[Cuiviénen. Early childhood. Evening]
Walking turned to running.
Running turned to climbing.
Climbing turned to swimming in the shallows while my mother watched from shore, equal parts amused and exasperated.
I couldn't help it.
Stillness felt like death. Every elf around me seemed content to spend hours, days, doing nothing. Watching stars. Listening to wind. Singing wordless songs that spiraled into silence and back again.
And the thing was, I understood the appeal. The stars here weren't just pretty. They had a physical presence, a warmth, a pull.
When you sat still long enough, the world seemed to breathe around you, alive and deliberate. The other Quendi felt it instinctively, sank into it like water into soil.
I felt it too. And it drove me insane.
Because I also knew what was out there. What was coming. And every hour spent gazing at constellations was an hour not spent preparing. The beauty was real, but so was the threat, and the disconnect between the two made my skin crawl.
So I moved. Explored. Pushed my body to its limits and found, to my delight, that those limits were far beyond anything human.
I could sprint for hours without tiring. Climb trees that should've been impossible. Hold my breath underwater until my lungs screamed, then surface gasping but ready to dive again.
The other elflings noticed.
Some watched from a distance, wary. Others, mostly Nelyar, started joining in. Hesitant at first, then with growing enthusiasm.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same period]
"Race you to the big oak!" Novë shouted one afternoon, already running.
I grinned and gave chase.
Novë was Nelyar like me, silver-haired and lean, with a laugh that came easy and often. We'd gravitated toward each other naturally. He had a restless streak that matched mine, though his came from joy rather than fear.
Behind us, Denethor, quieter, more thoughtful, kept pace without complaint.
The three of us tore through the settlement, dodging bemused adults and startled birds, until we reached the massive oak at the forest's edge.
I won by half a length. Only because Novë tripped over a root.
"Not fair!" He sprawled in the grass, grinning despite the mud. "You cheated."
"Didn't touch you."
"You exist. That's cheating enough."
Denethor arrived moments later, barely winded. "You're both ridiculous."
"You still ran," I pointed out.
"Someone has to keep you two alive."
We collapsed beneath the oak, breathless and laughing.
For a moment, I let myself just exist. Let the beauty of this place work its quiet magic, the way it did on everyone else.
It lasted about thirty seconds.
Then I was thinking again. Always thinking. About the future. About plans within plans. About everything I didn't know and couldn't control.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Months later]
The group grew slowly.
Novë. Denethor. Then Eol, a Tattyar boy with dark hair and clever hands that were always tinkering with something. Then Mireth, one of girls who kept up without complaint, quiet and watchful, with a healer's instinct I noticed long before she did.
When someone scraped a knee or twisted an ankle during our games, Mireth was always the first to notice, the first to crouch down and examine the injury with the focused attention of someone who genuinely cared about the small, everyday damage of being alive.
And Ilvëa, of course. Ilvëa, who'd attached herself to our group from the beginning and refused to be left out of anything, ever.
She had her own interests. While the rest of us ran and climbed and threw things, Ilvëa spent half her time crouched in the dirt at the forest's edge, coaxing tiny shoots from seeds she'd collected, arranging stones around saplings, talking to plants in a low murmur as if they could hear her. Maybe they could. In this world, who knew.
"Why do you do that?" I asked once, watching her pat soil around a seedling with absurd tenderness.
"Because they're alive," she said, like that explained everything. "And they grow if you help them."
It was a small thing. A child's hobby.
I filed it away and didn't think much of it at the time.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
The games started casually. Races. Tag. Contests to see who could throw a stone farthest, hit a target most consistently, climb highest without falling.
Children's play. Nothing more.
Except I made sure the games gradually shifted. A race became a relay. A throwing contest became target practice from different distances. Climbing became a timed challenge. Tag became something that looked, if you squinted, like pursuit and evasion.
Nothing serious. Nothing that would alarm the adults or make the children suspicious. Just play that happened to build speed, coordination, and the habit of working together.
