This is a rewrite of my first fanfic, 'Nár Tinwen'. This rewrite is dedicated to Hyel, with gratitude for her encouragement. It is very motivating to know that someone likes my stories and wants me to write more... so reviews, people, please!
One woman.
Ten faces.
Ten names.
Ten ages.
Too many promises,
Too many men,
Too many graves.
The Eternal Spark
Quenta Oiotinwe
Part One: A Spark of Almaren
"With the Valar came other spirits whose being also began before the World, of the same order as the Valar but of less degree. These are the Maiar, the people of the Valar, and their servants and helpers."
-J.R.R. Tolkien: 'Valaquenta'
Among the Maiar are counted Arien and her sisters. They came to Eä like a rain of flames from the heavens, for they are spirits of fire. They became servants to Vána the Ever-Young. They walked with her, sang with her, all but one, the least of them all. She was Tinwen, 'spark-maiden'. She had little power and even less craft, save the art of games and tricks. She had the habit of hiding from her sisters and then surprising them by pretending to attack them in a weird shape. If she was sent on an errand she might dally on the way, wandering off to inspect a cave or build a dam, if such activity interested her at the moment. Often she was away for a long time, on pointless journeys of her own. At other times the Mighty had no peace from her impossible questions asked on awkward moments.
Nonetheless, most loved Tinwen and sometimes Vána herself, feeling even younger than usual, would play with her. When their laughter rang in the heavy air of young Arda, those who heard it could well imagine having sensed the echo of the voices of the Children of Ilúvatar.
In the beginning of days, when the Ainur dwelt upon the Isle of Almaren, Tinwen spent a lot of her time wandering around and watching the work of others. Her special interest turned towards Aulë and his servants, for their craft in those days was awe-inspiring and they worked with the fires of the earth that were dear to Tinwen.
Thus Tinwen once met Turon, a craftsman of Aul's folk, who was intrigued by Tinwen's shape; she was unique among the Maiar, for she had fuzzy red hair and wore only a green tunic and red trousers, and walked barefoot. Also her shape was smaller than that of any other fire-spirit. Turon watched her, trying to figure out whether she was of Yavanna's people or perhaps one of the dream-spirits of Irmo; for in Tinwen were combined the living power of earth and the serene purity of the skies in a way that strangely touched Turon's heart, yet he could not even guess whether the childish shape that stared at him with serious eyes was male or female.
'Who are you?' Turon asked.
'Tinwen.' And the girl turned away from him and ran, ran perhaps just for a mischievous game, perhaps fearing something she had sensed in the man's eyes at the moment she had by naming herself confessed that she was of the people of Fire.
Did she see then that there are many kinds of fire? Did she sense something she would later forget?
For Turon, abandoning all his dignity, ran after Tinwen and caught her, grasped her fragile shape and lifted her on his arms.
'Do not run from me, Tinwen, little spark. Be not afraid.'
She ceased her wriggling and gazed into the eyes of her captor:
'Never have I been afraid, never shall I be afraid. I shall be inextinguishable! But who are you? Are you a hunter for sparks? Are you in need of a fire? Are you in need of a pyre?'
Tinwen touched Turon's cheek with her finger, and her fingertip was as hot as molten iron, yet did not burn the servant of Aulë.
'I am Turon, Aul's aid at the forge, his help in shaping mountains. But you, you are a blazing red flame, not a spark! Cal-Urúnya, so I shall call you.'
'Call what ever you wish, but remember I seldom come when called!'
Yet a friendship was formed between them, and Turon found in the depths of mountains a stone that was black as night and yet carried the rainbow in its heart. He split it in two and honed the halves, crafting two identical flat jewels. They resembled two eyes, he thought, so he named them Morglini. He joined them together with a spell and gave one as a gift to Tinwen, keeping the other. Tinwen played with the stone and carried it always in her pocket. Her clothes had many pockets, in which she gathered pieces of plants, empty shells, anything that interested her. There might in a pocket to be found a blazing firebrand, or in another a living mouse.
One time when Tinwen was watching fish beside a brook, Turon came to her and asked:
'Would you not wish to be free?'
'I am!'
'No, you are a servant, at the beck and call of others.'
'So is everyone.'
'Not the Valar.'
'Ilúvatar is their lord.'
'Ilúvatar has made all Eä their dominion. What has he given you?'
'A blazing heart! That is enough.'
'Would you not come with me into the wilderness, to live independently, responsible only for yourself, only to yourself?'
'I don't want to!'
'Oh my little Cal-Urúnya, I love you. Yet I must go, cold winds are calling me. Come with me, you can always turn back later.'
'No. Have you not heard of the great feast, the wedding feast of Nessa and Tulkas? I do not wish to miss it.'
'Fare well, Cal-Urúnya. Remember me.'
'How could I forget? You gave me the Morglin-stone!'
Turon walked into the shades of the forest, and was never seen again in that region. Tinwen watched him go, guarding in her heart his flaming orange hair and his gallant bearing. When he was no longer in sight she glanced at the black stone, and it seemed to her that from its depths Turon's dark eyes looked back at her.
