It Gives A Lovely Light (Drabble/Ficlet Collection) by oshun

First Impression

A double drabble for Rhapsody: who asked for Mahtan as a father or husband. "My challenge to you is to concentrate on his daughter." Although I did not concentrate on his daughter, Mahtan does. To write you something about a father's concern for his daughter seemed appropriate right now.

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(Excellent illustration by Noliel, based upon this ficlet, added at the bottom.)

Heavy black hair fell down over his shoulders obscuring his face. The boy walked with a distracted air as though lost in thought. In Mahtan's office the day before, he had used formal courtesy to cover arrogance. Although he came highly recommended from Aulë, Mahtan wondered what he might know of the unglamorous day-to-day work a smith must endure to create the space for the pursuit of beauty and innovation. The son of a king was unlikely to be constrained by such tasks, but Mahtan would insist that he master them.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, the lad greatly overshot the doorway to the forge before stopping and looking about. Puzzlement suffused his face.

At that moment, Mahtan's daughter raised her head from her work and watched. Newly seeing him through her eyes, Mahtan noted the uncanny perfection of his strong jaw line, rosy full lips, pretty as those of any maid, and his dark-winged brows accenting pale eyes.

The handsome youth lifted his head, tossing his hair onto his back. After patting his pockets, he withdrew a leather thong. He raised strongly muscled arms, and, with graceful fingers, braided and secured his hair.

"Atar, is that Prince Fëanáro?" Nerdanel asked.

 

Illustration: First Impression by Noliel Click to see it bigger. I love it. Love the close-up effect of the two men and Nerdanel watching. Great characterization. I am so thrilled.

Silent Blessing

(An actual true drabble from one prone to use too many words! -- 100 words.)

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Finwë looked about the crowded room until he spotted them, arguably the handsomest of his exceptional grandchildren. Two heads nearly level, bright and dark, inclined slightly toward one other. One would not see what they hid if one knew not to look for it. Russandol suppressed a poignant, tender look, covering it with a practiced public smile, and Findekáno, once shy, now conspicuous in his daring, controlled a grin of triumph. Wise child Káno had known what he wanted, pursued and won his prize. Finwë could not give them his blessing but neither could he withhold his sympathy. Eru bless them.

Forbidden Love

A little bit of comedy, starring Celegorm.

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Everyone who could cajole, borrow or steal an invitation had gathered in the Great Hall to hear the debut performance of the newest composition of Canafinwë Macalaurë Feanárion. It had been gossiped about for weeks. Tyelkormo squirmed in his seat, turning and grinning at Nelyo and Findekáno who sat behind him, next to his mother and his father. The title might be trite and maudlin by Tyelkormo's standards: "Forbidden Love"--no matter, among the immediate family it would always be called "Maitimo and Findekáno." But he thought the quality of the music beyond reproach. It would doubtless be a great success. People love a riveting story of the triumph of love against all odds.

A ripping, good party would follow the performance. Tyelkormo usually didn't take an interest in artists, but the girl who was to sing the female lead was gorgeous and he had no compunction about playing upon his relationship with the composer to win her favor. He had heard that she was lively and not above a serious flirtation, and everything that implied, with the right fellow, of course.

A hush fell over the room. Musicians took their places and heavy, gold-festooned, crimson curtains parted to reveal the star-crossed lovers. Tyelkormo shifted in his seat again so he could watch Findekáno's face. He couldn't miss the next part. Struggling to compose his features, he aimed for a serious, thoughtful expression. The short instrumental introduction passed quickly. Macalaurë had done it again. He had Tirion eating out of the palm of his hand. The charming mezzo-soprano opened her mouth and Tyelkormo smiled sweetly at Findekáno. This will be priceless.

Findekáno's mouth dropped open and his face turned furious red. "He made me the girl?" Findekáno hissed, in a strangled whisper.

Nelyo, an outward picture of decorum but eyes bright with suppressed laughter, whispered something unintelligible into Findekáno's ear and patted him on the arm. Findekáno jerked his arm free of the comforting hand.

Tyelkormo straightened himself in his seat, turning full front and releasing a tiny, satisfied sigh. Some things, even when you predict exactly how they will play out, are still truly worth the wait, he thought. He turned his full attention to the young singer. She did have a lovely voice and quite an excellent figure too.

 

Love In Exile

Maglor and his wife spend their first night in exile.
Written for the HASA “Anti-Valentine Day's Quickie Challenge.”

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"With him into banishment went his seven sons, and northward in Valinor they made a strong place and treasury in the hills; and there at Formenos a multitude of gems were laid in hoard, and weapons also, and the Silmarils were shut in a chamber of iron. Thither also came Finwë the King, because of the love that he bore to Fëanor…." Quenta Silmarillion, Chapter 7, "Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor"

"Macalaurë, are you coming?" I watched him sitting on the hard, bare floor, leaning against the wall, shoulders slumped, hands lax upon the harp that rested on his lap.

"Sorry, love, I will not play and keep you from your sleep," he answered, as though there could be any peace for me alone in that wide and cold bed in the darkness of Formenos, far from everything that once had been our life.

