Tales of Fear and Woe by lightofthetrees

Chapter 1: All shall fade

Aredhel becomes lost in Nan Elmoth. Eöl is a creep. 
If stalking (via magic) makes you uncomfortable, consider this a content warning. 
Thanks for reading!  

Read Chapter 1: All shall fade

“Mist and shadow,
cloud and shade,
all shall fade,
all shall fade.”
(excerpt from “A Walking Song” - Tolkien)

Not long after Írissë entered the forest, it began to rain. Water dripped from the leaves of the gnarled, twisted trees, turning the soil beneath her boots to thick mud. It was nearly nightfall, she knew, and it was steadily becoming even darker here. Colder, too. The wind chilled her even through her cloak.

Still, she trudged on. According to her estimation, she would reach the edge of the forest again soon.

“Ecthelion?” she called. “Laurefindil?” After so many hours alone, shouting their names into the encroaching night was more of a ritual than anything else. If there was the chance that they might hear her, though, it would be worth seeming foolish.

She could not tell how much time had passed before she called out for her companions again, but it was fully dark now.

“Ecthelion?”

There was only the whistle of wind and the sound of falling raindrops.

“Laurefindil?”

An owl called from high in the trees above.

Her chest tightened as she realized that, despite her best efforts, she was well and thoroughly lost. Alone. Pulse and pace both quickening, she walked on. The path twisted and turned beneath her feet, wandering like water on a windowpane, and in her weariness, she followed it thoughtlessly, pausing only to push away brambles and keep her footing on slippery rocks.

Midnight arrived, and neither the edge of the forest nor her companions were anywhere in sight. She sank to the ground in the hollow of a rock-formation, her legs refusing to carry her any further. Pressing her back against the stone, she pulled her knees up to her chest and enveloped herself in her cloak. Curled up in this manner, she fell into a fitful slumber, numb and cold.

It was difficult to tell whether it was morning when she awoke, and even more difficult to tell how long she had been sleeping. What had woken her, though, chilled her to the very bone.

A whisper, ghostly as mist. The feeling of soft lips close to her ear. Ar-Feiniel.

But when her eyes snapped open and she looked about, there was no one to be seen. Not even when she rose to peer around the rock and scan the high branches of the trees did she see any living being.

Deciding to try and re-trace her steps from the day before, she forced her stiff body to obey and set off down the path she thought she had followed before falling asleep.

Again, the way forward seemed to be more circular than was natural, like a maze turning inwards on itself. As her confusion grew and her confidence in her navigational abilities waned, anxiety crept in. Every sound in the forest, every birdcall and snapped twig, irked her until she felt like screaming.

She stopped, dizzy head in her hands, breathing hard. Think, Írissë. Think!

Another whisper, feather-light. This way.

As Írissë turned her head to follow the whisper, she saw a narrow, bramble-lined path she had not noticed before. The way the words had crept up her spine may have been unsettling, but at least they gave her some direction.

The wind sighed through the trees as Írissë continued onward. She shivered at its touch upon her face. Although she knew the thought was ridiculous, it felt too much like a caress for her comfort.

For hours, or perhaps even days, she wandered. Time in this place was as thick and inscrutable as the mud the ground had become. Thorned branches tangled in her hair and tore at her skirts and cloak. Thoughts swirled in her mind and fear and hunger lodged in her stomach. Her lips grew dry and cracked with thirst, and the chill of the air seeped into her very core, but there was nothing to do but to keep moving.

That is, until she staggered among a web of spidery roots, one of them suddenly catching her foot.

Pain raced from up her calf and glimmers of agony attacked her ankle like tiny stars. She barely caught herself in time as she fell to the muddy ground, muscles straining with the impact, and her breath released in an undignified grunt. Mumbling curses, Írissë scrambled to gather herself, to inspect the damage to her leg.

She could move her foot a little – her ankle wasn’t broken – but how would she ever escape the forest now? She felt tears burn behind her eyes.

