Teitho Challenge Prompt: Direction.

Summary: Oromë gives direction to a young Edain woman.

The night was moonless and the stars could scarcely be seen.

It had been over a month since the Host of the Valar had disembarked from the Telerin ships onto the shores of Beleriand. They had departed but a few days ago, after weeks of organizing supplies, Ainur and Eruhíni alike. The tents and pavilions of the encampment were placed along the western bank of the river Sirion, just south of Nan-tathren. Some distance northwest of the camp, a tall figure stood gazing at the stars obscured by the smoke of thousands of campfires.

Unlike the other sentries that surrounded the camp, he bore no arms nor armor and was clad only in leather trousers and a pine-needle green tunic. His chestnut hair was elf-braided and his emerald eyes were limned with Light. Apart from the golden circlet on his brow, he appeared little different from the many Maiar that comprised the Army of the West. Yet the ethereal glow and fey aura radiating from him suggested otherwise.

“You are headed in the wrong direction, Child,” Oromë spoke abruptly, still looking at the sky. “The Edain camp is to the south,”

A woman gasped in surprise from where she was crouched behind him in a dense thicket of heather. The Vala had been aware of her creeping steady closer to him for some time, yet had not addressed her until she was several body lengths away. The woman attempted to flee at his words but the branches of the purple heather had tangled in her faded grey gown. She tripped, falling to the ground, thrashing like a rabbit in a snare as she sought to free herself.

Oromë turned and slowly approached her. He though she was young by the reckoning of the Secondborn. She appeared full grown yet her hair held no strands of grey. The woman stared at him, panting with exertion, eyes wide with fright. When he knelt beside her, she began weeping and struggled harder against the restraining braches. She only succeeded in entangling herself further. Oromë reached out to caress her brow. She cringed at his touch, shutting her eyes tight.

“Peace, Child,” he murmured. “I mean you no harm,”

 He continued gently stroking her hair, soothing her spirit as he might a hound, waiting until the woman had calmed somewhat before he spoke again.

 “What are you doing here, Child?” the Huntsman asked.

She opened her eyes, unable to look directly at him, her thoughts fluttering as an aspen leaf in the wind; the Vala was able to discern them nonetheless.

“So you wished to prove that you not afraid of me… You are a bold one, Child,” Oromë laughed quietly to himself.

The woman whimpered.

“Ai, but you are indeed afraid,” he sobered, for even the lest of the Ainur would have been able to sense her terror.

“I-I,” she stuttered yet her thoughts were clear as was the shame she felt.

“Your fear does not make you a coward,” he corrected gently. “Unless you think me craven?”

She was so surprised by his question that she met his gaze, wondering what this Power could possibly fear.

“I fear many things, Child,” the Vala sighed. “I fear how many Elves and Men shall perish in the coming battles. I fear that I will not be able to protect them as I ought. I fear that we might win the war with my Fallen Brother yet destroy more than we save.”

Oromë looked north for a brief moment. “I fear many things,” he repeated. “Yet there is no shame in fear, Child, only in the direction you allow it to take you.”

The woman frowned at this, unsure of what he meant.

“Child, fear can dive us to valor or cowardice. The craven allow their fears to master them while the brave allow their fears to instruct,” Oromë said.

The woman’s thoughts revealed her lack of comprehension.

“Child, why do you fear me?” he asked, attempting a different tactic. “Have I ever harmed you or your people? What have I done to merit such dread?”

There was silence for a moment as the woman bit her lip, refusing once more to meet his gaze.

“You are indeed aware that I have done nothing to warrant your dismay, Child. You have let your fear rule rather than advise you,” Oromë said softly.

The woman nodded, understanding and doubt in her eyes.

 “You are correct, Child,” the Huntsman answered her unspoken misgiving. “All Men indeed fear us. Though we believe this no fault of your own.”

“W-what do you m-mean, my lord?” she asked in Sindarin, voice quavering.

“We believe that Morgoth was able to corrupt you in some fashion, soon after your creation, so that you would know terror whenever the Valar approached you.”

Oromë watched as the woman pondered this.

“You wish to know why he did this, Child?”

The woman nodded and the Vala sighed. “It was to prevent you from trusting us or seeking our aid. Morgoth is cunning and cruel. He no doubt desired that if you ever served us it would be out of the fear we inspire rather than from loyalty or love.”

Oromë laughed bitterly. “My Fallen Brother knew it would grieve us to see Men cower before us as they do him. He knew that we would not force you to endure our presence if it brought you terror.”

At his silent command the heather braches disentangled themselves from the woman’s dress.

“Return to your tent, Child,” the Huntsman said. “We will be marching on the morrow and you ought to rest while you may.”

The woman rose slowly to her feet and, even kneeling as he was, the Vala was still taller than her.

“M-might I return tomorrow night, my lord?” she requested tentatively, making no attempt to leave.

Oromë cocked his head in surprise. “Why would you do that, Child?”

“How else am I to master my fear of you?” the woman asked, shuffling her feet nervously.

 The Vala smiled. “You may come if you wish, Child. What is your name?”

“I am called Estel. Well met, my lord,” she replied, giving him bow.

“Well met, Child. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting,” he offered the Elven greeting.

The woman gave a brief smile before biding him goodnight and departing southeast, toward the tents of the Edain.

Oromë was not normally given to prescience—that was more Námo’s domain. Yet, unbidden, an image of another Mortal came to him. She was like enough to Estel that she must be kin, holding a child in her arms that was clearly Half-Elven. The vision then changed to that of a man, a winged crown upon his head and a green stone at his breast. He knew with the certainty of foresight that this man was also called Estel and the Half-Elven child was his forefather.

“A bold one indeed…” Oromë mused to the dark night.

Glossary

Eruhíni (Quenya): Children of Eru

Note: The woman named Estel is the great-grandmother of Elros’ wife. If you want to know why I think Oromë (and other Valar) participated in the War of Wrath, read the essay How was Beleriand destroyed in the War of Wrath? by Michael Martinez on his Middle-earth blog.