*Insert Obligatory Disclaimer Statement Here*
This work is for Brievel.
Note: This is a companion piece to my fic "Between the Mountains and the Sea" focusing on Ingwion's perspective of the War of Wrath. The only relevant thing you need to know from the other fic is that this is a Gil-Galad is Finwë AU. Enjoy!
"I'll save your seat." Indtancë promises.
They'd been planning on attending a poetry reading of Elemmírë's works before the summons from their father came.
Ingwion and his sister had shared helpless looks. Their father didn't normally call his children to him like this. He generally waited for a family gathering and spoke to them then. Whatever it was, it must be important.
And the summons was addressed to Ingwion alone, so he leaves his sister behind with a wave.
It's a bit of a walk to High King Ingwë's throne room from outside the amphitheater. One has to pass through shimmering streets ringing with the sound of bells, fertile and luscious gardens, floors of gold and pillars of silver, every surface polished and shining, even in the weaker light of Anar.
When he reaches the throne room, he is greeted by the sight of his father upon his throne, his mother, Queen Indinya, seated next to him. Standing at his other side was Indarë, Ingwë's firstborn and heir, the eldest of Ingwion's sisters.
Oh, if all of them were here, this is really serious.
Has he done anything worth this kind of formal lecture recently? He doesn't think so, but now he isn't too sure. (He hasn't stolen fruit from Yavanna's orchards since the Years of the Trees, so it can't be that. He hadn't even participated in Indolérë's newest hair-brained scheme. And even if he had, he'd definitely be taking her down with him if it was brought up.)
He decides he'll find out why he was called here soon enough and bows deeply before the High King of All Elves. "Father, you called for me?"
"I did. A decision has been reached regarding the plea of Earendil."
Oh. Well, that couldn't be so bad. Some of Ingwion's tension leaves him. "What have the Valar decreed?"
"We shall prepare to march on Angband. A force of the remaining Noldor will be assembled under King Arafinwë. A force of our own people must be assembled as well. I would like you to be in charge of that force."
The tension returns. Ingwion has to restrain himself from shuffling. "Oh. But - why?"
"You spent many a year in Tulkas following. We have not forgotten that." Ingwë gives him a small smile.
Ingwion feels his heat creep across his face. "Atar! That was yeni ago! I was barely of age!"
"Yet none of your sisters has that experience." His mother says.
Ingwion's gaze drifts to Indarë and her gracefully folded hands. Indarë smiles kindly, the way she always has - the only daughter who had been born at Cuivienen, who'd been an adult for millennia at the time of Ingwion's birth, a bastion of constant comfort and kindness and strength.
Shouldn't she be going instead of him?
(His sisters had all been named for their strong, impetuous, willful natures. Ingwion had been named his father's son. His father, who, for all of Ingwion's life, had never left Valmar and its surrounding districts. Shouldn't any of them be going instead of him?)
Sensing his thoughts, she shakes her head. "I've responsibilities here, as do many of our sisters. Those without responsibilities have not the experience."
Ingwion swallows. "Very well, then. I shall prepare."
Believe it or not, Ingwion had never really had any desire to visit Middle-Earth. It all sounded quite savage, what with all the kinslaying and fell creatures.
"Good." Ingwë says. "You will be working closely with your cousin Arafinwë and Lord Eönwë on this. I trust you will represent our house well."
Ingwion has far less confidence, but he bows and accepts the responsibility anyway.
Ingwion had been raised on the idea that simply not wanting to do something was not enough reason to not do that thing.
The principle applied to military campaigns too, he supposed. Besides, his father, his King, had asked this of him. Ingwion was determined not to disappoint.
Falling back into the old instructions of Tulkas was rather easy. Gathering and preparing an army was slightly less so. (Unless one was a Noldo, the long peace and contentment and ease and plenty in Valinor did not an eager warrior breed.) Still, it would be accomplished. He had the help of his sister, Indorillë, in recruitment and organizing equipment and armor.
Even his mother pitches in - near to their set departure date, she finds him one day between tasks and takes his hand.
"I've organized potential supply chains and have made sure enough provisions are packed for the trip to Beleriand and then some. Make sure you remember to eat out there."
He smiles at his mother. "I will. How did you manage those supply chains?"
Did she somehow acquire a map of Beleriand and its serviceable farmlands?
Indinya smiles back, a hit of mischief twinkling in her golden eyes. "King Olwë has agreed to lend you his fleet. The Falmari will keep the supply chains open."
Ingwion gasps. "You did it? You convinced him?"
"It was Elwing, actually. Earwen and your Cousins, Findis and Arafinwë, spoke in favor of it before King Olwë as well, it was mainly his brother's great-granddaughter who convinced him."
One step closer.
His fëa leapt in anticipation.
The trip itself to Beleriand is more difficult than expected, to say the least.
Before their departure, it was decided that he and Lord Eönwë would be aboard the same ship. A great honor to be sure, to be able to work so closely with the Herald of Manwë, even strategize with him.
His expectations are shattered a mere few days into the journey. Ingwion supposes, in retrospect, that you don't truly know someone until you're trapped in confined quarters with that person for an extended period of time.
