Ma-tek
28-08-2003, 18:16
[OOC: This is a historical post, set thousands of years prior to the formation of even the First Empire, the Empire of the Eternal Flame - about 40,000 years ago, to be precise. 'Atan' is singular Quenya for 'Man', wheras 'Atani' is plural. 'Anvanya' is the superlative form of 'beautiful' - again, Quenya.]
IC:
He had walked far and wide, wandering the hills and mountains of his home; and yet a part of him yearned for the South-West, for the lands his people had long since deserted.
And, failing that, for any place other than this one.
Yet the way was drawn aside; no breach yet had been found in the Barrier - not by Semir, and not by his brother, Randur.
Randur certainly did not desire to stay here, in this forsaken, stagnant place. Randur did not wish to stay overlong, however, for a different reason: Randur did not wish to remain... an underling. His father - his name once very different, but now Ahyanë - controlled the entire settlement... and the Barrier. It was maddening. Randur, son and heir, ought to be given control; Ahyanë had ruled through two generations, after all. He ought to be dead by now - and so, really, ought Randur.
Kicking a stone, Randur muttered under his breath. The stone bounced right back at him, however, causing a mild flash of blue as it impacted the Barrier.
"Avanya," he murmoured under his breath, unconsciously. And it was beautiful - not just blue, but greys, golds, and greens would often flare as something impacted the Barrier. A bizarre rainbow, of soughts - but even a beautiful wall is still a wall.
A prison wall.
Randur faced South-West. Scowling, he shook his fist at the sky and shouted, "FËANOR! DAMN YOU!"
The sound echoed back. Not even sound would penetrate the Barrier; so well woven was the fibres that wrought its impenetrable length and height.
Seven hundred years. Seven hundred years that Randur really would do well to forget; they had been boring. Oh, there had been high points; Randur remembered Semir's birth fondly, although he had only been present after, as was appropriate - but he remembered the first burbling of his brother with great fondness.
If only he didn't have to kill his father.
* * *
Semir smiled happily, gazing into the eyes of the sky and sighing at the brightness of the stars. "Inyë, inyë, silmë melessë melwa nilda."
The new tongue was all well and good, but Quenya was purer, somehow. Semir loved Quenya; his people, he knew, often spoke Sindarin - but he had never quite grasped it. Not out of lack of ability to learn - but of lack of willingness.
He sighed. "I, even I... I, even I, love your loving starlight," he repeated in the Common Tongue.
Bland. It often sounded so bland. But he knew it would develop; it was, after all, partly Quenya in content - still - but it was growing into something else rapidly. Something more dependant on The People's ability to taste each others feelings; fëahirnna, it was named: to find the soul.
Semir was a poet. A singer. A writer. He loved to entertain - and yet he was also a swordsman. An archer. A warrior. There was nobody to fight - and yet The People maintained their ability to make war. Not even the Menelmacari - the Noldorin to the South-West - had discovered them, however - it was folly. Ridiculous, even.
But The Games were not. They were exciting; violent, but exciting. Were it not for the Barriers, they would be impossible; they were still terrifying, but... fun.
Semir took part in them reguarly. Not every year - he often had other duties - but most. And he had won the last event; his father had been so very proud. Semir beamed at the memory.
Semir's mind turned to the South-West; to the members of House Fëanor that dominated that land - the land named for the Swordsman of the Sky, with his shining belt; Menelmacar.
Of course, he was not of House Fëanor, but of House Finwë. And he had heard his father speak of Altáriel, Semirs fathers father-sister, having sailed the Straight Road - he did not know exactly what this meant (the elders did not like to speak of the past overmuch, at least, not when certain younger People were present - such as Randur. Semir, however, was trusted.) And he knew that there was a near-direct line from Altáriel back to Finwë - and his father had taught him much about that name.
