The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.- H. P. Lovecraft0
Chapter One
Karanisuri
The stars are always constant, yet sometimes blackened storm clouds would block them out. Not even our fires and their smoke would ever block out the sight of what we, the Eldar, love most: the stars. While I love the stars, as much as any other, what I have always loved most is the wind. It is even in my mother's name, suri. Wind. Perhaps my name should have been along the lines of meaning "Untamed Heart" or maybe "Untamed Wind." But, my mother-name is Karanisuri. It means red wind, for my hair is the rich color of my paternal grandmother's clan, and I am as swift and agile as the wind. Perhaps my mother knew that like the wind, I would travel across land and sea, seeing sights few of my people have seen, meeting strange cultures and people. Perhaps my mother knew too that I would never settle down easily, and that even my partner would flow with my life, my wind.
My mother often told me as I grew older that while she was pregnant with my twin sister and I, her dreams were far more vivid and contradictory than when she carried my elder brothers. When I grew old enough, she told me her strange dreams in a hushed voice. She spoke of their dueling natures, of a gentle breeze that walked alongside her and never parted far from her. There was a wild wind that stayed with her for the briefest time but would rush off. Mother would never see it for a long time, but when she did the wind had changed. This happened many times. The wild wind however would always return to her, whispering of sorrow, love, and tales of adventure. My mother held off for several years giving us the name that we would be publically known as for several years. My twin sister and I grew up with the use of our father-name.
However, mother finally named us after ten seasons. I was to be Karanisuri and my sister to be Vilóma the gentle breeze voice. It is an apt name, for my sister is soft, gentle, and rarely raises her voice loudly except in song. My sister is the gentle breeze in actions; her nature giving to the growing of plants and of healing the hurts of the world. Despite our many differences as we matured and the years turned we were close confidents. My sister's gentle insight would smooth over the many family conflicts and differences.
My memories in Cuiviénen are treasured, from every celebration to every fight. If they were a physical object I would guard them like Feanor guarded the Silmarils. Would I go back and attempt to change the events that led me from the shores of Cuiviénen to the shores of Aman and then back to Beleriand in rebellion? No. I made my choices and followed where the wind took me. It may have been fate for me. It could be that I and others followed the plan that Ilúvatar had long ago decided. Resist or accept? The wind does not stop for any elf, man, or dwarf.
Let me fall back into those cherished memories of the time before the words of sun and moon exist. In this time, there is much peace before Melkor hunted us down as we strayed. Like the wind I was named for I was never meant to be caged, but caged I-no, we-became. I am skipping ahead of myself. Let me backtrack to the simplest of times, just before the disturbance of Melkor became known to us.
There, adrift in countless times of unnamed moments of sleep, dreams, and periods of wakefulness, I ride along the plains of my youth. Here, there are rolling grasslands with sparse trees. There are roaming herds of wild horses, elk, and bison. There are foxes and even wolves. There are a few lone farms spread across the plains, made up of small groups of people who moved away from the much bigger villages. Across these plains too you will find us, the Palar-e-Rokasta, the Plains Riders. We are nomads, traveling between the various villages and farms. We are shepherds, keeping an eye on the various animal herds, for tracking, for hunting, but also for population. The real problem for us Quendi are the wolves.
The wolves are what make our group so important. Our counterpart is the Tir-e-Twaina, the Forest Watchers. They dwell exclusively in the forest of the Wild Wood and only come out for the Great Gathering. This is where I am currently heading with my brothers and our people. The Great Gathering. We have ridden hard for several days to get there.
I cannot help but smile as I spot the tents on the horizon. My brother, Kanatasulo, glances in my direction, the same grin is upon his face. My brother and I let out a loud yell and urge our horses into a gallop. Kanatasulo's red hair is like a living flame dancing in the wind. It is his pride and joy. It only takes a moment for the Palar-e-Rokasta to give similar shouts of excitement. The distance closes fast, hooves thundering across the plains like the thunder of the Storm Season. The horses are slowed first to a canter and then into a trot as the Gathering is revealed in full display.
"Alar-si!" Greetings are given all around as we draw close, the loudest comes from a tall tree. It is a deep shout, the voice booming and filling the plains. It drowns out any other greetings.
