The Mastery of Strength and Wood
The light of Laurelin and Telperion bathed Valinor in golden and silver hues as Alcaron left the peaceful gardens of Lórien behind. He felt transformed, no longer haunted by the confusion of his past and present selves. His mind was his own, an unbreakable fortress, a wellspring of wisdom. But his journey was far from over.
Now, he had come to the halls of Tulkas and Nessa, where the arts of war and movement were to be his next lessons. He had always been skilled with a blade, as befitted the second son of Finwë, but the training of the Valar was beyond anything the Eldar could dream of. It was here, in the domain of the Vala of strength and his swift-footed spouse, that Alcaron would forge his body into a weapon as sharp and disciplined as his mind.
Tulkas laughed heartily as Alcaron approached. The golden-haired Vala, known as the Champion of the Valar, was clad in simple tunic and leggings, yet he radiated raw power. His broad, sun-kissed shoulders rippled with strength, his piercing eyes filled with an indomitable spirit.
"At last!" Tulkas bellowed, clapping Alcaron on the shoulder with such force that he nearly stumbled. "A warrior must be strong in mind and body alike! You have mastered your mind, but can you master the storm of battle?"
Alcaron smiled. "That is what I have come to learn, my lord."
Tulkas grinned. "Then let us not waste time! The body must be trained first! We begin now!"
For the next century, Alcaron trained under the relentless tutelage of Tulkas.
At dawn, he ran through the rolling plains of Valinor, chasing the wind, strengthening his endurance. He climbed the sheer cliffs of Oromë's mountains, his muscles screaming in protest but his will unyielding. He sparred against warriors formed from the very thought of the Valar, each opponent a new challenge, each battle an opportunity to refine his skill.
Tulkas taught him the way of the Valar's war, a style unlike any elven combat. It was not merely about strength, but the fusion of power and harmony, the application of force in perfect synchronization with Arda's Song. With every strike, Alcaron learned to channel the echoes of Eru's Music, weaving strength and magic into his blows.
"You must feel the rhythm of the fight!" Tulkas boomed one day as they fought, their blades clashing like thunder. "Not all battles are won by power alone. There is a dance to combat, and he who knows the steps best shall always have the advantage."
The blade in Alcaron's hand burned with energy, the weight of it no longer a burden but an extension of himself. He moved faster, struck harder, and dodged with effortless precision. And yet, Tulkas never let him become complacent. Whenever Alcaron believed himself the master of a weapon, Tulkas would hand him another—a spear, an axe, a greatsword, a bow—until he was proficient in them all.
At the end of every day, when his limbs ached and his body cried for rest, Tulkas would only laugh and say, "Again! The enemy will not tire, so neither shall you!"
For three hundred years, Alcaron lived as a warrior of the Valar, his strength honed to near-perfection. And yet, Tulkas did not only teach him how to fight—he also taught him when not to fight.
"Strength is not for destruction alone," the Vala said one night as they sat beneath the stars, drinking from goblets of mead. "It is for protection, for defense, for standing against the darkness without being consumed by it. Power is only as righteous as the one who wields it."
Alcaron took those words to heart, knowing that even in the mightiest of warriors, wisdom must prevail over wrath.
While Tulkas taught him to master combat, Nessa, the swift and joyful, taught him the grace of movement. She was light as the breeze, swift as a flowing river, and though she was Tulkas's match in joy, her lessons were as demanding as his.
"You already know the court dances of the Eldar," she said as they stood in a great marble hall, her feet moving effortlessly over the smooth stone. "But dancing is not only for celebration. It is for balance, for precision, for speed. The best warriors move like dancers. A misplaced step in battle is a death sentence."
Alcaron watched as she spun, her feet barely touching the ground. "Then teach me."
And she did. He learned not only the high dances of the Valar but the wild, unbridled steps of the Ainur before time began. His feet became swift, his body limber, and with each movement, he found that the same grace which guided a dance could guide a dodge, a parry, a swift counterattack.
But Nessa's lessons were not only about battle. They were about life. "Joy is as important as vigilance," she told him one evening as they danced in the halls of the Valar, the light of Telperion shimmering across the floor. "The world is full of darkness, Alcaron. You will see hatred and suffering, but you must always make space for joy. Never forget to celebrate, to dance, to love. Otherwise, what are we fighting for?"
