And still, we stand tall by Sarbanes Oxley

Three Elves, One Horse (and a Vala)

Ingwë is smiling. He faces the West; toward the growing Light. The onrushing wind snarls his hair into a tangled mess, but he does not notice. His star-pale eyes are focused on some point beyond the horizon.

Finwë calls out to him uneasily; Ingwë does not foresee happy futures. At first there is no response, and Finwë wonders if the Rider stole his wits somehow; he remembers another Rider a long time ago whose very presence brought madness upon those unfortunate enough to gaze upon its eyes. (He remembers hiding beneath a holly-bush, his face pressed into the dirt, scarcely daring to breathe as the air filled with the screams of the unlucky. He remembers the shattered impressions passed from mind to mind with perfect clarity; the dark spear through his chest, clawed gauntlets dragging him by the arm, the enormous shape blotting out the stars, talons, teeth, eyes burning through his soul-)

He takes a ragged breath and forces his body to calm. Far below him, the ground falls away in great leaps; they are passing through places Finwë has never seen before, passing by too quickly for anything but the most tantalizing of glimpses.

 But then Ingwë turns back to them, smiling and at ease. “White shores, and beyond them a far green country,” he says, though Finwë had not yet asked. His tone is still distant and the words are strange.

 Not his words, Finwë thinks; but whose?

 Elwë does not share Finwë’s reticence. “Good,” is all he says, which is no more than Finwë expected. Out of the three of them, Elwë has consistently been the least-impressed, the most cynical. Finwë sometimes wonders if he would have come if Ingwë and Finwë had not, but then he remembers; Elwë loves nothing more than to prove a point. Of course he comes. The question is only if he will choose to leave.

 Beneath them Nahar pitches down and forward, leaving the three of them clutching each other for precarious balance. The steed of the Vala is as large as he is, and the entity who named himself Oromë can easily fit the three of them in the palm of his hand with room to spare; his steed could dash them to their deaths on the frozen ground below and never even notice.

 Finwë stabilizes the rope-harness wound about the saddle’s cantle once more, glad he had thought to come prepared, and checks in on his friends. Elwë looks a little motion-sick. Ingwë never noticed his danger; he is still facing the West, and smiling, and his lips shape words Finwë has no hope of hearing. Finwë shoves a journey-bar into his pocket anyways.

 Míriel’s talisman clinks in his own pocket when he reaches over. A lump rises in his throat; she had not wanted him to come. Their first child quickens in her, and though the journey was promised to take no more than a few short days the old uncertainties still raise their heads. Suddenly, the light ahead looks like a trap. A gaudy, flashy trap designed to capture silly Elf-men too foolish to listen to their clever wives. The others were right to fear the journey-

 “Peace,” Oromë booms from above.

 Finwë starts; he had not realized his unease had become so blatant. But soon he realizes it is not only him whom the Vala had spoken to. In the distance rises an enormous broken mass; the sight of it brings back all the uneasy fear of the debate that had sent him on this uncertain journey. Before he can ask what that dark place is they are racing onward, curving away from its ominous ruin. Oddly, the memory of it makes him feel better, for it seems that this Oromë was speaking the truth. What could that darkness be but the fallen stronghold of the Dark Rider?

 His heart soars. It will be as he promised Míriel; their children will grow up safe. What lies ahead is that future. He holds his oath in his heart as they ride on.

 Ahead of them the light spills over the horizon, silver and gold over a landscape of jagged ice and far away, to the south, a great body of water that shines like a field of white jewels.

 The light has grown, and they can see Ingwë’s vision in truth. Above them, light staining the sky a glorious blue. (Interesting, Finwë’s ever-curious mind muses. Why not silver or gold or white? Why the color of water?) Ahead of them, the green scent of life, of water, of dirt that smells like dirt and plants that smell like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

 Oromë’s steed thunders on. Finwë clutches his friends’ hands and prays. Together, they enter the next stage of their lives.