"Alar-si Berowë!" Kanatasulo greets the member of the deep voice. Berowë is easily spotted, his form large and muscular in the tree. How the tree holds up his weight is a joke that all the clans tease him of. Berowë, is one of the tallest males of the Tatyar and very muscular. He was mighty in strength and altogether foolish because of it. He is more brawn than brain, but he is valiant, and I would rather have him in the toughest situations than a great deal of many people. Berowë often rides with the Palar-e-Rokasta.
"You have made good timing my friends! None of the festivities have even started yet!" Berowë informs us, jumping down from the tree.
"Has our family arrived yet?" I ask Berowë as I dismount.
"Oh yes, wait till you see Viloma's surprise!" Berowë exclaims.
"Should we be concerned?" Tankatiro's deep voice resonates from behind me.
"Oh, I think you will enjoy the good news." Berowë chortles then gives the directions towards our elder brother's location. Our group settles on the outskirts of the gathering. We fall into the rhythm that only those who are used to traveling and working close together achieve. It would be described as wordless if not for the songs that fill the air. It is the way of the Quendi, the way of the Tatyar.
It is a short and easy task of setting up camp and tending to the horses. The tents, while unique, melt into the sea of temporary shelters that are close together. It is a temporary city organized with care. The horses are kept to pre-ordained areas. Small campfires cast light and shadow upon the faces of the people gathered around them. The strong aroma of smoke, various herbs, and roasting meat fill the air. The various songs and instruments clash in sound. This is it. This is the Gathering.
"We are some of the last to arrive," Tankatiro observes.
"At least we did arrive before the Gathering even started!" Kanatasulo hisses back.
"Oh hush you two! We should be celebrating and not bemoaning our misfortune. Let us gift some of these skins to our family. Now take these skins as I am not carrying them all," I order my brothers. I dole out the skins from our hunt between the three of us. My brother Tankatiro takes the bag of animal bone that we have not used yet. Our father will carve out flutes from it. I grab the small bag that contains my carefully made up beads of bone, wood, and shell. There are even a few carefully carved figurines. My beads and figurines we will trade to get produce and other products. We are hunters not farmers.
I turn to the rest of our companions. "Go be with your families. We will meet up tomorrow after Awakening."
It seems strange at times to part from our riders. They are extended family to us. We sleep, eat, and hunt together. We share in each other's pain and joy, from marriage, to death, to the births of new horses, and of course the birth of elflings. We even share a longhouse that we built as a group. This is our lifestyle but some will chose to give it up for their spouse and some will leave for another group. Some people can never be convinced to travel the land. Some people are born to it like my siblings.
My brothers and I walk into the throng of the temporary city. We weave around the people and tents making our way quickly with the directions provided by Berowë. I spot Vilóma first, her golden hair falling loosely around her. Her eyes light up as she spots us.
"Alar-si! You are late!" Vilóma cries out. She runs to walk by us and to inspect our skins.
"We are sorry little sister! We had various misfortunes hold us up this season. As you can see that even with our misfortunes we have had a successful season so far!" Kanatasulo exclaimed.
"Mother and father will be well pleased," Vilóma said. We arrive into our family's camp. It quickly turns into a noisy gathering as we are greeted by our paternal aunts and uncles and our many cousins. My oldest brother emerges with his wife and they take our goods from ours arm. Our mother and father emerge next out of their tent with our youngest sibling in mother's arm. It is another brother. I wish for a little sister to share my adventures with. Alas, it is not so. I do love my brothers and Vilóma herself, but my brothers are not female and my sister is not a wild wind.
"Bova daughter," Mother greets me, kissing my cheek. She repeats this with Kanatasulo and Tankatiro. Father follows mother's example, getting us in this reserved manner of the Minyar. Sometimes I think it is strange how often the Nelyar and Minyar marry. The Minyar, my mother's clan is given towards acting and being emotionally reserved. My father's clan and his father belong of the Nelyar, given to mercurial moods and passion. They laugh the easiest and the loudest, given to revelry, and delighting in what life has to offer. Our bawdy songs are most often written by the Nelyar. We may be called the Lindar the Singers at times, but we are also known as the Hrávar to, the wild people. Maybe this is why they are at times good couples being opposites who teach each other and share often a great passion for music. It is symbiotic.
"Your hunting has been good this year," Father remarks to us.
"Karanisuri laid down to bison this year by herself. I am a little tired of bison meat. Bison this, bison that," Tankatiro bemoans to father.
"Congratulations Karanisuri, may your arrows continue to fly true," Mother speaks to me, pulling me aside into the tent.
