Shadow's Instadrabbles by daughterofshadows

When she heard the news of what happened at Alqualondë, she froze. But then rage settled in her bones. She tore through her workshop.

Statues broke into thousands of pieces under her hands, her tools were strewn across the room like a hurricane had gone through. And bit by bit she destroyed the last vestiges of the life she once had shared with Feanor.

The reminders of happier days, that she had held onto despite everything.

Gifts from her sons.

All of it ruined.

And when nothing was left, she broke down, with bleeding hands, and finally let herself cry.

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It was always cold these days and the ever-shifting currents under the ice made for treacherous passage.

In the dark they could barely see the suddenly appearing cracks who had already dragged so many into the deeps, smiles on terrifying maws.

The only warmth to be found was in huddling together whenever their leaders called a halt.

Even with elvish memories, heat seemed like a remnant of a distant past.

Then, unexpectedly the sky lit up. Screams rose. Had Melkor managed to set the sky ablaze?

Who knew.

Maybe this was the end, their journey over before it really began.

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It is every hobbits' greatest pleasure to have a well-maintained lawn on which to enjoy a sunlit afternoon and a good smoke. The location of said lawn was irrelevant.

And so it came that Bilbo on one such sunny afternoon found himself in the company of the Lady Amarie and her children.

The two youngest ones had been running around all morning, full of the energy solely given by youth until Bilbo had convinced them to settle down on a blanket by distracting them with riddles.

Amarie smiled, while she helped her oldest daughter finish daisy chain after daisy chain.

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Under the sun and the moon, the turning of seasons was different than it was in the light of the trees.

Eärwen often mused on which one she preferred, and while she generally missed the easy days of Laurelin and Telperion, there was something magical about the first flowers of spring, when Arien was just beginning to warm the ground again.

Wandering through the dewy meadows, she marvelled at the first snowdrops brave enough to break through the earth and greet the new season.

And with the new flowers came new happiness, if Anaire’s laughing was anything to go by!

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Bilbo missed the mountains.

Nineteen years they had spent here in Valinor, and Lady Celebrían’s home was lovely, truly, but it was also surrounded by fields and orchards, close to the bay separating Tol Eressea from the rest of Aman proper.

Very Shire-like now that he thought about it.

Well, aside from the sea, perhaps.

But the point was, he had spent years in Imladris, and he missed the sight of rocky cliffs surrounding him.

Everything was flat here!

Not even any hills to be found!

He sighed.

Maybe not as close to the Shire as he thought, after all.

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She stared down at the place-set. Married for a century now, and still the stringent rules of etiquette at court confused her.

Everything was perfectly symmetrical, and she did not even dare to take bread from the basket, afraid to upset the order.

Someone tugged at her sleeve.

Arafinwe held up a ribbon.

“Help please, Nerdanel? It loosened”, he pleaded.

She smiled. This she could do.

With deft hands she retied it.

“Thank you!”, Arafinwe exclaimed and hugged her, before running off again.

“Don’t fall!”, she called after him, but he didn’t hear.

She sighed.

Back to the confusing place-sets.

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“Did you gain any new insights? What are the protections like?”

“The bounty is on the highest shelf. I know this much, but I had to make a strategic retreat ere more information could be gained. I fear they saw me.”

“You were very brave little sister, and your knowledge is valuable.

Alright, gather round. Here is the plan. We will wait until midnight.

Elladan, you will stand guard. I will lift Arwen up to reach the bounty. We’ll have to be careful and quiet, but I believe we can succeed.”

They did.

That night they feasted on stolen pie.

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The flag of Eryn Lasgalen flattered proudly over Thranduil’s boat, while Galadriel and Celeborn stood on their swan boat, watching the race.

Thranduil rolled his eyes.

And people claimed he had a flair for dramatics.

Eight elves were in the waters of Celebrant, ribbons tied around their arms to mark their allegiance. Green for the Greenwood, gold for the Golden Woods of Lothlorien.

The games were supposed to be a bridge between their people, to tighten relations that were torn by distance and war.

A whistle sounded. The race began.

