Pictures at an Exhibition by Robinka

Handwork

An impish drabble, originally written for the challenge at "Drabble Madness": "Funny Names. Mablung of the Heavy Hand".

Thanks to NeumeIndil for beta-reading :)

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He didn’t hear me. Sitting in the garden, shirtless, his pale skin sweat-damped, he made strange noises, entirely focused on the movements of his hand, up and down, up and down...

At first I didn’t realize what he was doing, but I blushed seeing the quivering muscles of his strong arm strain rhythmically. His breathing became heavier. I just stood behind him motionless, as if someone cast a spell on me.

And then it happened. He groaned with frustration and turned around. I noticed his embarrassment.

“My name suits me,” he hissed tossing a plane and his newly crafted, now broken, bow aside.

Strategy

Beleg's skill lay in warfare. And other things.

Thanks to Neume for her beta help.

Read Strategy

Maps unfolded, he traced his fingertips over the appointed territory, his concentration evident. Planning each possible way to attack proficiently -- in the nimble manner of the wardens -- by hitting the mark then withdrawing with caution, he considered every little detail in his thorough research. To make his ambush successful, having estimated his capabilities, he now gradually trailed a finger over to another location, along the paths followed beforehand, always ready to wait through and waylay. Upward, downward, then forward; he grinned; his strategy would be fruitful.

 

"Beleg..." The curvaceous subject of his conquest moaned deliciously upon his swift victory.

House of Ransom

Beleg on his way to rescue his friend Túrin. A drabble written ages ago for OSA Drabble Challenge: Good guy.

Thanks to Elliska for beta-reading.

2008 MEFA nominee

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"My heart warns me that we should return to Doriath."

"I will not go there!"

...

 

His stubbornness had sunk into my memory. Yet I had listened to my heart, not wisdom. Although the day was waning I kept on seeking him, pacing the top of the hill cautiously. It was now covered with blood and slain outlaws were lying everywhere. But no sign of him...

Alas! Hard you were, son of Húrin, and stubborn.

My hope faded when I looked at the stony path for I could clearly see his fate. Sighing, I turned northward and cursed under my breath, "Dealings with dwarves...!"

Carpe Diem

A double-drabble this time. Thanks to Hrymfaxe for a quick beta :)

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Fingers dig into the skin; adrift to implode they swing, hair unrestrained, mind out of control. Each chord of their muscles disrupts the harmony into which they have stoked themselves, but neither of them cares. Flourishing from soft moans at first, now the score takes on a crescendo, evermore conducting to the staccato of breaths and fervent touches. As they meet and part, vibrating in each other's hands, the world has become less than a blink of an eye when they give in, and then everything grows silent.

Reality breaks in with an unwanted note.

"It is too good to let you go."

Dust has a fascinating fragrance, especially when mingled with her unique scent that now, as Beleg closes his eyes and nestles his face in the curve of her neck, fills his nostrils with each labored intake of air. On the eve of departure that weaves like a spider's web, nothing makes lazier than an intense interlude with her. He still marvels at the flash that hit his pupils despite his closed eyelids. Heart to heart, their bodies warm one another, increasing the heat of the summer outside and the fever inside of them. May tomorrow never come.

---

Chapter End Notes

Carpe diem [Latin]: seize the day.

Innovation

A sequel to "Strategy": knowledge does not have to mean routine.

Thanks to Neume for the beta.

Read Innovation

Canvas neatly arranged, she leaned forward and took a thoughtful look at her work, unconsciously running the tip of her tongue along her upper lip. The design, though she had thoroughly studied it before, always proved to be demanding and required her utmost attention. Her fingertips knew the patterns well, so she let her hand trail them as though of its own accord and only brushed the embroidery fashioned on the hem of a warden's plain uniform. She would be precise a little later.

 

"Stop teasing me," Beleg whispered and arched up for her fingers to slide under the fabric.

Warmth

A drabble written for Hrymfaxe. The prompt was: Mablung (surprising! ;)) and “chilld”. I didn’t know whether Hrymfaxe meant “child” or “chilled”, so the drabble is about a chilled child.

As always, thank yous go to my dear Neume for her beta help.

Read Warmth

"Here you are." The tall warden crouched amid the tangle of twigs and leaves, pushing them away from his sight. He smiled at the child. "I have finally found you."

"Beleg?" The boy reached out. Beleg lifted him and held close, absorbing the chills and warming the boy with his body. Taking the weight upon one arm, he drew his cloak over the tiny and shivering figure.

"You are cold," he said. "Why have you gone out to the woods, alone?"

