Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax by The Wavesinger

First Meetings

Elros wanders off, and meets a stranger.

In which I should really, really be studying (or, Wave is a massive procrastinator).

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Maedhros and Maglor had Mannish folowers. Elros knew this, in the way he knew that the world was round, and that Finwë was his great-great-great-grandfather; it was a a remote fact, completely disconnected from his life.

He didn't expect to stumble upon a swirling, teeming mass of people, chattering and bustling, and so full of life, when he wandered away from the Fëanorion tent. Nor did he expect the girl who darted up to him with a friendly grin on her brown face and said, in perfect Quenya, "My name is Istarnië. What's yours?"

The girl was much younger than him, and Elros was at the age at which a normal youth would normally have shaken her off, irritated by her presence. Instead, he found himself responding to her. "I'm Elerossë." Then, after a pause, "I'm afraid I don't know this area very well. Could you show me around?"

 

---

Chapter End Notes

Unnecessary information: Istarnië is, in my 'verse, Elros' future wife. The age gap between them is roughly thirty years, but Elros ages slower than normal mortals. Istarnië is around seven or eight here.

Until the End of Arda

The tale of the Weaver and the Broideress.

...Um, oops? This is Miriel/Vaire, but reads more like a summary than an actual fic. Title from The Statute of Finwe and Miriel in Morgoth's Ring.

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There is the Weaver, and there is the Broideress, and, for a time, until she is rehoused, the Broideress is appointed to dwell with the Weaver.

 

~

 

The Weaver has long admired the Broideress for her tapestries, and now she teaches the Broideress to spin Time and weave into History, writing the great tale on the walls of the dead.

 

~

 

The first intimate meldings of the disembodied fëa the Weaver ignores as clumsiness in a new form.

 

~

 

Years pass, and the touches grow less.

 

~

 

The Broideress learns to talk in the language of fëar, and suddenly conversations filled with rich color thread their way through the Halls of the Dead.

 

 

~

 

The Weaver does not care for the rules of her brethren.

 

~

 

The company of the Broideress is the only thing the Weaver desires now, outside her work, and there is laughter in the Halls of the Dead.

 

~

 

The Weaver’s spouse complains, once, laughingly, that the Weaver is more in love with the Broideress than with him.

 

~

 

The Weaver realizes this is the truth.

 

~

 

It is the Broideress who takes the first, faltering step, their minds joining in a way which is unspeakable.

 

~

 

 

There is song in the Halls of the Dead, melodies of fëar entwining.

 

~

 

The tapestries hanging the walls are touched with light and beauty.

 

~

 

The King of the Noldor dies; the Broideress is free to go to the world of the living, to the world which she belongs to.

 

~

 

“I will dwell with you, in your Halls,” the Broideress says. “I will not dwell the Halls of the Dead, but I will dwell with you until the end of Arda.”

 

~

 

The Weaver rarely feels joy—hers is a task which requires lack of attachment—but now it bursts upon her like a star blooming in the morning of Eä.

This Last Embrace

Of the drowning of Gilmith.

Inspired by Elleth's An Enquiry into the Matter of Gilmith of Dol Amroth, which I highly recommend (and also you probably won't be able to understand this without reading it, sorry). Also contains references to the first part of my Like Mother, Like Daughter. It's not necessary to understand this, of course, but [SSP alert!] I hope you'll read it anyway ;).

A sum total of zero research has been done for this, which I'm going to regret soon, but I need to get the plotbunnies to go away because I have Things To Do. Also, science is completely ignored, because magic! Suspension of disbelief is therefore very necessary for this story.

"She" is, of course, Gilmith. Very pre-slashy, if you squint, but also ignorable slashiness.

Warning for attempted suicide. 

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Relief envelopes her as she sinks to the bottom of the Sea. Now, maybe, she will find rest. And maybe she will be admitted to her mother's kin, here as she dies.

The water flows over her, caresses her, swirls over her arms and legs and whispers on her breasts, her thin gown no barrier to it, and she lets it fill her throat in a kiss. A kiss so gentle, a kiss so mild. And she will die, here,  and have peace.

 

---

 

There is light, and she is still under the water. She thinks, is this what death feels like?

"You are not dead, child," a voice says.

She looks up. The woman who stands above her is tall, and carries herself as a queen. Stormy blue-grey eyes are set in a brown face framed by flowing black hair. And around her is the water. There is water, but she lies on a soft bed, and the water does not even attempt to tug her away.