Who would reach the arch that marked the goal first?

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Elrond prayed that the wedding would go off without a hitch.

The decorations looked beautiful, flower bouquets on every table, each as artistic as the next.

Even the garlands adorning the ceiling had been attached without anyone losing their balance and taking a tumble, much to the relief of the groom.

He didn’t think his nerves would cope if he had to treat any injuries today.

The rings were in his pock…

Wait.

Where had the rings gone?

He frantically looked around.

Where were they?

Something golden lit up in the corner of his eye.

There, on the table.

Saved!

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“Will you finish that?”

Elwë looked where Melian was pointing.

“The lemon?”

They nodded.

When he shook his head, they let go off the string they had been fiddling with and pounced on it with delight.

Elwë could only stare in horror as they bit right into it, devouring the lemon, peel and all.

When Melian caught his gaze, they pouted.

“You were the one who said it brought bad fortune not to eat all that is on your plate!”

“Food! I meant food, when I said that! Not the garnish!”

“A lemon is food! Thus, it must be eaten!”

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The rain had caught him by surprise and Círdan cursed as he vaulted over the fence in a desperate attempt to escape the downpour.

He had hoped to surprise Ereinion with some pearls from the market. The boy had been feeling a bit blue recently.

But there were no pearls to be found, and now he was drenched. The only prize for his trouble.

He pushed open the door.

Finally, home.

Ereinion stared at him, flummoxed at first, then delighted, and Círdan raised an eyebrow.

“You sparkle!”, the boy exclaimed, pointing at the raindrops in his hair, reflecting the candlelight.

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He comes to slowly, blinking away the haze of Irmo’s realm.

His dreams were filled with deep laughter, and blue light slowly taking a shape he cannot quite grasp, no matter how hard he tries.

By noon, any thoughts of the strange visions have slipped his mind entirely. There is too much to do, and too little time to do it.

They are preparing for war after all.

But many years later, as he stands in front of the Doors of Durin, his hand on Narvi’s shoulder as they admire the view, he suddenly remembers that dream again.

He smiles.

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The meeting was important, he knew that. Just as he knew that he had little to contribute now that the initial planning phase was over, and they had begun to dive into how to make their plans come true.

But why did this result in him watching the children of all the architects?

He could hear their giggles, teasing him, mocking him from the shadows to which they had fled.

He was Durin, King of Khazad- dûm, third of his name. He would not be defeated by children, be they dwarves or elves! Not playing hide-and-seek in his own halls!

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There’s music floating up from the buskers at the harbour. They have left the windows open letting the salty air in, a welcome reprieve from the exhaustion of carrying their belongings up into their new home.

But now their relatives have gone, and they are alone.

“Jewel for your thoughts?”

Taminalma turns around. Rōka is standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“The buskers are playing. Dance with me!”

Rōka blushes. “You know I have two left feet!”

“So do I! Let’s do it anyway.”

He sighs and wraps his arms around them.

They begin to sway to the music.

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“This foolish, arrogant, egoistical, mad bastard! How dare—"

Mahtan whirled around when the door opened.

“How dare this madman leave my daughter this mess behind! And take my grandsons! I could—ARGH”

He balled his hands until his knuckles turned white.

His brother did not react to his words, only gently uncurled his fingers and took his hands between his own.

Mahtan breathed heavily, the fight draining out of him. He sagged against his brother’s chest.

“I just want to know why… I thought…”

Morco sighed and squeezed him tightly

“I do not know. I am so sorry brother.”

Chapter End Notes

Morco is my OC

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There is a great mosaic set in the floor of the Hall of Fire.

Many visitors thought it had been there since the Hall was built, and they are not wrong, for in spirit it has been.

It commemorates a promise.

For when the settlement was founded, Elrond had sworn.

“And here, we will be as one people, Sindar and Noldor all. Our differences will not come between us, and we shall see centuries rise and fall.”

He has kept his promise.

And all that see the mosaic are reminded that to be a part is to be truly whole.

