[Cuiviénen. Year 1101 of the Trees. Spring]
[Selas POV]
Four years.
Four years since I'd truly understood what I was. Where I was. What was coming.
Four Years of the Trees—time that would have been a lifetime back on Earth, stretched thin and slow beneath starlight.
Four years of preparation disguised as play. Of training masked as games. Of watching my friends grow and change while I pushed them—gently, carefully—toward strength they didn't know they'd need.
Some had started families already. Novë with Miriel, a Lindar girl whose voice could make stones weep. Denethor courting Silwen with the patience of someone carving wood—slow, deliberate, beautiful.
And me? I carved bows. Built strength. Hoarded knowledge like a dragon hoards gold.
Because I knew what was coming.
I just didn't know it would come today.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
The horn shattered the morning calm.
Not a horn made by elven hands. This was something else—sound given form, music made solid, a call that resonated in marrow and Light and the space between heartbeats.
I dropped the bow I'd been shaping. Yew. Maybe. The wood was good but I still wasn't sure if it was right—
The horn sounded again. Closer.
"Selas!" Eol burst from the trees, chest heaving, soot still dark on his forearms. "The lake! There's—you have to see—"
"I know." I was already moving.
We ran together, joining the stream of elves converging on the lakeshore. Minyar, Tattyar, Nelyar—all three kindreds flowing like water toward whatever had announced itself with that impossible sound.
The crowd parted as we pushed through, and then—
Oh.
He stood at the water's edge like something from a dream. Taller than any elf by half again, clad in living green and silver that shifted like forest shadows. Beside him stood a horse—no, not a horse, horses didn't *shine* like that—with a coat like captured starlight.
Oromë the Hunter. Vala of the wild places. One of the Powers that shaped this world.
And he was looking at us.
The Light radiating from him made my teeth ache. Made my bones hum. Every elf in the crowd swayed forward, drawn like flowers toward the sun.
I clenched my jaw and pulled my Light in. Compressed it tight against my core, shutting it away like closing shutters against a storm.
The pressure in my chest spiked. But the strange compulsion washing over the crowd… lessened.
I could breathe again. Could think.
"Children of Ilúvatar!" The Vala's voice rolled across the water like thunder made gentle. "Long have I hunted these eastern lands. At last I have found you—the Firstborn, awakened beneath stars that have never seen day!"
Murmurs rippled through the elves. Wonder. Fear. Confusion in equal measure.
"I bring word from Aman the Blessed, where the Valar dwell in light beyond your imagining. We have prepared a home for you there—a realm of beauty and peace, where darkness cannot touch you, where you may grow in wisdom under our care."
With each word, his Light pulsed.
I watched elves lean forward unconsciously. Watched eyes glaze with something that wasn't quite their own will.
He's doing something. Pushing us. Not control—not quite—but influence. Pressure.
"I ask that you send emissaries," Oromë continued. "Three, to represent your three kindreds. Let them witness what awaits in Valinor, and return with word of its glory."
Silence fell like snow.
Then movement. Ingwë stepped forward from the Minyar—golden and proud, the tallest of his people. "I will go."
"As will I." Finwë of the Noldor, dark-haired and strong.
And then—
"I will go as well."
My heart clenched. Elwë. My eldest brother, stepping forward with that natural grace that made others want to follow him anywhere.
Father's face shone with pride. Mother clutched Olwë's arm, torn between joy and terror.
I felt… nothing. Just cold, creeping certainty.
It's happening. Just like the stories. Just like I knew it would.
Oromë smiled—beautiful and terrible—and raised one hand.
Light flared.
The three emissaries vanished.
The Vala turned his impossible mount. "I will return when they have seen. Then you will choose."
He disappeared like smoke in wind, leaving only hoofprints in the sand and a crowd of stunned, murmuring elves.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same evening. The hidden cove]
[Elmo POV]
Elmo found Selas where he always went when troubled—the flat stone overlooking the deep water, far enough from the settlement that you could almost pretend to be alone.