Semir was not a young man. He was, however, not an old man either - except in age. His people were long-lived, but somehow the old attitude - the immortal attitude - had not left them, despite their division from the Quendi. Their rememberance of their roots had left them destitute, in some ways, of the old feelings - but not that. They did not die. Of this they were aware. They merely... departed, for some other place. And Semir was rather old, by People measure. Sixty decades. But...
It was... exciting to think about what happened when People died. Where? Where did they go? What did they do? Did Eru have some great plan for The People? Would they take part in whatever was to come? Did they go to the Halls of Mandos, like their Quendi kin, or did they go the route of the Atani - whatever that was?
Semir did not know. But his writing was often on the subject; Randur disapproved, calling it folly, useless, and time wasting. Which, in a way, it was. But it was also highly interesting. And so, Semir ignored him. Besides, Ahyanë, King of Tumnórë - the hidden land - approved. His father.
Semir was glad that he was not Firstborn. What a great burden it would be; to be aware that, one day, one would lead The People? To control the Barrier? Too great a burden for any but Ahyanë, he was sure. Except maybe Randur. A strange name, to be sure; it was, of course, Quenya - and it meant 'noisy servant'. And terribly fitting.
Semir was named 'Semir-randil' - actually, Semír-rándil, but somehow the pronunciation had altered over the years, as well as the spelling in the Tengwar script - which was a masculine name meaning 'beloved wandering jewel'.
He suspected his brother was jealous of this somewhat fonder name; yet he knew his father had merely been... actually, he had no idea what he had been thinking. He pondered the matter, flinging himself back onto the soft grass that was so common up here, on the plateau that overlooked the centre of Tumnórë. Tumm-norr-ee. Strange name, but fitting.
Semir grunted, hauling himself away from the distraction and preventing himself from going off on a tangent; he was always doing that. Like thinking of his beloved - not that she knew he thought of her so, but what did that matter? - Yávëtaur. Fruit of the forest. Fitting, he thought, for one so lovely; he had never seen a forest, but he was sure that it must be a beautiful thing indeed for Yávëtaur to be named after one.
Oh, sure, he knew what a forest was, intellectually - a large grouping of trees - but he couldn't quite grasp the idea. A large grouping of trees. What was that, exactly? Five trees? Ten? Fifteen?
Semir's thoughts pattered here and there, wandering from place to place, as ever; but often returning to Yávëtaur.
He wondered.
* * *
Randur wondered. Would a... he did not know the name for it. A... revolution. Would a revolution work? And could it be bloodless? Could he seize control, remove the Barrier, and move The People to someplace worth living - without spilling a drop of blood? His father had spoken of the Kinslaying; he had spoken of how terrible it had been, and he had indeed heard the unendingly sad songs that were sung in the Hall upon certain days in memory of long lost days - but he did not quite grasp it.
What was so wrong with killing kin? Why was it wrong? He did not understand.
He kicked another stone - and gasped in shock as it did not bounce back at him. His foot lashed out, again, trying for the same angle.
No blue. No rainbow-wall.
Randur scurried to his knees, crawling towards the gap...
...and through the gap.
He rolled onto his back. "Freedom," he gasped, mind reeling with the shock - and trying not to broadcast the potent emotional state he was in to every other Person in range.
Randur darted back through the gap - standing, this time - and, pausing only to lay a piece of chalk carefully upon the all-important site, hurtled down the mountain path that lead back to the settlement...
* * *
Semir felt a warm hand upon his shoulder, and a gentle brush at his mind. "Father," he murmoured, standing, raising his head, turning and bowing respectfully.
"My son," the King smiled, "it is late. Why do you spend such length to gaze at the stars? They are always there - you may not think so, but they will be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the next after."
Semir grinned, youthfully - his features had not aged since he had hit fifteen decades, much to the annoyance of others of his generation. "My father," Semir began, with the air of repetition shrouding the conversation in a comfortable glow, "the stars are here only at night; and were I not to spend such length upon my gazing, I should miss time to gaze. And what times the future brings, none can tell."
The King continued to smile, "And so, we repeat ourselves, as ever."
