Prince of the Minyar

Ingwion, son of Ingwë the High King of the Eldar, dwelling in Valimar, he led the host of the Valar during the War of Wrath. Independent roleplay blog. This is a sideblog, cannot follow back. I track my url.

[ingwe-inweron]

~See? They have been talking~ Ingwë murmured to Finwë with Osanwë, ~they are not /total/ strangers as we feared.~

"We decided that we were tired of conducting our business inside a muggy office when we could enjoy the breezes from the Mountains and also enjoy the gardens whilst still discussing relevant business," he replied out loud, 

He looked between the two, admiring them. They were both handsome and young, proud in bearing and in their heritage. Intelligent, and apart from Olwë’s young children, the only two of the same relevant social status as one another.

"My heart does rejoyce to see you two associating," he commented, "King Finwë and I often hoped to see our children as friends but the removal to Taniquetil and Valmar did put a stop to those hopes. We are not interrupting anything were we?"

[finwe-noldoran]

~Not strangers,~ he agreed, ~but not yet close enough.~ 

As they approached and Ingwë spoke aloud, he took the moment to examine his friend’s son. Ingwion was not unpleasant; as an athelete and a noble, he assured to be sound of mind and body alike, a worthy match for Fëanárë if she might not see it now.

Not only that: were his daughter to wed Ingwion, the old ties between the First and Second Clans would be forged again, more solid than before. After the turmoil around his second marriage, a tie which only split them further, it would be good to have a new bond.

But that was only assuming their children wed in good spirits. The look on Fëanárë’s face told him this was not so.

"If we are," Finwë added, once his friend stopped speaking, "we will gladly leave you two to discuss it."

[highqueenofthenoldor]

Fëanárë could feel herself shutting down, her face growing even stiffer and even blanker than before until each emotion was leeched away and you were left with a face that didn’t quite meet the usual standard criteria of humanity (well that was how a fellow apprentice had described it once.)

"No. We are done speaking," she said tightly, eager to be away from the three of them. She felt … not in danger…but certainly vulnerable. 

"Have a good day," she ground out at Ingwion for politeness’ sake, and then turned to Ingwë, managing a stiff cross between a bow and a curtsey "Your Highness."

[sonofingwe]

Ingwion could not quite bring himself to give an answer as straight as Fëanárë’s. His stretched his lips in a smile and looked from his father to Finwë, to his daughter, slowly and carefully, as if that single gaze could explain the kind of ties and expectations that he could almost see between the four of them, thick and uncomfortable as molasses.

No, father, he wanted to say, you are not interrupting what you are hoping to interrupt, not that kind of thing – but he kept both his mouth and his mind shut, at least until they were alone. He would have liked for the two of them to leave them discussing it, but he was not sure that Fëanárë and he could reach any kind of… agreement. Her intentions were not so distant from his, but her ways to reach that aim could not be reconciled. Which left him in a gloomy mood.

« Have a good day » he managed to tell her before she departed. Thus he turned toward the two kings. « We were done, yes. But maybe you are not. Shall I leave or do you… need me here? » If he could influence them before anything official was announced maybe that unpleasant situation could resolve itself even before starting.

[sonofingwe]

☾

☾ sleeps

Ingwion is a quiet sleeper; he prefers to lie on his side or face down against the pillow and tends to remain in the center of the bed, unless someone is sleeping with him, in which case he adapts himself to the other person’s needs. He prefers a comfortable mattress and more than one pillow and generally he has a hard time trying to sleep in a place that is not at least a bit soft, and wearing a night robe. His sleep schedule is regular: he goes to bed rather late, but at a reasonable hour, and wakes up at the next mingling of the lights, early in the morning, to attend his father’s court.

[highqueenofthenoldor]

Fëanárë awoke in a pitch black room, lit by a single Fëanárii light crystal. It was one of the softer lit ones, inspired by the rare mingling of starlight in her husband’s hair (though she would never have told him that.)