Being the only son of High King Ingwë, born in Valmar under the light of the Trees, Ingwion has lived his whole life around the Ainur. They're about as normal to him as waking up to his sisters singing a quartet right outside his window or one of them bursting into his room in the middle of the night to recite poetry, or demanding to practice a new style with his hair, or, especially when he was a child, trying to dress him up however they pleased. (He'd lost count of the number of times their mother had needed to intervene on his behalf, shooing away her daughters with a mild scolding of, "Your brother is not a doll. He should not be treated as one.")
His past experience had not prepared him for... this.
How to put it. Lord Eönwë is... well.
With all due respect, Lord Eönwë is annoying. He's always out and about at the crack of dawn, cheerfully singing to the rising sun with his chest and feathery hair all puffed out, because, apparently, he's a disgusting morning person. The absolute freak. (The fact Ainur don't even need sleep is notwithstanding.)
And then there are the questions.
Ingwion will be standing on the prow, wind in his hair, minding his own business. Eönwë will be standing nearby. And then Eönwë will ask, "What would an albino polar bear look like?"
And Ingwion will just slowly turn and... stare, taking a moment before replying, "Wouldn't... you be more qualified to answer that then I am? You know. Since you've been there since physical creation's beginning and I haven't?"
Eönwë will turn his molten eyes on Ingwion and say, "I wasn't asking you."
Ingwion does not ask who he was asking.
Or, on another occasion, Ingwion had been helping himself to a midnight snack and turned around to return to his quarters only to see Eönwë lurking just behind him with an inquisitive expression. Before Ingwion can even offer to get him anything, Eönwë asks, "If you ever had a son, would you name him Ingwionion?"
Ingwion had inhaled a piece of fish at that. In the wake of the ensuing hacking fit, he hadn't had to answer the question.
It's a relief when land comes in sight.
His first meeting with the remaining Elven leaders of the people of Beleriand is interesting, to say the least.
It feels so good to be off the ships. Nothing against the Falmari, Inwgion just prefers solid ground and not being forced to remain in a confined space for any length of time. Reminds him too much of the time his sister Indtancë had shut him in Indarë's wardrobe. (The plan had been to surprise Indarë. Only Indarë had decided to ride out to visit Cousin Indis and Indtancë hadn't thought to check for him there until Laurelin's waxing the next day.)
Waiting to greet them is High King Gil-Galad. Beside him, looking as smug as ever, is Cousin Lalwendë. On his other side is a silver-haired Teler. Ingwion supposes him to be the "Círdan the Shipwright" that Earendil had described.
But Ingwion's eyes keep being drawn to Gil-Galad.
Looking at him is like looking at a ghost, a Beleriand-ish echo of the Noldor's original King, Finwë. Everything, the hair, the face, the way he holds himself, even the light in his eyes, screams Finwë.
Ingwion doesn't know what to make of it.
Eönwë, on the other hand, seems unperturbed as ever. You'd think one of the Ainur, being not of the same make as Elves or Men or Dwarves, would be more easily impressed by the marvels of genetics possessed by the Children of Eru. But maybe, like Ingwion with the Ainur, he'd grown accustomed to Ingwion's people. (Or maybe Eönwë thought every elf looked the same. That seemed plausible too.)
There's a blur of motion, and suddenly Cousin Lalwendë is tackling Cousin Arafinwë. Lalwendë laughs her memorable laugh, the one Ingwion would be able to recognize anywhere as hers, and Arafinwë returns the embrace. And then Lalwendë is picking up Arafinwë and spinning him around like a doll and -
Ingwion suddenly misses his sisters. He's never been separated from them before, not by this much distance, not even for this long.
But. Hopefully, if he doesn't end up paying a visit to Lord Namo first, he'll get to see them again soon.
Gil-Galad clears his throat. "Well. It's certainly about time you showed up."
Ingwion feels a little awkward. How in Arda are they supposed to respond to that?
Eönwë inclines his head respectfully and says, "Hail, High King Gil-Galad, Ruler of the Noldor Across the Sea, a Light for his people in Darkness, a Hope come to them out of -"
Alright. No. Nope! Eönwë is not going to weird out their new ally with his stupidly long speeches.
"Hi." Ingwion cuts him off. "I'm Prince Ingwion of the Vanyar. Nice to meet you. This is Eönwë, Herald of the Valar. That's High King Arafinwë of the Noldor, over there."
Eönwë is nonplussed by the interruption. (Does nothing bother this guy?)
Gil-Galad glances back over toward Arafinwë and Lalwendë's reunion.
Arafinwë evidently catches this glance and shakes his sister off to step forward and greet his fellow king. He bows low at the waist and says, "Greetings, Gil-Galad of Beleriand." He stands slowly. "It is good to be reunited with our sundered kin."
"Yes." Gil-Galad says. "The feeling is mutual."
Alright. Please don't let this evolve into an awkward situation.
"I'll bet." Ingwion cuts in. "This place is a mess."
Well. That wasn't really what he meant. Stupid mouth. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Arafinwë kicks him.
"I mean! With the... Morgoth... and everything. Orcs and stuff. There's definitely a major infestation going on here."
Why did he keep opening his mouth.
Another kick, this one from Lalwendë.
