Leaflets by Raksha The Demon

Spirit of Fire (Finwe & Miriel)

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The nights have cooled since we first awakened by the shores of Cuiviénen.  Plants drowse in fruitless slumber.  We have learned to kill for food.  I strike sparks from fire-stone with my flint spearheads, so the slain deer will cook on the branches I gathered.  Yet the wood does not light. A shower of dry leaves and grasses falls atop the woodpile, dropped from a maiden’s deft hands.  I bring forth sparks, then flame, and a warm smile from the maiden.   She calls me Finwë, skilled one.  I name her Míriel, for her jewel-bright eyes.  New fire kindles between us.

 

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Chapter End Notes

 AUTHOR’S NOTES:   As most Silmarillion readers know, Finwe and Míriel became the parents of Fëanor, the mercurial genius who created the palantír, the Silmarils, and the Kin-strife.  Fëanor’s name means Spirit of Fire.  It was not stated in The Silmarillion whether Finwë and Míriel were among the original Elves awakened at Cuiviénen; but he never named their parents; (not to my knowledge) and Finwe at least was contemporary with the first-created Eldar.  Special thanks to ElenaTiriel of HASA/Henneth-Annun, for researching the meaning of Finwë’s name!

Seeker of Shadow (Eöl )

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Where are you riding, O White Lady so fair, shrouded by silver, moonlight gilding your raven black hair?

The towers of Gondolin were not strong enough to hold you? Were its fountains not deep enough to quench your fire? Did its high-born lords find favor in your eyes, or were their blades too dull to match your mettle? Why flew you from such sunlit heights?

Aredhel Ar-Feiniel rides alone, free of all who would enfold her. They could not know what her heart yearns for as she passes through the mighty trees of Nan Elmoth. It is not the safe light of day she seeks. But I can tame that fierce and questing heart, answer the need behind her bright eyes. She has entered my twilit realm of her own will, and here she shall abide. Now I draw her to me as the lodestone draws iron. Her quest will end when she alights, weary of wandering, at my door.

Come now, my fair bird, my rare bird…
A white owl thou art, and darkness thy true heart.
I will give you my steel and the white-hot stars above.
The shadows shall cloak us when we lie down in love.

 

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Chapter End Notes

Author's Note:

One can blame Eöl for a lot of things, but not for the poetry in this double-drabble - it comes from this author. 

Great Heart (Huan)

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He is the smallest of the five males born to Súlion and Ar-hiril, most beloved of their Master’s pack, by the hearth of the Huntsman‘s lodge. His plump sisters try to push him from their mother’s milk-heavy teats. But the silver-grey pup with the dark red ears refuses to be moved. 

Once weaned, the pups tussle for position around the food bowl. Seven littermates stand between the grey one and the wet, meaty sustenance. He surveys the obstacles, then charges towards his goal. He will brook no argument. The largest brother bars his way, but quails at the grey pup’s fierce glance. The others open the circle and yield a path to the food.  

During their eighth week, while the pups frolic in the grass, danger approaches in the form of a small viper. Ar-hiril has rejoined the pack, and is no longer there to guard her brood. The Master dozes in the warm light of the Two Trees. The grey one alone detects the creature. He knows evil when he sees it; and he does not hesitate. Growling furiously, the pup pounces on the snake, pinning its sleek head to the ground. The viper twists, but cannot escape. The Master rouses and comes, cleaving the serpent with a single sword-stroke. The pup yips a victory song.

The Master lifts the pup to regard him. "Oh, thou art brave!" he praises. "Littlest among thy brethren, thou hast the greatest spirit. One day thou shall be great of body as well as heart, and on that day, let the spawn of Melkor beware!" The pup proudly returns the Master’s gaze, and wags his tail in accord. It is something like greeting a mountain, but he knows little fear, and none for the mighty Huntsman who is a Vala, as much a power as the wind and the rain.  