There was a silence, soft and sweet, and she had to strain her ears to hear the faint whisper of breezes through the many chimes that were strung about the bedrooms gardens of Valmar’s Prince’s Palace.

Ingwion was sitting at his desk, glass nibbed pen gently scratching across his paperwork. She curled up beneath the thin blanket, warm and content to lie still for once, mind silent unusually.

She watched the movement of his arm, the light falling on his hair and returning to her the memory of the trips they had taken to the edge of the light of the trees so she could indulge in astronomy.

There was the arch of his cheek, and the triangle of shadow the light pained on it. The curve of the edge of his lips at something he had written. She found herself soaking up the detail avariciously.

The gentle draw of the pen on paper paused. Ingwion’s head had turned enough to see her and he stopped what he was doing.

"I did not wake you?" he inquired and she shook her head. "No."

"Disturbed you?"

"No. I merely woke up." And had enjoyed, unexpectedly, the sight of him.

He smiled at her and her heart lifted, queerly. She reached out her arm from beneath the sheets to him and he rose, walking over and taking her hand in his, warm and softer seeming than her own though that did not mean he worked any less than her.

He slipped onto the bed and wrapped an arm over her waist, drawing her back and she allowed him it. His body was warm, arm steady and strong over her waist and he curled slightly, forcing her body to adapt to the new posture which felt…safe.

Yes. She felt… safe.

She closed her eyes, without saying another word, when he kissed her hair, lips sliding down to press chaste and careful against her cheek.

Fëanárë awoke in a pitch black room, lit by a single Fëanárii light crystal. It was one of the harsher ones, a prototype that could be hastily and cheaply made, intended only to aid her in her study of bound light, and be any sort of a final design.

The room was cold, blankets and furred piled on top of her body, and her tent was constantly filled with the creak of its poles and the flapping of material from its outside layers, and beyond that the watery noises of the lake they were camping beside. 

There was no one else besides herself within the private darkness of the canvas walls.

Irmo’s dreams were no longer available to her. That did not mean Fëanárë did not dream. In the absence of dreams influenced by another’s will, her own stretched far further than before.

[welcometolotr]

ingwion!

[highqueenofthenoldor]

Fëanárë opened up the little mental file on Ingwion and added, “good athlete” to it with an interested quirk of her eyebrows. “It does not,” she confirmed on the matter of his athletics being a help towards easing the imaginary marital friction she could easily see on the horizon.

Though if he was interested in horse riding for long days at a time over any terrain, she, whilst still not interested in marrying him, would be interested in seeing if he had ever thought of riding the ranges near Aulë’s workshop.

And his opinion thereof if he had thought of it, of whether the pass near the smaller marshy valley near the end would be possible in Spring.

She was not interested in travelling with him either.

"I know why they are so interested in the marriage.I am uninterested and not obliged to cater to those wishes which would be the only way to please them at this point. I do not want to marry you. I will not marry you." she could see their fathers further away in the garden, talking and glancing towards them. Her mouth turned down. 

Time was run out.

"I understand the guilt inherent in going against your father’s wishes," her voice was flat, "thank you for your time."

[sonofingwe]

Ingwion, in truth, never expected her to be willing and happy about the perspective of a betrothal or a marriage with him, but nonetheless he frowned a bit when she stated, so clearly and adamantly, that she did not want to marry him. And that she was not going to do it. It almost surprised and amused him the ide of having some kind of wounded pride.

Ah, maybe he was merely objecting that strenuous intention to go against whatever decision their fathers had agreed upon, a behaviour against anything he had ever tried to learn and adapt to. That beside her statement of understanding. He was not sure she was truly understanding – tilting his head, Ingwion considered that maybe she was only acknowledging his reasoning and completely ignoring it.

A silent, slow breath escaped his lungs and his shoulders dropped down. That situation was tiring and he was out of ways to phrase his intention to try and make that liveable for both of them. Thus he thanked the sudden interruption and glanced over their fathers – certainly the smile that he built remained stretched on his lips, in the awareness of the conversation they had just finished, which did not seem less troubling than the one their parents had had, and not less secret.