Eönwë ignores this abuse Ingwion's cousins are putting him through. "What my companion means to say, I think, is that we look forward to helping you defeat the Dark Lord Melkor and ridding Arda of his influence."
Gil-Galad accepts Eönwë's save with ease. Ingwion is grateful.
From here it is war counsels and maps and scouts. Arguing around a table with not just one Noldorin faction, not two, but three. The Feanorians have sent a representative to participate in their planning.
Not long into the campaign, Morgoth releases the winged dragons.
Cousin Lalwendë, called Lalwen in these lands, is frequently the chief coordinator between his camp and King Gil-Galad's.
Ingwion is grateful to this for two reasons. First, he gets to see his dear cousin more frequently this way. Second, he gets to avoid Gil-Galad more frequently this way. Nothing against the Eastern King of the Noldor, of course, it was just that Ingwion had a hard time looking at him without thinking of Finwë, and an even harder time blocking out memories of Finwë's mutilated corpse.
(Ingwion had gone with the group who went to investigate the claims of the Fëanárioni after the Darkening. His fëa would forever bear the images of such graphic brutality that had burned themselves into his memory. The torchlight on polished stone - spatters of blood - a crushed and headless corpse - limbs twisted at unnatural angles - the metal of his sword and shield and armor looked almost melted -)
So. Needless to say, Ingwion is quite glad to coordinate with Gil-Galad through Cousin Lalwen, and it is only when their warcamps draw near to each other or Eönwë summons them all for a meeting that Ingwion has to actively avoid Gil-Galad.
He didn't think anyone even noticed that was what he's been doing until Eönwë, walking with him as they perform an inspection, says, "You need to stop avoiding High King Gil-Galad. He is more important to this fight than you even know."
Ingwion sputters. "Me? Avoid him? Psh - preposterous! How dare- that you would just assume-"
Eönwë's manner does not change. He still stands straight, arms loose, wings folded up at his back. He doesn't even look at Ingwion. It's as if they're still discussing the state of repair their armies' weaponry is in.
Valar, he doesn't even call out Ingwion on his spluttering - he doesn't even give him a deadpan look.
Ingwion takes this in and sighs. "Yes. I've been avoiding him. Can you blame me? He is the very image of an old family friend and relative. Someone I last saw in a very - gruesome state."
Eönwë does look at him now. His eyes are gold and black and completely unfathomable. "Yes, I can."
"...Can what?"
"Blame you."
That sends Ingwion sputtering again.
Eönwë ignores this. "However, I shall not. I do not know what it is like to see someone who has been around for my entire existence dead and mutilated."
Ingwion lets a deadpan expression claim his face. "... Thanks."
Eönwë is looking up at the sun, now.
He does that rather a lot.
Ingwion looks at it too, but only sees Arien's vessel traversing the heavens, business as usual.
Ingwion gives Eönwë a sideways look, then sighs loudly. "Alright, alright. Tell me why Gil-Galad is more important than I know - because he's already quite important to this war effort in my estimation."
Eönwë's eyes flick back to Ingwion. "I do not believe he wishes it to be commonly known. You shall have to ask him yourself."
Ingwion groans. "You can't just say something vague and mysterious and then decline to explain yourself! It's impolite!"
Eönwë showed no signs of understanding what he even meant.
Maiar.
There is a winged fire-drake attacking his line. He commands his people to dig their heels in and hold.
Their shields are tall and broad, made for locking into place side by side to create a nigh-impenetrable shield-wall. Another line behind his first holds their shields above their heads and the heads of those holding their shields out. Ingwion himself is one of these. He grits his teeth and waits for the heat and the fire to die down.
When it does, he calls for their advance.
Most winged dragons had to contend with the West's aerial forces. Some, however, still managed to slip through their vigil. What was annoying was that this one was the third in as many months. What's even more annoying is that all three have chosen to pick on his battle lane specifically.
Arafinwë and Eönwë never had these problems. Just because Ingwion wasn't an Ainu or a Noldo didn't mean he was weak or vulnerable!
A horn blares nearby. Another force is coming to meet his, coming in from his right flank. He yells for his people to hold again. These are not orcs, they're Men. The question is if they are of the ilk of Ulfang or not. But then - a Fëanorian banner comes into view along with heraldry Ingwion only distantly recognizes.
The remaining people of Bór the Faithful?
The advancing Men go straight for the dragon.
This particular dragon is quite small for his kind, but is tenacious and rather talkative when he isn't belching fire and smoke.
"I am Smaug!" He booms for probably the gazillionth time. "The chiefest and greatest of calamities!"
"Do you... do you think his name is Smaug?" Ingwion mutters to his Second.
"No, you must have heard wrong. It's clearly 'Smug'," his Second murmurs back. She'd been an astronomer back in Valinor, but had volunteered when the call went out. He was half certain she'd joined just so she could study Varda's stars somewhere that wasn't the slopes of Taniquetil.
"I AM FIRE! I AM DEATH!"
"Shields!" Ingwion calls. His command is echoed down the line.
The blow never comes. Instead, there can be heard shouting coming from the Men.
Ingwion issues an order advance quickly in order to aid them. Such valiant (potential) allies should be preserved if at all possible. He and his people charge, shields at the ready.
