Embers by Elleth

Maedhros: Losgar

Maedhros during the burning of the swanships. (Si07)

Read Maedhros: Losgar

The veils of smoke tore, revealing a path of dark water extending far beyond the light of the fire. Almost, he fancied, he could see the other shore, campfire patches of light and miniscule shadow-shapes.

A gust of wind from across the sea caught him in the face.
Almost, he fancied, he could hear their laments. Or were these voices in his mind?
For he alone stood aside.

Betrayer to those on the other shore: A son of Fëanáro.
Betrayer to his family: Mourning those left behind.

What now?

As though in answer, the smoke closed in.

He stood alone.

Nerdanel and Umbarto: Return

A double-drabble, HoMe-verse AU. If he had not perished in the burning of the ships, Umbarto would have returned to Nerdanel. What if? - MEFA 2008 Nominee. (Si07)

Read Nerdanel and Umbarto: Return

Nerdanel
The cry carried far in the mournful silence of Alqualondë.
“A ship! A ship returns!”
Hoping the best and dreading the worst, she ran. Pebbles slipped beneath her feet just as her stony composure slipped through her fingers.
She reached the beach. Face turned into wind and spray her eyes narrowed against Uinen’s tears (the sea was raging once more, her grief not forgotten) she stared into the dark.
“A ship!”
The cry was taken up.
“A ship!” “It is landing!”
Her own words and a nightmare of fire were whisked from her mind in an instant.
“Ambarto!”
Not Fated.

---

Ambarto
A plaything of wind and waves. Torn and tattered sails, tossed about, to and fro. Up and down. Darkness and fire behind him and shallow water beneath the keel. Then the scrape of rocks and pebbles, but he heeded them not.
A figure in white on the shore, storm-tossed and forlorn.
Cries in the town. “A ship!” and then “A kinslayer!”
He heeded them not. Pebbles slipped beneath his feet as he ran.
“Ambarto!”
“Mother! I have returned! I have returned!”
Strong arms around him, stronger than he remembered. Voice down to a whisper.
Certainty.
“I am no longer Umbarto.”

Nerdanel and Fëanor: Ghost

Nerdanel is granted a chance for a farewell. - MEFA 2008 Nominee. (Si07)

Read Nerdanel and Fëanor: Ghost

The dim sound of hammerfalls, a familiar lullaby from childhood, had accompanied her when she closed her eyes – only to open them again (or did she?) in a place familiar yet strange.

Mountains… Taniquetil to the South behind her, a valley and a ridge to her right. It was night, or what night there was in the Blessed Realm with the stars bright overhead. At the edge of her mind was the memory of footsteps behind her, and the call of a young voice, little older than her own, but when she looked around, searching… naught but her memories.

They had begun here.

She turned back to the path – to find herself face to face with Fire.

Dazzled by the sudden brightness (he illuminated so much more than he should) she meant to step back, but found herself drawn, gently and irresistibly, towards the white figure in the flame. Familiar… so familiar a warmth that she had thought lost… enveloping her, flaring up, fading…

Upon waking she would swear that she had felt a touch to her lips like a kiss of farewell.

It was no surprise to her when a messenger arrived, black-clad, hailing from the Halls of Mandos.

Nerdanel and Fëanor: Burned

Towards their estrangement. One occurence among many. An attempt at a portrait of their relationship. (Si07)

Read Nerdanel and Fëanor: Burned

Nerdanel slept.

Her body still posed, hair and sheets carefully arranged to hide pale skin beneath, the picture she made would meet only the barest definition of decency in Tirion. A green dress lay crumpled at her feet and one hand rested on her belly to caress the unborn children.

The room was silent save for the scratch-scratch of charcoal, harsh breaths indrawn whenever a stroke went awry. Smudged fingers tangled in his hair, tugged, left prints in red and black on his forehead. A rip, a rustle. A ball of paper hit the floor, rolled, stilled.

Scratch-scratch. Anew and hastier. Almost desperate. Rip. Rustle.

Were she awake, Nerdanel would have coaxed her husband into smiles and kisses by now, and whispered (even now never without a blush to her already reddened cheeks) a better use for passion than to spend it in anger. The imperfect sketch would be flung aside, for her to find, afterwards.

But now Nerdanel slept, and upon waking would find, in the empty room, only wisps of burned paper that a breeze had swept from the fireplace. She wept to see herself so charred by the flames... and knew what time would tell.

Discovery

Nerdanel and Fëanor, and her POV about the creation of the Silmarils. What is there to see for someone locked out? (B2MeM08)

Discovery - discovery of what? Tolkien's world and source material are so vast that you can quite literally get lost in it, so that you stray from one topic to the other and never cease to find new things. Sometimes that may be frustrating; when you are looking for a specific piece of information, or a passage of text to quote somewhere. And above all, you can only scratch the surface, even after years of study. That, to me, is like the crack of light of light beneath the doorstep that Nerdanel sees in the story--teasing, nearby, and still out of reach. Still, sometimes the door opens and someone or something beautiful emerges to rekindle your interest in the stories and tales, and reward the passion, patience (or stubbornness) you had in searching for it.

Read Discovery

There is light, again, from the crack beneath the workshop door. Her knocks have gone unanswered for six days, and there was no reply to her calling out. Sometimes, her eyes stinging with angry tears, she had stubbornly sat before the heavy door, next to the tray of the last meal not taken, but even that had no effect.