Chapter End Notes

The lines in Italics are paraphrased directly from the song

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Galdor froze when he felt the knife at his throat and cursed himself for letting his mind stray while collecting wild blackberries.

If he died here, he would never forgive himself.

Though… this did not look like an orc knife. This was an elvish blade, if his eyes did not deceive him. Perhaps there was still hope.

“He would make a lovely corpse, don’t you think?” a voice above him said and Galdor tried to sneak a glance at his captor but to no avail.

Suddenly, Nellas burst forth from the bushes.

“Oh, for Yavanna’s sake, leave him alone Beleg!”

Chapter End Notes

There are many reasons why I decided to go a different path with this scene in the long-fic, but I still enjoyed the idea, so have it for now. Without any context.

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It was a sorry sight that greeted them when they reached Formenos with its ruined houses and overgrown streets.

Perhaps here they would be able to finally let their husbands go.

And now that Liandë stood in front of the house, she and Moryo had once called home, it reminded her of herself.

It had crumbled in the darkness, broken into pieces like her heart. But as her wounds had scabbed over, so the house had been covered in moss, and while she had built a new life from the ruins, an oak tree had grown in her living room.

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Light returned to their world. The clouds overhead cleared and slowly, slowly they began living again, instead of merely surviving.

They weren’t whole yet, perhaps they never would be again, but breathing was easier now.

They mourned the dead, life as they knew it, and then they began to rebuild.

Much had been broken that needed to be repaired.

The first children born in the aftermath were the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon their people.

And while the children met the world for the first time, exploring and laughing, and growing, the adults learnt how to see its beauty again.

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Against his expectations, it isn’t his father or even his grandfather who welcomes him, when Ereinion stumbles out of the Halls of Mandos.

Instead, he sees Celebrían, shielding his eyes against the blinding sunlight, and she takes him by the hand and leads him home.

Her presence is a comfort while he learns to live in this new land.

Celebrían tells him of her children, the twins that share her curiosity and Elrond’s dedication, and the daughter with her father’s keen mind and her mother’s stubborn heart.

They miss Elrond keenly, but the reunion is all the sweeter for it.

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She sees the disaster coming and is still unable to avert it.

The vase topples off the table and shatters, spilling water and flowers across the floor.

Her nephew spins around, staring at the mess wide-eyed.

Urusimë quickly scoops him up before he can cut himself on any shards.

“I didn’t mean to break it, auntie! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he babbles distraught.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, it’s alright. We can fix it again.”

It’s been a while since she has done this, but it comes back quickly.

And soon the vase is whole again, and even more beautiful than before.

Chapter End Notes

Urusimë is my OC for Mahtan's wife and the nephew featured here is actually Rog, so this is set in my TMP universe.

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Long had the dwarves feared the loss of their home, but in the end, it was not the enemy who took it from them.

The flood that drowned Beleriand had made large parts of the city uninhabitable, filling the lower levels and mines with water.

For weeks the ground shook.

But even those horrors ended one day. And only the question remained: What now?

Most left, moving East in the hopes of finding a better life.

But there were those who stayed.

And to them fell the task of rebuilding.

Perhaps their new settlement could not rival the glory of Khazad-dum, or Erebor. Perhaps it was but a pale shadow of Belegost and Nogrod.

But when Khazad-dum fell to Durin’s Bane, and Erebor to the dragon, it remained.

Stubborn, steadfast and stable.

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The urn lies shattered.

A casualty of a battle.

War cares not for craftsmanship.

A hand searches through the shards.

Fragments of art.

But who would call them artist?

Chapter End Notes

The idea behind this was that the words resemble the shards of pottery, so I was aiming for a rather chopped up structure? Let me know if I succeeded in getting that "broken apart" feeling across.

And since it does add some context, this is about an orc who does pottery, set in Moria after the Fellowship passed through.

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They’re sitting around the long table in his parents’ house. He doesn’t think he has ever seen the room so full.

A room full of family.

There are Salgant and Laurendil, Celebrilmal and Laegolas, and their children, though they are long grown up.

There are Erferil and Bahador, and Maeglin, the scars Gondolin left behind finally healed.

