B2MEM 2019 Double Drabbles by eris_of_imladris

G48

Summary: A young Fëanor watches Indis at his father’s betrothal dinner. Prompts: Haze, blaming Indis. No warnings.

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It’s not her color.

He wants to tell everyone who’s looking at her like she’s brighter than Laurelin and Telperion together. The Mingling is overhead and yet they look at her as if she, of all people, is their new light.
Swathed in decadent fabric, she is pure radiance. No one could accuse her confident footsteps of weakness. No one could ever imagine her sick. She comes in so strong that no one could imagine her leaving. And in that gown - how could she fail to look like a mirage in the royal color that she tries to claim?

He watches the ground instead. As she walks, her feet kick up little bits of dust that get brushed under the magnificent sweep of the gown and it looks like they disappear.
He knows better, looks back. There’s a little trail she’s made, back to the entrance. It’s hard to see, but he notices where the land was displaced, where granules of ground are kicked up and out.

No one else sees. It’s like the world around him is blinded by a haze of violet and forgetfulness.

He watches the ground. His eyes are open, and he will not be trapped.

I20

Summary: Maedhros tries to visualize his way through a battlefield shortly after his return to fighting. Prompts: grape jelly, “he was very willing that the chief peril of assault should fall upon himself,” overcoming my past. TW: Blood, Gore

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No one would accuse him of weakness.

He would never let them see what he thinks when the enemy advances. Even when they flee before his face, he wonders how he does not flee from theirs.

It is worst when the skirmish begins. There is a slash on an arm and a bright bloom of blood, and his mind clouds.

When it ends, he finds the soldier. One of his men, his to protect, but bleeding all the same. The blood has ceased to flow except for a small trickle as someone binds it with linen. It has cooled on his skin, formed a pattern like a knife spread it, like -

No. Stop. He cannot let them see him weak.

He thinks of another knife. Another spread. Happier.

His mother is there when his eyes shut. The dark smear of color is on bread on a ceramic plate. The sweet jelly is so fresh in his memory that he can taste it. He memorizes it before he opens his eyes.

He looks down at the soldier again. The linens cover the wound.

He can still see it. But it’s not at the front, and he can carry on being brave.

O68

Summary: Maedhros embarks on a fruitless quest. Prompt: Maedhros looking for Eluréd and Elurín. TW: Disturbing imagery.

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Maedhros imagines them huddled up under some tree, one the same as the other thousands in this forsaken place, shivering. He has forgotten what warmth even feels like; their smaller bodies must have forgotten even sooner.

Even smaller than they should be. He looks for days. They might even be too small to see, their bodies sunken in like little valleys.

He tears through the brush, swearing at his brother’s men in every tongue he knows. He pulls back long leaves hoping to find short fingers reaching out for him. He watches the clear water of the stream, imagining hair floating by as weary heads rest on rocks.

Worst of all, he imagines them as they must have been. He remembers Ambarussa swinging on branches, bursting with energy and health and the vibrancy of youth and his father’s line, his father’s fire…

He stares into the small fires he builds at night, hoping every snapping twig is a child seeking help. At first, he knows they would be afraid. But as the days go on, they would be hungry. Thirsty. Starving. Freezing. Dying. All for nothing.

When he finally leaves, he has no idea where Eluréd and Elurín’s bones lie.

B10

Summary: Maglor muses on exile at the end of all things. Prompts: Maglor when the One Ring is destroyed, Fëanor’s exile (unjust). No warnings.

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The resounding message Maglor hears everywhere is that Middle Earth is one again, as it was back at the beginning.

Their memories are far too short.

He remembers arriving on these shores, burning with vengeance and perhaps even a little freedom to be out of the exile that banished his family to Formenos. It was a world of endless possibilities for so short a time.

Eons have passed, so little has changed. He was in exile then as he is now. He remembers all too well how the Noldor split like a thrown clay pot, shattered beyond repair.