Weeks pass. The Master presents the pup to his friend, Celegorm the Elf. The grey one is named Huan; for his deeds, and his doom, shall be great. Huan does not love Celegorm, The Elf is loud, and over-quick to anger. Still, Huan bides with his new pack. As he dreams, and twitches his large paws, Huan hears Oromë’s voice trumpet his destiny. A higher, special purpose will come to him in Celegorm‘s service. Until he finds it, Huan’s heart will remain his own, bound in loyalty, but waiting to be freely given.  

 

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Chapter End Notes

 

Huan's parents, at least their names, are my inventions, as well as his littermates; though I assume he had some.  I have heard it theorized that Huan was a Maia in animal form; but for me, he will always be a magical dog.

The Guardian (Huan)

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The bright little elf-maiden is the sun in my sky, precious as rain.  She is my most special friend, who I chose to follow.   

As another day of our journey ends, she drops beside me to stroke my ears, give me water, and curl up against me for warmth.    

The other one, the smelly unwashed Man with the sword, looks at her as if she belongs to him.  His only use is to cook the game I kill.  Does he not know that he is Luthien’s?  And therefore his life is mine to protect and die for, as is hers.

 

Lord of Werewolves (Morgoth)

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I try to be patient with some of my less thoughtful underlings. Really. I offer tasty Orc-snacks to the wargs, Men to the Orcs to play with, and I taught the game of tic-tack-kill to the trolls to occupy the brutes' so-called minds.

And then there’s Sauron. If he’s not in the forge fooling around with fancy jewelry like some sissy Noldo, he's subverting my werewolf training program.

I let him handle the new beast. This morn, when I arose and cast off my slippers, I could not find my boots. The door was ajar, knocked off its hinges. I stepped out, and howled in rage as my bare feet encountered a particularly foul puddle!

“SAURON!” No answer. Orcs fled before my wrath. I stomped back into my chamber, dried my feet, dressed, found a pair of old shoes and my favorite whip, and hastened to find a certain idiot.

Following a trail of puddles and eviscerated, shoeless Orcs, I reached Sauron’s door. Breaking it down with one showy kick, I stormed into his quarters. The reprobate was reclining on a chaise longue, attended by that toothsome strumpet Thuringwethil, who was giving him a manicure.

Sauron turned red. The leggy vampire batted her eyes at me.

“Where is he, Sauron!” I roared.

“Um…er. Where is who, Dark Lord?”

“My Anfauglir, cretin! I gave him to you to fashion into a weapon against that cursed Valar-hound if you remember.”

“Oh. He rose languidly, stretched, whistled, then called “Wolfiekins!”

Wolfiekins?

I heard a loud thump in Sauron’s bath chamber. Then came my great weapon, the young werewolf into which I’d poured my power and effort. The half-grown beast was sleek, his thickening dark coat brushed even more than Sauron’s own black locks. Now the size of a small pony, the wolf wore a fine leather collar studded with amethysts - more of Sauron’s foppery, no doubt. He also had one of my boots in his mouth, and a happy look in his yellow eyes.

The beast sauntered over to Sauron and sat against his legs, grinning foolishly at me. Sauron’s hand stole to the wolf’s head and stroked the ears. Thuringwethil pouted.

This petted creature was the werewolf I’d created to rend and tear and destroy? My Red Maw?

“Sauron, what have you done to my wolf?” I asked mildly.

“Done, Lord of All?” He weaseled. “I have been training him. Wolfie, lie down!”

The beast actually rolled over, tucking his paws like a scared rabbit. Pathetic.

“Sauron….What shall I do with you” I said, stroking the whip in my hand. “You’ve spoiled the beast, let him waste his strength on Orcs instead of captives, and make free in my chambers. And he’s not even housebroken!”

Then I raised the whip.

After I’d beat the crap out of Sauron, subdued the angry wolf and kicked him across the room, I finally regained peace of mind. The situation was salvageable without killing the creature and starting over. I hog-tied the wolf, removed his silly collar and buckled it around Sauron’s neck. Then I forced Sauron to clean up the puddles and Orc-remains. I finished by making Sauron polish all of my remaining footwear, while I fondled Thuringwethil before him.