His youngest brother sat with his half-finished bow across his knees, but he wasn't working. Just staring at stars reflected on black water.
"You're not celebrating," Elmo said, settling beside him.
The settlement was still in uproar. Debates raged around every fire. *The Vala came! Our brother was chosen! We might journey to paradise!*
Selas didn't look at him. "Nothing to celebrate."
"Elwë will bring back word. Soon we'll know—"
"We'll know what they *want* us to know." Selas's voice was flat. Empty. "We'll hear what the Valar think we need to hear."
Elmo frowned. "You don't trust them."
"I don't trust anyone offering paradise with strings attached." Now Selas turned, and his eyes caught starlight—bright and hard as steel. "Did you notice? What Oromë said about darkness? About needing protection?"
"Yes, but—"
"Why now?" Selas leaned forward, intensity radiating from him. "We've been here since the Awakening. Generations. Why come for us now? What changed?"
Elmo had no answer.
Selas turned back to the water. "Something's coming. Something the Valar fear. And they want us safely locked away before it arrives."
"You can't know that."
"Can't I?" A bitter smile twisted his face. "Think, Elmo. Really think. Would you uproot everything on a stranger's promise?"
Would he?
Elmo looked back toward the settlement fires. The families. The only life any of them had ever known.
"I don't know," he admitted.
"Neither do they." Selas stood, bow in hand. "But they will. Soon enough."
He walked away, leaving Elmo alone with uncomfortable questions and the distant sound of celebration he couldn't quite join.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Cuiviénen. Various locations]
The emissaries did not return.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Months became years.
And in that waiting, something shifted.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Year 1102. Training grounds]
"Shield up! UP!"
Selas's voice cracked across the clearing like a whip. A dozen young elves stood in ragged formation, wooden practice weapons trembling in inexperienced grips.
Novë groaned, shield arm shaking. "How many times—"
"Until you don't have to think about it." Selas moved down the line, adjusting stances with sharp, economical movements. "In a real fight, you won't have time to remember which foot goes forward. Your body needs to know."
"Real fight?" Celestia—Minyar, honey-haired, with a stubborn set to her jaw that reminded Selas painfully of someone from another life—lowered her practice spear. "We're not warriors."
"Not yet." Selas stopped in front of her. Met her eyes. "Oromë spoke of darkness. Of enemies. You think those were just scary words to make us obey?"
Silence fell over the training ground.
"When danger comes," Selas continued quietly, "will you hide behind others? Hope someone stronger protects you? Or will you stand?"
Celestia's knuckles whitened on the spear shaft. "I'll stand."
"Then stand correctly. Feet shoulder-width. Weight balanced. Spear angled down—you're not holding a parade banner."
She adjusted. Better.
"Good." Selas stepped back. "From the top. Shield wall formation. Move!"
They drilled until twilight forced them to stop.
Eol fell into step beside Selas as they trudged back toward the settlement. "You're pushing them hard."
"Not hard enough."
"Parents are complaining." Eol kept his voice neutral. "Say you're making their children too… aggressive. Too martial."
Selas barked a laugh. "Aggressive. We're learning basic defense and they call it aggressive." He shook his head. "Let them complain. When the time comes, they'll thank me."
"You sound certain it's coming."
"I am."
Silence for a few steps. Then Eol said carefully, "What if they're right? The Valar. What if Aman really is paradise?"
Selas stopped walking. Turned to face his friend fully.
"Would you go?" he asked. "If it came to it?"
Eol considered, gaze distant. "The forge is here. My work. Everything I know. But if it's truly as glorious as they say…" He trailed off. "I don't know."
"Then you should think about it. Seriously." Selas gripped his shoulder. "I'm not trying to stop anyone from going. I just want people to choose. Really choose. Not follow blindly because a shiny Vala said pleasant things in a compelling voice."
"And you've chosen to stay."