“Here, let me help you,” a silken voice said, jarring her from her despair. A gloved hand, politely proffered, hovered at the edge of her vision.

Írissë looked up to meet a pair of dark, dark eyes set in a face paler than moonlight. 

Chapter 2: Stars hide your fires

A young Celebrimbor tries to process what he witnessed at the First Kinslaying. His grandfather is not helpful.

Read Chapter 2: Stars hide your fires

MACBETH [Aside] 
The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step 
On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, 
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; 
Let not light see my black and deep desires: 
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. (1.4.55-60)

“Tyelpë.”

He tried not to act startled at Fëanáro’s approach, and did not meet his eyes. Instead he watched the white foam of the wake left by their ship. “Grandfather?”

“We did only was necessary, Tyelpë.”

Despite his feigned indifference, the young elf turned towards Fëanáro, confusion and hurt in his glance. “What? I –”

“You’ve been avoiding me. Avoiding all of us,” he snapped. “Why.” It was not a question.

Tyelpë chewed at the inside of his cheek. How could he tell Fëanáro how disgusting this all felt, how wrong, when the embers of rage still glowed in his eyes like that?

“Were you expecting us to gain freedom without struggle?”

Tyelpë’s throat burned with bile and he stared out over the waves. “Struggle? Grandfather…that was a massacre.”

Fëanáro’s jaw tightened, and Tyelpë knew he had misspoken. “Would you have rather stayed in Tirion, wallowing in darkness for all your days?” his words were sharp, all pretense of familial concern gone.

“N-no.”

“Then why do you whimper like a child still?” he snarled.

“Their blood…”

“Was the price of our liberation!” Fëanáro’s eyes blazed bright with furious conviction.

Disgust roiled in Tyelpë’s stomach, churning like the waves, and he could no longer bear Fëanáro’s presence, the steel of his will, the fey light in his eyes.  

Without a word, Tyelpë bolted across the deck, fleeing for the safety and silence of the cabins below, where not even the stars could see him. The stars knew all the foulness of the deed the Noldor had done, and their wan light was like the weight of their wrongdoing pressing down upon him.

Tyelpë hadn’t wept the day the Trees had been extinguished. He hadn’t wept the day his father had told him to pack his things, that they were to leave. He had borne his mother’s tearful kisses and pleas to stay behind with stoicism.

This night, he lay in his bunk on the stolen ship and wept, wishing only for the kisses he had so gruffly rejected, wishing to be soothed and told it was all a bad dream. It didn’t matter that he was nearing his majority. He would give anything to be back in Tirion with his Ammë, Oath or no Oath. He felt so sick, so small. So vile for what he had witnessed.

The footsteps and voices of his family on the upper deck rolled above him like thunder.

Macalaurë. “He is still a child, Atar!”

Grandfather. “He must understand.”

Macalaurë, again. “You just cannot bear to see the guilt on his face! It is the guilt we all feel, and it grieves you. It should grieve you.”

The hollow sound of an open palm – Fëanáro’s – meeing Macalaurë’s face. Shocked silence.

There was no more talking.

Tyelpë’s eyes drifted shut, drowsy with his crying, but the memories of what he had seen, what he so desperately wished he could un-see, lurked behind his eyes, ready to spring upon him in his weakness.

Tyelpë had not taken up a sword – he was too young – but he could see the carnage from around the knot of guards that had formed about him. The blood of the Teleri had shone so brightly, so abundantly. He had not known there was so much blood in a body. The cacophony of clashing steel and battle-shouts fell as a deafening deluge on his ears, punctuated only by the low splashing of armored elves falling, being pushed from the piers to drown in the heaviness of their armor or swim back to shore and re-join the fray.

He looked desperately for his father’s face, any face he knew, but he could not find them. There were only monsters.

---

Chapter End Notes

Bonus points for finding the other Macbeth reference in here.

Chapter 3: The wild hunt

Mairon goes hunting.

