Motionless in Time by The Wavesinger

The Selfish King

Poem: Invictus by W.E. Henley

Line: I am the master of my fate

Summary: Before his death, Gil-galad reflects.

Characters: Gil-galad, Elrond

Notes: Nai Vardo eleni siluva lyenna, Aran Meletyalda—may the stars of Varda shine upon you, Your Majesty. Naintë inyë siluvalyë, Elerondo—may they shine upon you too, Elrond. Both of these phrases are probably full of errors, but I needed to emphasize that these lines were in Quenya and the rest in Sindarin.

Words: 600

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Odd, is it not? Fear has left me.

In this hour, I am not afraid.

When we do battle with Sauron, Elendil and I, I will not be afraid.

That is the only way I can control my fate: how I die.

How calm that sounds! I should be trembling when I say it, but I am not. I should have trembled when Elrond, his voice eerie and ghost-like, foretold my death. Indeed, I should have trembled at my own birth, born as I was to a Noldorin father under the Doom, doomed myself to fail at all I try to accomplish.

I do not tremble.

Some would say it is courage. But courage—this is not courage. I would have been courageous if I had refused to believe the vision, if I had lived on for the sake of my people. I did not.

So this is not courage.

It is simply will. The will, I think, to survive. And if I cannot survive, the desire to choose how I die.

And that is what I told Elrond: that I have two choices. To die for my people, or to die for myself.

He does not know that I chose myself.

For this is my choice. Myself above others. A glorious death in battle against Sauron, instead of a last stand in defense of our people, or a sacrifice for their freedom.

That is hardly selfish, many would say, but that is in their world. This is my world, Elrond's world, atar's world. The world of the Noldor, where all things begun well turn to evil. In this world, it is selfish to choose how you die.

But I have chosen, and may Námo judge me for it. I do not care right now.

All I care is that I have chosen to go to my death, chosen a glorious death over my people.

And I am glad for it.

Let any who find out say that it is a twisted thing. I do not care.

Because, for once, I have a choice.

And I have chosen to die without fear, to die in battle against a foe mightier than me by far. I have chosen to die in single combat against Sauron in defense of the Alliance of Elendil and Gil-galad

When put like that, my choice does not sound so selfish. And maybe it is not. I do not know.

Elrond enters the pavilion without knocking, pushing the flap open with his uninjured hand. "It is time, Your Majesty."

I nod silently, and Elrond hands Aiglos to me. "Nai Vardo eleni siluva lyenna, Aran Meletyalda."

"Naintë inyë siluvalyë, Elerondo," I murmur. Then, on impulse, I hug him. "Take care, old friend. I shall be very disappointed if you join me in the Halls of Mandos before your time."

"And you, Ereinion, too. Prophecies are fallible, you know that. More often than not, they are self-fulfilling," Elrond says sternly. So sternly, in fact, that he looks like a father scolding his errant offspring.

I smile sadly. "Not this one, Elrond. This was foretold by the Doom of Mandos, and that prophecy, if none else, will come true."

"The Doom was lifted," Elrond says. His eyes catch my own, but, for the first time in centuries, I look away. "No, Elrond. It was not. Only the Ban was lifted. The Doom was not. This way, at least I do not die for nothing. At least your brother's people will gain something from this."

Before he can reply, I walk out of the tent, into the dust of Mordor.

The Dancer

Poem: Museum Piece by Richard Wilbut

Lines: See how she spins! The grace is there/But strain as well is plain to see.

Summary: The Valië of joy contemplates her burden.

Character: Nessa

Notes: Vaiaro is an old and very likely obsolete name for Ulmo, meaning Lord of Vaiya.

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Nessa the Fleet-footed, they call her, Nessa the Dancer. She who laughs.

Tears are only for Nienna, for ever-cheerful Nessa never needs them. She dances lightly through the woods of Valinor, and even the Eldar smile indulgently at her, as if she is a child. Not at Vána, the Ever-young, Valië of youth and beauty and love, not at Yavanna mother of the Earth, not at Tulkas or Oromë. Only ever at Nessa the Joyful.

She is an amusement to them, a diversion from heavier matters, and she minds, but she will not show it. Happiness is her burden, and sometimes she thinks it is a harder task than those of even the Weeper or the Weaver, a heavier burden than the burdens of Súlimo or Vaiaro or even of the Fëanturi.

But she is the Dancer, and she dances.

And the world still spins and there is still mirth.

The Land of the Dead That Live

Poem: The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats

Line: And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow

Summary: This once in the history of Arda, valour, love, and sacrifice will reap their reward.