I could not answer, more bereft at the sorrow reflected in his face than I would ever be at the loss of our home and my family. My forever beloved and friend would be always for me the most luminous and gifted of all the handsome sons of Fëanaro.

Noting my silence, he looked up and spoke; perhaps he even believed his own words. "Twelve years is not so long. I love you. Is that not enough?"

 

Child of Hope

The conception of Celebrimbor

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"I hate the darkness; I hate the rain and cold. I hate listening to your brothers' trivial, repetitious arguments; they're like a passel of bored schoolboys whose master is away," she said.

"I like the seasons, the black night sky, and bright stars. One appreciates the clear, warm days more. I know Formenos is not to everyone's taste. But we must make the best of it. You need to relax; find work that you enjoy. Walk or ride into town more often."

"Varda's arse, Curvo. Listen to yourself! You sound like a vendor trying to sell an inferior rug to a unenthusiastic customer."

"It is hard for all of us, love." Curufinwë pulled her body against his and gave her a long, deep kiss. "There are always things one can do to pass the time."

"We can't make love tonight, I could conceive... Curvo, wait... Oh, yes. Like that. Yes!"

 

The Boy My Daughter Married

Jaiden asked for a drabble or ficlet with the prompt of “wicked.” At the time, I was re-reading Swordspoint and immediately remembered one of the citations Ellen Kushner used on its frontispiece:

“We all have our flaws,” he said, “and mine is being wicked.” –James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks.”

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If I had not already heard he was wicked, I would have known at first sight. He’s a surpassingly pretty boy, from a handsome family. Girls are drawn to the fine-looking ones. Nonetheless, something unpredictable lurks behind those flat, silver grey eyes. It’s impossible to fault his manners, all “yes, my lord,” and “please permit me, my lady.” One might say she could have hardly aimed higher, although there are too many brothers and cousins in front of him. Yet his father, the first prince among the Noldor, seems to favor the lad.

I do believe he loves her and it’s hard to deny one’s only daughter anything.  All else being equal, a girl is going to love the wicked boy over the good one. Her father and I decided to grant them our permission rather than drive her into his arms without it. Now we have a lovely grandson.

A Mother's Lament

Double drabble written from the point of view of Celebrimbor's mother.

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I will never forget the last night I saw my son. Tyelperinquar had plopped himself onto to the dusty, cold marble floor of what had once been our home in Tirion. His face red and smeared with tears and soot, he squalled as his father moved back and forth across the room and around me, tossing seemingly random articles of clothing onto our bed. We had brought little that would be useful with us from Formenos and Curufinwë rummaged frantically in closets and cupboards long unexamined.

“Curvo, stop it! Listen to me. Look at me.” We both ignored the crying child.

“Are you going to say that you will come? If that is what you want to say I will listen. Otherwise, if you refuse to help me, at least get out of my way.” If I had guessed his father would actually take Tyelpo with him I could have scooped our child up into my arms and fled into the darkness. Instead I thought only of the loss of his father’s love. I might have hidden, perhaps delaying Curufinwë until he was forced to leave without my baby, my only son. I curse myself when I think of it.

An Old Familiar Song

Assuming that Maglor and Maedhros fostered Elrond and Elros together, wouldn’t raising the two boys have brought back painful memories of their early life and the younger brothers they had lost? (A double drabble.) Special to me because it was my first Silmarillion-based story.

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The chill autumn wind that lifted his hair reminded him that they should soon move on--a good bit farther south, perhaps closer to the sea again.

The skittering of dry leaves across the ground prompted the addition of a few new notes to the melody he unconsciously composed as he walked. His heart lightened at the warm, amber glow of candlelight visible through the window of the little shack. He jogged down the shallow incline, now hearing, in the low, resonant voice of his brother, the strains of a lullaby from his childhood.

Opening the door, he entered. Unexpected, unwanted tears wet his cheeks as he met his brother's vivid eyes.

"Tears, Macalaurë?"

"It was your singing."

"Was it truly that awful?" Maitimo asked, his tone dry with an undercurrent of feigned amusement.

"Do not be a fool," he said, bending over two nearly indistinguishable raven-tressed heads, childish faces slack and rosy in sleep. "It made me think of the others. You were the best older brother we could have ever dreamed of having."

The taller Elf crossed the room in two strides. He folded his brother in his arms and softly held him, humming the old, familiar song.

---

Chapter End Notes

Inspired by reading so much Silmarillion (and Súlriel’s and greywing's WIPs and, most of all, Dawn Felagund’s lovely novel Another Man’s Cage).

Fingon’s Heir

Summary: After much soul-searching and review of canon sources, I decided to go with Fingon as Gil-Galad’s daddy. In keeping with my own canon (relating to my Maedhros and Fingon story arc) this piece contains slash and at least one implied threesome.

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Both Maedhros and Fingon found it strangely satisfying that the heir to the line of the High Kings of the Noldor, the latest issue of the children and grandchildren of Finwë, was half Sindarin.

