Fragments by SkyEventide

The architects of the Ñoldor and the Vanyar, when the word for architect first came to be, had devised the throne room of Tirion’s palace so that its far end would look towards the Ezellohar. Great emptiness had been carved out of the wall behind the thrones: large arched windows, a mighty framework for a wonder of glass and light.

Arafinwë recalled the thronging hall, and the colours of the stained windows bursting to life in a haze of gold, the luminous story of Cuiviénen and the records of their folks’ awakening. But it had come to pass that Arafinwë should only sit on his father’s chair, a painful honour unsought and unexpected, with a heavy heart, and look upon emptied rooms and a long darkness that the stars could only partly pierce.

Yet, as all things, even the darkness came to an end.

Thus Arafinwë walked into the halls of his rulership even as the Sun raced through the sky in the first morning of Arda and halted far from the throne, for the great wall shone anew, its colours painted on the floors with unparalleled clarity.

So he sat on the marble, as if child again, and marvelled at it with an aching smile.

Ñolofinwë, who was now oft called Fingolfin by his own people, sipped his wine with the right hand and held up the message with his left.

His nephew’s newfound handwriting was, he thought, indistinguishable from how it had once been. That, one could say (for he was not at all hard-hearted), gladdened him.

He called no scribe, penning the answer himself.

Nelyafinwë, whom no one called that anymore at his own request, set down his cup of red before he could pick up the message with the very same hand.

He would ride with his uncle into battle; thus they would descend upon the hosts of Morgoth from the East and the West both, and may the Enemy’s spawn not see another day. So he smiled thinly and drank again.

Beinor was old, old in the way all men eventually become, his face wrinkled as scrunched up parchment, his back slightly bent, his limbs thin and frail.

He had been fair, once, youthful and strong, bright and swift of foot. Celúmë had loved him then and, for the memory of the Eldar is as stark as the profile of mountains in a bright afternoon, yet recalled how Beinor had wondered if he would still be loved once the cruel years had altered him.

They had travelled all day and now rested under the midnight sky. A long day for an aged man.

Celúmë had carried him as one would with a child, had sat him upon the horse, had helped him eat, had made his pallet with four blankets of wool so that no twig or stone could disturb his sleep.

He asked, « Art thou cold? ».

Beinor shook his head, so Celúmë smiled and gazed at the stars.

The great bird flew against a sallow sky, full of dust, full of clouds heavy with sulphur, approaching Balar. It landed upon the port’s piers, its head heavy, its feathers dirty.

Land is no more. The northern pits spew and heave the evils of the dark caves, a great slide of mud slowly crawls down from Anfauglith and swallows the mountain passes, the forests and plains. It shall reach the sea, or the sea shall swallow it.

Círdan gazed north, where the shadows were thicker, and let go of a deep sigh as the fish hawk fell silent. He turned to his lieutenant, the iridescent armour glowing sickly under the pale glare of the hidden sun.

« The harbour stays open. If no more ships reach us by overmorrow, we shall consider visiting the coast of Lindon. » Then he paused and, more gently, he added: « This too shall pass. »

Finwë left his court and met his firstborn son on the steps of his house in Tirion. He came uncrowned, holding no sceptre, bearing no mantle.

Servants and loyal friends of Fëanáro moved about, undoing the dwelling’s soul piece by piece, as things were chosen to be carried away north, to Formenos.

« So you come with us », Fëanáro said, and Finwë was pained to find the faintest note of surprise in his voice, buried amongst a vindicated satisfaction.

And he gazed upon his son’s face, upon little wrinkles that should not have been there (it had once been believed impossible that a Quendë should visibly age: this belief had long been proven wrong); he thought how Fëanáro, for all his mastery of words, had hardly attempted to defend himself from the sentence, and greatly wondered at his reasons. It was a bitter realisation that he no longer truly knew him.

Always divided, always split in halves that nonetheless were both of his spirit, Finwë bowed his head. « So I come with thee. »

Of the two, he thought or hoped, Ñolofinwë would more easily understand.

« I come for Finwë Ñoldoran », she says, her eyes veiled in grey, her lips all soft with pain, Maia of Nienna.