Characters/Relationships: Beren, Lúthien, Beren/Lúthien

Notes: Not much substance, just musings. For Crackers, as an apology.

Word count: 100

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Dor Firn-i-Guinar, people call it, the land of the dead that live. But to them it is simply Home.

Everything they need is found there; trees laden with fruit, sparkling streams of fresh water. Flowers spring up beneath Lúthien’s feet, and birds and beasts flock to Beren.

Its beauty is all-encompassing.

And slowly, slowly, it strips them of their cares, their weariness, their injuries, until finally, they are worry-free, their hearts unburdened by life’s agonies. Then, for a time, they are at peace.

This once in the long history of Arda, valour, love, and sacrifice will reap their full reward.

The Stars are Gone

Poem: When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats

Lines: Murmur, a little sadly, how loved fled/ And paced upon the mountains overhead/ And hid his face amid a crown of stars

Summary: Fingon has a dream. Afterwards, Fingon and Turgon talk.

Characters/Relationships: Fingon, Turgon, Maedhros; Fingon/Maedhros, brief Turgon/Elenwë

Warnings: Torture, implied cousin-cest

Music: Hold On by Aiden Grimshaw (the perfect Maedhros song, actually)

Notes: I follow Myths Transformed in a lot of thing, hence the mentions of the Sun. A warning: this is worse than my usual, so read at your own risk. Also, grammar and spelling leave a lot to be desired. I tried, but somehow when I try to change the grammar, the whole piece is destroyed.

Word count: 999, according to the notoriously wrong Microsoft

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Maitimo! Come back! Calling into the deep darkness—

 

—that wraps around them, then flame, and a mad laugh in a once-familiar voice, a hand thrusting out a torch, throwing flame onto ships, a flash of red—

 

—blood on the quays of Alqualondë, swords against harpoons, slaughter, amidst the chaos a smile of greeting—

 

—that turns into a horrified grimace at the sight of a limp figured being carried by two people onto slope, a wail—

 

—of pain, gulped back but perceived by his tormentors, the whips and chains and hideous instruments that defy description falling faster, faster, forcing him onto his knees—

 

—before a terrible figure, tall and mighty, cloaked in darkness but crowned by stars, a sudden, terrible sense of danger making him shiver—

 

—in the cold, almost frozen to death, then burn in the glare of the sun until he almost melts, hanging high atop a mountain, unable to move for pain, hunger, thirst—

 

“Maitimo!” Findekáno wakes with a cry, looking about wildly.

 

“What is it, Káno?” Turukáno has hurried to his side, his hair in disarray and a cloak pulled about him haphazardly. Findekáno sits up, thinking for a moment that it is Maitimo, but then the face above him comes into focus.

 

“Sorry, Turvo,” he says, sinking back down into his meager pile of blankets. “I…had a dream.”

 

His brother nods, needing to hear no more; dreams have become more frequent as the distance between them and Aman increases, especially among the Finwionnath. Some say that it is Irmo’s magic, to discourage the Noldor even further, others that it is Morgoth’s. Findekáno thinks that it is their own minds at work.

 

“I am fine,” he murmurs, shaking himself, “But what about everyone else? No losses tonight?” The instant he says the word, he winces. Elenwë was one of the ‘losses’ and Turukáno still has not recovered from it, though he hides it well. But at the same time, he wonders at the change in himself, for Káno the elder brother and Káno the lover would not have thought to ask such a question. Prince Findekáno, the leader and warrior, cannot imagine not asking.

 

Turukáno pulls him out of his musing with gentle poke. “They are fine, Káno. Everyone is safe, I just checked.”

 

Findekáno nods absently. “I will take over the supervision of the night watch.”                                                     

 

“No,” Turukáno says firmly, “I cannot let you—you need the sleep.”

 

“Cannot let me? Turvo, you need the sleep far more than I do.”  Findekáno snorts. “Go to bed, Turvo, and do not dare to get up until I call you.” He realizes belatedly that he is speaking as Turukáno’s elder brother, not as a prince and the heir of Ñolofinwë.

 

Turukáno seems to have thought the same thing, for he smiles fondly. “Ah well, the elder brother in you had to surface some day. I suppose you were instructed in the art of brotherly persuasion by Maitimo—”

 

They both freeze. Maitimo is a forbidden subject, like Elenwë, and Turukáno knows it.  “I am sorry, Káno, I was not thinking, I simply—”

 

“Let it be,” Findekáno sighs, getting up with some difficulty and tossing his blankets to Turukáno. The chill immediately hits his body, even through layers of clothing. Findekáno closes his watering eyes so that the tears will not solidify, pressing his lips firmly together to stop his teeth from chattering. “Let it be, Turvo.”