The time came for celebration, a grand and merry feast. Tinwen forgot all sorrows and laughed with her sisters and smiled at lady Vána. She danced wildly and her whole being glowed like a flame, and her hair shone bright red.
Later, when the feast was almost over, Tinwen suddenly remembered Turon and took the Morglin-stone from her pocket, and lo! The stone was ice-cold and covered with frost, and even Tinwen's hottest fire failed to melt it.
'Oh, Turon my friend, how could I forget you so soon? Are you in danger?'
Tinwen whispered to herself, and then made a decision. She forced her expression neutral and walked to Eönwë, who sat resting under a tree. Eönwë is the banner-bearer and herald of Manwë, and his might in arms is surpassed by none in Arda.
'Lend me a knife'. Tinwen's voice was calm, so Eönwë assumed she needed the blade only for the cutting of fruit or some such task. The knife he handed to her was his best, named Élanga, star-iron. Nobody noticed that Tinwen left the place of celebration.
When she had left Almaren over water Tinwen ran, and her instinct led her northwards, almost directly towards the light of Illuin. But in time she tired and lost hope. The forest around her turned darker step by step, until it became a frightening, rotten land populated by monsters. Tinwen could no longer proceed in a straight line, for in her path were many rank, poisonous fens. Finally she realized she had lost her way. When she came to a starlit clearing she sat down to rest, and tried to identify the patterns of the sky.
Then she saw someone standing in the middle of the clearing. She grasped her knife and walked closer. Her eyes discerned only a tall black shadow. The shadow spoke:
'Cal-Urúnya!'
Tinwen startled, but she knew the voice at once. The same voice had given her the name, but it was now a mere joyless echo of its former self.
'Turon?' She asked, wondering.
'I have a new name now. Call me Thauron.' With these words the shadow revealed his face, the face of Turon, but changed, twisted. All love and caring had departed from the eyes. He was handsome, terrible and full of malevolent power; Gorthaur the Cruel, Sauron the Great, servant of Melkor.
Terror filled Tinwen, but her courage did not falter, and she raised Élanga and saw it glowing red as blood: the iron had been heated in the flame of her anger. The blade was made by Aulë, strong and dangerous, and dangerous was Tinwen with anger in her eyes.
'I see my friend Turon is dead, killed by Thauron, servant of the Enemy. My heart you have cut in half, shall we see what this blade does to your frozen heart?!'
But Thauron departed, shouting:
'You I shall not harm, for you have my stone. I wish you would follow me freely someday.'
Tinwen was still angry, but when she was left alone she felt the weight of her exhaustion heavy, and she fell down in deathlike sleep.
Meanwhile at Almaren Tinwen's disappearance had been noticed. Eönwë had seen her last. Arien was worried for her sister and said to Eönwë:
'Without a knife she would not have gone, with one she may have gone far indeed. Tinwen does not know to fear anything.'
'I'll find her.' Eönwë promised.
'She may not wish to come,' Arien told everyone who participated in the search.
'Call her with mocking names, and she will abandon hiding and answer in kind.'
The hunters found Tinwen's track and Eönwë was the first to follow it. The others were soon left behind the swift messenger. When the footprints disappeared in shadows beside a dark marshland Eönwë called out:
'Tinwen, where are you?' The call rang out far, but he heard no answer. He remembered Arien's advice and shouted, faking anger:
'You little salamander, sparklebug, you stole my best knife! You tangle-haired thistleburr, you dirty-toed little imp, Tinwen the Childish! Are you afraid of me?'
Again and again he called, as loud as he could, and Tinwen woke to the noise and ran to find the caller. Soon she found Eönwë, but did not seem angered by the insults.
'Here's your knife. It's a good knife, but I didn't need it after all. You are good at calling names.'
'Arien told me to. I'm glad to see you are all right.' He lifted Tinwen in his arms and carried her southwards. The little spirit snuggled against his chest and whispered:
'May I keep one of those names?'
'Which one?'
'Hiníel, "the Childish".'
'Of course you may. And keep the knife, too, if you promise you won't run away ever again.'
'I won't. Turon ran away, and look what happened.' Tinwen told of the meeting.
When Aulë heard of Turon's betrayal, he cursed him and said:
'Let the most beautiful of his craft and the pride of his heart lose all its glory.'
At that moment the Morglin-stone in Tinwen's pocket lost the rainbow and became black as the Void.
And there came the time of war, and Melkor broke the lamps, Illuin and Ormal, and the Spring of Arda was over. The Valar went to dwell in Aman and Tinwen went with them. And it is said she built herself a little home inside a small hill, on its western slope.
It is supposed that the Ainur spoke a language of their own to each other, a language that perhaps did not always use words, but because almost no information can be found concerning this language, all the names I have invented are Quenyan until Sindarin elves and other peoples appear in the story. Most Ainur are known in the Silmarillion by their Quenyan names only.
The name 'Tinwen' comes from 'tinwë = spark' and '-wen = maiden'
'Turon' consists of 'tur = power, lordship' and '(r)on = lord', thus it might translate as 'Lord of Power'.
The Quenyan title of this story, Quenta Oiotinweö, actually means 'Story of the Everlasting Spark'.