Now it is time to let them show you what they can do.”

He opened his eyes to see her smiling knowingly. “It is time to let the children go out into the world, my husband.”

Ingwë looked on her for a long while, considering her words.

Perhaps he was being over-protective. Perhaps he was trying to do too much. Perhaps it was time for him to let go and trust. It was just so very difficult to do.

Her hands languidly slid across his body and down his arm to take his left hand in both of hers. “Atar of the Vanyar, your children will sleep in peace this night without you out here standing guard over them.”

Taking a few steps toward the room, she gently tugged on his hand. “Come to your bed, my love, and let me help you find your rest.”

With one last glance out across the quiet city, he sighed in resignation and turned, following the one whom he held dearest in his heart.

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A passionate while later found him in the arms of his beloved, his head resting in slumber on her breast. She smiled as she looked on his weary face now calmly reflecting the beauty of his youth and the fullness of his wisdom; the cares of Arda briefly lifted from his tired shoulders. Gently kissing the top of his head, she began lilting a whispered song of hope and love.

Tonight, she would stand watch.