Release the Bonds of Winter by Dawn Felagund

The Bridge

From their far journeys they brought tidings of a great mustering of Orcs and evil creatures under the eaves of Ered Wethrin and in the Pass of Sirion; and they told also that Ulmo had come to Cí­rdan, giving warning that great peril drew nigh to Nargothrond.
"Of Túrin Turambar"

Túrin ponders the imminent arrival of Morgoth's army and the necessity of destroying the bridge to Nargothrond.

Read The Bridge

There is still a bite of winter on the wind. I stand upon the bridge, feet planted wide, and survey the shore of the Narog.

Behind me, I sense Orodreth, though he speaks not. He won't, for though he is learned as was his brother, clever words are only half of that required to convince me to destroy the bridge built by my own hands: The rest is the courage to speak them. Once, I asked Orodreth what was his greatest asset as King?--and mercy, he replied.

Mercy will not hold him in battle, yet it may bring Morgoth to his door.

At my side, Gurthang hangs heavy with the weight of my deeds. Sometimes, I wonder, do I list when I walk? Bitter laughter bubbles to my lips; is bitten back. One day, I will face Morgoth. One day, the sword washed in the blood of a friend will taste the ichor of the Gods and let Morgoth fall heavy on that day from what he has wrought of me.

Orodreth draws a shivering breath. He means to speak. To protest.

My bridge is strong beneath my feet.

And I whisper upon the bitter wind, "Let them come."

Sudden Flame

The sons of Finarfin bore most heavily the brunt of the assault, and Angrod and Aegnor were slain; beside them fell Bregolas lord of the house of Bëor, and a great part of the warriors of that people.
"Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin"

After his rescue from Dagor Bragollach, Finrod receives a vision of his brothers' fate.

Read Sudden Flame

I awaken with a jerk. A healer is working on my arm. "Be still, my lord," he says without much patience. Many are the wounded, and I delay him. I should make apology, but--

the dream

--was what came to me a vision? I close my eyes. I feel not the sting of the needle in and out, in and out of the wound in my arm. The smell of pine assails me. The trees are thrashing against a bone-white sky; the earth is flinty and the hoofbeats of our horses very loud against it, our laughter seeming to reach as far as the heavens ...

Or two little boys. Two restless little boys alike with their golden hair, trying to be respectful to their older brother reading to them, but the smaller bursting out, in spite of himself, "Can we go, Findaráto, to play?" A wooden sword hidden beneath the table, across his knees.

Deeper, I slide into dreams. Deeper.

The smell of fire.

The clash of swords in the courtyard, only these are not made of wood. The pines thrash harder and fall. They remember the laughter. They remember the laughter, even as it turns to screams.

For Love of the Moon

In Lórien are his gardens in the land of the Valar, and they are the fairest of all places in the world, filled with many spirits.
Valaquenta

I'll confess to having something of an obsession interest in the Maia Tilion. (This might begin to explain why. ;) In The Book of Lost Tales, "The Coming of the Valar and the Building of Valinor," it is said that Irmo loved Tilion (then Silmo). Since then, I have had a bunny nibbling my ankle, asking me to consider that love. Here, I do so, in 300 words.

As such, some will consider this a slash story. I'm not sure that I do, but you have been forewarned.

Read For Love of the Moon

From behind the silver boughs of a willow, I watch him enter the garden. He staggers a little; he is wearied. The hunt is long, and he stinks of blood and the sharp winds of the Outer Lands.

I close my eyes. I coax a warm wind heavy with the scent of poppies, and I let it wrap him. Caress him. Take the blood off his hands and the ache from his bones. It cradles him as he collapses to his knees, then comes to lie, beside my Sister's pool.

Tilion …

If the wind--if I--sigh his name, then he hears only in dream. Is that a smile upon his lips? I leave my hiding place upon silent footfalls and ease closer.

But then there is my Brother--ebony hair and eyes sharp and green like a beast's--in my thoughts, where he remains since the Music, sudden as a dash of water to the face. Irmo--Brother beloved--have I not told you? My name in his voice as harsh as hammer against anvil. Already have I said too much, but I transgress for love of you, Brother. Your fate and his are different. Give him not your heart, for he shall not keep it.

