Concerning Spirits

Your conversation with Delora went… as well as it could have been expected to. Truthfully, it was in many ways not your conversation to have, but sadly you are the closest person to one who is responsible for Maeglin. If he were one of your brothers, or less than a day's ride away, you would seize him by the ear and scold him for his recklessness.

With a shake of your head, you turn your attention back to the letter you were writing. Your informants need to be thanked and soothed of their worries. Idly, you wonder if the spies among the Noldor had needed such handling. did they have doubts? If they had, would the Dark Lord have cared? Perhaps he had someone who would take care of such things for him.

Not that you have any spies.

"Teacher? Can I speak to you?" Xandar asks.

You look up to see the young man leaning such that his head is through the partially open door. Given you did not hear it open, nor Xandar knocking, you deduce that Delora must have left it at least somewhat ajar. Understandable you suppose.

"Of course, Xandar." You reply. "Come in, take a seat."

The young man does so with a bounce in his step. It is pleasing to see him in a good mood, given how often your conversations with him have been dark, weighty affairs. He settles down into the chair across from you, wiggling strangely.

"Thank you, teacher!" He exclaims, raising fists to his chest. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"I am merely answering some letters." You respond. "Though it is of some import, it is not exactly urgent."

"Oh good. See, I was talking to some people and I realised that I don't actually know much about those great spirits you said you grew up with." Xandar explains, words tumbling over each other in his haste. "So, I was hoping you would tell me about the Ainur and what they were like!"

You raise a single eyebrow. "I suppose I could do so, though I am unsure as to why you want me to."

"They are the spirits who helped the Maker create the world, why wouldn't I want to know about them?" Xandar asks with genuine curiosity.

"True enough." You muse, almost to yourself. "Well, if I am to speak of the Ainur, then I must begin with some basic terminology and a brief discussion on their nature."

"I am ready to learn!" Xandar exclaims, holding up a book filled with what looks like his own handwriting, before turning to an empty page.

You choose not to engage with the question of where he had that.

"When I speak of the Ainur I refer to those creatures made by Eru that do not, natively, possess bodies. They were born of the One's thoughts and shared in his work of creation. They are thus not truly native to Arda, but rather must choose to enter it."

Xandar's pen scribbles furiously in accompaniment to your words, but that does not stop him interjecting. "So that's another way they are distinct from spirits of the Fade?"

Your immediate reply dies on your tongue as you think. "I do not know. In truth, I do not believe anyone has ever told me how spirits came to be. I have long assumed them to be a natural part of the Beyond's operation, yet I do not know for certain."

Xandar's pen pauses, then he shrugs. "I'll tell you later, Teacher, now there was some terminology?"

You nod. "Yes, broadly speaking the Ainur are divided into two, though there are further subdivisions if one wishes to go looking for them. There are the Maiar, these are what you might call the regular Ainur. They range in strength, but you would be hard pressed to defeat even the weakest. Then there are the Valar, the powers of the world."

"They sound important." Xandar observes.

"Indeed." You agree thoughtfully. "They are the strongest, a leap above others of their kind. So too are they the lords and ladies of the Ainur. Each has taken to themselves an aspect of the world, presumably the one of their creation, which they see to as a lord might his domain. The Maiar then serve beneath them in a manner akin to knights or lesser lords."

Xandar frowns. "Really? That seems… I don't know, a bit too normal for spirits. Are you sure that's how it works? Were there no Maiar who wished to remain independent?"

Once again Xandar's words see you hesitate. You reexamine your understanding and find it lacking.

"It is how I believe it functions." You admit at last. "I could be wrong, or making assumptions. Truth be told, I know only the Valar who introduced themselves, for all I know there are hundreds I have never met."

Xandar glares at his book. "That's… I thought you knew all there was to know about them."

You shake your head and laugh self depreciatingly. "I know far too little I fear, did I not mention that I am not on the best of terms with the Valar? I had little interest in most of them, and my family has been, let us call it difficult, historically."

"Really?" Xandar asks.

It is a struggle not to laugh at his expression. He looks akin to a child who has been informed that there is no evidence of tiny, winged elf seeming creatures under any name. Still, it reminds you that you are drifting off topic.

After a moment's thought you discard that worry, there is no need to drag this conversation anywhere. You are more than happy to discuss the nature of the Maiar and your people's relationship with them.