She looks around; it is not a room she lies in, but there is a roof supported by four pillars, and, around it—the sea. Fish swimming, corals, and—glimpses of people? She shakes her head in wonderment and turns, again, to the woman.

"You are, indeed, here on the ocean floor," the woman smiles. "Welcome to my abode, Princess Gilmith of Dol Amroth. "

"But how?" And she finds she can speak, even though it should be impossible, in the water.

"I saved you," the woman says gently. "I took you from your ship, and you are here in  my abode. As was Erendis before you, but she did not have enough of the blood of immortals for me to keep her long. Your heritage is stronger, and you—you can stay here much longer."

She cannot understand this. What—immortality? She has chased it to the ends of the world, yes, but it has ever been a dream. And now?

One question rises above all the others bubbling in her head. "Who…who are you?"

The woman looks at her with those great grey eyes, and their depths are unfathomable. "I am Uinen."

Ownership Rights

How exactly did Maedhros offend Thingol? (On ownership rights and Silmarils)

Self-indulgent, short ficlet.

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Maglor stared at the letter for a long while. Then, “This will offend Thingol immensely.”

 

But even as he spoke, he knew that was exactly what Maedhros had planned. And, indeed, a spark danced in his elder brother's eyes as he replied: “Lúthien wrested the Silmaril from Morgoth, did she not? I addressed the letter to the current owner of the Silmaril.”

 

Maglor began to laugh. “Yes, of course. You are right. But—what of the political implications?”

 

“I find,” Maedhros flashed one of his rare smiles, as bright and beautiful as the Sun coming out of a cloud, “That I do not care.”

Bright are the Windows of Night in Her Tower

Nellas returns from a journey; she and Goldberry dance by the lily-pool.

This was written for silmladylove's Femslash February Drabbletag challenge on Tumblr, for StarSpray's prompt "Nellas/Goldberry, “The stars are in blossom, the moon is in flower”". I may have cheated a tiny bit and used the entire poem as inspiration. Oops? (The title is from the same poem.)

The 'verse was borrowed from StarSpray's Where Our Hearts are not so Frail, with kind permission. Also maybe-on-accident contains hints of my Queen Idhril stories. Again, oops?

Read Bright are the Windows of Night in Her Tower

 

The pool is their meeting-place; Nellas wanders the lands, still unfamiliar even after many years, and when she returns—most often at night—she waits, here for Goldberry.

 

Sometimes, it's so dark that nothing can be seen, but not tonight. Tonight the stars are reflected between lilies in the moonlight, and, as Nellas cups water in her hands and pours it on her face, she sees that the moon itself is full.

 

“It's a beautiful night.”

 

Nellas doesn't need to turn; she knows the soft footsteps of the River-Daughter, and shivers as a hand slides across her back. “It is.”

 

“Where did you wander, star-child? Which far path did you travel today?”

 

“Deep into the forest, and back,” Nellas answers. “Where else?”

 

“Where else indeed?” Goldberry's other hand rises to Nellas' cheek, and now she does turn, their mouths meeting halfway in a kiss.

 

Nellas can taste the forest in Goldberry's mouth, sweet berries and honey and fresh water. Her hand rises to Goldberry's beautiful golden hair.

 

Abruptly, Goldberry pulls away. “It's a night for dancing, star-child. Would you dance with me?”

 

Nellas' answer is silent, a hand around Goldberry's waist as she guides them both away from the water.

 

There is no music but the music of the wind and the trees; they sway to that gentle rhythm, for how long neither of them know. The world is still, holding its breath for this dance.

 

When the rays of the Sun creep over the horizon, they fall to the ground, and, entwined together, slumber in a bed of moss and flowers.

 

---

 

Goldberry wakes first, in the evening, and it's her fingers combing through Nellas' hair which rouse Nellas.

 

“Love?”

 

“I'm here,” Goldberry whispers.

 

Nellas smiles up at her, blinking sleepily in the golden sunlight. “You are.”

 

“Not forever.” Goldberry's tone is strange, and there's a hint of wistfulness as she holds Nellas' gaze. “Not forever, star-child. One day you will leave me.”

 

“I always come back,” Nellas murmurs. “But why so sad, on such a lovely day?” She reaches up to stroke her lover's jaw with a gentle finger.

 

“Because I remember,” Goldberry says, and the deep sadness in her eyes makes Nellas' heart ache. “You will leave, like those before you. And those after you will leave, too.”

 

Nellas sits up and turns the familiar face to hers. “I can't promise you 'forever'”—she has lived too long in this broken world for that—“but I will stay as long as I can.”