Too late. I open my eyes, and I am at Tilion's side. His silver hair falls like water through my fingers. There is a gash on his arm, clotted already, but not healed: our failings in these forms we take. Were we elemental, I could wrap him and our Musics combine into a song as beautiful as anything that Eru, in his might, foresaw.

I touch the cut, and, by my Power, it heals. The wind stops. By an iota yet, I weary.

A bead of his blood quavers at my fingertip.

Death of Cold

Winter is upon me again. Today, we had our first significant snowfall in my hometown, and I felt the first touches of seasonal dysthymia, so I thought I'd try to hold off the thought of both with some writing. Unfortunately, I think the quote Chance chose for me might have only made things worse ...

For between the land of Aman that in the north curved eastward, and the east-shores of Endor (which is Middle-earth) that bore westward, there was a narrow strait, through which the chill waters of the Encircling Sea and the waves of Belegaer flowed together, and there were vast fogs and mists of deathly cold, and the sea-streams were filled with clashing hills of ice and the grinding of ice deep-sunken.

The Silmarillion, "Of the Flight of the Noldor"

The Noldor arrive at the Helcaraxë and at a change within themselves that they never expected. A triple drabble (300 words).

Read Death of Cold

Our arrival at Helcaraxë was not sudden. It came upon us like melancholia, like disquiet, like betrayal. It came upon us like evil: creeping in upon the peripheries of our senses, first lifting the hairs on our arms, then sending minute shivers the lengths of our bodies; first leaching the world of color--what frail colors could remain in the coronas of our lamps--then erasing all that was lovely with ice; first dulling our voices, then muting them, then--with a crack and a splash and a scream barely perceived--silencing them entirely.

Our unceasing footfalls acted as a metronome to the slow invasion of despair into our spirits, to the ice thickening beneath our feet.

Then, a moment--

A moment when we, nearly as one, looked heavenward, and we saw darkness broken only by stars; we looked around us, and we saw only ice, and each other: All life was gone.

We were alone.

The tales that followed would speak of the first crunch of our feet upon ice; would speak of a lingering touch upon the last tree we passed; would speak of the way that the sky opened suddenly when we left the mountains and forests of Valinor behind; would speak of the sharp pain of the ice, of sudden death, of severity, of light and shadow. The tales that followed would speak of shock! suddenness! as though we hadn't foreseen Fëanáro's betrayal, as though death of drowning is ever quick. The tales that followed were meant to make the audience gasp, eyes gone wide. The tales that followed were wrong.

The ice--the evil--crept upon us. It was a slow death of cold. We were long in feeling it settle upon our flesh. We were longer still in feeling it settle in our hearts.

---

Chapter End Notes

Moreth wrote an answer to this piece called The Ice in the North that considers the crossing from a slightly different perspective. It's a gorgeous piece; please check it out!

Love by Moonlight

But the Noldor named them also Rána, the Wayward, and Vása, the Heart of Fire, that awakens and consumes; for the Sun was set as a sign for the awakening of Men and the waning of the Elves, but the Moon cherishes their memory.

The Silmarillion, "Of the Sun and the Moon"

Tilion observes two kinds of love one night in Beleriand. Implied Maedhros/Fingon.

Read Love by Moonlight

Love by Moonlight

This night, I turn my face full to Arien's splendor. The land beneath me is silver light and black shadows, save for the throbbing firelight. The Newcomers celebrate my fullness. It is the night of their fertility festival. They yet know little, only that the rhythms of their women echo mine and how quickly life is snuffed beneath Death's dark foot. So life must spread, catch like fire upon tinder, and my gravid light in the sky symbolizes their hopes. Their bodies thrash and twist, then merge; the fire leaps higher.

The Newcomers are not alone in their love this night. Far in the north, the Elven King walks with his cousin. The cousin speaks, endlessly, of allegiance. His hair is fire-red, the sole splash of color against a monochrome night. The Elven King says naught. For centuries, he has said naught. One more night is no burden.

But their hands catch. "Nelyo. Hush. Rána upon the snow … look--it is beautiful."

A warm hand squeezes life into cold fingers, and for a moment, they do not speak of war. "You are right. It is."

But war will not wait. One more night will pass; they will say naught.