There is his son, and Rog still marvels at this—he has a son now!—and his son’s wife, and Rog knows his granddaughter is flitting about somewhere as well.

There are his sisters and his parents, and, of course, his spouse.

Taminalma nudges him. “What are you thinking about, my love?” they ask.

Rog shakes his head and smiles. “It’s just good to be home.”

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At night, Eärendil often lies down on the deck of the Vingilot and just stares at the sky. He wonders whether his parents are looking up at that same sky right now, wherever they are, whether Elwing does the same back in the Havens.

Will he one day teach his sons to recognise the constellations like his father taught him?

When he is alone with the night sky, he feels as endless as the stars above him.

It is strange to look up at the stars, when you yourself are considered one, but sometimes, Eärendil still lies down on the deck and stares at the sky. It still feels endless, and he is grateful that some things never change.

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Dol Guldur is gone, the fortress reduced to rubble, the orcs dead and the land can finally begin to heal.

It will be a long time before all the damage can be fully undone, but it will happen. The forest is resilient, Tauriel knows, and they will care for it as best they can while it recovers.

Someone calls her, and she turns around. The air feels lighter than it ever has in Tauriel’s memories.

Beriathal waves her over and she goes to join them. They point at the ground.

“Look! It has been barely a few days since the darkness broke, and already, the first signs of life return.”

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Their lives have been marked by losses. Friends, family, all taken by the ever-growing darkness in the forest. But this might prove to be too much for his father. The loss of his lover seems to have set Thranduil adrift in snowstorm, his heart and mind becoming colder each day.

They do their best to stay strong, for their younger siblings who lost a parent, for their people who lost a beloved ruler, but Beriathal struggles. No matter how hard they try, it they can barely chip away at the icy wall around their father.

Eryn Lasgalen has never felt so cold.

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The hall stretches out in front of them, columns hewn straight from the stone rise like trees along the road. Khazad-dum is all that her grandfather has promised and more. The stones beneath her feet are good rock, solid and dependable, and she marbles at the wonders her ancestors have wrought from it.

It is the first time she has travelled here from the Iron Hills, hoping to be taken on as an apprentice by one of the crafters.

She can hear the song of the rock around her deep in her heart, and she knows. This is where she wants to make her home.

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Quite often, Celebrimbor feels like he is trapped in a constant battle with his father and grandfather. Like everyone expects him to outdo their works, make greater, bigger, better things.

No one ever says this to his face of course, but their expectations still loom over his head like a dark cloud.

It is easier in Eregion. The dwarves have very little care what some elves long dead did or didn’t do. They only care about what he can do now. When he works with them, Celebrimbor finally doesn’t feel like he is chasing after the glories of other men. Here he can take pride in his works.

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She is the ghost haunting the halls of Minas Tirith, haunting her husband and her sons. The joy has been drained from the city, and perhaps it is fitting that winter has settled in now, draining the colour from Minas Tirith as well. A shadow rests on her home now.

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A wedding should, in theory, be a joyous occasion, but in the house of Finwë, they were also a source of infinite chaos. Trying to get any family member to behave was challenge on a normal day, getting them to behave during a formal event was nigh impossible.

Irissë and Tyelkormo had been whispering to each other since the ceremony began, and after multiple attempts by both their mothers to shush them, they had switched to signing instead. Their conversation was still as rude as it had been when spoken aloud, but at least now they couldn’t be heard anymore.

Nerdanel and Anairë looked at each other. Sometimes you had to be grateful for the small blessings in life.

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They watch with bated breath as the fuse burns. There are so many things that could go horrifically wrong here.

Then a high-pitched squeal, a hiss and a shower of sparks lights up the sky.

“Success! And quite pretty to watch, too! I wonder whether we could achieve other colours?”

Chapter End Notes

Radagast seems like the perfect partner in crime for Gandalf when creating fireworks.

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His friends joke that the sea is his only love. And Círdan knows where they are coming from, they are not far from the truth, but love? That is not the word Círdan would choose.

