Shiny Little Things by Meril

A Gift of Friendship

I touched the wall, marveling the difference two years has wrought. The cracked marble replaced by smooth white once again, the stone docks sound. Anar has sunk below the horizon, leaving twilit peace and serenity.

"Beautiful, is it not?" a voice beside me rumbled.

Glancing down, I see Andvar standing there with folded arms and critical eye. "Aye, beautiful," I respond. "Yet my eyes turn homeward of late. There is a beauty there that cannot be found here."

"A lass?"

Smothering a grin (my lovely betrothed called simply "a lass"), I nod.

Andvar's beard twitches, and he reaches into a leathern pouch at his side, withdrawing a tightly closed fist. "Gundvar brought these from the Falas: perhaps your lass will like them as a gift from Arda."

I take his proffered hand, and see the milky gleam of a dozen pearls in the dim evening light.

"Thank you, my friend."

A Gift of Love

"What are they?"

"Pearls, my star-watcher: pearls from the coasts of Arda." His breath tickles my ear, and I tremble.

Valar, I could never resist him when he spoke to me like that. "I-"

"Shh, love. I need to ask you something."

I hold my breath, hardly daring to hope. And as he fastens the rope of cool pearls about my neck, he whispers, "Marry me in the springtime, my beautiful Elestirnë, and I will never leave the island again."

Gazing into his brilliant, earnest grey eyes, then looking out upon our blossoming isle from the balcony, I smile.

Chapter End Notes

1. "His 'right name' was Anardil, but he was early known by the name of Aldarion because he was much concerned with trees, and planted great woods to furnish timber for the ship-yards." Unfinished Tales
2. Elestirnë (Tar-Elestirnë – "Lady of the Star-brow") was a title given to Erendis because she wore a diamond fillet about her head after her betrothal to Aldarion.

The Noble Task

I leap lightly onto the railing, breathing deep as the salt-tanged breeze sweeps my face. Home; this is truly home. More of my life has been spent on water than on dry land. One of Uinen's maidens, with flowing seawater hair, my father teased me as a child.

It has served me well: a first-rate captain, and holder of my own ship. And no mere fishing vessel. The finest ship for the finest task, Lord Olue told me.

"Captain! The Culúrien is gaining on us!"

A fierce grin. "Let's not have a crew of Noldor beating us! To the sails!"

Come Home

Another oar-stroke, driven by weary and sun-burnt arms. Another sunrise, filtered through the mists, and illuminating the water in palest gold. Another day, spent trying to reach what seems unreachable.

"Get you moving!"

I heard a far-off shout, and looked up hopefully. Another illusion? Endless hours on this tiny craft, trapped by haze and eternally eddying tides, can deceive the senses.

"We have a homecomer!"

Another call! And no fantasy: a ship, prowed with a swan's head, glided towards me. A woman, face framed by silver braids entwined with white feathers, and with a smile as wide as the seas, appeared at the rail and shouted something.

"Are you…? Is this…?" My voice is hoarse from salt spray.

"You are home, cousin," she laughed, throwing down the rope ladder. "Come."

Forsaken Kin

The wastes of Araman, icy slopes glittering in our torchlight, are hushed as we forge back. I glance at my wife, breath creating a chilly cloud before her face. Silver-grey braids of hair are bound tightly about her head, and her eyes are grim and distant.

Kin for kin.

An implacable threat.

Blood for blood.

She would have gone after them, with oath of revenge unbreakable.

I pull the cloak tighter, and force my feet to move faster across the jagged ice.

Vengeance will do no good, love. I will not have blood on your hands. Not like my brothers.

Chapter End Notes

But in that hour Finarfin forsook the march, and turned back, being filled with grief…

The Silmarillion (Of the Flight of the Noldor)

Leave It Unspoken

"It was madness…"

Her brother's voice broke the silence, and she flinched. It had been madness: nothing but pain, blood, her blade against her people, and the overwhelming fear that

this could be the end, oh Eru, why?
Look at the blood,
the bodies Listen to the screams.

Mother's people, her kin,
my kin,
our kin.

Why?

Oh, Eru! Save us!
I didn't know, didn't know, didn't
know
that it would be like this.

He's bleeding
red blood flowing-dripping-pouring
onto the white-white sand..

She's dying
choking-gasping-rasping
last-last-very-last
breath

Save me…

She shivered. "Leave it, Finrod. Do not talk about it."

Momentary

His hair is unkempt, obscuring most of his face, but his eyes are bright, dark, and knowing. Looks up at the sky, sees the time, and smiles. Holds a finger to his lips: Quiet.