“Such a pretty baby,” Maedhros said, drawing the infant closer to his chest with a skill gained in handling several younger brothers and cousins in another world and another Age. He lifted his incomparably handsome head to smile with great tenderness at Fingon, allowing a red braid to fall within easy reach of a plump infant fist. “He looks uncannily like you did on the day of your Essecarmë.”

“You recall how I looked then?” Fingon asked, the open-mouthed grin and glint in his eyes clearly showing that he was pleased with the idea that it might be true. “His eyes are silver, not blue,” he added.

“So were yours when you were born, as were Tyelcormo’s. One cannot tell what his eye color will be yet. They could still turn blue like yours or silver-grey like his mother’s.”

“Or, for all we know, he could look like you.” Fingon smirked.

“I doubt it. He looks exactly like you did on the day of your Essecarmë.”

“I suppose it is well that he does not have red hair.” They laughed, for the moment as carefree as they had been in their youth under the golden light of Laurelin.

 “Are you happy, Káno?”

“I miss you constantly. I think of you dozens of times a day. But I am happier than I expected I could be away from you, although I always count the days until I see you again.”

“I am here now. I promise I will stay longer this time. Now take me to your lady wife so I may congratulate her on how beautiful is her son."

Forbidden Lore

In response to the September '07 Silmarillion Writers Guild challenge for a story of forbidden lore. Also, must give credit to Keiliss for borrowing elements of the character of Elrond as a young adult from her lovely novel, Even Quicker Than Doubt.

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Ereinion Gil-galad entered his bedroom and spotted Elrond in one of the large overstuffed chairs next to the fireplace. Long legs, ending in graceful bare feet, dangled over the arm of the chair and Elrond cradled a bound manuscript in his lap. Usually, over the past several months, Elrond would have jumped up to welcome him with a kiss and a shameless grin at being found once again lying in wait for Gil-galad to return from the rare private dinner that had not included the young peredhel.

"Elrond," Gil-galad said, delighted as always to find Elrond, grateful to the Shining Ones for gifting him with such a precious treasure if only temporarily as he suspected. But the omission of Elrond's expected salutation perplexed him. "What fascinates you so?"

Elrond blinked with surprise at the sound of Gil-galad's voice. He swung his feet to the floor and, placing the book carefully on the chair behind him, quickly approached Gil-galad to greet him with a forceful kiss. "A book about Maedhros."

"Apparently a most interesting one."

"The introduction says it is the only copy ever to be made. Found it tucked behind the tedious books on topography on the third shelf. Covered with dust. Written by one who was close to him from their days in Tirion until the end. It's a love story."

"One less bold than you, dear, might have thought it was not meant to be generally accessible. Might even have begged permission before reading it," Gil-galad said, breaking loose with a loud guffaw. Elrond smiled, his eyes alight with affection and mischief.

"Most people would react that way, wouldn't they? But what have you ever refused me?" Elrond ran his thumbs across Gil-galad's cheekbones and then stuck an impudent tongue directly into his king's mouth.

After a lengthy kiss, Gil-galad pulled his lips free again. "Ai, Elrond. What am I to do with you? Yes. I think I know that book. I didn't recognize the cover. And how does it strike you? Is it accurate?"

"I could not say. I recognize the Maedhros that I knew and it fits with certain things I never understood. Yet I never once heard that Fingon and Maedhros were lovers, although the book states that their bond was nigh universally recognized, abhorred or glorified, depending upon the company within which it was discussed. No one among their followers gossiped of Maedhros in front of Elros or me. And here, of course, most are careful to avoid any mention of Maedhros in my company."

"He never spoke of my father?"

"Almost never. Maglor mentioned King Fingon infrequently but never in Maedhros's presence. Once I asked Maedhros to tell me the story of the cliffs of Thangorodrim. Elros almost choked in horror when I asked." Elrond snorted with amusement at the memory. Gil-galad's eyes crinkled in an indulgent smile. He had often heard the tales of how Elrond had been the rebellious, outspoken child and Elros the quieter, responsible one.

Elrond continued, "Maedhros loathed to speak of his past. But he told me the story of his rescue in great detail that day. His telling of it was heartbreaking in its beauty. He even sang me part of the song that Fingon had sung to find him. He said Fingon had written it when they were very young. Then his eyes filled with tears and he couldn't finish it. I thought he spoke of a dearest friend long lost. I had no idea they were lovers. Do you remember anything of Maedhros and your father together?"

"Little enough. But I do recall the times during my life there when he came to stay. My father appeared younger and carefree. My mother was happy too--wore her prettiest dresses and let her hair hang free. He played with me, read to me and paid me a good deal of attention in general. But I was so young. I remember my impression of his glorious looks and the way my father's eyes shone when he looked upon him. But that all ended when I was sent away. I did not know him as you did."

---

Chapter End Notes

In keeping with my other ficlet in this series, "Fingon's Heir," I chose to go with The Silmarillion version of Fingon as the father of Gil-galad. I also use this choice in my Maitimo and Findekano story cycle.