« No », Fëanáro answers, his lips all hard with grief.

« Father needs a funeral. Ought he to be left there in a cold room? », Ñolofinwë retorts, a shadow on his brow, and Arafinwë faintly shifting weight from foot to foot, Lalwen breathing in, her chest heaving.

« Not from her. Too late is this mercy offered », Fëanáro declares; and moves as if to leave the tents and march inside Formenos his own self. Maitimo steps forward, blocks his path more boldly than he ever did – not disobedience, but fear.

« Let us handle it », he says. « Let us handle him. »

Maitimo already saw the body. He would keep that sight from his own father.

« What is the matter, elf lord? »

Carnistir looks downwards at the stout things and their beards, perplexed. « Is it normal for your people to send a group of elders for treating? »

The dwarf stares. « I am barely middle aged. »

Carnistir blinks at the beard. « So you are like the aftercomers. »

« Most certainly not. »

« Short aftercomers. »

The second dwarf to the left takes a breath, turning to his companion, and Carnistir can distinctly hear a whisper, « Why are they all like that? » Carnistir also has the strong feeling that he was meant to hear it, the sentimenti behind it spilling forth.

My lord, his seneschal’s thought tickles his mind, the Doriathrim call them Naugrim.

The Doriathrim call them stunted?

Carnistir lifts an eyebrow – real slow.

« Nevermind, Casari », he says then, with sudden annoyed inspiration, pointedly. « The beards look luscious. My grandfather had a beard, we have it in the family. »

The first dwarf tilts his head. « Now, what fresh word is that, elf lord? »

« Casari? » Carnistir smiles with a touch of smugness. « ‘Tis Quenya. Khazâd is your name, yes? Casari. Let us discard the other one. »

A moment of silence. The dwarves look at each other, then the middle one turns to him again. « Is your grandfather Círdan from the coast? »

« …No. »

Elemmírë opens the brazier, sparks spurting upwards and disappearing. The tent’s ceiling is too damp from the constantly drizzling rain to catch fire, either way. She pulls off her gauntlets and fishes her manuscript from her small chest of personal belongings. She stares at the tengwar she neatly penned, then gathers her courage and plunges the pages amidst the crackling coals.

Thúlendur jumps on his feet, startled by the loss, his eyes wide. « What? Why do that? »

Elemmírë sits on her makeshift bed, her elbows on her knees. « We came across a human camp. The Enemy’s creatures had raided it. » Her lips purse together, holding the memory of it tightly to herself; Thúlendur will have his chances to see their like for himself.

« I cannot chronicle this war. I cannot make it beautiful. »

Wrath does not even begin to cover it.

There’s a crooked old thing living at the edges of the village. Only at the edges, wandering with vague steps. She doesn’t come to the marketplace, she doesn’t come for festivals, not even to buy food. She only catches her food in the woods or steals it during night time; she doesn’t keep a garden of crops around the hut she’s claimed as a dwelling, hanging bird bones over her door.

Children sometimes sneak around her or her shed on a dare; she ignores them.

Anwarher believes she’s a creature of Angmar and they should perhaps do better to be rid of her. Gellamgir answers she is too pitiful to do anyone any harm.

Anwarher guards the village’s entrance, one night of storm. He is alone, until lightning strikes close enough to reveal the crooked old thing. She sits under the rain, holding her legs.

With careful steps and a hand on the sword’s hilt, he walks to her. « Are you an orc? », he demands.

She looks up, her face pale and scarred, her teeth askew, her nose broken and set wrong. She giggles, soaked in rain. « Yes. » Then she points a bony finger at the angry sky. « Do you know who made thunder? We know. Thunder’s an old magic. »

Anwarher thinks she might just be mad. « I didn’t know orcs had old crones among them », he replies, now sceptical of her claim.

« Where d’you think all the armies come from? », she croaks. « We’ve got to push babies out from somewhere, and then we grow old. They don’t make the good sturdy ones from elves anymore. »

Now he’s unnerved. He steps back. « Whatever, woman. Don’t make trouble. »

As he returns towards his post, he hears her giggle again.