"I am afraid that I speak the truth." You confess. "I could speak at length on Aule, for my people have ever been close to him. However, I have seen Manwe and Varda only a handful of times. As for the others, my brothers would be more expert on the subject. Save Ulmo, whom none of us have met."

Xandar cocks his head to the side in the manner of confused puppies. "How do you know he exists if nobody's met him?"

"None of my family have met him." You clarify. "He was quite conversant with the Teleri as I understand it; and naturally he visited the other Valar sometimes."

Xandar nods. "Ok, so we're going to talk about the Maiar then, or are you saying you don't really know much about them and we'll be talking about Aule?"

"The former, while I cannot speak for their relationships to each other I am quite familiar with their interactions with incarnates such as you or I." You explain. "Partly due to their lesser power and status and partly due to their own desires, they walked among us more frequently than the Valar."

"Right, so the Maiar are the less powerful spirits right?" Xandar asks.

"Correct, and usually they follow one of the Valar and share their skills." You elaborate. "For example, a follower of Yavanna will usually be skilled with plants, those who follow Oromë are skilled huntsmen. More rarely, they will specialise somehow, to either complement their Valar or simply to focus on a single aspect."

The sound of Xandar's pen fills the room as you pause, it is only when the sound stops that you continue. "The primary example of this would be Eonwë, who is the Herald of Manwë, king of the Valar. While Manwë is the lord of the skies, with power is over birds and lightning, Eonwë is most famed for his strength of arms and skill with weapons. Most would assume that to be the province of Tulkas' followers."

While Xandar scribbles away furiously, he comments, "I have to be honest I think this would be easier to understand if I knew who all these Valar were."

"True enough, it is difficult to discuss the Maiar without mentioning the Valar. Very well," You clear your throat and wait for Xandar to finish writing before continuing. "In brief the Valar number seven and seven again. Manwë, who is lord of the skies and king of them all, and his wife Varda who is the lady of stars. Ulmo who is lord of the seas and dwells ever in their depths, he took no wife. Aulë the smith and his wife Yavana the Giver of Fruits. One the lord of craftsmen and smiths, the other is lady of plants and beasts. Námo who is keeper of the halls of the dead and his wife Vairë who weaves all that has happened in Arda into her tapestry."

At this point you pause to give Xandar time to catch up. The young man has worked himself up to such a speed that you will be surprised if his writing is legible. Given that he takes the time to go back over it once he has caught up, it seems you were correct.

Once he has made sure he work is legible, you continue, "Irmo, the lord of dreams who keeps the garden of Lórien which is fairest in all the land. He married Estë the gentle, who heals all hurts and brings rest to the weary. Then there is Nienna…"

Xandar is surprised when you trail off, and so lost in thought are you that you do not realise you have stopped speaking until he prompts you. "Teacher? Who's Nienna?"

With a shake of your head you return your focus to the conversation. "Nienna laments all that has been lost and fouled in the world. Aside from her is Tulkas the Mighty, Oromë the hunter and their wives Nessa the swift and Vána the Ever-young."

The sound of scratching quill on parchment continues for a time after you finish talking. Eventually Xandar finishes and looks over what he has written. As he does so a frown starts to cross his face.

He looks up at you and says, "Despite planning to talk about the Maiar we seem to have mostly discussed the Valar."

"I did say that it is difficult to discuss one without the other." You point out reasonably.

Xandar nods. "Yeah, I guess but now I have so many questions about the Valar and they're not even what we're talking about."

"Perhaps, but now I can discuss the Maiar much more easily, for instance if I say that Ossë is a Maiar who serves Ulmo but with a love of coasts and shores rather than the depths, then you will understand what I'm talking about." You reply.

Once more Xandar nods slowly, and the conversation moves on.

For some time you regale him with the tales of the more famous of the Maiar. Of Ossë's wildness and Olorin's wisdom. Many are the names of the Maiar that you share with Xandar, of the renowned names only Melian goes undiscussed. She is too entwined with your history for this particular discussion.

Xandar listens to the tales with wide eyed enthusiasm, to the point he actually forgets to record his notes and needs the tales repeated. It is at once touching and saddening. On the one hand, to see someone so enthusiastic about learning about the world is heartening, but at the same time there is sorrow that he shall likely never know them personally.