"Father said I could not be a warden like you." The boy wept bitterly.

"You will be," Beleg promised. "You have my word."

The Cure

A double drabble written for Rhapsody. Why did Nellas choose to keep an eye on Túrin after he had arrived in Doriath as a young boy?

Thanks to Neume for the beta.

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"Do you love him?"

The question, posed with the straightforwardness that caused Nellas' shoulders to stiffen, hung in the air for a time, but she could only nod furtively. Melian moved from the sill of the window, gliding along the stones of the floor with the lazy gracefulness of an eagle that landed in the nest and folded its protective wings over the nestlings.

"I have no cure for your unrequited love, my dear," she stated. Nellas stepped back. Her mind shouted, ‘It is not! Not unrequited!', but she answered nothing.

"I may have," Melian continued calmly, "something to make your mind and hands busy while your heart bleeds with unfulfilled cravings. Follow me, please."

In the throne hall, abandoned and echoing with quiet sobs, there was a boy, pale and dark-haired, depositing his sorrows on a few wooden toys at his feet and the polished tiles of the floor. Nellas' heart sunk.

Coming over to the child, she glanced back at the queen, who smiled and encouraged her by nodding. Nellas crouched beside the miserable figure. She pushed the dark locks from his forehead and was rewarded with a flash of glistening eyes, a faint smile.

"His name is Túrin," Melian said.

Expectancy

Ah yes, Mablung... :) A drabble written for Whitewave.

Thankies to Neume, as always, for her help.

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"Are you sure?" he asked in a husky tone.

"Yes..." she answered.

"If this is truly your wish," he crooned. She trembled lightly.

"Mablung, do not make me beg you."

He smiled at her. Of course, he waited for this moment, since the day he had discovered her secret a long time ago. Leaning forward and trailing his hand down her arm in a gentle, loving touch, he entwined his fingers with hers. His lips incidentally brushed her nape.

"Tell me," Mablung murmured into her hair, "when."

"Whenever you are ready."

With a sure, forceful movement, Mablung pulled the bowstring. "Now, focus on the target!"

Scar Tissue

A take on the ultimate meeting of Daeron and Lúthien, written for Lethe. The title is borrowed from the song by Red Hot Chili Peppers. A vignette.

Thanks for the beta go to Neume.

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Solace.

He longed for a brief touch of the dearest hand that - he was sure - could have brought him peace at last. Kneeling in the soft grass on the bank of a lake, he ceased the sobbing that had been ripping his heart for long ages - how long? He could not comprehend, for his tears were of no help - they could not measure time.

The water replied to his sobs with a soft, soothing sound, lapping at the bank and his hand that had dipped in the shimmering pool.

"Daeron?" he heard, and nearly leaped up to his feet. Was it only his imagination? His long-withered ears must have cheated him, for there was nothing upon the shores of Arda that sounded as such. This voice was forgotten, buried deep in his memories - and nothing possessed the power to resurrect it.

"Daeron? Will you not look at me?"

"You are lost to me," Daeron responded, surprising himself, because his own voice came loud and firm. "Why do you torment me so?"

"I have come back to you," the melodic whisper resounded so close as though inside his thoughts. Daeron turned around, furious at the unbidden images that invaded his vision. Had she come back? No! Impossible!

"Why?" he uttered. "After all the tears unnumbered? After all the years uncounted?"

Silence.

So it had been an illusion, he sighed and looked back at the water, crouching and leaning forward to trail his palm along the otherwise undisturbed surface. The illusion could not answer to the obvious question that lingered in his mind. And yet...

"I have returned to atone for something that you deem a mistake, and I have come to see the sacrifice for a greater cause, Daeron."

A delicate, but undeniably real touch of a hand on his shoulder made him glance back and up, and he met the eyes that he had desired to see one more time - the tender gaze that he had known he would not be granted ever again. True? Daeron slowly stood up and faced her as she materialized in front of him, as fair as he remembered, smiling and gesturing toward the shore of the lake with a hand like pure alabaster.

"Are you real? Lúthien?" he whispered.

As much as you are. Wordlessly, she inclined her head and invited him to follow her along the bank as her fingers became clasped with his. And here, on the shores of Cuiviénen, the solace you have longed for is finally within your reach.

Reunion

A small take on what the Sindar might have felt upon the arrival of the Noldor in Beleriand.

For Moreth (you know, for that Sindar association :) at lj). With thank yous to Vlad for the beta.

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"You and I, we may look the same, but we are very far apart."

