Short Tales of Arda by grey_gazania

Light

Thanks to the Lizards for their help.

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In the gardens of Tirion, flowers have been replaced by a haphazard patchwork of vegetables - a row of tomatoes here, a rectangle of cabbages there, vital for survival and growing only by the grace of Yavanna. Digging in the cold earth, the Noldor rely on the fickle light of candles and oil-lamps to push back the ever-present gloom. If, in the privacy of their homes, they choose the unwavering glow of a Fëanorian lamp…well, as long as the curtains drawn, no one ever need know. They are the people of the stars, but their spirits ache for brighter light, hot and gleaming, and when the last fruits of the Trees finally take to the sky and dance over the earth, the shouts of joy do not echo only in Endórë.

White Light

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Dinner was finished and the kitchen clean, and Nelyo had taken Moryo to his room to read before putting him to bed; Turco had gone out hunting a few days earlier, Kano was at Taniquetil visiting Elemmírë, and the house was unusually still.

 

"Come watch the Lights with me, melissë?" Fëanáro asked, slipping an arm around Nerdanel's waist.

 

She leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder, and said, "Gladly."

 

When they were seated in the garden Nerdanel asked, "How has Carnistir been in the forge?"

 

Fëanáro sighed. "He has the most technical skill of the boys, I think, but he is uninspired. I've half a mind to ask him to watch the Lights each evening; perhaps that would induce some inventiveness."

 

"He might do better in the studio with me. And he is still quite young." Twining her fingers in his, she said gently, "It's not as though our sons lack talent, melindo - look at Tyelko and Makalaurë. And you can't call Maitimo useless."  She tipped her head and looked over at Fëanáro curiously. "And what exactly would watching the Lights do for him?"

 

"Don't you find the Light inspiring?"

 

Nerdanel considered a moment. "I find the Light beautiful," she said eventually. "I find it calming. But it doesn't offer me an inspiration for work the forge."  She pointed to one of the orange trees that grew near the house. "The Light on the trees, yes, or the Light on water... or the Light on you. But not the Light on its own.  It can't be caught; we can't make the Trees over again."

 

"Catching it wouldn't be making the Trees over again," Fëanáro countered. "Only preserving something beautiful."

 

"But why does it need preserving? It's right there to be seen, every evening."

 

"To see if it can be done," Fëanáro said matter-of-factly.  "Is that not reason enough?"

 

Nerdanel gave him a small smile. "For you, Fëanáro, I think that is always reason enough.  But it seems an exercise in vanity."

 

Fëanáro shook his head, but said only, "It would be far beyond Moryo's skill, at any rate."

 

Nerdanel ran a hand through his hair and leaned against his shoulder. "I know it's difficult for you, but appreciate it for the beauty it has," she advised, "rather than trying to improve it?"

 

"Difficult in everything but you," he answered softly, wrapping his arms around her.  "My beautiful wife."

 

Flaws

Written for Kaywinnet on Tumblr.

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Sometimes Fingolfin wishes that Fingon did not take quite so strongly after Anaire - usually on days when he comes home trailing mud, one shoe lost, but grinning his mother's grin despite his scraped knees and torn cloak as he recounts his latest bit of mischief at top speed.

 

On other days, he wishes Turgon could be less like him - looser, able to shed insults like their peaked roofs shed water, not trapped in the role of the dutiful child. And Aredhel - oh, Aredhel has the worst of them both, her mother's rashness and her father's unbending pride.

 

But it is Fingon's disregard for all fear that mends the rift in their people, and it is Turgon's caution and consideration that builds a city where Idril can grow in safety. Aredhel's reckless pride? That drives her to give everything to protect her son. And as the High King of the Noldor rides to his doom, he knows he could not wish his children to be anything other than they are.

Pray for the Foxes

Fixed-length ficlet (150 words) inspired by the Silmfic Prompt Generator: 'Let us pray for the foxes sleeping in your knees. May you always know when to run.’ -Caitlyn Siehl, 'A Prayer’

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They call me the shipwright, and my hands have indeed shaped wood into many vessels that sail the seas. But they have also shaped these cities, raised them up in wood and stone, created a place for all the Eldar to take refuge, for I do not believe in vengeance, even vengeance by inaction.