Then you come to the istari.

"This is a particularly contentious title." You state warningly. "Should you come upon more of my kind, do not use it lightly, for there is great disagreement about its meaning."

"Why's that teacher?" Xandar asks.

"In essence it comes to the fact that there is no fully agreed upon definition of the term." You explain. "There is, to my knowledge, no word in Thedaslta that it translates to[1]. Literally it means 'one who knows' or 'the possessor of knowledge'. As such, it was a title oft bestowed on those Maiar who chose to walk cloaked in eldarin form."

"Don't they all have elven forms?" Xandar frowns in confusion.

"True, but they do not necessarily attempt to pass for eldar." You explain. "The term is used when an Ainur conceals their strength and exerts themselves to appear as though they were an eldar in truth rather than merely in form."

"Ok, so why the controversy?" Xandar asks.

You sigh. "The literal meaning. What do you call someone who is, what in this tongue I refer to as 'loremaster', or one who is otherwise very knowledgeable?"[2]

"Ooooh." Xandar utters in understanding. "So people started to use it like a title, which means people who 'earn' the same title seem like they're being arrogant."

"Not accounting for those who absolutely desire it because they are arrogant." You note idly.

Xandar winces. "I don't really want to talk about this anymore."

"Very well." You reply. "How about… Huan."

"Huan?" Xandar repeats.

"The Hound of Valinor, chief of the wolf hounds." You recite idly. "Companion to my brother Turcafinwë Tyelkormo Tulcawë[3], who is called Celegorm by the Sindar. Huan was given to him by Oromë."

Xandar's eyes widen and seem to shine like stars. "Wow! I mean, I don't really get why you're bringing it up, but that sounds super cool! I want a spirit dog now!."

You laugh quietly. "Truly Xandar, some days I wish I could see the world as you do. However, I bring up Huan as I wish to extend our discussion from the spirits and the Maiar into those whose origins are less clear."

"Ok?" Xandar asks, clearly confused.

"Huan is a useful starting place as, to this day, I do not know if he was a hound of unusual size or one of Oromë's Maiar." You explain.

Xandar frowns. "Surely the differences would be obvious?"

"Did I not mention that Maiar can conceal their natures?" You reply with raised brow. "Huan did not speak[4], save in the tongue of hounds, and was the size of a small horse. Yet, no hound was so swift of foot, so keen of sense nor so mighty. Alone he overthrew all the werewolves of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and defeated Gorthaur the Cruel in single combat."

Xandar is making the star expression once more. "So cool."

You feel an instinctive urge to strike Turko for being smug, but continue, "Indeed. Gorthaur, or Sauron as he is better known, was one of the mightier Maiar in service to Morgoth."

"So Huan was a Maiar!" Xandar exclaims.

You shake your head. "No more so than Ecthelion or Glorfindel. The Maiar are mighty indeed, especially the Balrogs of Morgoth, but they are not beyond the ability of the mírondina to harm or defeat."

Xandaar blinks twice in confusion. "Mírondina, Teacher?"

You frown. "I am not certain of the word in the tongue of Thedas. Those who possess flesh? Beings who have a body?"

"I think the word is incarnate?" Xandar offers.

You mull over the word for a time, then nod. "Incarnate it shall be."

"Wait, you're saying that these great spirits can be defeated by mortals?" Xandar asks, expression strangely conflicted.

You nod gravely. "It is so. Just as one who is strong might fall to one who is weak, if the weak is lucky or skilled enough, so too it is with the Ainur. There will be those who claim that they are weaker in the physical world than we, for it is our realm not theirs. None of whom have striven against the might of even the meanest of Morgoth's dark servants. They are wrong"

"Okay." Xandar says, pen poised to write. "So what you are saying is that the Ainur, though powerful, can be defeated by mortals? What about the Valar?"

"Morgoth himself was sung to sleep by Lúthien Tinúviel and a Silmaril stolen from his crown." You inform him. "Even the mightiest may be felled, should circumstance allow."

Xandar writes furiously, then asks. "Ok, so you don't know what Huan is. I'm guessing he's an anomaly?"

"Hardly." You reply with an amused smile. "The number of things I am uncertain of far exceeds a single example."

Xandar gives you an unamused look. "Teacher. That wasn't funny."