“Carcharoth is your name, not Wolfiekins” I told the wolf as I cast him, growling and snapping, into the kennels. I would take up his training myself.

As for Sauron, I sent him off to conquer Tol Sirion, with a host of werewolves already ruined by his soft methods. Thuringwethil flew away with him, the stupid twit.

Good help is truly hard to find.

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Chapter End Notes

 

 

Carcharoth was created by Morgoth to kill Huan, the Valar‘s “hound of war”.  The name Carcharoth translates as The Red Maw.  His other name, Anfauglir, means the Jaws of Thirst.  But doubtless Sauron preferred to call him Wolfiekins. 

Sauron is called "lord of werewolves" in The Silmarillion (Ch. 18, Of The Ruin of Beleriand) when he conquers the fair isle of Tol Sirion and converts it into a fortress and werewolf

Naeramarth (Nienor)

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She is caught!  

Nienor’s heart beats like the wings of a frantic bird as she looks up at the dragon’s great eyes. But her legs will not move, no matter how hard she tries to run.  

There are questions; and he makes her give answer. His baleful gaze holds hers. She cannot look away! Now he fouls her mind, seeking to snare her spirit. She resists, pits all her strength against his. But she is a tired mortal maiden and he is Glaurung, relentless father of dragons. He takes her to him, pulling her down into a strange and sunless place.  

She sinks deeper, as if she were thrown into chill waters, there to die alone. The small part of her that is still Nienor flails against the dragon‘s will, to no avail. She is losing the world and losing herself. Her heavy eyelids close; her head drops. All is dark.  

A desperate yearning flickers through her mind, a pale candle in the freezing darkness: her brother, Túrin, out there, unconquered. As Nienor falls at last into the icy depths of the dragon’s heart, she calls silently with the final thought of her own making: Find me, brother; find me!

 

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Chapter End Notes

 

Read the tale of Túrin for more on Túrin and Nienor. Suffice it to say that Naeramarth does not mean "dreadful doom" without good reason. Turin does eventually find Nienor, to their mutual ruin. Those who have read their story might know why Nienor thinks of dying in chill waters...It's not a happy story. But Nienor's lonely struggle against the dragon begged for elaboration.

Fading Embers (Nerdanel)

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I waited on the shores of the Great Sea. I had waited for nearly six hundred years, since my husband and sons left in haste, their hands and footsteps stained with the blood of our kin. Fëanor had doomed them all with that terrible Oath sworn out of prideful spite.

Once, I had shared his pride. The Spirit of Fire was given to the creation of jewels ever finer, ever more brilliant. I loved the forge as well, the making of things both beautiful and useful.

Fëanor and I forged seven jewels, fairer than any Silmaril: Maitimo, Makalaurë, Curufinwe, Tyelkormo, Carnistir, Ambarussa and Umbarto. Our sons were created in love, carried in my willing body, borne in pain and pride. No other Elf ever had so many sons, all of them brave and gifted.

I turned from my husband, angered by the strife he had willfully sown with his kin. And then he called, and my sons followed him; into danger, into bloodshed, into the dark wilderness of Middle-earth.

While I waited on these peaceful shores, my husband had been slain. Then one, two, three, four and five of our sons had followed him. Their spirits wandered the Halls of Mandos, I had been told. But my love for the two who still lived blazed within me like a hearth-fire.

Finally, the Valar sent forth help to the Noldor in their need. Hope flared anew in my heart. Surely the Valar would relent and let the Exiles come home, if Morgoth were vanquished!. How I yearned to see Maitimo and Makalaurë again. No matter what fell deeds they had done, and they had done many, they were my sons and I loved them.

I waited and watched as the ships returned. I saw those who had gone recently to fight, and those who had followed Fëanor so long ago. There were faces I knew, and faces I barely remembered, but not the faces I longed to see. They spoke of my children's fate. Maitimo had despaired and died by his own will, bearing his father's cursed jewel into the earth. Makalaurë had thrown the other Silmaril into the waves and fled, singing songs of sorrow, to wander the shores of Middle-earth, far across this pitiless sea.