"If you are tired of bison meat, then come home my son. No one will begrudge you, least of all Kanatasulo or Karanisuri," Father tells Tankatiro. I stop listening as my focus is drawn to my mother's face. It is etched in deep concern.
"What is it Mother?"
"You know how I attend the council meetings with our leaders at Minmbar?"
"I do."
"There has been some worrisome reports that we received just before the Gathering. We never thought much of it in years past, as we are all well aware accidents happen. Recently the number of Quendi that go missing each Dry Season has gone up. It seems strange. It used to be those lone travelers that often seek far places. We raise search parties, though some few may return in a few seasons while others never at all. Yet now it is more than lone elves. We have several instances of small groups of elves just disappearing."
"Are you sure it is not due to some strange misfortune? On our way to the Gathering we ended up having to scout around a river. It had strangely overflowed its banks. The river is never like that this late into the Dry Season with nary a storm."
"Perchance it is some strange force for there is no sign of accidents or bad weather. Neither is there any sign of struggle, but in my heart I fear the worst. I will not ask you to stop riding, but I beg of you, be careful. Do not wander far from your group!"
"Mother, will this be a topic at the meeting on the twelfth night?"
"I am not sure. Father and the others may want to gather more information. There is worry over a wide spread panic. We know naught and have far too many questions. I only tell you in confidence for the trepidation in my heart is grave."
"Worry not Mother! I will take your advice to heart, but there is not much to fear. We do travel in a big group." I spoke to my mother in soothing tones. My mother and many of the Minyar, while not often gifted with visions of foreknowledge, are deeply intuitive. They know when the Storm Season will come upon the Quendi early or when a particular heavy rain will come upon the land making the rivers bloated and the mountains giving to sliding down. Occasionally they have caught visions of someone getting hurt, or when an elfling wanders to far, or other small events that happen. Most mothers while bearing a child or before she conceives have a dream or vision of the nature of their child. Thus the mother creates a name for her son or daughter. The father-name is derived from either the father or the mother's name, occasionally depending upon the sex of the child. I think it would be better known as a parent-name instead of the father-name. How many daughters are named after their father instead of their mother? Less than a third of all Quendi I can assure you.
"Mother! You must look at these skins!" Vilóma demands walking into the tent. My younger brother briefly stirs in my mother's arms, but he remains in sleep. My mother turns a critical eye upon the bison skin my sister holds up.
"This is finely done. I know it is not your work even if the kill is," Mother expresses her criticism.
"No it is not. We gained a new member among our group, a Tatyar male who seems particularly good at leather work. Alas, I am no good for delicate work!"
"Suri!" Vilóma uses the shortened version of my mother-name. My parents never does this. Only my siblings and I call each other by shortened versions of our names, almost like a Chosen-Name. She continues after pausing to make sure my attention is upon her, "Do not be so disparaging of yourself!"
"Oi! Let us not discuss this. Any news of interest among our family?" I divert attention towards our family knowing full well it will distract my mother and my twin.
"Viloma has found a handsome ner," Mother informed me with a sly smile.
"Mom!" Viloma squeals.
"What is this I hear?" Kanatasulo walks into the tent.
"Viloma has found a ner. What clan is he of?" I answer my brother's question.
"He is a Minyar, golden haired and as eloquent as they come," Mother informs us. Viloma is blushing furiously.
"I see, does this mean our dear sister is relocating to Minmbar?" Kanatasulo asks.
"No! Not! We have just met!" Viloma violently denies. Kanatasulo, Tankatiro, and I take turns teasing her and making her flush. Mother and Father makes us stop finally. Mother begins to give us the family news news. Our family is large with Mother's six siblings and our father's five siblings. I have over fifty cousins though my maternal cousins are much older, married, and with a few kids of their own. The tidings are always changing, from pregnancy, to arguments, to which Quendi are pursuing who. Mother and Father serves us food as they tell us the news. My sister takes this time to escape us.
I too make a quick escape from my brothers and family. I wander through the tents looking for familiar faces. Occasionally I spot friends from Minmbar and also my home village. We exchange news and part ways, like wind blowing leaves away. I drift in the direction of the market.
"Ai! Wait up Karanisuri!" Berowë calls out. He rushes to my side grinning. "Heading to the market?"