Heading the attack of these edain on the dragon is... a person. Definitely a person. It's just that Ingwion has a hard time determining exactly what kind of person. Not a Man, the fëa was just a little bit wrong for that. Yet, theirs was not the fëa of an elf either. Something about it was just a bit maiarin, but not quite, and Ingwion didn't know what to make of it.
And then this person turns his head and -
And that's -
That's definitely a child.
Of course, all Men are children. But this one, though, this one still has baby face.
This child has an honor guard surrounding him, but even this does not stop him from throwing himself into the thick of the fight.
Ingwion fights his way through smoke and ash and flame over to him.
The child-Man-Elf-Maia-person calls out an order in a strange language that Ingwion cannot even begin to recognize, and the soldiers around him respond.
From there, there is fire and yelling and then Ingwion finds himself holding his shield out in front of this fool child when he lags in his dodge just a little too much.
"What are you thinking?!" Ingwion shouts at him in Quenya, unsure if he will be understood.
To his surprise, the Man-child looks up at Ingwion, smiles, and replies in thickly Fëanárian accented Quenya of his own, "Why, 'Kill the Dragon', of course!"
Ingwion sputters. The child dodges away. Ingwion yells after him, "That was rhetorical, you - you - you Fëanárndil!"
"Hey! Smog!"
The Dragon moves its head toward where the child is. "It's Smaug!"
Ingwion charges. No children will be dying on his watch, not even child soldiers. (He's hesitant even about these Men fighting, they're so young, all of them, and this one, he seems especially young.)
The combined forces of the Minyar with the Men blended together easily, more a testament to the Men's discipline and past history fighting with elves than anything to do with his own forces. They surge forward as one.
The dragon, Smug, rains down fire upon them from above, but the Minyar are able to block the worst of it with their full body shields. The Men have a contingent of archers with them, who rain down volleys of their own.
The child charges forward with a war cry, still evading Ingwion, still determined to be reckless.
(Believe it or not, Ingwion isn't afraid to die. He knows he'll come back if the worst happens. He'll see his parents and sisters and be able to go to poetry readings again. That, however, doesn't mean he wants to die, nor should he be needlessly reckless. This was not, apparently, a view this child shared.)
The child stands back and hurls his javelin up at the Dragon. Whatever it's made out of, that spear, it pierces though one of the scales in the Dragon's chest and then rips it in a rain of foul blood out as the javelin falls back to the earth.
The dragon releases a deafening scream before launching himself higher into the air.
And then, craven, it flees.
Ingwion watches the retreat with distrustful eyes.
His Second comes up to stand beside him a few moments later. Her breathing is heavy.
Ingwion does not wait for her to speak. "This is getting ridiculous," he grouses, "They keep consistently attacking our front, and then they don't even have the courtesy to stick around long enough to die?"
His Second laughs. "They're likely just testing us out, sir. Trying to see our capability and then reporting back to Moringotto."
"Yes, but they don't do this nearly so often to Eönwë or the hosts of the Noldor! I just want to know why they keep attacking my battle line specifically!"
"Your heads are gold." The elf-man-child-person-thing says, coming up beside them. He has black dragon's blood dripping from his armor. (He'd been standing right below the thing when he'd pierced it.) "It attracts them."
"Please, it's not like we roll around in gold like the Noldor do. They should go bother Arafinwë!"
He laughs and holds out a hand. "Elros Kanafinwion, sir. Am I right to assume that you are Prince Ingwion of the Vanyar?"
Ingwion looks at his extended hand curiously, before taking it in a soldier's grip. "Indeed I am. Kanafinwion, you said?"
"His son by adoption." Elros glances up with a deep frown, toward a shining point in the sky, a little to the West. Vingilótë. "You may know me better as Earendilion."
Ingwion's grip on his spear tenses. "One of Elwing's sons. Lord Námo said you yet lived. Where is your brother?"
"My brother an I were separated. We're supposed to be making for High King Gil-Galad's camp." Elros explains.
The honorable thing would be to help convey these people to their destination. Unfortunately, Ingwion is still avoiding Gil-Galad.
"You're welcome to stay with us until the next time our camps convene."
Elros nods. "Thank you. We would be... most obliged."
The next camp they rendezvous with is not Gil-Galad's, but rather Eönwë's.
Their advance North is slow, but with a sense of inevitability. And more and more, Ingwion finds himself missing home, not just the civilizations of it, but the wholesomeness as well. Melkor - Moringotto - has utterly ruined this land. Almost nothing good and green is left. Those supply chains his mother had initially organized have become essential, as have these meetups with Eönwë's camp.
Maiar of Yavanna and Vána supplement what supplies they do receive from the supply chains, and they need every morsel. A hungry army cannot survive on oxygen alone. (And in this ruined land, the further North they go, closer to the smoke and fumes from Angband, even that feels a commodity.)
Elros and his people look in awe of Eönwë's host, and really, why wouldn't they? His is the Host of the Valar, and its soldiers are Maiar of all kinds. In addition to this, compared to Elros' cruddy and nearly non-existent food supply, Ingwion and his people dine like kings, and the Host of Eönwë is the kitchen.
In the barest of ways, seeing their faces taking in their first sight of the Host of the Valar is like seeing the faces of elflings light up in a sweets shop.