« When we can talk freely again, I would like you to tell me how you know why your father wants this » he added, in a low voice. That detail was stuck in his mind; true, he could simply ask his own father. Swallowing, he stood up with a fluid movement and straightened his back, smiling toward the two Kings to welcome them. He did not miss their hinting glimpses toward them, which made him feel almost gloomy. But when they approached, he still greeted them with a gracious nod.

« High King Finwë, and father, I am happy you found the time for a walk in the garden. »

[sonofingwe]

➔ walks ♞runs ♐ fights ♫ dances (I am interested since you said he was an athlete)

➔ walks

Ingwion usually walks fluidly, his steps are not loud but his presence is noticeable. His chin is high and his hands often clasped behind his back, or loose at his sides, but his walk is not a march and his sudden entrance in a room gathers gazes due to his identity, height and general ease at being who he is, but does not impose itself. He seems to promenade, and there is no solemnity in his paces, unless the occasion requires it.

♞runs

He rarely runs in hsi daily life, both because it is hardly necessary and because it is not very decorous to run while wearing courtly robes. On the other side, when he races, he controls his breath and does not spend unnecessary energy, aiming to a clean and shiny victory. The headcanon that Ingwion would take part in races comes from the notion that Indis herself was a runner, thus I imagine that the Vanyar, or at least some of them, had a thing for sports in addition to all their poetry and singing — sort of a Greek inspiration here.

♐ fights

Ingwion learned to properly fight with metal weapons in prevision of the War of Wrath. He used a spear and his style was elegant, almost airy, the style of someone who is working on the visual aspect of the fighting and not only on the efficiency of his blows. He worked to obtain discipline and precision and to become captivating enough while wielding a weapon to be fit to lead the host of Valinor.

♫ dances

His approach to dance is not dissimilar to the approach to fighting, in the sense that he practiced to be an expert dancer, gentle in pace and precise in movements. He enjoys balls and dancing with someone else and does not mind to dance with many maidens — he does not consider to please them with a dance problematic at all, nor a promise of anything else. He is formal, but not stiff, and needed a lot of work to manage that floating impression.

[curiousmotion-blog]

movement and posture headcanons!

[sonofingwe]

send a symbol to find out how my muse…

⋀ stands ♚ sits ☞ talks ➔ walks ♞runs ♐ fights ♫ dances ☾ sleeps ☻hugs ♦ kisses ☼ you choose!

[highqueenofthenoldor]

"I would not have tracked you down if I simply intended to roll over," Fëanárë was disappointed but not all that surprised by the answer. Diplomacy and an lack of willingness to go against his father were pretty much all she had in her mental catalogue in the file named "Ingwion."

"I wasn’t asking for your help, though letting your father know you are not interested might be a boon," she added, "I am going to refuse and I am going to protest until the proposed betrothal is shelved or completely given up on."

Her father could not force her to do anything. This was a proven fact. And she had on her side the ammunition of how this idea had wormed its way into Finwë’s head in the first place and with her future and freedom affected, she would put side her unease and horror, muffle her grief, and then throw all her rage at him to allow him to know that his “wife” was not going to so easily deny Fëanárë her own home.

She considered Ingwion very seriously, head cocked and eyes running over him for a few moments. 

"It would not be a very good marriage if it did happen," she proclaimed, "I am uninterested in praying, and poetry is only good for decorating work pieces or for calligraphy. Meanwhile you are likely uninterested in metastic allotropes or the applications of organic compound polymers."

She considered him again, “also I am highly uninterested in having children. It would hardly be fair, though of course I could be assuming, to you.”

[sonofingwe]

Ingwion moistened his lips once again. She was not seeking help from him. « No, of course not. » It seemed superfluous to point out yet again that he had little help to offer in the first place. The fact that she had even tracked him down was maybe a sign that trying to reason that out was a lost cause. « I do not doubt you can protest to that extent. » Indeed he did not – but it remained an unpleasant situation.