Those words settled deep within Alcaron's heart, as did her final lesson.
"Speed is life," she told him. "If your feet are swifter than your foe's sword, you will never fall. If your mind is swifter than the shadows, you will never be lost. Remember this."
Three centuries passed, and Alcaron stood before Tulkas and Nessa, no longer the same elf who had entered their halls. His body was honed to perfection, his movements fluid and deadly, his heart strong with the wisdom they had imparted.
"You are ready," Tulkas said proudly, his golden eyes shining with approval. "Few have trained as you have, and fewer still will stand against you in a fair fight. But remember—power is responsibility. Do not let strength make you cruel."
"And do not let war steal your joy," Nessa added with a smile. "Dance, Alcaron, even when the world burns."
Alcaron bowed deeply. "I will remember your lessons always."
As he departed their halls, stepping out into the golden light of Aman, he felt truly prepared for the path ahead. He was no longer merely Alcaron, son of Finwë. He was a warrior of the Valar, a master of blade and movement, of strength and joy.
After leaving Nessa and Tulkas, Alcaron made his way to the Woods of Oromë. There, under the watchful guidance of the great hunter of the Valar, he learned the ways of the wild—the art of the hunt, the patience of the tracker, and the respect due to every creature under the stars. Oromë taught him how to move unseen through dense forests, how to read the whispers of the wind and the softest impressions left upon the earth. He was trained to wield the bow with a precision unmatched and to ride as though he were one with his steed, swift as the storm, silent as the moonlight.
For two hundred years, Alcaron dwelled within Oromë's domain, living as the hunter did, honoring the creatures of the woods, learning when to take life and when to spare it. He came to understand the balance of nature, the silent song that thrummed through leaf and root, through fur and feather. He learned to track not just with his eyes, but with his spirit—to feel the presence of another being long before it could be seen. Under Oromë's tutelage, he became as skilled a huntsman as any elf had ever been, though his hand never took life needlessly.
It was during these years that a great event occurred—Nahar, Oromë's mighty steed, sired his first child. Unlike the Mearas who would later be renowned in Middle-earth, this foal bore the true essence of its sire in all ways that mattered. Even the unaging vitality of Nahar had been passed down to this one, making it a creature of legend. Alcaron, honored by Oromë beyond words, was entrusted with the raising of this wondrous steed. He named her Silmëroch—Starlight Horse in the tongue of the West. She was a creature of ethereal beauty, her coat gleaming like silver under the Trees of Valinor, her eyes filled with wisdom beyond her years.
Alcaron and Silmëroch grew together as companions. She was as swift as the wind itself, a blur of white and silver beneath the golden and silver light of the Trees. She needed no bridle nor saddle; she heeded his every thought and carried him as though they were but one being. Together, they rode through the endless forests of Valinor, their bond unbreakable, their spirits soaring in the wild beauty of Oromë's lands.
As time passed, Alcaron's training deepened. Oromë took him beyond the mere act of hunting and into the understanding of the natural world. He learned of the seasons, the cycles of life, and the way all creatures played their part in the grand design of Eä. He could hear the song of the earth beneath his feet, feel the pulsing heart of the land through the creatures that walked it. Oromë taught him the language of the trees, the whisper of the rivers, the call of the night birds. In doing so, Alcaron became not just a hunter but a guardian of the wild places, a protector of the balance that the Valar themselves cherished.
Through the long years, he stood in awe of the might of Oromë, the power that rested within his hands yet was used with wisdom and restraint. He understood, as few others ever would, that the strength of the hunter was not in destruction, but in harmony. To hunt was not to kill, but to participate in the eternal cycle of life, to honor the sacrifice given and to ensure that nature remained whole.
By the time his training was complete, Alcaron had become something more than he had ever imagined. He was not just an Elf of the Noldor, nor merely the son of Finwë. He was now a master of the hunt, a friend of the forests, and a rider of legend, bonded for eternity to a steed that would carry him through the ages. And when at last he rode from Oromë's halls, Silmëroch at his side, he knew that he carried with him the lessons of the Valar, forever etched into his soul.
And though shadows loomed beyond the Blessed Realm, he would meet them not with fear, but with fire in his heart.