"As ever," Semir returned.
The King motioned with a hand that Semir should sit. And Ahyanë himself does so.
"Semir-randil," he stated quietly, his own eyes turned to the skies above.
"Yes, father?"
"How old are you.... sixty decades. Sixty decades you have spent here, my son. And eighty decades have I dwelt here. And yet... while I had married and my wife bore my first child within two decades, you find yourself past sixty and yet without lover or child or family. - It is not as if Yávëtaur does not know your mind, son. You know the Way."
Semir sighed heavily. This was a subject he had hoped none would broach. "Father," he began quietly, eyes drawn down to the face of the one who had, with his mother, brought him life.
"Mmm-hmm," the King prodded.
"Father... Yávëtaur is younger than I. Yet she will most likely Leave before I do. Only mother, you, I, and Randur appear to share this gift of lengthy days - however long they may be. How could I bear her parting? Would it not be as a Quendi to an Atan? Endless days of grief?"
Ahyanë's features change. They become saddened, and a heavy sigh parts his lips, blowing out into the still evening breeze with sad intensity. "Yes," he admits, "likely were it to be so. Each generation lives less than the last. We stagnate before we have even begun."
His voice lowers, beneath even Semir's keen hearing range. "Yet so I chose."
Louder, "Yet is not love worth more than all? Is not love the strings which weave the world together? Come, now. Without love, what more sorrow comes? Is not sorrow of love better than sorrow of never having been loved?"
Semir lifts his chin, and proudly murmours, "No. Would were it so, dear father, but it is not. I could not do as you desire; no grandsire shall you be, unless Randur's love produces a child. - I fear she will not."
"Do not change the subject," comes the curt response.
A sigh. "Father... I cannot do such a thing to Yávëtaur. I have a broader glimpse of immortality than she; what guilt would I feel, at subjecting her to a vision of the life we have lost! No. It cannot be."
Ahyanë sighs, now. His Choice is not well-known; indeed, he keeps it that way. Only his beloved, aside from Ahyanë, is aware of the Choice for The People made. And so, he merely pats his son's hand, and returns his gaze to the stars.
Silently, each sad after their own turn, father and son look to the stars above.
IC:
He had walked far and wide, wandering the hills and mountains of his home; and yet a part of him yearned for the South-West, for the lands his people had long since deserted.
And, failing that, for any place other than this one.
Yet the way was drawn aside; no breach yet had been found in the Barrier - not by Semir, and not by his brother, Randur.
Randur certainly did not desire to stay here, in this forsaken, stagnant place. Randur did not wish to stay overlong, however, for a different reason: Randur did not wish to remain... an underling. His father - his name once very different, but now Ahyanë - controlled the entire settlement... and the Barrier. It was maddening. Randur, son and heir, ought to be given control; Ahyanë had ruled through two generations, after all. He ought to be dead by now - and so, really, ought Randur.
Kicking a stone, Randur muttered under his breath. The stone bounced right back at him, however, causing a mild flash of blue as it impacted the Barrier.
"Avanya," he murmoured under his breath, unconsciously. And it was beautiful - not just blue, but greys, golds, and greens would often flare as something impacted the Barrier. A bizarre rainbow, of soughts - but even a beautiful wall is still a wall.
A prison wall.
Randur faced South-West. Scowling, he shook his fist at the sky and shouted, "FËANOR! DAMN YOU!"
The sound echoed back. Not even sound would penetrate the Barrier; so well woven was the fibres that wrought its impenetrable length and height.
Seven hundred years. Seven hundred years that Randur really would do well to forget; they had been boring. Oh, there had been high points; Randur remembered Semir's birth fondly, although he had only been present after, as was appropriate - but he remembered the first burbling of his brother with great fondness.
If only he didn't have to kill his father.
* * *
Semir smiled happily, gazing into the eyes of the sky and sighing at the brightness of the stars. "Inyë, inyë, silmë melessë melwa nilda."