Read Chapter 3: The wild hunt

“So it came to pass, some years ere the coming of Oromë, that if any of the Elves strayed far abroad, alone or few together, they would often vanish, and never return; and the Quendi said that the Hunter had caught them, and they were afraid.” (The Silmarillion: ‘Of the Coming of the Elves’)

---

Mairon’s blood sang in exhiliration, thrumming through his veins, as he pursued the pair of Quendi. The sounds of their panicked footfalls, their ragged breaths, fell as music upon his keen ears, and he could taste the scent of their fear upon his tongue.

The first Quendi he and his master had taken had been easy to ensnare by guile and feigned kindess. Now the Firstborn were wary of the dark forests, and the gathering of specimens had become one of Mairon’s favorite games. He would watch one of their camps for a time, waiting, and when one or two wandered off alone, he would take on the shape of a great dark wolf, and the hunt would begin.

The two he was chasing now, he thought, must have been lovers. They had stolen off into the forest with laughter and whispers and soft touches. Perhaps he would take them both back to his master, he mused as they drew more weary and he grew closer – watching the reactions of one to the suffering of the other would make it all the sweeter. Or perhaps he would devour one now, leaving a bloodied corpse for the rest of the tribe to find, and take the other with him as they wailed for their lost love. He shivered in anticipation and ran faster still, letting out a resounding growl. Taunting, teasing.

One of the Quendi let out a cry, tears in the sound. The other spoke thin and trembling words in response. Mairon howled his laughter, and they fell silent.

They were deliciously close now. He could hear the clacking of the little wooden charms the smaller one wore in their hair, above the low drumbeats of their hearts. They beat so closely in time that he thought for a moment he only heard one. How fascinating. They seemed to be connected in some way, though they were only joined by a hand. He would have to find out more.

To his great joy and surprise, the Quendi stopped, one of them drawing in large, gasping breaths, and the other looking about with apprehension and trying to push their companion onwards.

It was time. Mairon pounced, quickly and silently. His teeth met soft flesh and he smiled around the wound, lashing out with his claws to bring the unwounded elf into line. The bodies hit the ground one after another, scrambling in vain to escape the inevitable. A warm satisfaction filled him as he lapped at the blood of the one he’d caught by the leg, restricting the thrashing of the other with the weight of a paw on their chest.

In that moment, he loved his lord more fiercely than ever. This was the true gift of Melkor: to be free, to have dominion over those lesser than himself.

Chapter 4: The iron price

Elrond and Elros face their fears and talk to Maedhros.
The prompt made me think of Maedhros losing his hand (Angband - "hell of iron" - etc.). This is not really a horror story, but I imagine that El & El found Maedhros pretty frightening early on. 
Content warning: implied suicidal thoughts

Read Chapter 4: The iron price

“It’s not funny, you know! You shouldn’t be in here,” Elrond said quietly, trembling a little. The twins knew they were not to go into Lord Maedhros’ rooms, but Elros had done so anyway. Of course Elros would choose to hide there. He so loved to do what was forbidden to him. He just had to turn this game of hide and seek into something that would get them both in trouble.

“Elros!” Elrond hissed, more urgency in his voice, shuffling his restless feet. “Please.”

There was no answer. Elrond sighed and stepped further into the room, despite his better judgment, beginning to peer into the corners and under desks and tables. After a few minutes of looking, there was no sign of his brother. Not behind the drapes, not in the armoire. There was only one place left in the bedroom to check – under the bed itself.

When Elrond pulled the bedskirt aside, ever so gingerly, a metal hand leapt out at him, nearly putting out his eye. He screamed, much to the delight of Elros, who laughed, clutching at his sides, as he slithered out from under the bed.

“If only you could have seen your face!” He wheezed. “Honestly, Elrond, you’re so jumpy!” Taking up the metal hand once more, he brandished it in front of his brother. “Bleh, look, it’s Lord Maedhros! Most fearsome of the Eldar! I’m coming to –“

“Coming to what?” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway to the next room, stopping Elros in his tracks.