His father was never the same. He could never trust others again, even as he blamed the injustice on everyone but himself. Maglor has only stopped trusting himself, for he hides from everything but the deeds of his hands.

Maglor does not celebrate that someone stronger than him destroyed another harmful shiny object. He ponders that his brother is avenged over a dinner of wild plants and a rabbit that fell into his snare. He too has fallen into snares, but he eats the creature anyway. The world is the same as it ever was, and he will never leave his exile.

B11

Summary: A new star in the sky causes young Elrond to reflect upon a new ally. Prompts: Elrond as survivor, overcoming disappointment. No warnings.

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Together, they stare up at the sky, at the bright new addition that practically screams light.

Maglor presented the new star as a good thing, no matter the complexity and regardless of his own feelings. The boys in his care are children, innocents who do not deserve to be entangled.

“They really aren’t coming back,” Elrond whispers.

“No, they are not,” Maglor replies. This, there is no way to sugarcoat.

“And you…”

“Will stay here.”

Elrond looks up, bleariness in his eyes. “But the silmaril - ”

“Is beyond my reach.” The Oath tugs differently than it did, confirming his words.

“I thought they would come back,” Elrond admits, and Maglor’s throat clenches. It is not the silmaril that separated them. If Sirion were still untouched…

Maglor realizes this is the first time Elrond has let him beyond the carefully built wall a child should not know how to build.

“I will stay with you.”

“Really?” That word alone takes Maglor to his youth, the days when a promise was untainted.

“Really,” Maglor said, and although he was surprised to feel Elrond leaning into him with a tentative trust. Maglor can only hope Elrond will never have the same conversation about him.

O72

Summary: Glorfindel’s mother muses on the dangers of having a child destined for greatness.

Prompts: mother of Glorfindel, Fëanor as savior of Middle-Earth.

TW: Mentions of character death.

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She knows it’s dangerous to have a golden boy.

A son too smart, beautiful, noticeable by the forces of evil. She is scared even before the tree that shines like his hair is destroyed.

Other mothers have had golden boys. Halyare knows the stories all too well. She knows what happened when the ships burned, and it pains her to imagine her boy’s hair shining from the flames of destruction. She knows him too well to think he would ever participate, but he was there, and the rumors fly.

Nerdanel’s golden boy bursts into flames and hers lives, hidden away but still glorious. She hears the name of his house in Gondolin and she allows herself to smile.

But the danger of golden boys catches up with him. Her son saves the ones who matter but falls to flame, just like the one who claimed himself as the savior of their people and their new land. Middle Earth fell for Fëanor and Gondolin fell no differently for Glorfindel.

Except that he is allowed to return, an emissary of light, truth, goodness. And she knows that the rules do not apply, for no other mother has a golden boy like hers.

B12

Summary: Bëor’s mother laments his choice to leave.

Prompts: majesty (purple), Fëanorians in Beleriand, mother of Bëor.

No warnings.

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When her son follows the golden-haired elf who speaks of a realm for led by red-haired princes, she is reluctant to follow. Bëor has been such a good leader, but now, he stares at the elves as though they are far superior.

But she knows the elves didn’t lead her people on their journey, with their noble quest to find the Gods of the West. They didn’t discover what he did. Their majesty is bright and shining but his is more real, not silken fabrics that dazzle but smashed berries that feed.

Finrod tried to convince her that the red-headed twins are good leaders, strong, powerful, protective. She wonders aloud why he is taking her own people’s strong, powerful, protective leader away.

She does not go with him. She stays, trying to preserve what he has built before it is tainted. His son Baran’s name is the one known to history, and thanks to the elves, she knows even his will be forgotten.

Even if she is the only one, she will not forget. She will lose her own name before she forgets the bravery he had and lost. The elves will not outshine Bëor in one mind, at least.

N44 (plus a special note)

Summary: The eldest child of Aragorn and Arwen considers her role in history.

Prompts: self doubt, daughters of Arwen.

No warnings.

