[Unknown. Unknown Time. Darkness]
Awareness came suddenly.
First, the body.
Limbs, torso, head. Heavy. Unresponsive. Then something else. A warmth that wasn't warmth. Light that wasn't light. Energy humming beneath skin I couldn't feel.
What the hell?
Darkness pressed in from all sides. I tried to move.
Nothing.
Tried to speak.
Nothing.
Panic clawed up my throat. Was I paralyzed? Dead? Was this…
Pressure. Sudden and overwhelming, pushing, forcing me somewhere I didn't want to go. The darkness fractured. Light seared through the cracks, blinding and brutal.
Cold air hit wet skin.
Fire tore through my lungs.
I screamed.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Cuiviénen. The Years of the Trees. Night]
The woman cradled the bundle against her chest, silver hair plastered to her face with sweat. Exhaustion lined every feature, yet her eyes, gray as winter dawn, shone with fierce joy.
"Beloved Enel," she whispered. "Our fourth son."
The man beside her leaned close, one hand on her shoulder, the other hovering over the infant's head. His hair matched hers, silver catching starlight through the window.
When he smiled, it was soft. Wondering.
"Look at his eyes, Enelyë. Like captured stars."
"He will be strong." Her voice held certainty. "I feel it. The Light in him burns bright."
Enel nodded slowly. His hand finally descended, fingers brushing the baby's brow. The infant, still screaming, calmed at the touch.
"His fate will be great. I am certain of this."
"I hope so. I believe so." Enelyë shifted, wincing. "We should show him to his brothers."
Enel rose reluctantly, pressing a kiss to her forehead before moving to the door. Moments later, he returned with three boys trailing behind, two tall and gangly, one still small enough to peek around his father's leg.
"Children." Enel's voice carried quiet pride. "Meet your new brother."
The eldest stepped forward first, silver hair falling past his shoulders. "His eyes are like stars," Elwë observed, tilting his head. "Just like ours."
"His hair too," added the second son, Olwë. "Silver like ours."
The youngest, Elmo, bounced on his toes. "He screamed really loud!"
"That's good." Enel chuckled, ruffling Elmo's hair. "It means he's strong. Healthy."
"What will we name him?" Enelyë's gaze found her husband's. Expectant.
Enel turned to the window. Beyond it, the great lake stretched vast and still beneath stars that seemed close enough to touch. Their reflections danced on black water, silver-white and perfect.
He closed his eyes. Listening.
The lake's surface rippled.
Wind rushed through the open window, sudden and fierce, tangling hair and tugging at clothing. It smelled of water and stone and something older than memory. The infant stirred in Enelyë's arms, eyes opening to reveal irises that caught and held the starlight.
Under the wind's howl and the lake's churning whisper, Enel spoke.
"Selas."
The wind died.
The lake stilled.
"Selas, son of Enel and Enelyë, of the Nelyar." He turned back, something like awe softening his features. "Fourth-born of my house."
"It's a good name." Enelyë smiled through tears. "It suits him."
"Come." Enel gestured to the boys. "Your mother needs rest."
They filed out quietly. Elmo cast one last curious glance at his new brother, those too-bright eyes, that strange stillness after such screaming.
Enel paused in the doorway, looking back at mother and child, then to the window where stars gleamed over still waters.
He smiled.
His son would be great. He knew it.
{Image: Enel, progenitor of the Nelyar}
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Selas POV]
I was born.
Actually born. As in, exited a womb, got the whole deal, complete with screaming and confusion and a profound sense of what the actual fuck just happened.
It took longer than I'd like to admit for the reality to sink in. Days? Weeks? Time felt wrong here. Slippery.
There was no sun. No golden disc climbing the sky to mark the hours the way I remembered from… before. But the world still had its rhythm. The stars shifted, brightened and dimmed in slow cycles that served as day and night, though I couldn't figure out why.
Sometimes the sky lightened to a deep silver-blue, almost like twilight back on Earth. Other times the darkness deepened until only the brightest stars cut through. The Quendi moved with it instinctively, sleeping when the sky dimmed, waking when it brightened. I just followed along and tried not to think too hard about the physics of a world lit entirely by stars.
But eventually, between feeding and sleeping and staring at the wooden ceiling of our dwelling, the pieces clicked into place.