"Then why do I smile?" You ask playfully, to a deeper scowl. "Peace, peace. In truth I wished to spring from Huan to another group that straddles the line between the incarnate and the Ainur, the Eagles of Manwë."

"Oh, they're like Huan?" Xandar asks.

"In many senses yes." You agree. "The greatest of their kind, Thorondor lord of eagles, had a wingspan thirty rangwi[5] wide."

"Rangwi?" Xandar asks.

"Forgive me, I do not know the measurements of Thedas well." You confess. "It is somewhere between thirty and forty times the height of a man."

Xandar's face contorts as he works out the sizes. "That's really big."

"Indeed." You nod. "When I escaped Thangorodrim I and Astaldo both rode astride him. He and his kin fought beside us, and so we controlled the skies for much of the war. They were truly mighty, and I dread to think what ends we might have come to without them."

Xandar scribbles furiously, face filled with excitement. "Amazing, were there other things of the sort?"

You pause, considering at length.

"Yes." You say at last. "There were the tree-shepherds. Though I must confess that I have met them but rarely. They were deeply reclusive, bent to the protection of trees and little else."

"What were they like?" Xandar asks.

"Treelike." You state flatly. "Without jest, I can say that they appeared as a tree that walked and spoke as you or I do. Yavanna created them, for though bird and beast has legs, wings, claws or fang to defend itself, that which grows has nothing. So she raised up those that were like them to guard them from the axes and flames of the Children of Eru."

Xandar writes down all you say without fail. Sadly, you do not have long to dwell upon the tree-herders and their kin before you must depart. You have much that must be done this week, and far too little time in which to do it.

The Glade

When Xandar leaves your office, you finish your letter and head out. You have another one of those busy weeks that you schedule for yourself sometimes. Gladesville needs an inspection and you want to try and extend yourself further into your abilities with the sword. Then there is the Teyrn's invitation.

Indeed, you are going to be very busy this week.

The forest is beautiful this time of day. Admittedly, you have always liked forests, the paradoxical quiet and noise at once, the green and brown. It is fortunate that you are far enough south not to be faced by trees with bare branches. It makes a rather pleasant ride to the village.

Orundómë snorts his displeasure. He, it seems, does not share your love for forests.

Gladesville is a very human settlement. At once it seems as though it has not changed at all since you arrived and yet it is constantly different every time you turn around. It has expanded somewhat, not by much, but that is not what you focus on. Here is a building that has been rebuilt, there is a house that has begun to rebuild in stone.

The pigs that were once everywhere have reduced in number and now chickens take their place. Yet at the same time, many of the same people go about their days tending to things in the exact same fashion you remember from earlier this year.

Only a single year and it already feels less like a camp of desperate bandit and more like an actual human settlement. Truly, they are terrifying creatures, humans.

You are greeted like an old friend by most, and those few who do not are unknown to you. They are quick to direct you to Ophelia. Many mention being glad for the extra guards you posted to ward off the Dalish or ask if it they have been driven from the forest. You do not answer, lest they spread misinformation.

Ophelia looks tired. It is not particularly surprising to you; you often feel tired too. Still, with your thoughts on how things have and have not changed, you cannot help but notice the fierce, almost wild, energy of the youth has slowly been worn away this year.

Yet, even as she smiles tiredly, still the fire that you first saw in her burns still. Much of the work that surrounds her is concerned with attracting new members, expanding the grounds or, as your eldarin ears had informed you as you approached, arguing with members of the Chantry.

"Ophelia, it is good to see you. Gladesville seems to be doing well." You say as a greeting.

"Yeah." The young woman pushes red hair out of her eyes. "It's rolling along just fine. Might need more work than I'd prefer, but it beats farming."

"I hope the Chantry is not giving you undue amounts of trouble." You prompt.

"Not exactly." Ophelia winces. "We're trying to get a deal where we can get some people into the school without having to deal with some of the caveat."

Your brows draw together and wrath kindles in your chest. "They were to make the school accessible to all. If they have gone back on their word…"

"No!" The young woman waves her hands in front of her face. "It's not like that. Um, not really anyway. So a lot of the school's costs come from the fact that people need to, well, live here. But most of us are in walking distance, so we're hoping to be able to have someone sit in on classes. Problem is the Chantry doesn't really want to give it to us for free."