The twins’ eyes widened in unison. Elros quickly hid the metal hand behind his back as if he had not just been using it to threaten his brother.

Maedhros stood in the doorway, dressed in a plain tunic and breeches, his flame-colored hair hanging wet around his face. He must have just come from the bath, Elrond thought. That was why he’d been gone from his bedroom, why Elros had been able to sneak in and steal the hand he wore in place of the one he’d lost.

And, as usual, Maedhros was frowning. Elrond shook, silent, his fingers digging into his brother’s arm.

Elros gulped before he said, “Nothing, sir.”

“It did not sound like nothing,” Maedhros replied, his tone unchanged. It was flat, without curiosity and without humor.

“We were just playing,” Elros asserted. He elbowed his twin. “Isn’t that right, Elrond?”

Elrond looked up at the Noldo looming above them, his face pale. Something about Lord Maedhros had always made him uncomfortable. Though Lord Maglor had been nothing but kind to them since they’d arrived – since they’d been captured, he reminded himself – Maedhros had kept his distance. He’d never said more than a few words to them. He never spoke much to anyone, actually.

“If you were just playing, then why is Elrond so frightened, hm?” Maedhros asked.

“Because he’s a baby,” Elros countered with his typical confidence. He was met not with a rebuke but with an uncomfortably long silence.

Maedhros’ lips drew into a thin line and he glanced away from the twins. “My hand is no longer on the bedside table,” he said with sudden sharpness. “Do you know where it is?”

Elros began to shake his head, but Elrond grabbed the object in question out of his brother’s grasp and held it out, not meeting Maedhros’ eyes.

“H-here,” he said. “It’s here.”

Maedhros didn’t smile – he never smiled – but he gave a nod before he reached out and took the hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re w –“ Elrond began.

“Where is your real one?” Elros asked, loud and brash. His eyes sparkled with the challenge of his impertinence.

Elrond let out a soft whine, burrowing his face into his brother’s shoulder. He didn’t want to see how Maedhros’ eyes would flash silver with fury, the way they had the night the Haven’s burned.

Instead, though, there was another silence, in which Maedhros slowly placed the false hand back on the table before he returned his attention to the twins. They were a curious sight, one bold and the other quaking with fear.

“It is gone,” the Noldo replied at last.

His voice was not as harsh as Elrond had been expecting, and the elfling dared to look up at him again. Whatever anger there might have been in Maedhros’ eyes was not there now. The older elf’s eyes were sad.

“How it was lost is not a tale for the ears of elflings.”

Elros scoffed. “Did someone cut it off in a fight?” he pressed.

Something in Maedhros’ gaze was almost gentle as he regarded Elros. “If only that was the truth. The world is more cruel than you know, little ones.”

Surprising both the twins, he sat down beside the bed, rolling back his right sleeve and beginning to fasten the straps that held his prosthetic hand in place.

Elros wriggled out of Elrond’s grip and stood beside the Fëanorion, watching him with morbid fascination. “You have so many scars,” he said.

“Yes,” said Maedhros, not looking up. “I do.”

“Did you get those in battle, too?”

“Some.”

Elros sat down at Maedhros’ side, peering at his face.

“Elrond is scared of you. He says you have a lot of pain, and that is why you are so angry all the time. It’s why you don’t talk to us.”

“Is that so?” Maedhros asked, arching an eyebrow at Elrond as he pulled his sleeve back down to cover his wrist.

Elrond curled in on himself a little, shoulders slumping. “I – I didn’t mean to insult you, my lord.”

“None of that ‘my lord’ business. Call me by my name.”

“Yes, m – Maedhros.”

The lord’s grey eyes were expectant. “You look like you have more to say. Go on, then.”

“Sometimes you think of dying,” Elrond mumbled. “And we make you sad.”

Silence again. Elrond felt the hurt filling the older elf’s heart like water fills a glass, but he did not know its cause. He wanted to reach out, to hold Maedhros’ hand, to help him somehow, but he did not know what he could possibly do. The older elf’s grief ran as deep as the sea.