Special Note: This ficlet is particularly special for me to write. This daughter of Arwen was my first OC, and I have been writing her life story since I was nine years old. Writing her story helped me figure out so much about myself, and even though most of my words never found their way to a page, she is still my oldest and favorite creation, even after almost two decades. She does make an appearance in another, unfinished fic of mine, but this is the first time I am ever writing in print exactly who she is. I hope you enjoy!

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Historians doubt that she existed, and sometimes, so does she.

It was her choice, she knows, but she wonders what it would be like if she hadn’t gone. If she stayed, resigned to the role history would have confined her to. If she was content to be the woman she was born to be.

Early historians write, Aragorn and Arwen had a daughter.

She paints a picture in the ears of anyone who will listen. She sits in an alcove, young, her fingers brushing over the pages of an old tome, the ends of her hair mark her page. The book shuts as her father arrives and she leaves it behind to run into his arms. Where did that just-a-girl go?

To rule, he always told her, meant to put others above herself.

She has not forgotten that. But she has also not forgotten Minas Tirith in the sunlight, dew on the White Tree’s blossoms, the smell of them even in the deepest of winter when her breath is a cloud she can touch. Even when it has forgotten her.

Eons pass, and history is written. Aragorn and Arwen had Eldarion. Some who believe in fairy tales add a daughter.

I18

Summary: Fëanor questions his actions upon arriving in Middle-Earth.

Prompts: Fëanor as freedom fighter in Beleriand, Fëanor’s mommy issues.

No warnings.

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Fëanor is indomitable, charging ahead without a second thought, unquestioned. He fights for his people’s freedom, for their right to live, for his father’s corpse, for the gems that were stolen. He never wavers.

To the others, he must look this way - even here, the threat of Nolofinwë lingers - but sometimes, he allows himself to question.

Finwë has told him of his mother, of the way she looked at everything with wonder. Every lake and leaf were new and beautiful when she roamed the world.

When Fëanor sees a tree thick enough that she could have seen it, or a river looking like it has flowed steadily past since the world’s beginning, he wonders if she ever laid her eyes upon them. The connection is fragile, but it feels real as he touches the things he finds, experiencing the world through her eyes.

He sees himself through her eyes. The hands that slaughtered cradle the tenderest buds of strange flowers. If she was there now, her hands alongside his, would she be proud? Or did that possibility burn with the last of the ships?

He can speculate forever, but what hurts most is that he will never know the answer.

G54

Summary: Fëanor considers where his feud with Nolofinwë started.

Prompts: Blaming that weasley Fingolfin (reprise), Indis.

No warnings.

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Nolofinwë spews rumors in the throne room, and Fëanor’s blood boils as he marches forward. When did Nolo get the idea that he could spark such treason?

Where did it begin? Was it the day he was born, looking like Finwë but born of Indis, an abomination that such a thing could even occur? Was it when he was called Nolofinwë by his father and Aracáno by Indis, both names slaps in the face to Finwë’s true heir?

Was it when he grew, sycophantic at every opportunity, siring sons and amassing power for himself until he dared express it openly? Or was it earlier, before he was born, when Míriel breathed her last and Indis stepped into her place?

Was it the day of Fëanor’s birth, when Míriel faded and the Valar did nothing? Was it even earlier, when the Valar lured Finwë and his people to these shores? Nolofinwë would not have the brazenness of his words now if he did not think there was a chance they would side with him, and it would not be the first time they would be wrong.

Where did it begin? Fëanor is not sure. But he knows it will end today.

G51

Summary: Míriel uses her craft to remember what was lost.

Prompts: Míriel.

No warnings.

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When Míriel takes her needle in hand, she remembers.

She remembers the first night of the world, when everything seemed so full of promise she’d have sworn she’d burst from pure hope. The stars in the sky, so bright; the leaves under her feet, so pliable, as if she could shape her path any way she chose. There was not as much time there for sitting with a needle, for there was a whole world to explore, each part wondrous as the next.

