They Went in Haste by Dawn Felagund

Tyelkormo fled into the forest, feet pounding past the path, until his heart felt it might burst and the tears dried on his face.

Strong Finwë! Laughable!

His body was hale and whole; it was the project he’d ruined, time devoured as he stared out the window and the blade he was softening melted—infinitely worse.

Oaks—strong, upright like his father, taking more than their share of sky—flashed past as he ran.

He did not stop till he reached the river where the willows bowed, borne on the wind to grace the water, with a strange supple strength.

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Carnistir sat, pointedly not participating in bustling commotion of his brother and cousins readying for the dance. Nerdanel insisted that Carnistir go because Taryindë was visiting and needed an escort.

(Of course. When he’d last seen her, there’d been browned blood on her face from the rabbit she’d skinned for the hideous fur cloak she was making.)

Tyelkormo dabbed on some reeking perfume, proclaiming to a giggling Aikanáro that “maids would melt into his arms.”

Carnistir sniffed and refused the bottle when proffered.

But when they departed in a fragrant clamor, hastened to touch just a finger to the stopper.

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Each stroke of the hammer quavered soft as withheld breath, matching the rhythm of his blood. The silima came into slow shape. Beyond the window, the Trees gilded, then silvered—again, again, again—his ribs rose from wasting flesh like newformed lands, hunger and exhaustion and time unfelt.

The Light cowered, dim, against the ventricle of the stone, clear as the dreams of Ulmo before Moringotto sullied the waters.

When he finally spoke, his voice was roughened by disuse but redolent with a father’s love at first encounter with a new child. The heart of the stone flared to fire.

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“Ther’s no reef! I am certain o’it!”

Voronwë managed to choke seawater onto the deck before the next wave of frigid spray, borne on wind that broke like a fist across his face, assailed him.

“The waves, th’break on something!”

Terror and doubt, livid in the eyes of his crew. The sea clashed against something unseen, the way they might uprise against a reef just below the surface, but Voronwë had been over the side—there was nothing—

Yet there is.

The rain parted briefly, revealing a light upon a tower, dim as forgiveness withheld, still.

“Turn about!” he roared.

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A bleak rampart resolved briefly from the whirling snow. I turned to the north, turned to you.

The snow closed again upon the rampart—you—but I pushed into it until I reached your ice-stiffened furs. You stared across the Anfauglith at scurrying eddies of snow, watching for an intimation of movement, of flame, upon the towers to the north.

Your hands clutched the stone, were iced there, cracked when I broke one free. Eyes once bright as Telperion, now silver like ice, kept their watch. I blew warmth into your hand with my breath.

The fingers softened. A little.

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“I won’t see him made a martyr.”

His brothers’ complaints trampled each other but the words Valar and abandon jabbed from the fray. But Maitimo—still then Maitimo—raised his hand.

“No. This was his choice, to come alone. This price … his loss … he was willing to pay.”

Curufinwë—hands ash-grimed from trying to gather their father into a box—glared but was still trained then into obedient silence.

But when Maitimo watched the first bloodied sunset from Thangorodrim, one that whelmed the stars, he regretted that the last look his brothers cast upon him was in hatred.

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Pengolodh waited until his tutor nodded off—nails set in palms, barely awake himself—and abandoned binomials and stoichiometry for the starlit beach.

A crescent of eager listeners crowded the Doriathrim scribe’s knees, a priceless gift of chocolate from Aman forsaken so he could sketch his stories in the air. Behind him, even the sea seemed to lie down and listen.

Pengolodh lingered beyond the lanternlight.

“Upon the world-tree, for nine nights I hung, my dripping blood upon the stone my price and …”

Producing a stone, wounded by his words, a tale even the sea would struggle to efface.

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What is a river but a scar?

Findekáno knew, more than the scars of his captivity, Maitimo mourned the slow hollowing of his body by time: the furrow in his brow, the slump of his shoulders.

A sheet drawn close until the last candle was snuffed.

What are mountains but assaults of the gods?

A limp he sought to hide, the way his eyes flinched at loud sounds.

A mind wandering from the book in his lap.

What are stones if not worn to dust?

His anger less at Moringotto than at the grinding time set upon him by Ilúvatar.

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Anairë would never grow used to the way the new Sun made the shadows long at the end of the day. She’d never grow used to the way it westered and burned her eyes on the road back from Alqualondë.

She’d never stop missing the touch of her children’s minds, lost over the sea.

She tucked in the last seedling in orchard row and rose, wiping her brow. Growing things still reached for light and roots still held fast.

Eärwen came to stand beside her, chin on her shoulder, earth-grimed hand squeezing her own.

Many things could rekindle, in the light.

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