I ran alongside them. Pushed myself alongside them. Encouraged them to push further, run longer, try harder. Not through commands, I was a child too, and nobody follows a child's commands. Through challenge. Through the simple, irresistible pull of competition.
"Again!" I called out. "Faster this time!"
Novë groaned but complied, sprinting from one marker to another while Denethor timed him with a count. Ilvëa waited at the halfway point, ready to hand off a wooden token.
Behind them, other elflings practiced throwing, climbing, swimming.
"Why do we keep doing this?" asked Eol one evening, stretching out sore legs by the fire. He was rubbing at a bruise he'd earned from a stumble during a running game that had gotten a little too competitive.
"Because it's fun," I said simply.
"Is it?" He studied his bruise. "My legs disagree."
"Your legs are getting stronger. You don't trip as much as you used to."
He couldn't argue with that.
Mireth settled beside us, pulling dried herbs from a pouch and pressing a crushed leaf against Eol's bruise. He flinched.
"Hold still," she said. "This helps with swelling."
"How do you know that?"
"I watched my mother do it." She paused. "And I tried it on myself first. Several times."
Eol gave her a look. She returned it steadily.
I hid a grin. There was something forming here, in this loose circle of elflings who ran together and climbed together and pushed each other without quite understanding why. Something that would matter later.
If I was right about any of it. If my half-remembered knowledge of a story that might not even play out the way I expected had any value at all.
That was the fear I never spoke aloud. The constant, gnawing doubt beneath the plans and the preparation. What if I was wrong? What if the future I was bracing for never came, or came in a shape I couldn't recognize?
What if I was just a confused soul in a borrowed body, playing games with children, pretending purpose where there was only panic?
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Years later. Afternoon]
The other children thought my games were just games.
They weren't.
The group had grown to nearly twenty now. Mostly Nelyar, some Tattyar, one stubborn Minyar who refused to be left out. They were getting faster, stronger, more coordinated with every passing season.
But the settlement around us hadn't changed at all.
That was the thing that gnawed at me. The thing I couldn't get used to, no matter how many years passed in this timeless place.
The Quendi didn't develop.
Not in any way that mattered. They hunted the same way they'd always hunted. Built the same shelters with the same tools. Ate the same food, sang the same songs, walked the same paths between the same trees.
Not because they were stupid. Far from it. Elven minds were brilliant, sharp, capable of holding entire libraries in perfect recall.
They just… didn't care.
Why improve a spear when the current one kills deer? Why build a wall when nothing threatens you? Why plan for tomorrow when today is beautiful and eternal and sufficient?
It was paradise. And paradise breeds no ambition.
I'd catch myself watching them sometimes, these graceful, immortal beings drifting through their days like leaves on still water, and I'd feel something close to despair. They were the most extraordinary creatures I'd ever known, living in the most extraordinary place I'd ever seen, and they were content to do absolutely nothing with any of it.
And maybe that was fine. Maybe that was how Eru intended them to be. Happy. At peace. Existing in harmony with a world that asked nothing of them.
But the world would ask. Soon enough.
And when it did, contentment wouldn't save them.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
"Selas?"
I turned. Ilvëa stood beside me, golden hair catching the light, blue eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity.
"What are you really doing?" she asked quietly.
"Playing."
"No you're not." She crossed her arms. "You're teaching us something. Training us. Why?"
I met her gaze. Held it.
She was sharper than I'd given her credit for.
"Because the world won't stay peaceful forever," I said finally. "And I'd rather be ready than sorry."
"Ready for what?"
"Everything."
She frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer.
But she didn't push. Just nodded slowly and returned to the others.
I watched her go, then turned my attention back to the group.
Twenty children who were getting faster, stronger, more coordinated with every passing day.
It wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
But it was a start.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same period. Dusk]
Something was different about Selas.
Elmo had noticed it for years, ever since his youngest brother had been an infant with eyes too old for his face. He never said anything. Who would believe him?
But he watched. That was his gift, Father said. Seeing what others missed.
From his perch in a low-hanging branch, Elmo observed Selas lead a group of children through one of those strange games. Running. Jumping. Throwing stones at targets scratched into bark.