I'd been reincarnated.
Into Tolkien's world.
As an elf.
Quendi. That's what we called ourselves. The Speakers. The First Children of Ilúvatar.
Nelyar, specifically. The Third Kindred. Also called Lindar, the Singers, because apparently we learned music before speech. Made sense. Every lullaby my mother sang felt like it bypassed my ears and went straight to my soul.
In the future, the far future by mortal reckoning, we'd be named Teleri. The Last.
My name was Selas.
Fourth son of Enel, who was apparently one of the original Awakened. One of the seventy-four Nelyar who'd opened their eyes for the first time beside the waters of Cuiviénen under starlight alone.
Which meant I was born into the Years of the Trees.
Pre-First Age. Before the Sun and Moon existed. Before the Great Journey. Before the Sundering.
Before everything went to hell.
I should've been terrified.
And honestly? Part of me was. A quiet, constant hum of dread beneath everything else, like a note too low to hear but impossible to stop feeling. I knew what was coming. The broad strokes, at least. Enough to understand that this world, for all its impossible beauty, was on a path toward catastrophe.
But alongside the fear, something else burned. Determination. Purpose. The kind that comes from knowing the shape of the future and refusing to accept it as inevitable.
Because I knew about the choice that would split the Quendi forever. Eldar and Avari. Those who followed the Valar to paradise, and those who refused.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Cuiviénen. Early Years. Morning]
Babies are useless.
I'd known this intellectually. But living it? Completely different story.
My body barely responded to commands. Hands flailed randomly. Legs kicked without direction. My head lolled like a drunken bowling ball.
The only thing that worked properly was my brain, racing at a thousand miles per hour while trapped in a meat prison that couldn't even roll over.
Maddening.
At least I could observe. Study. Plan.
Our home was simple. One large room with a fire pit at its center, sleeping pallets lined against walls of woven branches, tools hanging from wooden pegs. Stone-tipped spears. Carved bowls worn smooth from use. Strips of leather in various stages of tanning.
The air smelled of woodsmoke and cured hides and the faint sweetness of whatever herbs my mother dried above the hearth.
Primitive, yes. But the craftsmanship was odd. Too perfect for stone-age technology. The spear shafts were absolutely straight. The bowls' curves were flawless. Even the leather strips were uniform in thickness.
Elven precision. Had to be.
Through the open doorway, I glimpsed the settlement. Maybe twenty or thirty structures scattered without pattern among massive trees. No roads. No walls. No organization whatsoever.
Just dwellings placed wherever whim dictated, and elves who seemed perfectly content to spend entire days staring at stars or singing wordless melodies.
Beautiful. Peaceful.
Completely unsustainable.
Beyond the settlement, always visible, always present, stretched the lake.
Cuiviénen. The Water of Awakening.
Birthplace of all Quendi.
{Image: Cuiviénen under starlight}
It was vast. Impossibly clear. Stars reflected on its surface so perfectly you couldn't tell where sky ended and water began. The water gleamed like polished obsidian streaked with silver fire.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
As I grew and adapted, I began to truly understand the world around me.
The Quendi weren't one unified people. We were divided into three distinct kindreds, each with their own character, their own qualities, their own way of being.
The Minyar, the First. Only fourteen had awakened initially, making them the smallest kindred. But they'd grown since then, families spreading across their corner of the settlement. They were golden-haired, almost universally. Honey and wheat and sunlight, though the sun didn't exist yet. Beautiful beyond measure, with pale skin and an almost ethereal grace. Noble. Kind. And achingly naive.
In the future, they'd be called Vanyar. The Fair Ones.
The Tattyar, the Second. Fifty-six had awakened at first, and now their numbers had swelled considerably. They were different from the Minyar entirely. Taller, broader, stronger in build. The men stood close to two meters, the women slightly shorter but no less imposing. Their hair was dark, black as midnight, deep brown like rich earth, some few with hair the color of ash or flame. Powerful. Skilled with their hands. Always tinkering, always crafting, always making things better.
In the future, they'd be called Noldor. The Wise.