Ingwion leaves them with the rest of his camp to rest and resupply in order to meet up with Eönwë, mostly to discuss what is to be done with this small band of Men he's picked up.
He finds Eönwë atop a small rise in the earth in the middle of the camp.
The Chief of the Maiar has his face turned to the sun, feathery hair and chest puffed out. He does this quite a lot.
Ingwion stares at him for a long moment before realization suddenly hits him and he narrows his eyes. "Hold on - are you flirting? With the sun?"
Eönwë squawks and whirls on him. "Me? Flirting? I am a Chief among the Maiar, Manwë's Herald, the Master of Arms. Flirting is beneath me."
"... Right." Ingwion shoots a look up at the sun. He wonders if Lady Arien can sympathize with him, being forced to deal with Lord Eonwe's antics, and if she's really actually very wise for volunteering to bear Laurelin's last fruit and therefore escape him completely. "Look, I found one of Earendil's sons. Brought him and his people to your camp with me."
Eönwë, if it's possible, straightens further. (His posture is always impeccable.) He has a gleam in his eye as he tilts his head to the side. "I see. You have a son of the Mariner. But tell me, are there not two? Where is the other?"
"He says he lost his twin."
"Lost his twin? That seems rather irresponsible. Indeed, the Earendilioni are both blessed of -"
"Yes, yes. But what am I to do with the one I have? He wants to go to Gil-Galad."
Eönwë blinks. "Then you convey him to High King Gil-Galad. He is on the front, though. Not a safe place for children. Perhaps we should recommend he wait before meeting up with the High King. We have the push forward relatively well in hand, but our supply lines could use shoring up and guarding, especially as we head further north and the land becomes ever more corrupt. The kin of Yavanna and Vána in my ranks are beginning to have a hard time making anything grow, let alone foodstuffs. Oromë's hunters have long since ceased to be able to find any kind of wild beast that is not somehow twisted into the service of Melkor and has been made unwholesome for consumption."
Ingwion sighs. "I will speak with Elros and try to send a message to Gil-Galad."
"Did someone say send a message to Gil-Galad?"
Ingwion glances over his shoulder to see Cousin Lalwen approaching, signature grin upon her face.
As she gets closer, she offers a nearly casual bow to Eönwë and a friendly salute to Ingwion.
"Just to send word that we've found one of Earendil's sons."
Her brows raise. "Have we? Good for us. How is the lad? Do we know where the other is?"
"The 'lad' is going around commanding his own faction of people."
"He seems a bit young for that."
"Nevertheless, that's what he's doing. Elros is his name. He says he's on his way to join Gil-Galad. Lord Eönwë thinks he would be of more help shoring up the supply lines."
Lalwen considers this. "I will speak to the King about it."
Ingwion bows his head. "That is all I ask. I will speak with the boy."
Eönwë hums, the air vibrated with it. "Very good. In the meantime, we'll keep an eye out for the other."
Both Ingwion and Lalwen nod.
For now, this is the best they can do.
The light is flickering. A dark shadow many times its size keeps passing in front of it, eclipsing that holy light, that Light of Hope.
"Sir?"
Ingwion glances to his Second, then back up to the sky.
They are at the gates of Angband. Specifically, they're at the plain before Thangorodrim, whatever the locals were calling it nowadays. The main combat was a few leagues away, with Ingwion's people making up a reserve force. Ingwion himself stood just outside the command tent.
Nearly a day ago, the largest winged dragon Ingwion had ever seen had issued forth from Angband. Vingilótë had challenged it, then lead it off.
Ancalagon. That is what the orcs chanted when it emerged. Ancalagon was its name.
Where had Moringotto been hiding that thing?
"How goes the fighting?" He asks.
"It's come to a near standstill. It seems that everyone wishes to see the battle of champions above."
"Champions." Ingwion hadn't been aware they had a champion. But... "If anyone is qualified to be our champion, I suppose Ardamírë is the that one."
"Indeed, sir."
The dark mass begins to move away from Gil-Estel. Is it just him, or is it getting closer?
His Second grips his arm. Her voice is urgent. "Sir."
No, it's definitely getting closer. It's moving impossibly fast. Fire seems to be engulfing it. Still, it comes. Closer and closer and -
"Take cover." His voice sounds remarkably calm and even to his ears.
"S-sir?"
His facade breaks and he shouts frantically to all around him. "Take cover! It's heading in toward us!"
The call is taken up, rippling across the Hosts of Valinor and Endorë.
There is a desperate scramble, lots of screaming, and Ingwion jams his body shield into the ground and crouchs behind it, letting it provide as much cover as possible. The ground shakes as Ancalagon hits. Rubble begins raining down against his shield not long after. He has to use his cape to cover his mouth to avoid breathing in the dust and choking.
He remains in this position until someone lifts his shield and a warm, shining presence offers him a hand.
Eönwë is grinning fiercely and has not a speck of dirt on him. "Get up. Thangorodrim is broken. Ancalagon's fall has shattered it. The gates of Angband are open. The war is almost won."
Ingwion feels a sense of relief and more than a little excitement burst in his chest. He cannot but return the grin and accept the hand which hauls him to his feet.
A cheer is going up around them.