 

Now my cities burn. Great clouds of smoke rise from the walls, and the armies of Morgoth are battering at our doors, breaking like waves against the levees. Every man, woman, and child who can wield a weapon is fighting in defense of our home, but they fall by the hundreds, slain by the sword or the smoke or the orcs' poisoned arrows.

 

My people are dying, and I have only one way to save them.

 

"Fall back! Fall back to the ships! We make for Balar!"

 

A wise leader must always know when to run.

Blood and Shadows

Thuringwethil takes some time out of her busy schedule to torment a captive Maedhros. A quadruple-drabble.

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In the deepest dungeon of Angband, Maedhros woke, dry-mouthed and disoriented, to a darkness more total than he ever believed possible. Cold lips at his chest and sharp teeth tearing into his skin brought him to full awareness, and he cried out, struggling to pull away. But Morgoth's barbed chains held him fast.

 

"Such spirit, still," hissed a voice, and the darkness receded to reveal burning, bright eyes in a fog-pale face — a woman's face, blood — his blood — smeared across her mouth and staining her teeth. "I am impressed."

 

"Demon," he croaked, shuddering. A fresh stream of blood ran from the wound, and she bent her head to lap at it. He tried once more to pull away, but she only laughed.

 

"Unwise, little king," she taunted, with the iron tang of his blood on her breath. "I could kill you."

 

"You could," he rasped. "But you won't."

 

One hooked claw skittered lightly over his neck. "You sound so sure…"

 

In answer, he gathered what little saliva he could and spat at her, and then gasped with pain as her claws raked across his face, more blood spilling down to sting in his eyes. She fisted a hand in his hair and drew his face near, and when she exhaled shadows spilled from her lips to press like damp cloth over his nose and mouth. Panic fluttered in his chest as he struggled to draw breath, but he quashed it and forced himself to still. Surely she would not kill him? If Morgoth wanted him dead, he would have killed him at the false parley.

 

But as she bent again to feed on his blood and the suffocating shadow wrapped tighter around him, that flutter forced its way out from his control. He couldn't breathe, and he threw himself against the chains in futile desperation, trying to reach her, to reach his face, anything to bring back air. He barely heard her whistling laugh over the thundering of his own panicked heart, and dark oblivion soon claimed him.

 

Thuringwethil swept her shadows back under her wings before pulling the barbs free from the unresisting elf and licking at his raw wounds. He hung senseless in the chains, wheezing and blood-smeared, but she didn't spare him a glance as she glided from the cell. He would live, and she would be sure to return. Mairon had not lied about this one.

Practice

Fingon helps Maedhros re-learn a necessary skill. From a prompt on Tumblr: "Would you try for me?"

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"I will never be able to do this."

 

Fingon looked up to see that Maedhros had dropped the pen from his left hand and turned away from the scrap of parchment in front of him, looking utterly defeated. "Don't give up yet," he said to his cousin, frowning. "It's only been a few months; you'll manage it."

 

"It isn't even legible, Káno." It might have been a snap, had Maedhros been less tired; as it was, he just sounded dully resigned. "It didn't take three months to achieve readability the first time I learned this. I'm useless." He closed his eyes and continued, softly, "You should have killed me."

 

"We've been over this before. I absolutely should not have killed you," Fingon said firmly. Maedhros didn't often indulge in self-pity, but on the rare occasions when he did, Fingon had found that imitating Aunt Nerdanel's no-nonsense attitude was the best way to snap him out of it. "You are not 'useless'. You simply need more practice." He strode over to the desk and picked up the pen, pressing it back into Maedhros' hand. "Try again," he instructed, "for me if not for yourself."

 

The look Maedhros shot him was a mix of overt irritation and subtle gratitude, but he put pen to paper once more, carefully tracing out the first few letters in a wobbly hand. For Fingon, that was reward enough.