I remove my necklace. It was one of Fëanor's simplest pieces, but a favorite of mine; a chain of white gold upon which lay seven white opals streaked with blue and silver fires. I unlock the clasp, then slowly take off each perfect stone and throw it far out into the darkening waters. One for each baby, sleeping safe in my arms. One for each young prince, standing tall beside his father. Pledges of love.

It has been perhaps an hour since I heard the news, yet it seems as if six hundred more years have passed. Above me, Anar sinks below the mountains in a blaze of red and gold. The light is going; the fire is quenched; and all love is gone.

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Chapter End Notes

 

 

The first gems that Fëanor made were white and colourless, but being set under starlight they would blaze with blue and silver fires brighter than Helluin  -  The Silmarillion, by J.R.R. Tolkien, edited by Christopher Tolkien. (I thought they might be some kind of opal)

The names by which Nerdanel refers to her seven sons are their mother-names. If I got them wrong, I invite Silmarillion and Quenya aficionados to correct my mistakes.

 

Silver and Gold (Galadriel)

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She has always been victorious. She has never given in, or given up, in any contest.

But this night, Galadriel can do naught else but yield. Her silver-haired bridegroom assails her in a gentle but urgent campaign, beguiling, ensnaring, capturing her. His long fingers make her tingle; his mouth makes her burn, awakening a relentless need.

Now she surrenders completely. Galadriel is rewarded by waves of pleasure from a lover as tireless as the sea, and gasps. They are one, silver and gold forever. Lying spent and sated in Celeborn’s arms, Galadriel smiles wickedly. Tomorrow night, she will conquer him!

 

 

Glitter (Elrond)

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In a lodge set deep beneath the trees of Eregion, I am attended by the stranger who holds sway in the Jewel-Smiths’ court.  As my King’s herald, I came to meet the mysterious Elf and hear his words.    

It disturbs me not a little to see how my distant kinsman Celebrimbor fairly dotes upon this Annatar, holding him high in his councils.  Celebrimbor treats Annatar as if the other were a brother long lost.  That in itself is not so odd; save that Annatar has no kin that he has ever mentioned. 

 And now, Celebrimbor and his folk have retired for the night.   I would have also retired, after we sang the evensong to Elbereth.  But Annatar asked to speak to me here, before the hearth. A harmless request.   So why do I shiver?   His words are kindly.  Annatar offers me friendship, and more:  the priceless allure of knowledge.  I am not so much a Noldo that the crafts of the Jewel-Smiths tempt me unduly, yet Annatar speaks of ancient lore and tidings from the Blessed Realm itself, messages from my lost sire and the mother that flew to him.   

“And I can give thee even greater wisdom in medicine and herb-lore than thou hast already, Eärendilion,” Annatar says.  He puts a graceful, firm hand on my shoulder, drawing me slightly towards him.  He must have heard that I am a student, when time permits, of the healing art. Few know that it is a passion of mine.    

“Drink with me,” he says, extending a golden cup.  The words are courteously spoken but they sound like a command, however gentle.  I look up into Annatar’s proud face and remind myself that the only one in Middle-earth who may command me is my King.    

I am drawn to just the sight of him; I who have not yet felt bodily love towards any, male nor female.  I do not think that I have ever seen a fairer Elf than this Annatar.   He is raven-haired, taller than even my well-remembered uncle Maedhros, with brilliant eyes of gold-flecked grey that pull my heart and mind to him.    

When I hear Annatar’s voice; when I behold the majesty of his face and the glory of his eyes, I yearn to accept the gifts he graciously would give me.   Would my hand burn if he clasped it?  I lean forward.   

Yet as I look upon him, I feel another, different kind of sight that sometimes takes me, coming from the back of my head into my eyes.   I realize that I must resist the lure of this Elf.  For I detect a spirit within him that does not match the beauty of his form. Those gold-grey eyes veil a thing that stalks me, slavering in greed, a will that would snap me up as Carcharoth once consumed my longfather Beren’s hand.   Ugliness and foulness!   