And the Nelyar, the Third. My people. Seventy-four had awakened initially, the largest of the three kindreds, and we'd grown the most since. We were similar to the Tattyar in height and strength, perhaps slightly less broad but more flexible, more agile. Our hair was predominantly silver, like moonlight on water, like starlight frozen and spun into thread. Though some among us had darker hair, most bore the silver that marked us as children of starlight.
In the future, we'd be called Teleri. The Last. Or Lindar, the Singers, as we called ourselves, for we'd learned music before we learned speech.
Three kindreds. Roughly a hundred and forty original souls. Now grown to perhaps three or four times that number, spread across Cuiviénen's shores.
All living together. For now.
But the Sundering would come. And when it did, these kindreds would fracture in different ways.
The Minyar would follow the Valar entirely. Every last one.
The Tattyar would split evenly, half following, half refusing.
And the Nelyar… the Nelyar would be the most divided of all.
I intended to make sure the right ones stayed behind.
At least, that was the plan. Assuming I could figure out any of this. Assuming anything I remembered from a past life actually applied here, in a world where starlight had weight and lullabies touched your soul and a lake could ripple in answer to a father's prayer.
I'd spent years fighting to hold onto what I knew about this world. It cost me more effort than anything else in this new life. But I managed. Mostly.
I was working with fragments. Guesses. The memory of books read in another life, in another body, in a world where magic was fiction and elves were stories.
None of that guaranteed I wouldn't get it all catastrophically wrong.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Some years later. Afternoon]
"He's restless."
My mother's voice drifted through the open door. I was outside, finally mobile after years of humiliating helplessness, sitting on soft grass and trying to figure out exactly what this new body could do.
"He's curious." My father's deeper voice. "All children are curious."
"Not like this." A pause. "Watch."
I felt their gazes. Turned my head to find both parents standing in the doorway, observing me with identical expressions of bemused concern.
I waved.
My mother laughed, bright and startled. My father's lips twitched.
"See?" Enelyë gestured at me. "What elfling waves?"
"Ours, apparently." Enel crossed his arms, but his eyes crinkled with suppressed humor. "Perhaps it's good. The world won't wait forever. Maybe our son knows this."
"Or maybe he's just strange."
"That too."
They disappeared back inside.
I turned back to my experiment.
Standing. Should be simple. Every toddler on Earth managed it. But this body was different, lighter, more flexible, but with a strange disconnect between thought and action.
I pushed up on shaky legs.
Halfway up, my knees buckled.
Grass cushioned the fall.
Again.
Three-quarters this time before toppling sideways.
Again.
And…
"You're doing it wrong."
The voice came from directly behind me. I twisted around, too fast, lost balance, landed on my ass, to find a small figure standing there.
A girl. Golden hair cascading past her shoulders in waves that caught starlight. Eyes like the ocean, deep, endless blue.
She tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting bug.
"You're strange," she announced.
I blinked.
"All the other children sit and watch the stars. But you keep falling down." She crouched beside me. "Why?"
Because I'm trying to stand. Because I'm not actually a child and being trapped in this tiny body is driving me insane.
I shrugged.
She frowned. "You don't talk much either."
Another shrug.
"Hmm." She circled me slowly, predatory. Then, without warning, grabbed my arm and hauled upward. "Come on. I'll help."
I almost fell again from surprise. Her grip was strong, absurdly strong for someone so small, and she adjusted her hold with practiced ease.
"There." She released me once I'd found balance. Stepped back, arms crossed, evaluating. "Better."
I wobbled but stayed upright.
"You're welcome." She smiled, bright and sudden. "I'm Ilvëa. Who are you?"
"Selas," I managed. The word came out rough. I hadn't spoken much yet. Hadn't seen the point.
"Selas." She tested it, rolling the syllables around. "From the Nelyar, right? I'm Minyar. We woke up first, before everyone else. That makes us special."
Tribal pride already. Fantastic.
"Can you walk now?" she asked.
"Working on it."
"Good. When you can walk, we'll play." She spun on her heel, golden hair flying. "I'll come back tomorrow!"
And she was gone, sprinting toward the Minyar dwellings on the far side of the settlement.
The Vanyar, I thought. That's what they'll be called eventually.
I stood there, wobbling, wondering what the hell just happened.
{Image: Young Ilvëa of the Minyar,older version}
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 1.1]