He took a few steps back. “I just know it. I…I’m sorry if I said too much. Please forgive me.”

“How – how do you know all this, child?” Maedhros asked, his voice cautious and strained with guilt.

“He’s magic,” Elros added conspiratorially. “He always knows how people are feeling. Even me!”

Maedhros locked eyes with Elrond, sadness in his gaze. “So you do fear me.”  

The elfling nodded, jumping a little at the sudden intensity of Maedhros’s voice.

“I apologize for frightening you." Maedhros sighed. "Know that I do not wish you harm. Either of you.”

“Do – do you forgive us?” Elrond managed to whisper.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Maedhros replied, pushing himself to his feet. He gestured toward the door. “Now run along. Maglor will worry if you are late for supper.”

Chapter 5: Beauty is terror

A short drabble about the Helcaraxe.

At first, the ice was beautiful. It glittered in the starlight as if the ground and the high cliffs were covered with a thousand diamond stars. We were filled with our dreams and our defiance, and we did not fear the great expanse of ice and snow. The chill of the air was fresh and crisp, a clean start.

By the time we realized we should have been afraid, it was too late to turn back. Expecting a sea-voyage, we had not brought nearly enough food to see us through the long journey Fëanor’s betrayal had forced upon us. We rationed our supplies as best we could, but the portions each of us received were meager.

We began to hate the ice, but we marched on, our flesh chapped from the howling wind, our bellies empty and pinching. Our children wailed with starvation and shivered in the night when they should have been sleeping. The Helcaraxë seemed to go on forever, the great floes and plains stretching out in every direction, but where we might have once felt awe at the sight, we only felt revulsion.

When we lost our Lady, our hope disappeared with her. We all felt Lord Turukáno’s despair as he cradled her frozen body in his arms, weeping. She was all our wives, our husbands, our parents, our children, who were gone and who would be stolen from us by this foul place.

The ice was our enemy, then. It cracked and shifted beneath our feet, threatening to steal more of our loved ones. It punished us with blinding storms and piercing gales. Some of our people wasted away, their fëar fleeing their bodies. Others were taken more quickly, stolen by the frigid waters that lurked beneath the surface of the ice. What we once thought so wondrous now brought only death.

Even the first sunlight did not redeem it. The songs and stories have made our host seem glorious in the dawn, but we know better. When we reached Beleriand, we had escaped death by a narrow margin. Our eyes were round and hollow with the horrors we had seen, and it was with more ferocity than valor that we fought to the gates of Angband. 

Read Chapter 5: Beauty is terror

At first, the ice was beautiful. It glittered in the starlight as if the ground and the high cliffs were covered with a thousand diamond stars. We were filled with our dreams and our defiance, and we did not fear the great expanse of ice and snow. The chill of the air was fresh and crisp, a clean start.

By the time we realized we should have been afraid, it was too late to turn back. Expecting a sea-voyage, we had not brought nearly enough food to see us through the long journey Fëanor’s betrayal had forced upon us. We rationed our supplies as best we could, but the portions each of us received were meager.

We began to hate the ice, but we marched on, our flesh chapped from the howling wind, our bellies empty and pinching. Our children wailed with starvation and shivered in the night when they should have been sleeping. The Helcaraxë seemed to go on forever, the great floes and plains stretching out in every direction, but where we might have once felt awe at the sight, we only felt revulsion.

When we lost our Lady, our hope disappeared with her. We all felt Lord Turukáno’s despair as he cradled her frozen body in his arms, weeping. She was all our wives, our husbands, our parents, our children, who were gone and who would be stolen from us by this foul place.

The ice was our enemy, then. It cracked and shifted beneath our feet, threatening to steal more of our loved ones. It punished us with blinding storms and piercing gales. Some of our people wasted away, their fëar fleeing their bodies. Others were taken more quickly, stolen by the frigid waters that lurked beneath the surface of the ice. What we once thought so wondrous now brought only death.