You nod slowly, anger fading into the background once more. "I suppose you have offered to take up the role of teachers?"

Ophelia nods. "They're playing hard to get on it though. They want to 'ensure all their teachers are of a high standard'. By which they mean 'part of the Chantry'. Of course, most Chantry folk don't know anything about farming so they'll cave eventually. Just not yet."

"If you are certain, then I will not say anything further on the matter." You state. "But I am available if you need advice."

"Thanks." Ophelia says, then sighs. "So, what brings you here?"

"I must confess that I have not come to assist you directly." You admit. "I intend to speak to the Chantry members at the school and see how they're managing. Also, to ensure that they are sticking to our agreement."

"Suspicious of the Chantry, aren't you?" Ophelia teases lightly.

"It is not necessarily the Chantry that I am suspicious of." You state. "Regardless, I can put a word in to assist you regarding your issue if you wish."

Ophelia is growing more able to hide her emotions, but she remains a child compared to you. The hesitation, the doubt and even the slight hurt at the suggestion are clear to your eyes. So too is the stubborn pride and resolve that replaces them.

"No thanks." She says. "I can take care of it."

A couple of seconds are dedicated to toying with the idea of going behind her back. There is a time for pride and a time to swallow it and do what is best for your people. After further consideration you decide that this is not the time for that particular message, and interference is more likely to alienate the woman and undermine her confidence.

"Very well." You agree.

"What was with that pause?" Ophelia cries in mock outrage. "That was super suspicious!"

You return her mockery. "Truly my student has missed her calling as a jester."

The two of you trade a few light-hearted insults before you depart. It is good to know that Ophelia does not take it as an insult that you are visiting for the 'other' group within her walls.

Abigail[6] meets you without too much fuss. There is some waiting involved, but in a refreshing change of pace it seems to be because she is busy rather than a power play.

"Lord Russandol." She stands as you enter and gestures at the seat in front of her desk. "Welcome. I take it you are here to inspect the school?"

"I would hardly call it an inspection." You reply. "In truth, I do not necessarily intend to only focus on the school. What I hope to determine is how well it is functioning and how people feel about it. See if there are any problems I can lend my assistance to."

"An admirable goal." Abigail smiles. "Well, I suppose I can spare some time to give a brief overview from an administrative perspective. Though you will need to ask Clerk Matias for the pedagogical aspects."

"If you would not mind." You agree.

"The school has proven surprisingly popular." Abigail admits. "While I cannot say people from all over Ferelden are coming, we are seeing a surprisingly large number of young men and women from the local villages showing up. Apparently, they heard you set it up and wanted to learn your 'magic secret'."

"I see. Is the school holding up financially?" You ask.

"Oh yes." The woman smiles. "A lot of our teaching staff are farmers who're too old to handle fieldwork anymore. They've got the land we've put aside producing nicely, and we fully expect to both feed ourselves and everyone involved and even contribute to the local food supply."

A strange way to say 'we are making money' but maybe this is merchant speak you do not comprehend. Regardless, this marks the end of the useful information you get from Abigail. After some further pleasantries you depart to speak to this 'Matias'.

Clerk Matias is Orlesian and has a rather thick accent. "You are lord Russandol then? I see."

"Clerk Matias, I am told that you can inform me as to how the education of the students progresses. How are they performing?" You ask politely.

"Acceptably." The Clerk grunts. "I am no expert on agricultural matters, but their teachers assure me that they are meeting expectations. It is proving a surprisingly complicated subject matter."

"In my experience, we only truly know the depths of a skill when we begin to learn it ourselves." You offer.

Clerk Matias sniffs. "I suppose. Still, the behaviour of the students leaves quite a bit to be desired. Bad enough that I must deal with their parents accusing me of spying, but I do not need children playing pranks upon me and the other staff."

"If you like I could speak to them." You offer. "I do not know how much of an impact it would have but I can try."

"No thank you, uh, my lord." Clerk Matias says. "We are more than capable of disciplining our students. We do not need your, uh, input."

It matters little to you, but it is worth being sure. "Are you certain? I am more than happy to do so."

"Quite, uh, Lord Russandol." Clerk Matias repeats. "I think that it would be, uh, inappropriate."