The new tongue was all well and good, but Quenya was purer, somehow. Semir loved Quenya; his people, he knew, often spoke Sindarin - but he had never quite grasped it. Not out of lack of ability to learn - but of lack of willingness.
He sighed. "I, even I... I, even I, love your loving starlight," he repeated in the Common Tongue.
Bland. It often sounded so bland. But he knew it would develop; it was, after all, partly Quenya in content - still - but it was growing into something else rapidly. Something more dependant on The People's ability to taste each others feelings; fëahirnna, it was named: to find the soul.
Semir was a poet. A singer. A writer. He loved to entertain - and yet he was also a swordsman. An archer. A warrior. There was nobody to fight - and yet The People maintained their ability to make war. Not even the Menelmacari - the Noldorin to the South-West - had discovered them, however - it was folly. Ridiculous, even.
But The Games were not. They were exciting; violent, but exciting. Were it not for the Barriers, they would be impossible; they were still terrifying, but... fun.
Semir took part in them reguarly. Not every year - he often had other duties - but most. And he had won the last event; his father had been so very proud. Semir beamed at the memory.
Semir's mind turned to the South-West; to the members of House Fëanor that dominated that land - the land named for the Swordsman of the Sky, with his shining belt; Menelmacar.
Of course, he was not of House Fëanor, but of House Finwë. And he had heard his father speak of Altáriel, Semirs fathers father-sister, having sailed the Straight Road - he did not know exactly what this meant (the elders did not like to speak of the past overmuch, at least, not when certain younger People were present - such as Randur. Semir, however, was trusted.) And he knew that there was a near-direct line from Altáriel back to Finwë - and his father had taught him much about that name.
Semir was not a young man. He was, however, not an old man either - except in age. His people were long-lived, but somehow the old attitude - the immortal attitude - had not left them, despite their division from the Quendi. Their rememberance of their roots had left them destitute, in some ways, of the old feelings - but not that. They did not die. Of this they were aware. They merely... departed, for some other place. And Semir was rather old, by People measure. Sixty decades. But...
It was... exciting to think about what happened when People died. Where? Where did they go? What did they do? Did Eru have some great plan for The People? Would they take part in whatever was to come? Did they go to the Halls of Mandos, like their Quendi kin, or did they go the route of the Atani - whatever that was?
Semir did not know. But his writing was often on the subject; Randur disapproved, calling it folly, useless, and time wasting. Which, in a way, it was. But it was also highly interesting. And so, Semir ignored him. Besides, Ahyanë, King of Tumnórë - the hidden land - approved. His father.
Semir was glad that he was not Firstborn. What a great burden it would be; to be aware that, one day, one would lead The People? To control the Barrier? Too great a burden for any but Ahyanë, he was sure. Except maybe Randur. A strange name, to be sure; it was, of course, Quenya - and it meant 'noisy servant'. And terribly fitting.
Semir was named 'Semir-randil' - actually, Semír-rándil, but somehow the pronunciation had altered over the years, as well as the spelling in the Tengwar script - which was a masculine name meaning 'beloved wandering jewel'.
He suspected his brother was jealous of this somewhat fonder name; yet he knew his father had merely been... actually, he had no idea what he had been thinking. He pondered the matter, flinging himself back onto the soft grass that was so common up here, on the plateau that overlooked the centre of Tumnórë. Tumm-norr-ee. Strange name, but fitting.
Semir grunted, hauling himself away from the distraction and preventing himself from going off on a tangent; he was always doing that. Like thinking of his beloved - not that she knew he thought of her so, but what did that matter? - Yávëtaur. Fruit of the forest. Fitting, he thought, for one so lovely; he had never seen a forest, but he was sure that it must be a beautiful thing indeed for Yávëtaur to be named after one.
Oh, sure, he knew what a forest was, intellectually - a large grouping of trees - but he couldn't quite grasp the idea. A large grouping of trees. What was that, exactly? Five trees? Ten? Fifteen?