 

Turukáno looks up at his brother from where he has burrowed into the blankets. “What did you see?”

 

Blinking, Findekáno says, “What are you talking about?”

 

“The dream you had—what did you see?”

 

Findekáno is silent for a long while. Finally, “I saw him.”

 

Turukáno sighs, knowing that this is unavoidable, that his brother needs the catharsis that only telling someone else can bring. After an appropriate silence, he asks “Well, Káno? What did you see?”

 

Findekáno turns to meet his eyes, and Turukáno almost recoils from what he sees. A pale, still face, utterly drained of any hope, worn and tired, haunted eyes twisted to bitterness. “What I usually see, and more. Alqualondë, and the way he smiled that day, all cool and calm, and Losgar. I still do not know whether he burned the ships or not, since the dream is unclear, but he most likely did.”

 

That itself is enough to send anyone mad, Turukáno knows, but he senses there is more. “And?”

 

Findekáno still holds Turukáno’s gaze. “I saw…I saw him, many times. I saw Fëanáro’s body, and what it looked like before he died, and I saw…terrible things. I saw his in pain, Turvo, and I felt his pain. It was like my whole body was on fire, and I wanted it to stop, but I knew, somehow, that it in reality it was worse. And I saw him captured by Moringotto, and tormented so much—so much, Turvo!—and still resisting. And then I saw him hanging by one hand, alone in the mountains, with no-one to help him. And Turvo, I saw him pray to the Valar. He prayed for so many things. For freedom first of all, and when that did not work, death, then his family’s and our safety. And none of the prayers were answered. And I heard him pray one last time, Turvo, to Varda. He asked for so little—just some light that did not burn him or blind him. But Turvo, even then, the Valar ignored him. I saw. I saw that the Sun we have heard so much of was there, and the Moon, and they pained him so much. Only starlight he would have been able to stand, because the stars are so far away that they would not be able to harm him. And he begged and begged for that light, that light which we see and take almost for granted in spite of our hymns and songs—after all, they are just relics of the past. But, Turvo, the stars were gone.”

No Tools to Forget

Poem: Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Lines: I know what the caged bird feels, alas!/When the sun is bright on the upland slopes

Summary: Aredhel, trapped in Gondolin

Characters/Relationships: Aredhel, background Aredhel/OFC

Warnings: Sexism, minor allusion to homophobia.

Notes: This is a thinly-veiled, self-indulgent rant. Don’t ask. (Also, first time writing Aredhel. Yay?) Many thanks to Himring for pointing out those two typos *blushes*.

Word count: 450

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Gondolin is small.

 

Not small by the standards of most people, true, but compared to the wide, rolling plains of Valinor, compared to the vast wilderness of Beleriand, compared to what Aredhel had been used to, before, Gondolin is small.

 

And the mountains loom all round her, entrapping her in the white city that bears painful echoes of home, not real enough to be true, but real enough to make her regret.

 

She has not fought her way to Beleriand, has not shed sweat, blood and tears, has not lost her beloved Niélë even before they bonded, to be trapped in a city, in a cage of her brother’s making.

 

Turgon loves this city, and she does not understand. She does not understand how memory and pain do not turn the high peaks into prison walls, and he does not understand how she cannot dwell in this place of peace.

 

Forgetting does not work, for she does not have the tools to forget. Any ride across the plain is unsatisfying, for she can see the end of the journey, and that destroys the thrill. Any footrace is hampered by men who slow down for her, thinking she cannot handle their speed; men who cannot learn, after all this time, that she is not weak, that women are not weak. As for sparring, only Glorfindel and Ecthelion would allow a woman to spar with them, and most days, they are busy with council-work. With work for a council she is not allowed into, despite being one of the highest-ranking nobles in the city. A council which only allows Idril to sit in because she is the Princess, and considers her insights foolish.

 

Aredhel begins to understand why Artanis—Galadriel now, she must remember—joined the Sindar in their forest, ruled by their Queen. Begins to understand why her aunt Lalwen stayed behind with Fingolfin, who would respect her ability to work, at least.

 

Of all the curses of Middle-earth, this is the worst. This is far by the worst. In Valinor, they shook their heads at her actions, but they never truly sought to prevent her. Never sought to bind her spirit and restrain her like a wild thing.

 

Aredhel begins to wonder if she will be trapped here forever, never again able to feel the wind in her hair properly, never again able to fight, never again able to love like she loved Niélë—here, they even scorn the love of two women, as if a woman without a man is a horror and tragedy beyond the tragedies she has witnessed.

 

But she cannot let this world overtake her, cannot let herself drown.

 

She will escape this place. She must.