The other elflings followed Selas's instructions with eager focus. Even Ilvëa, the golden-haired Minyar girl who'd attached herself to their group, moved with purpose instead of her usual dreamy wandering.
"He's at it again?"
Elmo glanced down. Olwë stood at the base of the tree, arms crossed.
"When isn't he?"
"Fair point." Olwë hoisted himself onto a neighboring branch. "What do you think he's doing?"
"I don't know." Elmo frowned. "But it looks like… training?"
"Training for what?"
That was the question.
Below, Selas demonstrated a throwing technique, weight shifting, arm snapping forward, stone flying true to hit the target dead center. The other children tried to copy him. Most failed. Selas corrected them patiently, adjusting grips and stances with the confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
"He's never thrown a stone wrong," Elmo said quietly. "Have you noticed? Everything he does, he does perfectly. Like he already knows how."
Olwë was silent for a moment.
"Maybe he's just talented."
"Maybe."
But Elmo didn't believe it.
Talent explained skill. It didn't explain the way Selas sometimes stared at the horizon with ancient eyes. Or the way his smile didn't always reach his face properly, as if the expression had been learned rather than felt. Or how he'd mutter words in his sleep that sounded like no language any elf had ever spoken.
Their brother was hiding something.
Elmo just wished he knew what.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Later that evening]
[Selas POV]
As twilight settled over Cuiviénen, I slipped away from the settlement.
Headed for my secret place, a small cove on the lake's far shore, hidden behind a tumble of boulders.
No one came here. Too far. Too isolated.
Perfect.
I settled on smooth stone, legs crossed, and closed my eyes.
The Light was always there.
Humming beneath my skin. Radiating outward like body heat. Every elf glowed with it, soft, constant, unconscious.
A complete waste.
If Light was energy, and I was certain it was, then constantly bleeding it into the environment was insane. Like leaving every faucet in your house running 24/7.
I'd been thinking about it for a long time. Months of quiet observation, sitting still when no one was watching, trying to feel the flow, to understand how Light moved through an elven body. The stillness that drove me mad in every other context was useful here. I had nothing but time and patience and a brain that wouldn't shut up.
Eventually, I started trying to hold it in. Keep it inside instead of letting it disperse.
The Light wanted to radiate. That was its nature. Pulling it back felt like trying to hold water in cupped hands, possible, but requiring constant focus.
I breathed in. Visualized the Light as liquid, flowing through channels I couldn't see.
Breathe out.
Imagine those channels closing. Sealing. Holding everything inside.
In.
Out.
In.
Sweat beaded on my forehead. My hands trembled. But slowly, the glow around my body dimmed.
Faded.
Vanished.
In the darkness, I smiled.
Got you.
I held it for ten seconds before my concentration slipped and the Light burst outward in a rush.
But ten seconds was a start.
I tried again. And again. Each time holding slightly longer, feeling the Light pool inside me like water behind a dam.
Hours passed. Stars wheeled overhead. The lake lapped gently at stone.
When I finally opened my eyes, the sky had shifted, whatever passed for dawn in this world of eternal starlight was breaking.
And I felt different.
Stronger.
More.
I stood, stretched, and noticed something odd.
The Light around me, when I released it, seemed brighter than before. As if compressing it had somehow increased its intensity.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I filed that away and headed back toward the settlement, mind already racing.
If Light could be stored, could it be shaped? Directed? Used?
And if holding it inside made it stronger… what else might change?
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Years later. Evening]
I sat alone by the lake, watching stars paint themselves across dark water.
The settlement was quiet behind me. Fires burning low. Songs fading into peaceful silence.
I pulled my Light inward, the motion automatic now, barely requiring thought, and felt it compress. Intensify.
Stronger every day.
I'd been thinking about the four-child limit.
Every elf family could only have four children. No more. It was simply fact, accepted without question.
But why?
If Light was energy, life force, then pregnancy must require massive amounts of it. Drawing from the mother's reserves. And if the mother was constantly bleeding Light into the environment, naturally radiating it away…
Maybe there simply wasn't enough left for a fifth child.