After forty years, the war is almost won.
Onward to Angband.
If they'd been hoping resistance would cease after the breaking of Thangorodrim, they'd been sorely mistaken.
It seems each and every foul creature of Moringotto's is set on giving a bitter and bloody fight until the last. It's complete and utter chaos down there. The tunnels are a maze. Criss-crossing corridors and caverns filled with drakes and werewolves and orcs and elves. Moriquendi and Calaquendi. Thrall-elves and free elves. Ingwion's people and Gil-Galad's people and Arafinwë's people and Eönwë's maiar.
Still, Ingwion presses forward. He and his people have a good momentum going until, in a wide corridor, out of the smoke and fumes, comes a tall demon of fire and shadow with a sword in one hand and a whip of many tongues of flame in the other.
A balrog.
This would not be like fighting orcs and dragons. This is a corrupted Ainu. A fallen Maia. It would not tire.
Ingwion bares his teeth and tightens his grip on his spear.
It would not tire, but he would give it a reason to fear. And fear it would.
Ingwion shouts a challenge and raises his spear up high. (He was beginning to positively sound like a Noldo, preparing to fight an Ainu like this. His sisters would be both entertained and appalled.)
His honor guard was many people down, and his Second... He hadn't seen her since they'd entered Angband's tunnels. She'd been with the vanguard and not all of them had returned. Still. He will not falter. Will not retreat.
The balrog comes.
Ingwion gestures to his people to spread out. No point in giving their opponent a large target by sticking together. Additionally, this way it might be easier to maneuver the fight. Pen their opponent in.
There is something terribly foul about the feel of this monster before him. Something corrosive. Or corroded? Twisted. A parody of a well known tune. That feel is much unlike the Ainur he had known in Valmar.
The balrog makes the first move, stepping forward and lashing out with its many thonged whip.
Ingwion jumps back. He'd have to be careful of those. Could make him lose his spear.
They circle each other.
The balrog lashes out again. It roars as it does so, a jarring, discordant sound.
(The thing about balrogs is that they can be a lot like dragons. They don't just attack you physically. They attack your fëa too. The main difference is that balrogs are much, much more potent.
So Ingwion can't just focus on his spear thrusts and footwork. He needs to expend some of his energy on consciously blocking the creature's discordant aura. The best way to accomplish this would usually be by singing aloud. Unfortunately, it's hard to do that whilst also bashing a hulking ainurin monster with a glorified stick.)
Ingwion dodges to the left, spinning his spear around to jab the balrog in the side.
The balrog steps too near to Ingwion's guard and they lunge, jabbing and corralling it back toward Ingwion. When the balrog tries to lash out at them, Ingwion leaps upon it from behind, driving into its back the knife from his belt.
The heat of it singes his face and scorches his hands. He gasps and draws back. (Perhaps, if Ingwion truly were a Noldo, he'd be used to the heat of a forge and this would be easier.)
The balrog makes a horrible sound like to the screeching of many mistuned instruments and throws Ingwion from its back.
Ingwion is able to stay on his feet and maintain his grip on his spear. Both he and the balrog growl at each other.
Their fight continues on for some time, the wound in the balrog's back doing little to slow it down, until the balrog's whip catches around one of Ingwion's companion's spears and rips it from his hands, then slams it into Ingwion, who hadn't been fast enough to dodge completely. It makes him stumble, which creates a lull in his movements just long enough for the balrog to take advantage of.
Ingwion barely manages to block the oncoming sword with his spear. Had the shaft been made of anything other than well-wrought Noldorin steel, it would surely have broken. Instead, the impact causes sparks to be thrown.
A horrid, dissonant screeching sound comes next. Was the balrog making that sound, or was it the sword on the spear shaft?
Ingwion's people lunge for the balrog's back.
Ingwion begins to sing. Of Strength, of Hope, of A New Star in the West. Of hosts of the Valar and their many bright banners and of Moringotto's swift approaching and inevitable defeat.
The balrog screams. Disharmonius. Close enough to Ingwion's song, but off just enough to throw the tune. He fights against it, the discord, but he knows it's a losing battle.
And then a spear pierces all the way through the balrog from its back.
The balrog lurches back. Ingwion takes the advantage and pierces him through from the other direction.
The balrog stumbles. The Minyar scramble to not be stepped on or crushed by the creature's bulk. This proves to be a mistake when the balrog takes it as an opportunity to run right through the hole in their ranks and try to escape.
This is, of course, unacceptable. That balrog still has Ingwion's spear impaling it!
Ingwion takes off after it.
"Sir!" One of his guards calls out after him. He can't tell which one.
It matters little as he hears their footsteps pounding behind him. He understands their concern, really, but they can't let this one escape, can't -
He stumbles around a corner, nearly tripping over the hulking body of a dead balrog.
He freezes and looks to its chest - no spears. Just the blade of a sword sticking through. Not the one he'd fought earlier.
His guards catch up to him at this point. One of them shoves her own spear into Ingwion's hands. Another one steps forward to look over the empty corpse before them.
"Sir, look!" He exclaims, gesturing to a hand sticking out from beneath the body. It is burned, yes, and some fingers broken, but it's clearly of mannish or elvish origin.
