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Title: The Sundering (#1908)
Author: Avaril
Chapters: 1

Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: Orome has come to the Elves of Cuivienen for the last time, and attempt, to convience them to follow him to Valinor. Some are willing and others are not. This is from the point-of-view of my OCs. The Sundering was not just of tribes, but of families as well... A prequel to Half-Breeds explaining a bit of background on Morwe and Nurwe...
Published: 21 May 2005
Updated: 21 May 2005
Warnings: None
Type: Drama
Characters: Olwe, Airwe (OFC), Ranwe (OMC), Morwe, Nurwe, Elwe


Chapter 1 - The Sundering

Author: Bird
Title: The Sundering
Series: Half Breeds
Fandom: LOTR/Silmarillion
Warnings: hmmm…none really…
Timeline: The Great Journey and the First Sundering of the Elves
Cast: Olwë/OFC (Airwë), OMC (Ranwe)/OFC (Meldwe), Morwë, Nurwë, minor appearances from Ingwë, Elwë, Finwë, and Oromë
Rating: PG
Summary: The First sundering of the Elves…
Disclaimer: If I owned this…oh, if only I owned this…

Note: Morwë and Nurwë are mentioned in Morgoth’s Ring, pg. 81/88. Morwë and Nurwë would probably be about 11/12 to 15 now in human years, though it is hard to measure age in a place with nothing to track time…

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“Then befell the first sundering of the Elves…” (Silmarillion-page 52)

‘What do you see? A betrayal or a death march…’

The voice had returned…

Morwë calmly watched his father’s expression. Anger, fear, and distrust all passed over the elder elf’s features as he listened to Olwë’s oratory.

Somehow their father had been convinced to return to the shores of Cuiviénen; and now they stood here listening to the words of their aunt’s husband.

“Follow us! To a land of light! A land where one will never fear nor despair! Thus, we have been summoned!”

The ‘Vala’ stood slightly to the side of the three kings, Ingwë, Elwë, and Finwë, all recently returned from the mystical land of the West. Oromë, Morwe thought he remembered the name correctly, had ridden unto the elves in residence along the shores of the inland sea Helcar, striking fear into all their hearts.

‘He is a demon…’ The voice rang loud and clear.

Morwë cursed the being for causing his younger brother’s nightmares to return while Nurwë was fully awake. The sight of the godly figure upon the enormous steed Nahar had terrorized many of his kin now lost to the wilds of the surrounding darkness, which the stars above could not dispel.
Morwë cast a glance to his younger brother, his heart softening at the image.

Nurwë stood beside their father, and Morwë could see that his brother wanted desperately to cling to Ranwe as he had done before, to let his tears soak into their father’s fur leggings. Anyone who looked at the younger elf would have seen right away the bare thread with which he was holding himself together. His scars were still visible, and who knew how long it would take for the emotional and mental wounds to heal.

Oh, how he cursed the foul creatures that wreaked havoc among their kin!

And this being luring the others to their land ‘Aman’ was of the same kind as he, nay, it that bade the foul, evil things to attack and spirit off the others who never returned. Very few had been lucky enough to escape, though it was not unscathed. Any close contact with the horrific Hunter and Rider, and the shadow-shapes, branded the creatures’ terrible physical appearances into one’s mind permanently.

How had Nurwë described his encounter?

‘You could not protect your mother, nor your brother but there is one way to protect yourself…and to correct your mistakes…’

Morwë pressed his hands against his forehead trying desperately to rub away the voice.

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Nurwë teetered on the edge of madness and stared blankly ahead; his whole body itched to cling to his father. The Great Rider so closely resembled the vicious Hunter’s disguise, and Nurwë’s encounter with the demon echoed through his mind; images renewed the pain of the healed scars. He shuddered feeling as though the creature was behind him digging its claws into his back again.

So ethereal, so soothing had been the Hunter’s benevolent disguise. Pale shimmering skin much like the Great Rider’s had cast off a pure inner light that had beckoned the elfling forward. Words had flowed like a song to pull him ever closer, to comfort him among the dark terrors of their lives.

All had been a mask, a false fabrication with the ulterior motive for death and destruction, and torture. A small stream of tears fell down his cheeks, and he recalled the razor claws and icy scales of the creature, the frightening golden eyes.

He could sense someone watching him, and in a sudden bout of fear, he looked up to see his elder brother gazing gently upon him. How comforting and protective that expression! But quickly it clouded, replaced by a far-away look of barely reined anger reminiscent of Morwë’s reaction to Nurwë’s original attack.

Then he saw it, Morwë’s newest disturbing habit. He grimaced, and then gripped and rubbed his head as if trying to massage away some great pain. Nurwë shrank back, frightened.

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Silently the elleth slipped next to her husband, though she stood slightly lower to him. She passed over her kindred, watching carefully for reactions from all. Varying degrees of willing acceptance and outright distrust answered her search. Catching the eye of one ellon, she paused, distraught by what she saw in his reaction. Sadness crept into her heart and distracted her from her husband’s speech in favor of following the Vala Oromë. Olwë agreed with his brother, ever hopeful that this western land of Aman would truly be the haven Oromë had convinced the three ambassadors it was.

“What brings such sadness to your eyes, my love?”

Airwë smiled lovingly upon Olwë and took his hand in hers. He had stepped aside, and the three, Ingwë, Elwë, and Finwë, each spoke in turn to all present about the wonders of Aman, or Valinor as they sometimes referred to it.

“We must heed the summons of the Valar and remove ourselves to the Haven of the West!”

Heads nodded positively and shook negatively within the crowd, and the melancholy returned to Airwë’s being.

Pulling her into his embrace discreetly to the side of the crowd, Olwë brushed his lips against her forehead.

“Tell me of your mind.”