Barely veiling my own horror, I step back.  “Thank you; but no,” I manage to say with some semblance of dignity.  “I am weary, and crave the fresh air before I seek my rest.”   

I walk away, close the door behind me, and go outside, gulping the cool air of early autumn.  My steps turn into a run through the holly-trees and pines.  Finally, I come to a clearing where I stop to catch my breath.  I raise my head and see, high above me, the Silmaril borne by my father, its silvery light clear in the cloudless heavens.    

“Not all that glitters is gold,” I announce, the words sounding strange but fitting.  I will sleep under the stars this night.   

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Chapter End Notes

 

 

Forbidden Fruit (Anárion )

 And Sauron urged the King to cut down the White Tree, Nimloth the Fair, that grew in his courts, for it was a memorial of the Eldar and of the light of Valinor.  

At the first the King would not assent to this, since be believed that the fortunes of his house were bound up with the Tree, as was forespoken by Tar-Palantir. Thus in his folly he who now hated the Eldar and the Valar vainly clung to the shadow of the old allegiance of Númenor. But when Amandil heard rumour of the evil purpose of Sauron he was grieved to the heart, knowing that in the end Sauron would surely have his will. Then he spoke to Elendil and the sons of Elendil, recalling the tale of the Trees of Valinor; and Isildur said no word, but went out by night and did a deed for which he was afterwards renowned. For he passed alone in disguise to Armenelos and to the courts of the King, which were now forbidden to the Faithful; and he came to the place of the Tree, which was forbidden to all by the orders of Sauron, and the Tree was watched day and night by guards in his service. At that time Nimloth was dark and bore no bloom, for it was late in the autumn, and its winter was nigh; and Isildur passed through the guards and took from the Tree a fruit that hung upon it, and turned to go. But the guard was aroused, and he was assailed, and fought his way out, receiving many wounds; and he escaped, and because he was disguised it was not discovered who had laid hands on the Tree. But Isildur came at last hardly back to Rómenna and delivered the fruit to the hands of Amandil, ere his strength failed him. Then the fruit was planted in secret, and it was blessed by Amandil; and a shoot arose from it and sprouted in the spring. But when its first leaf opened then Isildur, who had lain long and come near to death, arose and was troubled no more by his wounds. 

--From AKALLABÊTH The Downfall of Númenor, The Silmarillion--

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X.  Forbidden Fruit

 

Never as nimble as his brother, he moved as swiftly as he could.  If he should stumble in the dark and lose his burden, then his brother would have suffered fell wounds in vain, and hope would surely be lost.  Even now, their great house was being watched by the King’s men.  Trudging through the fetid waist-high waters of the sewers under Romenna, Anárion fingered the pouch hung round his neck.  The pouch felt warm, perhaps by the sunlight caught in the stolen fruit it held.  

Move.  Breathe.  Listen.   The Son of the Sun smiled, and walked on, without pursuit. 

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Never was the pale light of the morning more welcome to the man who was named for it.  Anárion shambled out of the tunnel, shivering and half-blind after the night spent walking in darkness.  He knew this land, having traveled the coast of the Hyarrostar years before.  Sun on his face, Anárion hastened to a hidden grove, deep in a wood of sea-spruce and gold-flowering laurinquë.  There, in the rich soil near a rippling stream, he dug a bed where the Tree of the Kings could be reborn. 

Anárion brought the Fruit of Nimloth out of the pouch into the warmth of the rising sun.  Anar’s rays shone upon the soft golden fuzz coating the silvery fruit.  Silver for the moon, gold for the Sun; he thought, reminded of his brother.  No gold or silver plundered by Pharazôn could be worth more than this one fruit, Anarion thought.  May the false king and his devil Sauron choke on the fumes when they give Nimloth to the flames!            

A dark red streak marred the fruit’s perfection.  Isildur’s blood!  Anárion considered wiping the stain away.  No.  “My brother bled to save thee,” he said softly as he planted the fruit.  “Remember him!” 