"I have."
"Why?"
Selas looked past him, toward where starlight danced on the lake's dark surface. "Because this is home. Because running from danger instead of facing it…" He shook his head. "That's not who I want to be. But I won't judge those who choose differently. Freedom means accepting that others might walk a different path."
Eol nodded slowly. "You've thought about this a lot."
"I think about little else."
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Year 1103. The lakeshore. Evening]
[Multiple POVs]
"What do you think about the Valar's offer, Selas?"
Novë's question cut through the comfortable evening stillness. The group had gathered by the water after a long day—ostensibly to swim and relax, but everyone knew they really came to talk. To process. To decide.
Selas paused in his work—still trying to perfect that damned longbow—and looked around the circle.
Novë and Olwë carved small boats from pine. Elmo tended their fire. Eol sharpened stone arrowheads while Denethor bound them to shafts with practiced precision. Ilvëa planted tiny saplings in the sand, coaxing them to grow with carefully applied Light.
Other children worked or watched or simply existed in that timeless elven way that still made Selas want to scream sometimes.
Every ear perked up at Novë's question. Even his brothers leaned in.
Selas set down his bow.
"I think…" He chose words carefully. "I think it's not random. Something happened. Something that made the Valar suddenly decide we need to be… relocated. Protected." He met their eyes one by one. "We've lived here by our own will since the Awakening. Free, as Eru designed us. Then a Vala we've never met appears and offers safety—but only if we follow him to their land, live by their rules."
He paused. "That's trading freedom for security. And I think that's a poor bargain."
Silence. Processing.
"But what if he's right?" Denethor asked quietly. "What if real danger is coming?"
"Then we face it." Selas's voice was firm. "Here. In our home. We don't abandon it without even trying to defend it."
"Alone?" That was Celestia, who'd joined them at some point. "You'd face unknown enemies alone?"
"Not alone. Together." Selas gestured at the group. "Strong enough to stand. Smart enough to survive. That's what all the training is for."
"Your training is exhausting," someone muttered.
Selas grinned despite himself. "Good. Exhaustion means growth."
"You sound very certain you're staying," Ilvëa said softly. She'd abandoned her saplings and was watching him with those ocean-deep eyes. "What if your family goes?"
The grin died.
Selas was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Then I walk my own path anyway."
"But—"
"We're all children of Eru Ilúvatar." His voice was gentle but unyielding. "We all have our own minds. Our own wills. Each of us is free to choose our path. While we still can." He stood, unable to sit still any longer. "I choose freedom. I choose to stay and defend my home, because that's what feels right to me. But I won't judge those who choose differently. That's what freedom means—accepting that others might not walk the same road."
"Your father—" Elmo started.
"Has his own choice to make." Selas cut him off, but not unkindly. "Just like everyone else. We're children of the One, not puppets. We all have minds. We should use them."
He was pacing now, energy building. "I was born here. This is my home. The birthplace of all our people. Why would I abandon it without even trying to defend it, if Oromë's warnings are true?" His voice rose. "Why would I run from an unknown threat when I could stand and fight?"
The others stared, transfixed by the passion in his voice.
"I'm not weak!" The words burst out louder than he'd intended. "I'm not a coward! You face danger head-on, you don't show it your back! You solve problems, you don't avoid them! You defend what's yours and you live by your own mind, and—and the Valar aren't needed for that!"
He stopped, breathing hard, realizing he'd been almost shouting.
Everyone stared.
Selas swallowed. Forced his voice calm. "I'm the master of my own fate. The architect of my own happiness. That's… that's all."
He turned and walked away before anyone could respond, before they could see how his hands were shaking.
Behind him, silence stretched long and thoughtful.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same evening. Later]
[Ilvëa POV]
She found him at the hidden cove.
Ilvëa had discovered this place months ago, following him one evening when he'd slipped away from the settlement. She'd watched from the shadows as he practiced that strange technique—pulling his Light inward, compressing it, holding it inside instead of letting it radiate naturally.