Admiration, perhaps. Respect, definitely. But love is not an emotion he has ever experienced.

When his friends talk about the ones they love, their words do not resonate with him. It is alienating, sometimes, to be so detached from such a common experience.

Perhaps that is part of why he returns to the sea. It does not ask questions he cannot answer, makes no demands of him, and when he cries, grieving something he barely understands, the salt of his tears mingles with the salt of the sea like they are one.

Chapter End Notes

Loveless aromantics often do not experience any emotion they would label as love or reject the cultural definition of love (and of course there are many more variations as there always is when you try to put humans into boxes). Círdan falls into the first category here.

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He is trembling, exhaustion dragging at his limbs. The void he sails through is cold, so cold, icy fingers grasping at his body, until it is so drained that he fears he will never be warm again. He often wonders whether that is what his mother felt like on the Helcaraxë.

He is glad that the ship barely needs any input from him after all these years, so suffused is it with power that Vingilot has almost developed a consciousness of her own. On the days Ilmarë cannot join him, Eärendil almost wishes she had already, so at least he would not be so alone in the dark.

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“I do not love you”, she whispers, when they are alone and she is certain there none are left to betray her words, aside from the one they are meant for. “Not in the way they think I do.”

He looks at her with kind, knowing eyes. He has known her for only a brief time, but he sees her soul like few others do.

“I know,” he says, “I would not ask you to. Your heart is yours to give or keep. Let them live trapped in the past if they must. We do not live to repeat history.”

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It’s not much, a motley collection of huts, and more people than they have buildings for yet, but the light of hope has been rekindled, and it burns with the fire lit in the hall. There they gather around each night and tell stories of past ages, lost friends and happier days, but they speak also of dreams and hopes for the future.

They’re refugees, each and everyone of them, from different kindreds, but here in this valley, they become one.

It is on that unity, that they build their home, and they hold out against the enemy far longer than they ever thought, a shining beacon in the encroaching darkness.

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When the sun & moon first rose, and light finally returned to the world, Nerdanel looked at the land she had known all her life and saw a foreign country.

Terror gripped her heart then, that the scars the darkness had left behind would never heal, that the wounds on her soul and the land were here to stay; the power of the dark too strong, even after they reclaimed the light.

Her sister took her hand.

“It looks so different now”, Nerdanel whispered.

Her sister nodded.

“It does. But there is still beauty in it. We just have to learn how to see it again.”

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The world was breaking apart and for once, she meant that statement literally. Beleriand was not gone yet, but it was only a matter of time, the waves rising higher each day. It was difficult to celebrate their victory over Morgoth, when it had cost them everything. They had not yet built new settlements, uncertain how far the water would come, but for now, they had stopped running at least.

And as she looked around, seeing all those who were still with her, watching the children chase each other and play, she realised that even though much had been lost, there was so much too that had survived. And perhaps that was worth celebrating after all.

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Arien has always been hot to the touch. For as long as Ilmarë has known her, aer friend has burned with an internal flame.

But now that she has been chosen to steer the sun across the skies, she burns hotter than ever before.

Tilion and aer must now steel themselves when they touch their lover, but this will not be a hindrance to their happiness. Merely a challenge to adapt to.

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In a family as big as theirs, it was essential to have a few strategies at hand to force decisions and break ties when arguments had gone on for too long.

The coin flip was a popular option, at least when there were only two people involved, but with seven sons and two adults, sometimes a more advanced method was required.

It was Nerdanel’s mother who had first introduced it to them, a game she had learnt from her own mother.

Simple in its rules and execution, rock-paper-scissors quickly proved very efficient in both ending arguments and causing many more.

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The steel is cold against his throat. Elúred is frozen in terror.

But anger rises in his throat, too. These men had dealt death to countless elves, swiftly and ruthlessly. Why do they hesitate now? Why do they leave him suspended between life and death, teetering on the edge of the knife, but not yet falling to either side?

Did he not deserve that at least? The decision? To finally know his fate?

The sword finally falls.

Blood splatters on his skin. He can almost pretend it is rain.

The world goes dark. 

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