~*~

Long had we learned how to tame this unfriendly land, neither basking in the Light, nor straying in darkness. We had shaped it with axes and spears, with water and stone, and molded it, to our mutual benefit. We gave and took evenly in measure, minding the delicate harmony: no masters, but never truly mastered.

They came with fire and their burning needs to conquer, rule, and possess; our kin, but distant, alien in their attitude, they brought high hopes, but also the tumult, into which we might inevitably tumble.

We yet ought to learn to make our own fire.

---

Chapter End Notes

Honestly, I didn't plan to participate in this year's Back to Middle Earth Month because I've been on a dry spell for a long time, but the muse yet again surprised me. So, the last part of "The Pictures at an Exhibition" honors the prompt of B2MeM 2009 Day First: "Learning to make a fire".

The motto is borrowed from Nine Inch Nails, "Violent Heart".

The Persistence of Memory

Written for B2MeM 2011 Day First: "Nan Elmoth".

For Clodia :)

Read The Persistence of Memory

What the forest recalled was her mother's voice. The stars, allured by the tune, stopped in their aimless roaming on the firmament and could be easily reached by the space-demanding branches. She could chant the trees into growing, and the wood added its crescendo, blooming within the beat of her paean.

What Nan Elmoth memorized was her father's silence -- seduced into awe.

What the trees best remembered was her voice, at first a murmur that resounded from her mother's bosom.

"Sing," her father planted a kiss on her mother's belly, smiling against the taut skin, "my nightingale."

 

---

Chapter End Notes

No beta for this one. If you see any error, let me know, please.

Can I Play with Madness?

A drabble written in response to B2MeM 2011 Day #5, "Menegroth": Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation.

Thank yous go to Pandë for a quick beta and advice and to Iron Maiden for the title.

This glimpse is a bit of a far larger story of mine that depicts the battle in the forest of Brethil, coming soon in the cinemas near you ;).

Read Can I Play with Madness?

 

Fused, they moved as one. When she reached out, he answered. If he pressed, she complied. Her fingers clawed his side to urge him on, he never failed to listen; his palm on her hip, though she needed no support. She lunged upward, then retreated; when she yelled, he darted forward and clenched his teeth with a growl.

Back to back, they stood rooted in place as their axes swung, slash after slash, bathed in black. Alone, surrounded by a screeching crowd, aware only of each other amid the slaughter.

 

Later, Súllinn would rasp, “Húrin... Huor... managed?”

Beleg could only wonder.

 

The Bond

A bit twisted take on the Sindar. Thank yous to Himring for the beta :)

Read The Bond

There are certain advantages of my position, I think in agony, gasping, gritting and baring my teeth. My spine arches; blood drums in my temples; my muscles strain to the point of weakness. Certain advantages, I hiss while my fingers try to claw the air above the band – one thing particularly.

 

I'm not hanging.

 

She collapses, chest to chest, slick and shivering, and whispers into my hair about "releasing the chestnut stud" as she unlaces the knot on the bedframe. My breathing tunes with hers.

These Sindarin princesses aren't prudish in the slightest. Who'd have expected?

 

Homecoming

Beleg... You'll never know when he shows up at your doorstep, points at pen and paper and says, "Write, would you please?". As if I could say no to him.

No beta, no warnings, just 100 words about Beleg :) Enjoy!

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In Beleriand, stars are brighter.

Are, not were, because it matters little that Beleriand is no more, I realize. They have always been out there, up there, and I remember them well. I may be brand new, but you know what people say: the song remains the same. Now, to admire them as I used to do, I have to block the citylights from coming into my sight with my hands around my eyes.

Perfect.

As I watch them shine as they should, I care little that Beleriand no longer exists, because I am Beleriand, and, well, I am back.

---

Chapter End Notes

What you recognize are nods at Led Zeppelin and Sam Gamgee.

And They Say He Was Lost...

A drabble for the SWG challenge “Just an Old-fashioned Love Song”, inspired by “We Belong” by Pat Benatar.

Back when things were better.

Read And They Say He Was Lost...

“We belong together now,” she murmured into his naked, sweat beaded chest as she lifted her head, trailing feathery kisses downward. With one arm around her slim shoulders, he gathered her close and pushed a strand of her hair, inky like a starless night, away from her face, behind her ear. She took a chance to plant a kiss into the inside of his palm. He caught it and hid it against his slowing heart, as though inside the shirt they had rapidly discarded.

“We do,” Thingol whispered.

And no law, no man, no power... nothing would ever change that.

---

Chapter End Notes

With a ton of thank yous to Hrymfaxe for her beta help and comments. Thank you, Honey!