She'd never told anyone. Some secrets were meant to be kept.
Now he sat on the rocks with his head in his hands, shoulders tight with tension that sang through every line of his body.
"Selas?"
He jerked upright, startled. Then his face softened fractionally. "Ilvëa. I thought I was—"
"Alone?" She settled beside him, close enough to feel his warmth. "You're never as alone as you think you are."
A weak smile. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"Maybe." She studied his profile—the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. "You meant what you said. About staying."
"Every word."
"Even if everyone you love leaves?"
His jaw clenched. "Even then."
"Why?"
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, quietly: "In my… before I…" He stopped. Started again. "I knew someone once. Who ran from every hard thing. Every challenge. And it broke them. Made them less than they should have been."
He looked at her, and his eyes were old. Too old for his face.
"I won't be that," he said. "I won't run just because something's difficult."
"This is more than difficult," Ilvëa said softly. "This is choosing between family and principle."
"I know."
"And you've already decided."
"I have."
She reached out—hesitant, uncertain—and took his hand. His fingers were rough with calluses, so different from other elves their age. Different from her.
"I think you're very brave," she said. "And probably a little foolish. But brave."
He squeezed her hand, and she felt him tremble slightly. "Thank you."
They sat in silence, watching stars paint themselves across dark water. In the distance, the settlement glowed with firelight and the sounds of endless debate.
But here, there was only quiet, and starlight, and the warmth of his hand in hers.
Ilvëa knew, with sudden certainty, that after tonight everything would change.
The Sundering had already begun.
They just didn't know it yet.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Year 1105 of the Trees. Summer]
[The gathering place by Cuiviénen]
Three years. Three years they'd been gone.
And then, between one breath and the next, they returned.
No warning. No gradual approach. One moment the lakeshore stood empty beneath eternal stars. The next, four figures materialized—three elves and one impossibly tall Vala astride his luminous mount.
The horn sounded.
Within heartbeats, every elf converged on the gathering place.
Selas positioned himself carefully on the small rise where clan leaders typically stood—close enough to matter, far enough to move freely. Elmo and Olwë flanked him. Farther along stood their parents, and Elwë—
Elwë looked changed.
All three emissaries did. Ingwë stood taller, moved with new authority. Finwë's dark eyes held depths they'd lacked before. But Elwë—
Elwë looked like someone who'd seen the face of divinity and couldn't unsee it.
"My kindred!" Ingwë's voice rang out, and Selas noted how it resonated strangely, like an echo of Oromë's own cadence. "We have witnessed wonders beyond all description!"
"Valinor is paradise incarnate," Finwë added, and his Light pulsed with each word. "The Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, make our stars seem pale shadows. The Valar themselves walk among white shores and green hills that have never known winter. Music fills every moment. Beauty beyond imagining awaits any who will come!"
Elwë stepped forward. His voice was quieter, but somehow it carried farther than the others. "I have seen our future. Peace eternal. Growth beyond measure. Knowledge that makes all we've learned here seem like infant babbling."
He paused, and his gaze swept the crowd with terrible certainty. "The Valar offer us a home where we will never know fear or want or darkness. They ask only that we trust them. That we make the journey to the Blessed Realm and dwell there in light that never fails."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled elves.
Selas watched it all with mounting dread.
They've been changed. Rewritten. Not controlled—subtler than that. But influenced. Reshaped into missionaries for Valinor's cause.
He observed how the emissaries' Light pulsed in perfect synchronization. How Oromë sat silent on his mount, that same gentle pressure radiating from him in waves.
How the crowd began to sway.
Selas clenched his teeth and pulled his Light inward, compressing it into a dense core nothing could penetrate.
The debates began.
Some spoke passionately for going—mostly those who'd witnessed Oromë's first visit, whose thoughts had already been gently nudged toward acceptance. Others expressed doubt. Hesitation. Fear of abandoning all they'd ever known.