 

“As long as you can,” Goldberry says, “And then you will leave, star-child, and it will begin again.” There is a frown on her forehead, but no anger in her eyes, only quiet resignation.

 

“Come now,” Nellas replies, sweeping her fingers along Goldberry's jaw, then dipping lower, to her collarbones. “You think of something that is likely to never happen.”

 

“But it will,” Goldberry whispers, and turns her face away. “That is ever my lot in life.”

 

Nellas goes to argue, but something in Goldberry's eyes dissuades her. “Then forget what's going to happen, and think about now.” When Goldberry doesn't answer, she lifts a hand and takes something from Goldberry's hair. “Look.”

 

A flower lies on Nellas' palm, small, five-petaled, delicate. “It is beautiful.”

 

“It was lost in the depths of your hair,” Nellas says. “But here.” She tucks the flower behind Goldberry's ear.

 

Goldberry smiles. “Thank you.”

 

The Nature of Mortality

Finduilas contemplates sickness and Nienor.

I asked for prompts on Tumblr recently, and Amy Fortuna prompted 'Finduilas/Nienor, snuggling in a cave in the woods.' Here's the (not-very-good) result.

Takes place in the Somewhere I Have Never Travelled 'verse, and is also part of Legendarium Ladies April due to convenient timing.

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“Aaaah-choo!”

 

Mortals, Finduilas decided, were strange. An observation she'd made many times in the course of her (admittedly not very long, if extremely intense) acquaintanceship with Níniel, but this—this was beyond comprehension.

 

She knew, of course, of sickness; one couldn't live near mortals without a passing knowledge of such matters. The impression she'd garnered, however, was that sickness was akin to a wound—painful and of varying degrees of fatality. Not—this.

 

“Aaaah-choo!” Again, she made that strange sound, showering droplets of things which didn't bear thinking about over Finduilas. A sneeze, Níniel'd called it, another unfamiliar word, and the first few times, Finduilas had been convinced that Níniel was in intense pain, but no. “It—tickles,” Níniel had said, “But it's not painful. The headaches, though...”

 

Headache. Another thing Finduilas didn't understand. Pain in the head was dangerous, her training had told her, but Níniel had laughed when Finduilas had told her this. Laughed. Which resulted in a bout of what Níniel called coughing—a low, hacking sound which reminded Finduilas of the breathing of an almost-dead person. An observation which, for some reason, Níniel had found funny.

 

So now she snuggled next to her lover (for warmth, Níniel had said, although what warmth Níniel needed when her skin was burning and she was wrapped in layers upon layers of cloth was debatable. It must be a ploy, but for what, Finduilas couldn't understand. Anything Níniel wanted, she only had to ask for). Her very sick lover, who was sneezing. “Do you—is there something you can do to make those go away?”

 

Níniel blinked blearily. “The sneezing? No. It'll go away when it wants to.”

 

“And the—coughing?”

 

“There are some cures, but—not here.” Níniel sighed, her breath rattling loud enough for Finduilas to hear. There was a pause, during which they stared at the rain pounding down in the woods outside the cave. It was shelter, Finduilas reflected, and they'd searched for hours in the rain, soaked and miserable, before they found this place, and it was dry and warm, the fire Finduilas'd managed to light crackling cheerily. They even had supplies; they'd finished their hunting when the rain struck. Still, the space was cramped and her lover was miserable and they'd been here for two days now, and she wished the rain would stop so they could make their way back home.

 

When this thought was voiced aloud, Níniel nodded in agreement, her face moving against the hollows of Finduilas' throat. “Home...sounds nice.”

 

The scratchy, raw voice made Finduilas wince (and how did illness affect Níniel's voice, of all things) and she tightened her arms around her lover. “That it does.”

 

“Mmm-hmmm.” Níniel burrowed deeper into Finduilas' throat, and when Finduilas looked down at her, her eyes were closed, eyelids red and puffy, and her cheekbones a sharp too-thin, the plait Finduilas had braided coming undone.

 

She caught the stray strands, twirling them around her finger. Níniel's mouth opened in a yawn. “Níniel, love?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Sleep.”

 

“Don't want to leave you alone,” Níniel murmured.

 

“You'll be right here with me, only asleep.” Finduilas pressed a kiss to Níniel's forehead.

 

“Fine.” A huff of breath. “Love you, Fin'.”

 

“Sleep,” Finduilas repeated. And then, softer, “I love you too, Níniel.”