Here, there is more time. Time to listen to matters of state, to go to formal affairs where everything is dictated by new customs. Time to take her needle in hand without feeling rushed, to have Finwë by her side. He’d promised her a new world, he delivered, and he remains drunk with passion for the place he led his people.

Míriel sees the wonders that he shows her. The Trees are like stars she can touch. But she never wanted to touch the stars.

There is something missing, some lost mystery. It is ironic that she confines the things that made her free to unliving cloth, but it is better than forgetting it existed at all.

I25

Summary: Maedhros muses on what it’s been like to have Fëanor as a father as he leaves their life.

Prompts: Fëanor as knight in shining armor, growing up with the world watching (Fëanorians).

Warning: Major character death.

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Fëanor lies on the ground before him, as he never used to do when the Trees shone as bright as the spirit flowing into the sky. It’s unnatural the way he burns so bright, yet somehow, it makes perfect sense.

When Nelyo (the name that matters now) was young, his father shone the brightest, a third Tree. He was aware that everyone had their eyes on him, but in his young mind, it had nothing to do with being Nelyafinwë. It was that Fëanor chose to shine his light on him. That was what made him special.

Fëanor’s light burns brighter than ever now, but somehow, to Nelyo, he doesn’t look like the leader his people saw. He doesn’t look fierce and strong, capable of fighting through anything. He just looks small, and getting smaller. The brightest light leaves the deepest darkness.

Nelyo doesn’t want everyone watching him as he tries to make sense of something incomprehensible. He won’t even have a body to bury, and his brothers and the army will look to him as if he is supposed to shine as bright. But he can’t shine, not here, not like this. Not with Fëanor to light the flame.

N45

Summary: Ulfang’s wife reflects after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

Prompts: Overcoming trauma, wife of Ulfang.

No warnings.

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She sees them as they were, her husband and sons, noble and honest and honorable as she knew them. Especially Ulfang. It was what drew her to him, and kept her by his side even as the world erupted in turmoil. She loved the glint in his eyes when he had an idea, the depths his mind could go.

She remembers his voice saying that he married her for her mind, and even when some curse his treachery, she stands firm like she knows he would want her to, ignoring the tears threatening to spill at any moment.

Strange, but it helps when the backstabber of Angband denies her people their land, the food and water many of them fought for rather than allegiance to any man. She puts her past life aside and does what is right for others, no matter how fresh her loss is.

The pain of imagining his final moments never quite leaves her. It swoops in when she least expects it, breaking out of the dusty ground with fragile stems or pattering down her arm as rain. But she has no choice but to go on. She endures, she leads, even as she is forgotten.

N32

Summary: Círdan’s mother pushes her desires aside for her people.

Prompts: Doing the right thing when it’s really hard, mother of Círdan.

No warnings.

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Círdan is the name he has now, she is told. A strange word with a fitting meaning. A shipwright is known for his journeys away, not home.

He never made it to the home he promised them. Aman is everything he hoped for, in the beginning, and even when it is not, there is still more peace than in war-torn Endorë, more chances to keep him safe.

She paints the sea when she misses him. It never looks the same twice, just as no two days look the same without him. There are others to keep her busy, her guild, her friends, but something is missing.

So many times, she puts quill to paper. Her words are florid sometimes, trying to lure him with a promise of peace; other times angry, in the darkest moments guilt-inducing because he has a good heart and that would work.

Every letter drowns in the sea. She cannot take him away from the ones he serves and saves. His purpose is not done, even if he deserves the shores he yearned for once upon a time.

She laughs and cries together when she hears he has been gone long enough to grow a beard.

B9

Summary: Celebrimbor imagines an impossible future.

Prompts: “I won’t let you define me,” imagination (purple).

No warnings.

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Tyelperinquar imagined many things on the way to Endorë. Chiefly, a great battle where the enemy of the Noldor would be defeated, heralding a time of peace that could try to be like the past.