Through it all, Selas watched.
Maybe a third seemed committed to going—mostly Minyar, some Tattyar.
Another third wavered uncertainly—mostly Nelyar, some Tattyar who'd heard his speeches over the years, who'd trained with him, who'd begun to question.
The final third—
He caught the eyes of families he knew. Novë's parents. Denethor's father Lenwë. The craftsmen who'd let their children learn his "games." The hunters who'd helped him explore the forests.
They were afraid.
Not of staying.
Of being forced to go.
The moment crystallized with perfect, terrible clarity.
Now or never.
Selas stepped forward.
"I refuse."
Two words. Barely louder than normal speech.
But the effect was instantaneous. Every eye snapped toward him—including Oromë's ancient, measuring gaze.
The emissaries froze mid-sentence. His father stiffened. His mother's face went white.
Elwë's eyes widened in shock and something like betrayal.
Selas took another step, placing himself physically between the leaders and the crowd. Between his family and his choice.
He raised his voice.
"I REFUSE!"
Silence crashed down like a thunderclap.
"Brother!" Elwë's voice cracked with emotion. "What are you—explain yourself!"
Selas's heart hammered against his ribs.
This is it. The speech. The moment everything changes. Don't screw it up don't screw it up don't—
He took a breath. Another.
"I am Selas," he began. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "Fourth son of Enel and Enelyë. Of the Nelyar kindred."
Another breath. The words wanted to tumble out too fast. He forced them slow.
"And I refuse to follow Oromë the Vala to Aman. I refuse to—to submit to the will of the—"
Started again.
"We are children of Eru Ilúvatar. His children. Created by His will with our own minds and our own—our own freedom."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. His mother swayed. Enel's face darkened.
But Selas pressed forward, the words coming faster now.
"We should live by our own choices! Walk our own paths on these lands—not, not submit to the Valar's rule in their distant realm just because they—because they ask us to!"
The wind picked up suddenly, whipping across the lake.
"I was born HERE!" The shout burst from him with all the passion he'd been holding back for years. "This is my HOME!"
Water began to churn behind him, waves rising.
"And I won't—I won't abandon it just because the Valar decided to—to relocate us like, like cattle or—" His voice cracked. He pushed through it. "Disrupting Eru's own plan! Making us choose between our home and safety like that's, like that's even a real choice when—"
He stopped. Breathed. His hands were shaking now but he didn't care.
"I will forge my own fate." Quieter now, but each word like iron. "I will defend my own home. I choose freedom."
He bowed—sharp, formal—then turned and walked deliberately toward the settlement.
Stopped after several paces.
The wind died.
The lake stilled.
Silence so complete it hurt.
Then—movement.
Footsteps on sand.
One elf walked forward from the crowd. Selas glimpsed him from the corner of his eye—Lindar, silver-haired, a father with young children and a terrified wife.
The elf walked into the space between Selas and the emissaries.
Stopped. Looked at the lake where stars danced on black water.
Nodded to himself, as if confirming something.
Turned and bowed deeply to the leaders.
Then walked to Selas and bowed again.
When he straightened, he took his place just behind Selas and to the left.
The silence deepened impossibly.
Selas closed his eyes. Nodded once.
When he opened them, he and the Lindar father stood together, facing the crowd.
The pressure of all those stares made his skin crawl.
More movement.
Another Lindar family. The father led, children clutched against his chest, wife following with wide, frightened eyes.
The same ritual. Bow to the leaders. Join Selas.
Then another.
And another.
Then—unexpectedly—a Noldo. Eol's cousin, a smith Selas barely knew.
More Noldor followed. More Lindar.
Each one walking through that terrible silence. Each one choosing.
The Vanyar remained frozen. Not one moved.
When the flow finally stopped, Selas felt the weight of perhaps forty families behind him. He didn't turn to count. Didn't dare move.