Ingwion gives instructions for the corpse to be moved. His people brace their spears under the body and use them as levers to lift it up, while others of their number shove the body onto its side, revealing the elven warrior beneath.
An elven warrior that Ingwion recognizes.
Cousin Lalwendë.
Ingwion tightens his grip on his new spear and crouches beside Lalwen, who is pale and broken (leg at an unnatural angle, arm dislocated) and bruised and burned (a horrible parody of Finwë's corpse, so long ago) but breathing still - though just barely. "One of you, go. Find and fetch a healer."
One of his guards dashes off to follow these instructions.
The wait is an eternity during which Ingwion remains at Lalwen's side, clutching her hand and singing a Song of Healing he'd picked up long ago, after one too many injuries from falling out of especially tall trees. (Lalwen's wounds, of course, are nothing like the kind of wounds this song was made for. But perhaps it will numb the pain.)
His guard arrives back at long last. He's brought someone entirely unexpected with him: a baby-faced elf-man-person-maia-thing with a startlingly familiar face, in tarnished armor and a tattered and faded red tunic, the Star of Fëanáro emblazoned on his chest.
Ingwion, uncomprehending, asks, "Elros?"
The elf-man-maia, stepping up to tend Lalwen, looks over at him with a slight smile. "Elrond, actually. You've seen my brother, then, sir?"
"Oh, yes, we have. Chased off a dragon for us."
Elrond snorts. "Sounds about right." He crouches beside Lalwen and begins an examination. "Where is he now?"
"Guarding the supply lines to the south. How come you here? He said he lost you."
"We were separated, yes, but I and those with me made it back to the Feanorian camp and have continued with them ever since."
"I see. And what are you doing here?"
"Well, my lord, no one seems to have given thought to the thralls. So we've mustered up all our able bodied people, and we've gone on a rescue mission. I'm a healer, so I can't be spared."
"That's not wholly true, about not sparing thought for the thralls. We have maiar of Estë and Nienna waiting."
"And who is to draw them out of these dark places? To free them? They should be given aid as soon as possible, not merely when the coast clears."
Ingwion sighs, and it sounds more like a groan. "You may be right."
And then he falls silent as Elrond continues his work.
Eventually, some more of Ingwion's forces come looking for him and find him. He is beckoned to stand and follow them. Eönwë has captured Moringotto. His presence is required.
He leaves Lalwen and Elrond and some guards behind with a tired smile.
He is lead through the filthy tunnels of Angband, deep into its bowels, until they reach a large cavern where the other commanders of their allied armies stand.
Ingwion walks over to join them, Eönwë and Arafinwë and Gil-Galad. There are other Powers here too. He can sense them on the air. But they are not visible.
Moringotto is bound in chains at their feet. He still wears his crown. It still burns with twin points of light.
The scene fills him with both wonder and a fëa-deep satisfaction.
He'd first joined Tulkas' following just after the Trees went dark. It was just a phase, really. He was terrified and haunted by images of the viscera he'd seen. He'd thought that maybe if he knew how to defend himself he might be able to do - do -something.
He had not joined Tulkas in view of an actual war effort.
But standing here, victorious over a dethroned Moringotto, he'd never been more grateful.
The other gathered chieftains of their armies stand around grimly, but with varying degrees of satisfaction mirroring his own upon their faces. Gil-Galad in particular, he notes, wears a grim smile.
It's over.
It's over.
They've won.
They've taken the Dark Lord prisoner.
(He thinks of the people lying wounded in these tunnels, of those still missing in action. He thinks it's now time to count their dead and to see what they can do for the remaining living.)
War is fast paced and chaotic, even in its aftermath. The injured must be cared for, the people gathered, fates decreed, their withdraw from these ruined lands prepared for.
Ingwion, in the midst of this, finds himself in the healing tent, well, one of them, at Cousin Lalwen's side. He wonders why she is the one broken and abed while he is not. It seems backwards. She is so vibrant, eager, ready to laugh and raise her voice in challenge. In some ways, she is much like to one of his sisters. So much more bold than he is, with a certain joy of life that Ingwion isn't sure he has.
Is it wrong to wish to trade places with an exile? Some back home would say that she brought this on herself, but... Ingwion isn't certain.
He, he doesn't know what to think, about any of this.
He really just wants to be home. Away from all of this. War and rebellion and exile. He wants to listen to Indtancë reading poetry in funny voices, to watch Indomárë dance while Indolérë plays, to hear Indorillë sing, to feel Indarë's embrace and the soothing calm of her fëa, to even just see his parents again.
"Írimë!"
Ingwion is startled out of his thoughts by Gil-Galad, standing in the tent's entrance, eyes locked on Lalwen's unconscious form. He is frozen, face stricken and pale. He lurches forward, to her side, and bends over her, brushing her hair away from her face and holding tight to her hand. "Ai, pitya..."
Anything else he says is too quick, too low, too slurred together with grief, for Ingwion to clearly understand beyond that it was all said in Quenya, not the Sindarin that was more common in these lands.
In any case, the damage is already done.
The pieces fall into place.
And suddenly Ingwion can stand to look at Gil-Galad without seeing a bloody, decapitated corpse.