But if Light could be held inside. Concentrated. Stored.
What then?
I didn't know if it would work. I didn't know if any of this would work, any of the plans, any of the preparations, any of the quiet, desperate scheming I did in the hours when everyone else was sleeping or singing or simply being.
Most of what I knew came from books I'd read in another life. Fiction. Lore compiled by scholars who'd never touched a world where Light was real and lakes answered prayers. I was guessing. Building castles on foundations of maybe and probably and I think I remember reading somewhere that…
But guessing was all I had.
And doing nothing was not an option.
If there even would be Avari. If I could make that happen. If the Sundering played out the way the stories said it would.
If. If. If.
The stars offered no answers.
They never did.
But I smiled anyway.
Because even uncertainty was better than acceptance. Even a bad plan was better than no plan at all.
And I had a very long time to figure out the rest.
{ Image: Selas - eyes like captured stars.}
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 1]
GLOSSARY
For those who wish to delve deeper into the world and its terminology. This glossary covers key terms from Tolkien's legendarium that appear in this chapter. Reading it is entirely optional, the story is designed to be understood without prior knowledge, but it may enrich your experience.
PEOPLES & KINDREDS
Quendi — The elven word for "those who speak with voices." The name the Elves call themselves. All Elves are Quendi, though they later divided into many different groups.
Nelyar — "The Third." The third and largest group of Elves to awaken at Cuiviénen (74 of the original 144 Elves). Also called the Lindar ("Singers") by themselves, and later named Teleri ("The Last") during the Great Journey.
Lindar — "The Singers." The name the Nelyar use among themselves, earned because they learned music and song before formal speech. Selas's people.
Minyar — "The First." The smallest group of Elves, first to awaken (14 original Elves). Later called Vanyar ("The Fair Ones") for their golden hair and beauty.
Tattyar — "The Second." The second group to awaken (56 original Elves). Later called Noldor ("The Wise") for their skill in crafts and lore.
Eldar — "People of the Stars." The name given to Elves who accepted the Valar's summons and began the Great Journey to Aman. Divided from the Avari at the Sundering.
Avari — "The Unwilling" or "The Refusers." Elves who refused the summons of the Valar and remained in Middle-earth. Our protagonist will lead a group of these.
DIVINE BEINGS
Eru Ilúvatar — "The One, Father of All." The supreme creator deity who made all things through his divine music. Elves are his first children, created to awaken before all other speaking peoples.
Ainur — "The Holy Ones." Angelic beings created by Eru before the world existed. They sang the world into being under his direction. Divided into Valar and Maiar.
Valar — "The Powers." The mightiest of the Ainur who entered the world to shape and govern it. There are fourteen chief Valar, including Oromë the Hunter.
Oromë — The Vala of the hunt, forests, and beasts. First of the Valar to discover the Elves at Cuiviénen. He serves as herald and guide for the Great Journey to Aman.
PLACES
Arda — The name of the entire world/Earth in Tolkien's mythology.
Cuiviénen — "Water of Awakening." The lake in eastern Middle-earth where the first Elves awakened under starlight. The birthplace of all Elven-kind.
Endor — "Middle-earth." The great continent where mortal peoples dwell, east of the Great Sea.
Aman — "The Blessed Realm." The continent far to the west where the Valar dwell, separated from Middle-earth by the Great Sea.
Valinor — "Land of the Valar." The realm in Aman where the Valar make their home, lit by the light of the Two Trees.
CONCEPTS
Years of the Trees — The time period before the Sun and Moon existed, when the world was lit only by stars and the Two Trees of Valinor. Each "year" was roughly ten mortal years long.
The Sundering — The division of the Elven peoples into Eldar (those who accepted the Valar's call) and Avari (those who refused). A pivotal moment in Elven history that will shape all future events.
The Four-Child Limit — A biological constraint on Elvish reproduction. Traditionally, no family can have more than four children. Selas theorizes this may be connected to the Light energy required for pregnancy, and that containing Light might overcome this limitation.