Hands

Maedhros begins to teach Elros and Elrond to wield a sword. Written for a prompt on Tumblr: "Will you hold it for me?"

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"You're really going to teach us to fight?" Elros asked, eyeing the practice swords that lay on the ground near Maedhros' feet. They were wooden and sized for the boys, and now he knew what Taraharn had been so busy with for the past few days.

 

Maedhros nodded. He was dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, his long hair pulled back from his face, and he was leaning on a wooden sword of his own, this one much longer, more suited to his great height. "You're old enough to learn," he said, "and I would have you able to defend yourselves. The wilds are a dangerous place. You know that."

 

"Aren't you afraid that we'll kill you someday?" Elros said. Elrond shot him a disapproving look, but Elros ignored him; he had always been more blunt than his brother, and he had no qualms about bringing up the truth of how they had come to live with the Sons of Fëanor.

 

"I do not fear death, Elros," Maedhros said. It was a sentiment Maglor had voiced before, but unlike Maglor, when Maedhros said it he spoke the truth. "Besides, I believe you have more sense than to try. It would do you no good."

 

Elros had to concede the point. Even if Maedhros and Maglor refused to defend themselves from the boys — and that alone was a big if — there were certainly people among their followers who would not hesitate to avenge their lords. "That's true," he admitted.

 

Elrond rolled his eyes. "I don't feel like killing anybody except Orcs," he said. "Let's stop talking and get started."

 

That got a half-smile from Maedhros. "Take up a sword," he instructed. "It doesn't matter which; they're identical in all the ways that matter."

 

Elros and Elrond looked at each other, shrugged in unison, and each picked up the sword closest to them.

 

"These are meant to be used with one hand. Maglor will teach you the two-handed method, for obvious reasons," Maedhros said dryly. "Now, hold it like this, but in your right hand. We'll start with your dominant arm." He demonstrated with his own sword, and the boys copied him. "Good," he told Elrond as he examined his grip.

 

Elros received no praise. Instead, Maedhros handed his sword to Elrond, saying, "Hold this." Then he took Elros' hand in his own, adjusting the position of the boy's fingers. "You want your thumb here," he said. "It minimizes the risk of injury to your hand if you block a blow close to the cross-guard."

 

Elros nodded, but his mind wasn't on Maedhros' words. Instead it was fixed on the calloused, scarred hand wrapped around his own — a hand that was celebrated in song for its owner's deeds in the Dagor Bragollach, but also a hand that had slaughtered his mother's people twice over. Was it irony that this hand would be the one that taught him and Elrond to fight, or was it simply misfortune?

 

He didn't know, and he was snapped out of his reverie by Elrond elbowing him in the ribs.

 

"Elros," Maedhros was saying, "are you listening to me?"

 

"I'm sorry," he said, looking up. For a moment he thought he saw the dreaded Kinslayer standing before him, but he blinked and the man became simply Maedhros again, tired-eyed but patient. "I was just— I was thinking," he tried to explain.

 

"Thinking is good, but try to keep your thoughts focused on the present," Maedhros said. "Otherwise there is no point to these lessons." He took his sword back from Elrond and held it upright in front of him. "Now, copy me."

 

Fractures

Celegorm saves Caranthir from death during the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. Written for a prompt on Tumblr: "Stay awake."

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I don't think I've ever been as frightened as I am when I see Caranthir crumple under Ulfast's mace in the midst of battle. Even Beren's hands around Curufin's neck don't compare, because at least then we had only been facing two foes. Now we're surrounded, with Orcs and Men on all sides squeezing us like a vise.

 

Ulfast is preparing to strike a second blow, so I swing at him with my sword. He blocks, but it distracts him long enough for Bor's youngest to smite him from behind. I give Borthand a grateful nod. Maybe later I'll be able to figure out what the hell has gone wrong with this battle, but right now, I just don't want my brother to die. Reaching low, I haul him onto my horse with a groan. He's heavy in full armor and my horse is already tired, but I can hear Maglor yelling for us to retreat. Gliroch will have to manage until I can get us both to safety.