But there were too many flaws in this plan, too many cracks. Nothing could fix the mess of how they got there, the horrors afterward. Hope is scattered from the moments the embers touch the boats, from when they dissolve from his grandfather’s body, from when his father and uncles descend into chaos.

Nargothrond is home, as much as anything can be. He sees the stares, though, knowing for sure what onlookers imagine. His sword against Lúthien, his hands stained with the blood of innocents caught between him and his grandfather’s jewels. The grandson of Fëanáro, arrayed in royal purple and crimson blood.

In private, he imagines a reconciliation. The peace he once dreamed of, coming to life. His father and uncles making peace with sundered kin. He knows the lines of what they would say as much as he knows it will never happen.

“I repudiate them,” Celebrimbor says to anyone who will listen. “And all of their deeds.”

He cannot be Tyelperinquar again.

O64

Summary: A young jewelsmith of Eregion tries to find her place in the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

Prompts: OC artisan, fear of failure.

No warnings.

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Gellin had heard of Celebrimbor before. Legendary skill beyond this world, a skill that terrified her even as she tried to demonstrate her own prowess before some of his peers. After seeing him work, who would want to see the paltry things she could create?

It was a test of sorts, nothing too formal. Just a demonstration of skill, what could go wrong? In her mind, absolutely everything. She’d hammer her own thumb, shatter every gemstone in the place, and then trip and fall into someone who would slam into the workbench, and of course it would be Celebrimbor himself…

Her hands were shaky and she fumbled with her tools more than once, each time looking to see who noticed. Her final product was passable, but nothing compared to what she’d heard the others could do. The only one who seemed confident was the dark-haired elf beside her, working with more precision, but stopping often to give her an encouraging smile.

“Welcome,” she heard at the end, not quite believing it until the smile on the dark-haired elf’s face got wider. “Your skill will be a great asset here.” Confidence spread across her face when he introduced himself as Celebrimbor.

I29

Summary: Fëanor rationalizes one of his sons’ name choices.

Prompts: What’s in a name? (Fëanorians).

No warnings.

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Umbarto, she says, and Fëanáro winces.

How could Nerdanel choose such a name for their youngest child? True, he is small, but that will change as he grows, and his greatness will only increase with his size. Not to mention, he is already great for being a twin, something unheard of among his people. And how could any of his children achieve less than true greatness?

He holds the baby in his arms, bouncing him lightly, almost like when he’d first held Nelyo and was afraid he’d shatter in his arms. This child is smaller, but with the same red hair that drew him to Nerdanel, the same hair that certainly heralded the same fiery spirit that ran strong in his blood and all his sons.

Fëanáro only has a moment to react. He took longer to name his other children, but this is not a true naming. He needs to clarify the child’s mother-name, lest this son feel lesser than his other children. It is a fate he would wish on no one.

“Ambarto,” Fëanáro echoes, smiling down at the baby. Nerdanel purses her lips and says nothing as Fëanáro imagines his son’s bright future shining ahead of him.

N37

Summary: Fëanor prepares for a crucial test at the end of his apprenticeship.

Prompts: Text anxiety.

No warnings.

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Fëanáro took a deep breath as he walked into the forge. Everything looked the same as it always had, but today, even the air felt different.

Confidence was his usual way. There was nothing he couldn’t do, at least here. But now, when others would be looking at him and judging his every movement, would his skill be enough to carry him across the finish line he yearned for.

The test was designed to be simple, but how could it be? He would have to execute everything perfectly, find a way to show everything he could do, and ensure that he would be thought of with confidence as a fully-fledged smith. Nothing mattered more than this, in that moment. Other worries could return later.

The heat was stifling at first, then refreshing as he began to lose himself in his work. Thoughts bounced around his mind, several times nearly getting out of control, but each time, he managed to pull himself back. This, at least, he knew he was good at. This, he knew he could do.

Smiles were quick to come, and so were results. Now, he could be recognized in his own right. Now, he could truly shine.