"I am looking for the materials to make more arrows," is the practical answer I give. Berowë nods in understanding. I smile up at him. Despite my Minyar heritage that leaves me taller than most nesi of Tatyar and Nelyar, Berowë towers over me. It is oddly appealing at times having to look up instead of someone's eyes. "How is the new project that you were telling me of last Gathering?"
"I am experimenting with my father the different consistencies to form what a new kind of clay. It is interesting work," Berowë explains. His fingers brush along my arm over the top of my hand. It is the lightest touch that makes me shiver.
"It also keeps you out of danger." Brave, brave, Berowë is given to being foolish in his bravery. He throws himself into danger. Many are grateful for he has saved many lives, but he has many scars along his torso and arms. These are scars that are covered normally. People who do not know Berowë often stare at the vicious scars. It makes him uncomfortable but he laughs it off with his booming laugh. He hides it with humor, but I see the shadows.
"There is that," he laughs. I see the shadows in his eyes. I grasp his hand and pull him into the shadows of of the trees. Kissing him chases the shadows from his eyes. My fingers caress his side work lower to his leggings.
"Suri," he gasps out. His hands catch mine and stop me. "Later, later Suri. If we start now it will be time for sleep and you will have missed shopping for supplies."
"At least one of us is practical." We leave the shadowy trees and enter the outskirts of the market. We browse each area looking for the supplies I need, namely feathers. I stop in through various tents, looking for the feathers I need. Berowë helps to look having hunted himself. In several stops I spot the type I want, but they are not the proper size for arrows. Finally I find it.
"Bova," a nes greets us. She has the silver hair that is only born by those of the Nelyar. The silver hair is not found among the other two clans of Quendi. She is much smaller than the ner beside her. The ner is tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair and grey eyes. He is a typical of the dark-haired Tatyar.
"Bova," Berowë returns.
"Bova," I greet back. I carefully sort through the feathers. They are grouped together by bird type, by size. I take out the goose primaries that I spot. They are a little more resistant towards being wet, which is perfect for when I or others have to hunt in the rain. They are not perfect but we hunters have yet to find the perfect feather that performs in the midst of the Storm Season.
"You are a huntress," the nes surmise.
"One of the Plains Riders, beloved," the ner informs the nes. It is easy to tell with my simple and practical clothing. Berowë's clothing is opposite of mine in adornment. His clothing is practical as he functions often as a guard and a hunter, but it is carefully adorned with beadwork and dyes. There is no kohl around my eyes, like the nes. No fresh scent of oils like hers, the essence of flowers. My stench is that of sweat, horses, and smoke.
"Oh! That must be so exciting! My husband tells me stories of the Plains Riders! It sounds so exciting," the nes says, blushing.
"Yes I am Plains Rider, but being a Plains Rider is not a dream life," I remind her. There is no room of softness for Plains Riders. The sky is our ceiling, the land our bed. Our home is always changing and we are exposed to the elements that someone who lives in a village is not exposed to. The Plains Rider life is spent in practicality. You cannot carry items with you that are not useful and the only extra items are spares like a knife.
"I tell my wife that! She likes her comforts and would little enjoy the rough life of the Plains Riders," the ner says shaking his head. The ner gives an easy placating smile. I search through the feathers that are piled together. I select out the goose secondaries, setting them aside in a stack. The stockpile is not quite enough to replenish the arrows for my brothers and I. I will have to seek out more or visit one of the villages.
"Are you of the Tatyar and Nelyar? Your skin is tawny but your hair is a flame," The nes asks curiously.
"My mother is of the Minyar but my father is of the Tatyar and the Nelyar. I am a daughter of all three clans," I explain. "I am Karanisuri, daughter of Sirlindo, son of Belindo. My mother is Leylaldë daughter of Imin."
"It is an honor to meet you Kheri Karanisuri. I have seen your mother at the councils. I am sorry I have not made the connection sooner," the nes replies.
"I hold no grief. I take after my father's family most."
"Except for your face, you look like Kheri Iminyë," Berowë speaks up.
"Here, try these feathers," the ner pulls out a small sack. I open it. They are beautiful feathers of blue and green. It from a large bird that is seen on the Great Water. "I have tamed a few of these birds from the Great Water. They let me take a few feathers."
"How much?" I hold the feathers up to inspect them carefully. My fingers caress them delicately getting a feel for them. I hand a feather over to Berowë to inspect. I pick up another. I cannot help but wonder how it will hold up. Even if I am a wanderer, I have an eye for beauty. It is why when we are at camp I spend my time carving.