"Very well." You state. "I suppose I shall speak to these teachers you have found. I have some experience with the craft and should be able to discuss what and how they are teaching from a position of experience."

It would be wrong to say that you are asking for permission, but you are allowing a chance for input. The balance between yourself and the Chantry is somewhat delicate and you do not wish it disturbed. Yet, you have a responsibility to the people of Gladesville and to those who attend this school, and you will not allow yourself to be deflected from ensuring that everything is functioning as best as it can.

"I, uh, I'm not sure if that's a good idea." Clerk Matias replies. "These farmers are a, uh, rough bunch. They might not be amiable to having someone of your, uh, station, telling them how to do their jobs."

"I appreciate the warning Clerk Matias, however I am willing to put my faith in my ability to convince them otherwise." You reassure the man.

"If you say so, my lord." The Clerk says with a bow.

The Clerk directs you towards an ongoing lesson. You find the group in one of the fields, weeding. Silently, you observe for a time. The teacher, an old farmer with an almost incomprehensible accent, lectures as the group pulls up the unwanted plants from the field.

"Ya godda be carefu' wit da wheet." He says, whistling the last word more than saying it. "Tis senstive ta da sod and da sky. Iffn ya don treet it right, it ain't gonna sprout right an then ya be right scrood."

You will grant that he seems to know what he is talking about. From your recollection, wheat is a notoriously temperamental crop. However, from looking over the students, they do not seem to be particularly engaged by the lesson. Whether that is due to the delivery or because they are already familiar with the subject, you are unsure. Either way it is suboptimal as a method of teaching.

Not one to undermine someone's authority, at least not for no reason, you wait until the lesson is ended to speak to the man.

"Whaddya want?" The old farmer grumbles.

"Greetings, my name is Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, eldest son of Fëanaro." You introduce yourself with an inclined head. "I am one of the founders of this school and I had hope to discuss what and how you are teaching."

"Who're ya ta te' me how ta teack?" The old man sneers. "Dun need' some fancy, soft hand city tip stuckin' 'is noose twere taint wanded."

"I am hardly intending to dictate how or what you may teach." You reply calmly. "However, is learning not a lifelong endeavour? Must we not always seek to improve ourselves? I have no doubt that you know much of farming, but how much do you truly know about teaching?"

"Mor'n ya knoo abut farmin'." The old man growls.

You sigh. "I know that what you said about wheat is correct. I also know that rye is a generally hardier, if less desirable, crop that requires less water and thrives in poorer soil than wheat. It is also often grown in winter to preserve soil quality, which raises the question why you are not growing it in this mid winter season."

The old man's brow relaxes and he goes from suspicion to cautious interest. "To'd tha Sista it woudna work. Rye's not worth anytin' parently."

You roll your eyes. "Typical, an unwise decision born of greed and haste. Truly, they are trying to live up to the worst tales of their kind."

"Don' thenk they much 'preciate bein' insu'td like tha." The old man says warily. "Maker might 'ave a prob'em wit it."

"If he does so, he is more than welcome to come and inform me in person." You state firmly.

The old man grins cruelly. "'D like ta see't."

With that connection established you are able to discuss pedagogy to some degree. Unfortunately, it is difficult to sculpt classes to strangers, but you do manage to impress the basic cycle of explanation followed by practice which is then reflected on and practice again upon him.

You do not believe that you have single handedly turned him into a great teacher, but you do see him putting some of the ideas you discussed into practice before you leave, so you are confident you have done something.

[1] Nelyo does not know the word 'Wizard', which is the best translation. Thedas might not even have the word (at least as it exists in English)

[2] This is a debate that rages to this day in Eldar society. Some favouring 'Istyar' while others favour 'Ingolmo'. The Order of Istari has at very least ended the use of that particular term among the Noldor.

[3] Tulcawё, lit. Yellow person. Tulca was adopted into Quenya from Vanarin, and Nelyo found it amusing to refer to Turko as Tulca because of the hair. Wё is added to make it a name by Quenya grammar. Whether this is Celegorm's official Epessë I leave up to the readers to decide.

[4] I hope I don't need to explain why Nelyo never heard about the times Huan spoke to Luthien and Beren.

[5] Fathoms. One Fathom is ~1.8m/6ft

[6] You maintain your refusal to refer to her as your mother. She is not, and never will be, Nerdanel.