A beckon. Follow.

Running down the deer trail, slipping through the knobby, prickly pines, and into a hidden glade where the weak winter sunlight filters through the trees, throwing jagged shadows on the half-melted snow and wet earth.

He stops and points. Watch.

The sun breaks through the trees, illuminating a single white flower. And the Elf thinks, Perhaps these mortals know something we do not.

Guardian

For years, he had watched over her.

When she was a child, he would secretly follow her when she slipped out at night, to ensure she came to no harm. He would silently look after her as she danced beneath the stars.

When she was a coltish youth, he took her into the forests and taught her woodcraft: the myriad calls of the nightingale, the padfoot ways of the fox, and the rumbling language of the earth.

When she became a lovely adult, who longer needed his protection or instruction, he watched her with delight. She was his princess and pride: a divine mixture of spirit and flesh with a keen mind and laughter-filled eyes.

Then she left.

In the days following her departure, the trees lamented her and the grasses sigh for her footsteps. The foxes sadly asked where she had gone, and the nightingales fell silent.

He withdrew, missing the starry-eyed child, the long-limbed girl, the gracious woman that he loved as a daughter.

But on the day she returned, Beleg (on the northern border, setting a splint for a hawk's wing) was the first to hear, and he smiled when the leaves began to whisper her name.

Equal

The elves were generous in teaching him what they knew, but he was still different. Only slightly unlike (he had lived with them since birth), but he felt that disparity keenly.

In his fifteenth year, on a day when the birch leaves were dry and falling, he began learning the elven longbows. His foster-father had told him repeatedly, when he was young, that his arm strength was not great enough. After weeks of failed tries and hours of practice alone, he still had not managed to hit the target with the elven bow.

Perhaps it is not meant to be, he thought dispiritedly. I am only a Man, after all.

That winter, while hunting with his foster father, they were attacked by orcs. Tuor fought like a madman: twisting and slashing and lunging. In the end, the orcs lay dead on the ground. Frowning over the loss of his bow while Annael bound an arm wound, Tuor saw a single orc slip out of the trees. With little time to react or think, he pulled free, took his foster father's bow and an arrow, and shot the beast clean through the head.

Annael turned, and smiled. "Well done, my son."

True/False

Time and time again I have played this part without flinching: I have faced audiences of thousands and the harshest of condemnations fearlessly. But now, when it matters most...

I must not fail.

A careful adjustment of my mask, and I reenter the stage.

"Zimraphel."

I nod. "My lord."

Lying with my body at night and speaking falsehoods by day, I have become a living piece of theatre: lie within drama within reality. My face is never honest, my voice never sincere.

But deceit shields truth, for the seventh stone is being borne to Elendil.

That is all that matters.

The Solution

A shadowy room. Great books, heavy with dust and years. A window facing the sea. Sunlight glinting on golden sails.

I turn. Away from the window, from the sea, the ships, the arrogance.

The blue glass bowl, sitting on my desk.

Be careful with the brew, m'lady. 'Tis powerful strong. Taken too much, or too often, and ye may never have a child.

With a last glance to the window, to the sea, the ships, the arrogance, and the world I cannot change, I drink.

This is what I can change. The line dies with me, Pharazôn.

Tar-Míriel. Last Queen of Númenor.

Chapter End Notes

Inspired by the John William Waterhouse painting "Destiny."

Legend and Truth

I.

Utter darkness: I wait, hoping (praying) for light, but the gloom devours me as I tremble—

I wake sweating and shaking. It is a terrible thing to find your world has become a living nightmare, for I am in utter darkness: blind, and quivering with fear that I will suffocate in this shadow.

Atar told tales of "stars", when I was a child: during the Great Journey, when Varda's sky-hung jewels lit the path of the Quendi. I was horrified at the thought of so little light.

I always believed the stars were legends; now I wish they were real.

II.

We all carry torches, picking our way through Tirion's winding streets, flinching whenever anything moves ahead in the darkness. Upon reaching the King's court, we breathe easier: it is still dark, but under wide open spaces instead of oppressive alleyways.

"Nerdanel, what are those?" Indissë asks fearfully, pointing skyward.

My breath catches. "Stars," I murmur. "Light."

"What are stars?" Calaito whispers.

I recount a tale told by the Firstborn: Lady Varda flung a handful of jewels out into the depths of Eä, in order to bring light to the newborn world. "A gift," I finish softly. "They are a gift."