But he knew. Half the Noldor, just as the old stories said.
And nearly half the Lindar. Nearly half. Far more than should have—
Most of his friends' families.
They'd come.
They actually came.
Oromë surveyed the scene with an expression Selas couldn't read. Ancient. Alien. Unreadable.
Finally, the Vala spoke directly to those behind Selas. "You are certain of this choice?"
Selas stepped forward before anyone else could respond. His voice came out rougher than intended.
"We choose freedom. Our own path. We'll live by our own will and—and forge our own fates."
The words seemed to ripple through those behind him. Shoulders straightened. Heads lifted with cautious pride.
Oromë held Selas's gaze for a long, long moment.
Then he nodded. "I understand."
He turned to address the full crowd, his voice carrying easily.
"Then it is decided. You who have refused the call shall be known as the Avari—the Unwilling. So be it."
He faced those who'd chosen to follow. "And we of the Eldar must now prepare for the Great Journey. You have three days to make ready. Gather what you need. Say your farewells."
The Vala touched his mount's neck.
Both vanished like morning mist.
The Eldar burst into sudden activity—families scattering to pack, to prepare, to grieve.
Only Selas's family remained, staring at him with expressions ranging from incomprehension to fury.
Selas turned to face them.
Turned to face his Avari.
"We stay," he said, and his voice only shook a little. "Our fate is in our hands now. Return to your homes and secure what we'll need to survive. Guard your belongings—in the confusion, things might be taken accidentally. Give nothing to the Eldar unless you choose to. Their Valar will provide for them."
He swallowed hard. "We provide for ourselves."
The Avari dispersed slowly, still stunned by what they'd just done.
Selas turned to his family.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
His mother was weeping. His brothers looked lost—except Elmo and Olwë, who seemed more resigned than surprised.
Enel and Elwë both looked like they wanted to shake him or embrace him or possibly both.
"Father. Mother. Brothers." Selas's voice came out small. "I love you. All of you. So much. But I…"
The words stuck in his throat. He forced them out.
"I'm staying. I need to—I *have* to forge my own path. Not live by the Valar's will. I hope…"
His voice cracked. He pushed through.
"I hope you can understand. Forgive me if this hurts you. I never wanted to—"
He couldn't finish. Just bowed low and waited.
Silence stretched like a wound.
Then Enelyë broke.
She ran to him, sobbing, pulling him into a crushing embrace. "I love you. I love you so much. How will you manage? How will you—"
That shattered whatever dam the others had been holding. His brothers surged forward. Even Olwë had tears streaming down his face. Elmo openly wept.
Enel stood apart for one more moment.
Then he too stepped forward and wrapped his arms around all of them.
"Are you certain?" Enelyë asked through tears. "Truly?"
"Yes." The word came out as barely a whisper.
She held him tighter.
When they finally pulled apart, Selas fumbled for the small knife he'd made—stone, carefully worked, sharp enough to shave with.
His parents stared. "Where did you—"
"Made it." His hands were shaking. "Like the ones from the forge. For cutting."
He lifted a long strand of his silver hair and cut it free, focusing his Light into the severed lock until it glowed.
His family watched with wide eyes.
Selas approached his mother, took her hand—it was shaking too—and wound the hair around her wrist like a bracelet.
"I filled it with my Light," he said, voice thick. "It won't fade. It won't break. Let it remind you of me. Give you light when things are dark."
The strand solidified into something like true silver, beautiful and eternal.
Enelyë wept harder.
He did the same for each of them. Father. Elwë. Olwë. Elmo.
By the end, even Enel had tears tracking down his face.
"One more thing." Selas's throat felt raw. "I learned to hold my Light inside. Keep it from radiating out. And I noticed—it grows stronger that way. Over time. With practice."
He met their eyes. "That might help. In the future. Maybe."
Swallowed hard. "That's… that's all."
"Enough tears." Enel pulled him close one last time. "We have work to do. All of us. But know this, my son—"
His voice broke.