Allowing her body to mold to his, Airwë sighed softly against him.

“I can see the reluctance and rejection from my own blood kin, and I fear to never see them again…”

“…Your brother and the boys.” He finished her thought, guessing correctly to whom she referred. “I also fear being cut off from many of my kin, especially those so dear to me. We have all lost so much since our creation…” He pressed his lips against hers, wishing to kiss away all her worry, regret, and pain. Pulling her closer, he repressed his own sharp stab of ache for their personal loss.

“Aye, dearest. He and I, you and I, we have all lost much. But where we have found security and hope, he sees nothing but distrust and anger.” Parting from each other’s arms, husband and wife’s gazes drifted to meet that of their subject’s. There was no mistaking the relation of brother and sister, at least through physical appearance, but where hope and sorrow resided within the elleth, fear tensed the ellon’s entire being.

Olwë sent prayers to the Father of All for his protection of those who would not follow them, especially for his nephews and their father.

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She would come, and she would try to persuade him to follow them. But it would be to no avail. How could she trust such a creature! These mystical beings were of the same material as the ones that had taken his son and wife, and Airwë’s own child!

Her expression when their eyes had met tugged at his heart. She was all he had left of their family. So many had been lost, and Ranwe feared that now more were being lured to a similar fate.

The three newly appointed kings had retired from their orations, and all of the Quendi had dispersed to discuss their travels, or vehemently dissuade or persuade loved ones to their points-of-view. Ranwe knew it was hopeless to even try in his situation, brother and sister being equally stubborn.

Across from him, within their small shelter, slept his youngest wrapped in the possessively protective arms of his oldest. Dark black tendrils of wavy curls crowned the boys’ white brows. Pain pounded in his chest at the image of his beloved wife Meldwe within his sons. Just like all the others, just like Airwë’s white-haired daughter who’d disappeared within moments of wandering off dangerously close to the tree line.

The boys were growing older and taller, lean copies of his form with their mother’s features; it pained him every moment of his waking. What worried him the most though were the changes he saw in Morwë. Every moment he grew more distant and developed worrisome mannerisms. He had even caught his son on occasion arguing fiercely with some unheard voice or being, and Ranwe feared his son was going mad. He knew the boy blamed himself for much, and in the beginning Ranwe had blamed the child somewhat, in his own mourning. Even now in sleep Ranwe could see Morwë’s lips moving as if conversing silently with someone Ranwe could neither see nor understand.

Leaning back against the outcropping of rock he’d arranged their shelter around, Ranwe ran his hand over his eyes and through the knotted dark red strands of hair pulled back from his face. Catching on several snarls, his fingers worked through the knots. He contemplated the few loose hairs he pulled away, reminding him of just how much he and Airwë resembled each other. There was no mistaking them for anything but siblings.

“Brother,” a whisper from the entrance of the shelter drew him out of his thoughts. Before he could reply, Airwë had slipped inside, and she now stood lovingly watching her nephews in innocent reverie. From his reclining position, Ranwe appraised her willowy figure a hair’s breadth shorter than he.

How serene she appeared, though he was sure she formulated all sorts of arguments for persuading him to follow them. How torn he was! Something akin to dread and foreboding for the far off land kept him from venturing into the unknown.

“We set off after the return of Oromë, Ingwë leading his kin, Finwë ours, and Elwë and Olwë, together, leading theirs. Please follow our cousin Finwë; he is ever wise!” She pleaded with him in hushed tones, never moving nearer to him or averting her gaze from his sons.

“No, I…I cannot, dearest sister.” His voice cracked with emotion, and his fingers itched to hold her close to him in a comforting embrace. “I feel comfortable under these stars and with an enemy I am used to now…” She finally turned to face him with tears streaking her face, and his words caught in his throat.

“Do you not understand, Ranwe? Under Oromë and the Valar’s guidance, there will be no need for that!”

“I do not believe nor trust in these Valar; the memories of the terrible sounds we heard and changing landforms we witnessed attest to their wickedness…”

“…A war, Ranwe! They fought a war to free us from the evil being who has hunted and haunted us so!”

He did not believe. “The ones who defeated the other, could they not be a mightier evil? I will remain…” Ranwe willing accepted his sister’s soft form when she crumpled into his arms, quiet sobs of loss against his neck. Wrapping himself protectively about her, much similar to Morwë and Nurwë’s position, Ranwe rocked her and whispered soothingly into her hair.

“We are lost to each other,” her voice barely reached his ears, and he nodded blankly in agreement.

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“The Avari will not see us off then?” Elwë asked in frustration and muted anger, but checked his tone once catching Airwë’s, his brother’s wife, expression of woe. None of those remaining had come forth to bid them farewell, to exchange expressions of love and regret. Not one.

Olwë merely shook his head and wished he could somehow find and convince, even force, their unwilling brethren. Varda’s creations twinkled above, and he found them comforting in this darkness. A thought crept into his mind: these stars were visible from all the places of Arda, as the three had explained to him after their journey. Wherever Ranwe or Airwë might be, both would gaze upon the same stars, as would all the rest of their kin.

He made a note of this to share later as words of comfort to his wife. His own peace of mind came from the new beginnings he personally sought in the West; he wanted desperately to leave the things that had happened in the East in the dark.

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Ranwe watched silently from within the shadows the white figure of Oromë leading away so many of his kin, and the last of his blood kin, aside from his sons. He watched the enormous exodus till they disappeared into the darkness and he could no longer make out their forms. Ranwe had resisted the urge to rush out and embrace his sister, to shower her with kisses and will her to remain with him. But he knew that she’d have left anyway, and he would have still chosen to stay. The scene would have only made the parting even more painful.

“And they were sundered in that time from the Eldar, and met never again until many ages were past.” (Silmarillion-page 52)
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