 

I turn to where the fighting is thinnest and start to hew my way through, striking with a fury at anyone who dares to attack, for my brother is supine and senseless and I will not see him harmed further. Others of our people are doing the same; I catch a brief glimpse of Amras as we push through the wall of Ulfang's treacherous kinsmen. Many of them have broken rank and are running now, and I let them go. They're no threat to me, and my brother's life is worth more than revenge.

 

Finally, finally, I reach one of our camps. It's chaos, with soldiers pouring in looking for help and people rushing to pack up and move further south. But it's safer than the battlefield, so it'll do for now.

 

I dismount and pull Caranthir from Gliroch's back. He's dead weight, his eyes half closed, and the only sign of life he gives is low moan. Getting his helm off without hurting him further is a challenge, as it's badly dented where Ulfast struck, but I manage. His hair and face are sticky with blood, which is still seeping sluggishly from the wound. I probe at it with my fingertips, keeping my touch as gentle as I can, but he still lets out a pained whimper. I can feel swelling. He needs a healer, and soon.

 

"Come on, Moryo," I say, slapping at his cheeks until his eyes open. "Stay awake. Talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me— Tell me the palindromic primes."

 

He blinks up at me blearily. "Palindromic primes?" he says, his voice slurred.

 

"Yes. What's the first one? Two, isn't it?"

 

"Two," he agrees. He frowns a little and then, slowly, says, "Three. Five, seven, eleven… Um. One-hundred-and-one…"

 

He keeps going, but I stop paying too much attention. I don't know if he's getting them correct — mathematics was always his and Atto's passion, not mine — but he's awake and talking, which is what I want. I scan the throng around me for a healer. Finally I spot Melloth, and I flag her down.

 

"Snap the shaft off and keep moving," she says, and it takes me a moment to realize that she's talking about the arrow lodged in my upper arm. I open my mouth to answer, but she's already turned to Caranthir, her deft hands and sharp eyes taking in his injury.

 

"Fractured skull," she tells me; Caranthir's eyes have fallen closed and he's biting deep into his lower lip, clearly in pain from her examination. "I can get him to the point where he'll be safe to travel without incurring any permanent injury, but no more than that. There are too many wounded, Celegorm, and we need to move."

 

"Do it," I say. "I'll take care of him after."

 

She nods and sets to work, and I breathe a sigh of relief. That's one brother safe and accounted for.

 

Now I simply have to find the other five.

 

Ammë

Curufin and Celebrimbor struggle with the absence of Celebrimbor's mother.

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"Atto, will Ammë come tomorrow?"

 

"No, Tyelpo," Curufin said quietly, pulling up the blankets and tucking them in around his son.

 

"Why?"

 

"Because she did not come with us to the boats, and now there is no way for her to cross the sea."

 

"But why didn't she come?" Celebrimbor frowned and reached out a small hand, catching his father's shirtsleeve.

 

"I don't know," Curufin said softly. "Hush and sleep now, all right?"

 

"Can I have a song, Atto?"

 

"All right." He brushed some hair off the boy's forehead and began to hum softly. Celebrimbor closed his eyes, and his breathing soon became deep and even. Once Curufin was certain his son was asleep, he gently tucked the blankets more securely around him, blew out the candle, and stepped into the hall.

 

"Hey."

 

He turned. "Tyelko."

 

"Does he ask that every night?" Celegorm jerked his head in the direction of the room where Tyelpo slept.

 

"Close to it," Curufin answered, voice quiet.

 

Celegorm fidgeted and asked, a little awkwardly, "How are you?"

 

"I'm fine," Curufin said stiffly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

 

Celegorm shrugged. "I thought maybe you might…miss her."

 

"Miss her?" Curufin crossed his arms and looked at his brother incredulously. "I don't miss her. She left us; she's not worth missing."

 

"Curvo."

 

"I'm going to bed," Curufin said abruptly, cutting Celegorm off.

 

Celegorm was silent for a moment. "All right,” he said. “But if--"

 

"I'm going to bed." Curufin turned away, mouth set in a firm line.

 

Celegorm sighed. "All right. Sleep well, little brother."