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Never had he thought, however much he loved trees, to spend the cool spring night huddled in his cloak beside a fragile sapling in the wilds of Hyarrostar.  Yet Anárion could not think of what else to do.  Isildur lay in a deathlike sleep.  The wounds taken when he saved Nimloth’s doomed Fruit had not healed.  Even the athelas raised in their mother’s own gardens had not helped.  Desperate, Anárion had returned to the grove, hoping to find some sign, some help, for his brother.  But the small buds pushing out of the new Tree’s branches had not yet opened. 

The sap of Isildur’s life wanes, even as the sap of life rises in this scion of Nimloth, Anárion mourned.   He looked to the distant stars and moon, the shining lights of Over-heaven.  “Do not sunder the Friend of the Moon from the Son of the Sun,” he begged to whatever Valar might hear.  “Or, take me and spare my brother who risked all to save the line of Nimloth.”            

A light rain pattered down from the dark skies.  Sighing, Anárion curled his weary body around the sapling, gripping its slender trunk with one hand.  He slept deeply, dreaming of a strange white city jutting out of a mountain and a White Tree as fair as Nimloth blooming at the city’s height.   

And when the sun rose out of the silver sea, Isildur stirred in his sickbed.  Slowly he opened his eyes, smiled upon his wife and mother.  Eyes and heart faraway, he said: “Anárion.” 

Listen, Anárion.  Breathe.  Move, a joyful female voice urged from the edge of dreams.  Anárion obeyed it, stretching out stiff legs and rubbing his eyes.  Then he blinked.  For there, on the little Tree, a new, moon-white leaf stood forth to greet the morning sun.

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Chapter End Notes

 

I believe that Anárion means 'Son of the Sun'; and Isildur means 'Servant of the Moon', or 'Moon's Servant'.  If I have erred, let me know.

Eye of the Beholder (Tuor)

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The Eye of the Beholder

 

"They still speak of the beauties of Gondolin:  the wide ways, the fountains, the finely wrought Seven Gates, the mallorns, the flowers, and the shining towers of the Hidden City.

There is no denying that Gondolin was fair.  But on my very first day in the city that became my home, I saw fairer still.  There she was, sitting at the king’s left hand.  As soon as I finished delivering Ulmo’s message, my eyes found hers.  Silver and gold, white birches and yellow mallorns, the great golden form of Glingal and the gleaming silver branches of Belthil above; all paled next to the maid with the fair hair and milk-white skin.  I didn’t know, then; that she was the king’s own daughter; and if I had, I wouldn’t have cared.  Most other Noldor stared at me, some with respect, some affronted at the nerve of a Man entering their city as Ulmo’s messenger.  She was the only one who smiled; and her eyes, those grey eyes that went from soft to stormy, gave me fearless welcome. 

I hadn’t seen too many women before then.  Seeing her, I didn’t care if I ever saw another one.   Thank you, Lord Ulmo, I thought; knowing now that I had not come here just to warn the Elves of Gondolin of coming doom.  I had come here to find this maiden.  And now that I had, I would woo her and win her and protect her from all harm.  Didn’t matter that her tall cousin glowered down at me like a thunder-cloud.  Didn’t matter that her father was King of this city and a high Lord of the Noldor.   I certainly was a young fire-eater in those days, my boy, vowing to take Idril Celebrindal to wife!

But my luck, that had brought me from thralldom to the Hidden City, bore me up again.  I did win her.  Or she chose me as much I as I’d chosen her.  I’ve never been quite sure.  It was Idril’s choice to decide; lad, and you know that once she makes up her mind, no force can gainsay her. 

Yes, Gondolin was a fair city.  I could have lived out my life there well enough, if Morgoth had let us be.  But he didn’t.  And I salvaged the fairest treasures of Gondolin – you and your mother, my son.   So let’s hurry; she’s awaiting us at the docks.”

 

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Author’s Note:

 Glingal and Belthil, metal likenesses of the lost Trees of Valinor, were made by Turgon in Gondolin, according to The Silmarillion (“Of The Noldor in Beleriand”).   Notes to “Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin” in Unfinished Tales indicate the presence of mallorns in the Hidden City.