"It is free this time around. I have waited to give these feathers to one who hunts as their trade. All I ask is that you inform me how they perform. If they perform as well as I believe they will, then they are worth the effort. If not, they are only an item of beauty."
"I will. What village do you live in?"
"I live in Minmbar," the ner answers. I put aside the feathers that I have chosen to buy.
"Let us haggle for these goose feathers," I initiate and lay my bag out for inspection. There are bone needles, small wooden figurines that I have carved, carefully made obsidian knives, and various beads that I have carved and painted. The bartering process hardly takes long, exchanging needles, beads, and one knife for the many feathers I have selected.
"Come back again and seek me in Minmbar when you visit, mai pharalië." the ner says as I shake hands with him. His hands are rough and calloused from hard work. I shake hands with his wife, her hands are rather soft. They are not the calloused hands of hard workers or hunters. She is probably a Kheri or at least a nes given to softer work.
"Yes, come visit and tell me tales of your adventures," the nes exclaims. "Or stop by again! Mai pharalië!"
"I just may stop by before the Gathering is over," I say as I package up the feathers with care. I turn to leave and I am suddenly hit with great force. I fall and hit my head hits the ground. I blink and stare up at the tent ceiling. I sit up rubbing my head. I glance around quickly to find a silver haired ner standing up.
"Oh my! Tarakano! I am sorry Karanisuri!" The nes says, her words easily revealing the fire in her soul. This nes for all appearances was delicate, but she has a fierce heart. "Apologize now!"
The silver-haired ner, Tarakano, looks as startled as I feel. He looks just like the nes with silver hair and green eyes. His hair is loose of all braids.
"I apologize," the ner said quickly offering his hand to me. I take Tarakano's hand and he hauls me up with easy strength. He could hardly be considered muscular like Berowë. Even this ner's father looks far stronger and sturdier. His hands are callused in the same way mine are. He is a hunter. Yet they are softer than mine. His green eyes remain bewildered. I smile gently. It makes me think back to my childhood where I always rushed around knocking people and myself over reckless abandon.
"Take no heed, I am not offended. Excuse me, I must go. There is still a great deal I must look for," I walk away with Berowë at my side. Swiftly we move away from the tent.
"Are you fine?" Berowë asked concerned.
"It was a far more gentle fall than being thrown from a horse."
"Yes there is that. You bartered to much for those feathers!"
"This exchange was expensive Berowë, but if these feathers perform as I think they will. It will have been worth it. He gave them to me for free and it must have been a great work to get them. In any case, would you perhaps take me to a tent where they sell wood shafts?"
"Are you really that low on arrows?"
"On our way here we fell on a great deal of misfortune, from an overflowing river, to a landslide that blocked our way, then we were plagued by wolves. It has been a good hunting season but it is worrisome. I almost feel like it is an ill omen." Berowë looks deeply concerned at my news.
"Some of the smaller settlements have been plagued with wolves. This may be an ill season or two," Berowë agrees. Berowë accompanies me as I make my purchases for the materials I need to make more arrows. Berowë guides me to his camp site.
"I will cook and you can make your arrows in peace," Berowë proclaims.
"Fine, I shall not argue with you!" I acquiesce. "Just promise to not serenade me with humorous and bawdy songs! I will never get work done if you make me laugh."
"This I can agree to." Berowë sets to cooking a simple soup. I begin to cut the wood first. I fall into a rhythmic song that follows the actions and Berowë joins me. We sit like this for some time each involved their own tasks. It is not long before the aromatic stew makes me hungry. I set the shafts I have made aside.
"That smells good."
"It is a new recipe my mother's friend has made up. It is supposed to be hearty and filling." Berowë takes a cup and dips it into the stew. He fills the ceramic bowls this way. Berowë passes me one bowl and then sits besides me. The steam rises off the dark liquid wafting the strong scent of cinnamon and ginger. I sip it slowly. It burns down my throat not because of its temperatures but of the use of strong pepper. I gasp.
"You might want to use less hot pepper next time," I choke out. Berowë nods tears streaming from his eyes.
"It seems like I got that wrong," Berowë says breathless. I throw my head back and laugh at his pained expression.
"Show me your supplies," I demand of Berowë. Berowë opens up the locked trunk. I find the fresh goat's milk within and add it to both our dishes. "Try it now, add more if you need it."