"We will never forget you."
"And I'll never forget you." Selas couldn't stop the tears now. "Never. I swear it."
They held each other.
Then separated. His family to prepare for the Journey. Selas to check on the Avari he'd just claimed as his people.
He made it five steps.
"Selas!"
He turned.
Ilvëa ran toward him, golden hair streaming like a banner.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
"You're really staying." Her voice held no question. Just grief.
"Yes."
"I thought—I hoped maybe you'd—" She stopped. Started again. "Why?"
"Because it's my choice." He watched tears spill down her cheeks, felt his chest constrict. "You could stay too. If you wanted."
She shook her head violently. "I can't. My parents decided. I can't just—"
"You can." He stepped closer. "Everyone makes their own fate. I believe that. Which means you can stay if you choose to."
Another shake. "I can't defy them. I'm not—I'm not like you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"
"Don't apologize." He pulled out his knife, cut another lock of hair with shaking hands, bound it around her wrist. "Here. So you remember."
Ilvëa stared at the glowing strand.
Then she snatched the knife from him.
Cut her own golden hair—the blade nearly slipped, her hands were shaking so badly—and wrapped it clumsily around his wrist, Light blazing through her tears.
"You remember me too," she whispered.
Then she kissed him.
Brief. Desperate. Tasting of salt and sorrow and everything he was giving up.
She pulled away and ran—disappearing into the gathering dark.
Selas stood frozen, golden hair warm against his wrist, lips still burning.
The choice was made. The die was cast.
This was the Sundering of the Quendi.
And there was no going back.
Not now.
Not ever.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 2]
GLOSSARY
For those who wish to delve deeper into the world and its terminology. This glossary covers new terms introduced in this chapter that did not appear in Chapter 1. Reading it is entirely optional, but may enhance your understanding of the pivotal events unfolding.
NEW PEOPLES & DIVISIONS
Vanyar (VAN-yar) – "The Fair Ones." The new name given to the Minyar who accepted the Journey to Aman. Golden-haired and considered the most noble, they were the smallest kindred. All Vanyar chose to follow Oromë—none became Avari.
Noldor (NOL-dor) – "The Wise" or "The Learned." The new name for the Tattyar. Dark-haired, strong, and gifted in crafts and lore. At the Sundering, they split evenly—half became Eldar, half joined the Avari.
Teleri (tel-EH-ree) – "The Last" or "Those Who Come Last." The new name for the Nelyar during the Great Journey. In this timeline, Selas's influence means nearly half refuse the call instead of the canonical one-third.
Lindar (LIN-dar) – "The Singers." The name the Nelyar use among themselves, earned because they learned music and song before formal speech. Selas's people are Lindar.
PLACES & REALMS
Valinor (val-in-OR) – The realm of the Valar within Aman, lit by the radiance of the Two Trees. A land of eternal beauty and peace—but also, as Selas suspects, a place where the Valar's will reigns absolute.
The Two Trees – Telperion (the Silver Tree) and Laurelin (the Golden Tree), which grow in Valinor and illuminate the Blessed Realm with light more beautiful than sun or moon (which do not yet exist). The emissaries' vivid descriptions of their splendor convince many to undertake the Journey.
Aman (AH-man) – "The Blessed Realm." The continent far to the west, across the Great Sea, where the Valar dwell. It is separated from Middle-earth and represents both paradise and, in Selas's view, a cage.
MAJOR EVENTS
The Great Journey – The epic migration of the Eldar from Cuiviénen across all of Middle-earth to reach Aman in the far west. This journey spans many years and is filled with perils, wonders, and further divisions among the Elven peoples.
The Sundering – The moment when the unified Quendi split into two distinct peoples: the Eldar (those who accepted the Valar's summons) and the Avari (those who refused). This division occurs at Cuiviénen after the three emissaries return from their three-year visit to Valinor. Selas's passionate speech catalyzes this historic split.