Raising his eyes from somewhere behind her, he met an inquisitive gaze that held slightly straightening his back as if before an exam, or a professor, or his own father. Speaking of him, he wondered in fact why Finwë and he had to talk that much if, as he thought, the decision was already taken. Shrugging his shoulders a little, this time he managed to snort.

« I am a… good athlete, if that helps. –I do not think it helps, does it? And sadly I do not think I know what you are talking about with allotropes and… polymers. » He almost sighed and glanced away, where the two high kings were supposedly talking. He had not thought of children at all, even though that was indeed the final purpose of such a marriage, to reunite the two royal houses; possibly in a more peaceful way than the marriage of Finwë himself.

« I would not mind having children. However, unless you wish to openly oppose your father’s will about this, I can only suggest you to discover why they needed this much time to settle for a date and why they needed to talk about this marriage so extensively. If there is something that can make change their minds, maybe one can find it there. »

Ingwion inclined his neck. « I hope you understand that… it is a very problematic position, for me. I do not understand why my father wants me to marry you, but I do not appreciate the idea of, well, plotting against him. I think we could work out another way, Fëanárë. One that would not need to displease your father as well. » His suggestion did not sound convincing to his own ears; mostly because he had no alternatives but to let her do what she wished and look at the outcomes, without the need to involve himself too much.

[highqueenofthenoldor]

"Our Fathers are angling to see us betrothed before Winter," Fëanárë had spent a meticulous morning tracking down her unhopefully intended and charting his movements until she was sure that he wasn’t going to run off, or rather had no space to run off into, "they have been spending every evening they lock themselves in your father’s parlour with cognac talking about it."

And also that they were alone, not that she was ashamed but she intended to scupper the plans of their fathers thoroughly and that required discretion for her father had the ears of a bat and the mental agility to have kept his court under his thumb his entire reign.

She knew of the betrothal because it was an easy case of slipping over her balcony, down the trellis, over a garden wall, and then climbing another trellis, to sit beneath the parlour’s usually open doors and listen to what was being said (tatting all the time.)

Such subversive behaviour turned her gut, and invading her father’s privacy wracked her with guilt, but it was necessary in the circumstances.

If only she had been born with a cock between her legs. 

No assumptions or negotiations of marriage would have even touched her.

"I came to warn you," she added, as she loomed over the seated Vanyar, the light of the trees too hot against her back in the exposed garden area she had tracked him to, "because I do not wish to marry you and I intend to do whatever it takes to avoid ever clasping your hand before a priest. However I know you are likely uninterested in this prospect too and I acknowledge it would be unfair on you in that circumstance not to have warning of this."

[sonofingwe]

Ingwion sat composed, with hands clasped in his lap, and occasionally moistened his lips, as if words could bloom there thanks to the strength of his imagination. When Fëanárë talked, blunt as ever, he swallowed and his foot started to tap the floor, unintentionally. He stopped the moved as soon as he realised it, and hinted a smile.

« I know what they are doing. I mean, at this point is… evident, I daresay. » He did not move from the bench, but his gaze roamed for some seconds on the trees and bright green bushes. Not even the golden, halcyon light of Laurelin could lift his mood, right now. Oh, he had known about the plans of their fathers for a long time, but he had wished that the outcome of such plans could be delayed a bit more.

She was, it seemed, of the same idea, but he was not that sure he intended to do whatever was needed to avoid it, clearly going against the intentions of the High King Finwë and his own father’s . It was an undesirable position, his own. He deeply breathed in and blew out air, finally looking back at his unwilling and very much unimpressed to-be-wife.

« I might support your intentions… » He tried to stretch his lips in another smile but aborted the idea immediately. « But I am not sure that there is anything you can do about this and I am not in a better position. If you wanted me to, well, talk to my father against their plans, I shall be honest: I do not think it would work. And it would be unpleasant to start a… marriage under such conditions. If you have an efficient idea, maybe—But I think it would be better to work to make the union as much enjoyable as possible. » He opened his hands palms-up as to show some kind of surrender. « If we really have to pronounce oaths of union to Eru, that is. »