"I over barted for this. Never did I expect to use it in this manner," Berowë bemoans the goat's milk. He sips it slowly and then his face brightens. The goat's milk had worked its magic.
"It is a trick I learned from my own mother." I go back to my own soup and down it quickly. I let out a loud belch.
"Anything you can do, I can do better," Berowë says in a sing-song voice. Berowë lets out an even louder burp. I laugh and add the goat's milk to the pot of soup before serving myself again.
"It feels good to have more than meat, smoked meat, and berries," I announce to Berowë. Berowë snorts at this and shakes his head.
"You are the one who chose this life. No one is stopping you."
"I know this, Bero, I do. Yet even when I stay for a season I feel too soon the urge to wander." I put down the bowl and lay back on the ground staring up at the stars. I wonder if the Stars are people. Some of the Quendi believe it so, while others assume is a natural object far above us. In the lullabies of my childhood, there is a song about the Stars being our guardians and watchers. There is a Star up in the sky that is born to watch over my life.
Does the star know if I will be lonely for the rest of my life? I am surrounded by love by family, by friends, but I do not have romance. I am not yet as old as my mother when she found my father but I wonder if I will be like her. Will I be an aberration with being a nes with carnal appetite and no one to call my heart? My fëa shudders at this thought.
"Mead for your thoughts?" Berowë offers. I sit up and take the small drinking bowl. The mead tastes of blackberries, honey, and cloves. Berowë pours out more from the small jug into the drinking bowls.
"I don't know why you bother with the drinking bowls. We might as well just drink from the jug." We both drink from the bowls. I grab the jug instead and gulp from it.
"It is considered poor taste to drink from the jug," Berowë jokingly criticizes.
"Bero, Bero, Bero." I shake my head at this but I do not laugh.
"You know how the Minyar is. The Tatyar always follows the Minyar," Berowë mutters.
"And we Nelyar follow our own desires," I say grinning at him. Berowë agrees with my statement, his grey eyes dancing in the low light. He takes a swig of the jug. His lips brushed over my throat as he hands me the jug. I take a huge gulp, the liquid sits warm in my belly. The mead is a strong brew. Berowë stands up. His eyes are smoldering.
"Guess what Tatyar do?"
"Go after what they desire?" My voice is breathy with desire. Berowë pulls me up to my feet and leads me into the tent. He pulls the string holding up the flat, enclosing us within. It is darker than outside due the canvas. The small opening at the top allows the starlight to filter in.
Being with Berowë is easy. I do not have to think hard. This is what I think as we work the clothes off from each other as our fingers caress and our lips meet. I would choose him for a husband if it was not for the fact that I wanted a love like my parents love. Our desire for each other is of the flesh. It is passion that will quickly cool one day.
"Your brothers are going to kill me," Berowë says against my skin.
"Every time you say that but you keep coming back," I murmur back.
"A pretty nes has caught me." Flesh yields to flesh. This is far too easy in its familiarity. In a private corner of my fëa I feel turmoil. Part of me is always concerned about my indiscretion. My family would be outraged. I am not the first to take a lover. I am not the first to defy the rule on bodily union. It is effortless holding back my fëa from Berowë's when we copulate. I shut myself off from my thoughts and give myself over to ardor.
Author's Chapter Notation
I have am striving in this fic to reveal that elves are not perfect. They are not the noble creatures that would fit in a Catholic ruled world. There is Feanor and Eol. There is all the kinslayings. Also I am trying to show a pre-Valinor culture. This means indeed, aspects of culture that would not be approved in Valinor like having a lover. As for sex = marriage, I have decided to keep that mostly. It really is the joining of the elven Fea with another's that seems to mean marriage. People, especially young people will have sex even if you tell them no. But definitely among the elves, sex with someone other than spouse is heavily frowned upon.
What Karanisuri and Berowë does is very wrong in the eyes of elves. It is one thing to have oral sex and another to fornicate. You'll see this issue of sex equals marriage later.
Author's Language Note
-ner/nes - Ner is male elf, nes is female elf. Plural format is neri and nesi. Elleth/Ellon does not exist yet.
-Bova is not a real word within Tolkien's elvish. It is crafted from the Sindarin "govanan" as Mae govenan means well met. Bova is just a simple slang for "well met"
-Mesta - Bye - an Eldamo import
-Mai Pharalië. - Hunt well - the idea is that it is a blessing, much like the saying "A star shines in the hour of our meeting"