Lockdown Instadrabbles by Idrils Scribe

The water’s lapping seems less than gentle, and Gimli cannot help but shiver. The boat is a fine craftsman’s work - far too elegant for an object of such momentous danger. He sets foot on the accursed thing and it bucks like a rearing horse. He rights himself just in time to catch the flash of irreverent amusement in Legolas’ eyes. 

“You pointy-eared madman, you'll be the death of us!”    

Legolas’ response is a chuckle as he leaps aboard. “You will live, my friend. But do not expect me to hold your beard when your dwarven stomach misses the stone underfoot!”

The grass of Ard-Galen has dried golden beneath the summer sun, and the far horizon shimmers with heat. Though he is hot and thirsty, Nandaro does not question his lord’s voyage. If Prince Fingon of Hithlum insists on visiting his cousin the Lord of Himring twice a year every year, what of it? 

The captain of Fingon’s personal guard has heard the whispers about his lord, of course. It is rumored that relations beyond mere friendship exist between the prince and Maedhros. Fingon need not worry: Nandaro’s tongue has never been prone to wagging. Even if the king should ask.   

Dust whirls up beneath Elrond’s feet as he surveys the devastation. Weeks have passed since the floodwave, and the mud has long dried in the summer heat. The sun sinks to the western horizon looking no different now that the world is made round. Eärendil’s star sails high above the sorrows of Middle-earth, untouchable, and at first Elrond cannot help but feel abandoned a second time. He is a man grown, the king’s herald, but tears blur his vision and his breath hitches. 

Then he sees. The last Silmaril shines brighter, on what is now the western edge of the world. 

The rock is the color of ivory, shot through with flecks of gold. With such noble stone even a hovel would be fit for a king’s abode, but the new palace upon Túna is fair and lofty. Finwë delights in its construction, would personally carry up each block and sculpt every cornice in ever more fantastical patterns. 

Miriel laughs, and has him sit with her beneath the jacarandas in what is to become the courtyard. He strokes her growing belly, pouring his nervous energy into the fëa thrumming with life beneath his hand. Their son will call this place home.