There are few sounds from within: Fëanáro's footsteps, the sound of one tool or another, and sometimes the hiss and smell of substances poured together--to what effect, she knows not. And often, there is light. A flicker like the Trees on water, a shimmer like the stars--and sometimes a blaze that makes her wonder if within he has gone blind. And then again, nothing.

This time, though, the light is constant, and she hopes that finally, finally, the door will open. Even Feanáro has limits of endurance, even when he is crafting, even though he claims it gives him strength rather than sapping it. She knows this from countless challenges before, when the frenzy of discovery drove him on, with matted hair and triumphant fever-bright eyes, and so completely exhausted so that he nearly pitched forward into her arms.

When the door opens this time, she is ready to tell him all that, and that she will no longer suffer it. She stands with the last tray of food not taken in her hand, and is caught by surprise by the look in his eyes: How did he become so young again? How is it that he looks so refreshed after a week's ceaseless work?

But then she sees the light behind him and she thinks she knows.

The Gift

The rivalry between Fëanor and Fingolfin is no secret, but what of their families? A different kind of rivalry. (B2MeM08)

The Silmarillion and the History of Middle-earth both take note of more than one occurence fitting today's topic, and being historical accounts of Arda, they are necessarily biased in some way or another, and thus open for further exploration. One such case: The conflicts between Fëanor and Fingolfin have many stories written about them, but it is easy to forget that there are other sides as well. They may remain unseen or unspoken-of, but in some cases trying to pin them down may bring a wholly different level (or levels) to the story - what, for example, about their wives?

Read The Gift

Telperion is waning when he walks into the bedroom, with his back held too straight and his eyes too bright. If that happens, she has learned, there is news from Tirion that he dislikes. He can never keep it a secret for long, so she waits while he undresses and washes and comes into bed.

"Anairë gave birth to a daughter today. They mean to name her Irissë."

Her back is turned to him, and she is painfully aware that his voice comes from a distance. It hovers over the space between them, that cold space in the middle of the bed that she so loathes. And yet, each night she moves closer to the egde. She has her reasons; a quick movement and a tumble to the floor have spared her his attentions many times.

"I will draft a message of congratulations come morning," she replies. "And make a gift." She knows he loathes that task and the admission that his brother has accomplished something he could not. Fëanáro keeps his silence, but he is not asleep. "In fact... I will start now."

She rises and puts on a dressing gown, and walks downstairs into her studio.

Laurelin is waning when she finishes her work, with her head bowed and her eyes red and tired. There are two statuettes on the table in her studio now: One a perfect likeness of Anairë in white marble, cradling a girlchild swaddled in soft cloths - a dainty thing that will fit well into their house in Tirion. The other is less delicate - unpolished brown soapstone that bears Nerdanel's face with a look of deep envy and empty arms. It is standing too close to the edge of the table, and when Nerdanel stumbles against it, the statuette topples to the floor.

"It is no matter," she says to Anairë and Irissë. "We were given seven children."
Her voice rings hollow in her own ears.

Betrayal

The reason for the betrayal of Gondolin. (B2MeM08)

Dark and dangerous though Tolkien's world may be, within it few things - if any - happen without a reason. There is always a note in the Music that is changed... without Maeglin's betrayal and the Fall of Gondolin, Eärendil might not have sailed West, and the dominion of Morgoth might have endured. Even death and betrayal serve a purpose that in the end turns out greater than it might have been - and that is, I believe, a comforting thought. Not only that - it shows the completion of Tolkien's subcreation.

Read Betrayal

The city has too many lights. It has lights, and white walls, and smiles - the very smiles that I endure each day. I return them with teeth bared, so that mine might as well be the snarling of a wolf. Yet they say "Maeglin is softened," blind fools that they are. It is a comfort to know that soon their walls shall stand blackened and crumbling, and their smiles and lights will trouble me no more. A softer radiance shall be mine instead, that could be mithril or silver for its beauty. The Dark One (for he, though fallen, is an artisan as well) - he understands.

I will have you, Celebrindal. He promised.

Batîna (Roads)

A haphazard attempt at poetry and Adûnaic (and a translation). The Downfall of Númenor and what follows after. (B2MeM08)

Read Batîna (Roads)

Idô dulgî dolgu nakhî,
Balîka 'nAr-Pharazôn êphal êphalak.
Bîtha lôkhî Anzigûr magra balîka adûni
Du-azgar 'nAr-Pharazônun avalôiyada.

Idô azra-dalad zirân Anadûnê,
Balîka an-Nimruzîr êphal êphalak.
Bîtha izindi 'nEru magra balîka azûlada
Du-azgar an-Nimruzîrun zigûrada.

Batân lôkhî, batân izindi,
Idô kâtha batîna ayadâ zâirada.

Translation (or what this was intended to mean):

Now Black Night comes
The ships of Ar-Pharazon are far far away.
Crooked words of Sauron drove the ships westward
For Ar-Pharazôn's war against the Valar.

Now under the sea is beloved Númenor,
The ships of Elendil are far far away.
Straight words of Eru drove the ships eastward
For Elendil's war against Sauron.

One road was crooked, one road was straight,
Now all roads lead to longing.

---

Chapter End Notes

I tried my best, but it is highly doubtful that the Adûnaic part came away completely spotless and without errors. On the chance that you are either a Númenorean who somehow travelled into this day and age (unlikely) or a Tolkien linguist (more likely), I'd appreciate feedback, even if that means you'll have to tell me the whole thing is a garbled mess. Thank you.