Semir's thoughts pattered here and there, wandering from place to place, as ever; but often returning to Yávëtaur.
He wondered.
* * *
Randur wondered. Would a... he did not know the name for it. A... revolution. Would a revolution work? And could it be bloodless? Could he seize control, remove the Barrier, and move The People to someplace worth living - without spilling a drop of blood? His father had spoken of the Kinslaying; he had spoken of how terrible it had been, and he had indeed heard the unendingly sad songs that were sung in the Hall upon certain days in memory of long lost days - but he did not quite grasp it.
What was so wrong with killing kin? Why was it wrong? He did not understand.
He kicked another stone - and gasped in shock as it did not bounce back at him. His foot lashed out, again, trying for the same angle.
No blue. No rainbow-wall.
Randur scurried to his knees, crawling towards the gap...
...and through the gap.
He rolled onto his back. "Freedom," he gasped, mind reeling with the shock - and trying not to broadcast the potent emotional state he was in to every other Person in range.
Randur darted back through the gap - standing, this time - and, pausing only to lay a piece of chalk carefully upon the all-important site, hurtled down the mountain path that lead back to the settlement...
* * *
Semir felt a warm hand upon his shoulder, and a gentle brush at his mind. "Father," he murmoured, standing, raising his head, turning and bowing respectfully.
"My son," the King smiled, "it is late. Why do you spend such length to gaze at the stars? They are always there - you may not think so, but they will be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the next after."
Semir grinned, youthfully - his features had not aged since he had hit fifteen decades, much to the annoyance of others of his generation. "My father," Semir began, with the air of repetition shrouding the conversation in a comfortable glow, "the stars are here only at night; and were I not to spend such length upon my gazing, I should miss time to gaze. And what times the future brings, none can tell."
The King continued to smile, "And so, we repeat ourselves, as ever."
"As ever," Semir returned.
The King motioned with a hand that Semir should sit. And Ahyanë himself does so.
"Semir-randil," he stated quietly, his own eyes turned to the skies above.
"Yes, father?"
"How old are you.... sixty decades. Sixty decades you have spent here, my son. And eighty decades have I dwelt here. And yet... while I had married and my wife bore my first child within two decades, you find yourself past sixty and yet without lover or child or family. - It is not as if Yávëtaur does not know your mind, son. You know the Way."
Semir sighed heavily. This was a subject he had hoped none would broach. "Father," he began quietly, eyes drawn down to the face of the one who had, with his mother, brought him life.
"Mmm-hmm," the King prodded.
"Father... Yávëtaur is younger than I. Yet she will most likely Leave before I do. Only mother, you, I, and Randur appear to share this gift of lengthy days - however long they may be. How could I bear her parting? Would it not be as a Quendi to an Atan? Endless days of grief?"
Ahyanë's features change. They become saddened, and a heavy sigh parts his lips, blowing out into the still evening breeze with sad intensity. "Yes," he admits, "likely were it to be so. Each generation lives less than the last. We stagnate before we have even begun."
His voice lowers, beneath even Semir's keen hearing range. "Yet so I chose."
Louder, "Yet is not love worth more than all? Is not love the strings which weave the world together? Come, now. Without love, what more sorrow comes? Is not sorrow of love better than sorrow of never having been loved?"
Semir lifts his chin, and proudly murmours, "No. Would were it so, dear father, but it is not. I could not do as you desire; no grandsire shall you be, unless Randur's love produces a child. - I fear she will not."
"Do not change the subject," comes the curt response.
A sigh. "Father... I cannot do such a thing to Yávëtaur. I have a broader glimpse of immortality than she; what guilt would I feel, at subjecting her to a vision of the life we have lost! No. It cannot be."
Ahyanë sighs, now. His Choice is not well-known; indeed, he keeps it that way. Only his beloved, aside from Ahyanë, is aware of the Choice for The People made. And so, he merely pats his son's hand, and returns his gaze to the stars.
Silently, each sad after their own turn, father and son look to the stars above.