He gets up and leaves him with Lalwen. From there, he goes to seek for Eönwë. He finds the Chief of the Maiar giving instructions for their withdraw to one of his lieutenants, far from the healing tents, within sight of the encroaching sea.
Ingwion patiently waits his turn, feeling eerily calm.
When the others leave and it is just the two of them alone, he says, "Finwë Noldoran."
Eönwë looks to him with blank, unfathomable eyes.
"Erenion Gil-Galad," Ingwion continues, "doesn't just look like Finwë Noldoran. He is Finwë Noldoran. That's why you wanted me to get along with him."
Eönwë inclines his head. A confirmation.
"How did this come to be?"
"The grace of the Valar, and mercy, yes, mercy on the exiles -"
Ingwion interrupts here. "Mercy on the exiles who defied you and cast you off? Who slew their own kin and fled the safety and guidance you offered?"
Eönwë pauses and gives Ingwion a long, piercing look. "Do you recall the part Ulmo played in calling us forth to these lands? How he spoke to the princes Turukáno and Findárato, how he guided Tuor and blessed Earendil? He acted not against my Lord Manwë's designs in these matters. Ever has the war of the Elves and Melkor been in our thought since the Flight of the Noldor."
"So you sent Finwë to them? Why?"
"Nolofinwë and Findekáno both died, whilst Turukáno retreated to his hidden realm. The free elves outside of Gondolin still needed leadership. And Beleriand needed the power of Finwë's line, as much as they could get. Simply taking a step back from the affairs of Endorë does not mean we lost interest in this world entirely."
Ingwion sets his jaw, then nods.
Eönwë looks out upon the encroaching waves, out past the ships of the Falmari dotting the horizon. "We love this world. We love all of Ëa. Its beauty, its majesty, its power. We do not wish to see it destroyed. By coming here in person, we have done just that. We did try to avoid it as long as possible, but... Melkor has ruined utterly this land. Still. It is better to cut out an infection than to let the whole body die. I only wish it hadn't come to this."
Ingwion nods again. He thinks of Earendil's sons. He thinks of his cousin, Lalwen. He thinks of families viciously torn apart. Lands burned and blackened. Homes destroyed. The bodies of people and animals brutally ripped to shreds. Elves and Ainur alike, screaming and corrupted. The pain, the blood, the suffering of these past decades.
"Was this... was this Eru's plan?"
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. It isn't his place to question. (But... he needs to know. How could Eru allow this? What kind of father was he if he could just sit back and let his children suffer?)
Eönwë doesn't say anything for a moment, and Ingwion's heart drops into the rotten earth beneath them.
Finally, Eönwë speaks. "No. This is a... detour on our way there. An improvisation of the Music."
Ingwion hesitates, but then nods again.
"It will get better in time. We have won this war, and though I forebode that there are more to come, there will be peace for a while yet. Endorë will recover, and ne'er again will its people require the aid of the muster of Valinor."
Ingwion suddenly feels very weary and more than a little relieved. He will never have to come back here. He will never have to fight another war, not until the Dagor Dargorath.
Eönwë turns to watch him. "Do you wish that it had been someone else who came to lead your people in the War of Wrath instead of you?"
Ingwion considers.
His sisters had all been named for their strong, impetuous, willful natures. Ingwion had been named his father's son. His father, who, for all of Ingwion's life, had never left Valmar and its surrounding districts.
But it had not been any of them who stood and watched as Thangorodrim fell, who fought a balrog, who ran to the defense of a half-elven child soldier. It had been him, Ingwë's son.
And Ingwion... He didn't think he regretted a single moment, though he had wanted none of it. It was a strange feeling. Though he'd always felt contented in the shade, it had been good for him to step out of his family's shadow.
"No. But I will be glad to return home again."
Home. With his father and mother and sisters and with poetry readings.
He was sure Indtancë had saved a seat for him.
THE END
1. Ingwion's mom organizing the supply chain and making sure everyone is fed is her version of, "I packed a lunch for you."
2. The names of Ingwion's mom and his sisters are all totally made up and completely non-canon. When selecting them, the only rule I had was that they had to start with "In-". As for Ingwion being Ingwë's only son, this idea comes from Ingwion's name, which basically just names him "son of Ingwë". If Ingwë had more than one son, that could get confusing. The idea of Ingwion having a platoon of sisters comes from... oh, I think it's the statute of Miriel and Finwë or something. There's some note somewhere that mentions that the other kings are all having kids while Finwë's wife is dead. As for ages and birth order, that is again entirely my own.
3. The shield wall concept comes from Roman shields, which were basically person-sized. I seem to recall that the ancient Greek word that was related to Roman shields was related to their word for "door" so that ought to give you an idea of their size and shape.
4. Smaug has self esteem issues because he was bullied by a bunch of Vanyar during the War of Wrath.
5. You know, it's always "Ulfang this" or "Uldor that" how come we never talk about Bór and his people? I know Bór and his sons all died in the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, but I like to imagine that not all of their people were exterminated.
6. The balrog who runs away from Ingwion is supposed to be Durin's Bane.
7. Well this is a horrible little one-shot, thank you for reading it until the end. Editing was done by me. I probably missed a few things. Especially since there was a massive formatting error the first time I published this and I needed to fix it manually. Please forgive me.