Even the first sunlight did not redeem it. The songs and stories have made our host seem glorious in the dawn, but we know better. When we reached Beleriand, we had escaped death by a narrow margin. Our eyes were round and hollow with the horrors we had seen, and it was with more ferocity than valor that we fought to the gates of Angband. 

Chapter 6: Blood is thicker than water

A young Galadriel experiences a vision of the Kinslaying at Alqualonde. 

Read Chapter 6: Blood is thicker than water

Artanis loved pretending she was one of Ulmo’s maiar when she swam. Today, she imagined her hair, long and blue, trailing out behind her and the Tree-light gleaming upon her silver scales as she propelled herself through the water with her legs. She was the fastest swimmer of all the maiar, and the most powerful. She could summon storms more terrifying than Ossë’s, but she could be as gentle and kind as Uinen, helping lost fishing boats find their way to safe harbor.

She surfaced, laughing to herself and delighting in the feeling of warm Tree-light against her skin and the way her hair fanned out behind her. Ango and Aiko played in the waves nearby, splashing one another. She was considering joining her brothers in their game when she noticed something colorful beneath the water – perhaps there was an object buried in the sand on the sea-floor! As a maia, she knew she must investigate.

Artanis drew in a deep breath and dove downwards. The water she was swimming in was not too deep, but it still took her a good bit of effort to find what she was looking for. It was a conch shell, bright pink and white. She grinned and dislodged it from the sand surrounding it, then pushed off of the sea-floor with her feet.

That was when she felt the hand grab her by the ankle. That was when the sky above her and the sea around her changed. All at once it was night, and she could taste iron as well as salt on her lips. She suddenly found herself near a series of piers whose supports made the darkened ocean look like a forest.

Flames flickered above the surface of the water, and she could hear muffled shouts and splashes as other elves jumped – no, fell – to join her beneath the waves. Some were Noldor, dressed in shirts made of interlocking rings of mail, with the star of her Uncle Fëanáro on the tabards they wore over top. Their eyes went wide as they hit the water, flailing against the pull of their heavy clothing as they sank. Others looked like her Telerin kin, and though their clothing was lighter, she realized that they were bleeding. Someone had cut them on their arms, their faces, their shoulders, their bellies, and the water around them became even darker in the flickering torchlight.

One of the sinking elves clutched at her and she screamed, filthy water rushing into her nose and mouth. When she looked down, she could no longer see the sea-floor. Instead there were just Noldor in their strange metal clothing – sinking, sinking, sinking. And there was a hand on her ankle, its grip like iron when she attempted to shake free of it, and it was dragging her down along with the others. She kicked and kicked, but still the Noldo would not let go. She thrashed with her arms but could get no closer to the ever-receding surface.

Then everything was gone.

When Artanis awoke, Ingo was holding her close, singing softly, and she was wrapped in one of the blankets the Arafinwions had brought with them to the seashore that morning. It had been intended for basking in the Tree-light, but Artanis found that she was grateful for even the small bit of warmth it provided, for she was shivering.

“Ingo?” she asked, searching for his eyes. She found them, and they were gentle but very, very worried. He stopped singing once he noticed she was awake.

“I’m here, Artanis,” he said.

“Your hair is wet,” Artanis noticed, squinting up at her brother. “Did you save me from the water? Uncle Fëanáro’s servants were trying to drown me!” She shook her head. “But you weren’t there.”

Ingo frowned, but then he nodded. “You were having a vision, little sister. What you saw was not real.”

“Oh.” That had only happened once before. It had been like a dream, except she’d been awake when it started and she’d fallen on the ground. Atya said later that she shared his gift. Foresight. She would see things from other times, or things that only might happen.

She shuddered and hoped that what she had seen would only be a might.

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Chapter End Notes

I know these ficlets were meant to be published at Halloween time, but it's been a crazy semester and I had some inspiration for the prompts I didn't finish before. So here you go! :) Spooky fics in December.