Flickers by Meril

Intentions

"What are your intentions towards her?"

Fëanáro gives me a strange look. "I enjoy her company, Master Mahtan. She is very intelligent, and witty, more so than any maiden of Tirion. And talented. But I have no 'intentions'." He turns and is lost in work before long, oblivious to everything short of the world falling.

Nerdanel slips quietly into the forge, and he is immediately at her side.

I watch them talking excitedly, and smile. Oblivious to everything but the world falling and my daughter's presence. It seems that the King's son has intentions, whether he knows them or not.

Freedom

"I do not think I'll ever marry."

"The forge is too demanding a lover?"

"No! I love this too much: this freedom. These highlands, where power is sung in every rock, where—"

"Poet."

"Cynic. Besides, I doubt any husband could keep up with me."

"How arrogant of you."

"You have no right to criticize for arrogance. No, I will live my days alone. Perhaps start a school."

"Atar expects me to marry."

"I pity your future wife."

Unbound by fate's webs, that day they were free. Years later, she would remember him as he was that day, and smile.

Break

She still made him nervous. No, more… caught off guard. Unbalanced.

If she walked into a room, the curve of her chin aggressively opinionated, she became his center, with all her fire and artistry and grace and ruthlessness. Scattering his world into a million tiny pieces of light.

He hated disarray. He was precise to the point of obsession.

Yet when she smiled, everything twisted again. It was all clearer, yet more complicated. Harmony and chaos at once, like a jewel with unnumbered facets.

And he felt that he would give a thousand lifetimes, just to see her smile forever.

Mastery

And twenty-three and twenty-four...

Unraveling the crystal's riddle has yielded dozens of failed attempts. Success is finite, and numerous scars now play across his hands: the flames are impartial and implacable masters. Knots of ruined gems mock him, and chant his failures for the world to hear.

Brilliant light…

Success.

Fëar

She had given them matching lumps of clay. Each of you take a corner, shape something of your own, and do not look at your brother. For two hours they worked while she quietly painted by the window.

Ambarussa lived a life of singularity. Was it not said that onóni were one fëa in two hröar? It was difficult to relate to the rest of the world when someone could read your every thought and know your every inspiration. Their own brothers could not quite comprehend their bond, and all of Tirion confused them. But Ammë always knew: they knew exactly which onóna she wanted simply by the tone of her voice.

Eventually, she asked to see their progress. When Ambarussa realized they had both chosen to sculpt her, they hung their heads. Carnaster had been right: they were no different at all.

But then Ammë began to speak. Little one, look what you have done! See how you have captured the movements? I can almost see this sculpture coming alive. Then this piece, my child: perfect stillness, a moment of peace, with every detail captured so beautifully.

Not one, they realized. Strongly bound, closer than most: yes.

But two.

Gatherers (I)

Everything reminds him of her. The half-finished sculpture, her drawings on the wall, a hammer sitting atop the gleaming pile of copper: everything she left behind, gathering both dust and his hatred.

Bitterness rises in his throat. Let her be damned, and let her "priorities" rot. I will not surrender.

Edged

So this is your "diversion"? Brother against brother, Aman's pureness marred by your steel cruelties?

'Finwë went to Indis' bed,' you say. 'My brothers deserve nothing.'

You may have intended differently, at first. Weapons to train, to test our skills.

But the swords do not threaten, my love.

You do.

Gatherers (II)

Everything reminds her of him. A few glimmering jewels, his notes on the wall, an ash-covered apron thrown in the corner: everything he left behind, gathering both dust and her sorrow.

Tears of anger rise. Let him be damned, and let his pride be doom. I will never forgive him.

Distinction

"Thank you, my lady. Truly they call you wise…" The quiet leavetaking fades to silence as her student vanishes into the twilight. And for long after, she sits before the door and muses.

Aye, they named her aright. Resentment had lent its own brand of insight, while solitude imparted a measure of understanding. Grief revealed the truth, and forgiveness had laid any remaining illusions bare.

Yes, they named her rightly, but they would never truly understand: she was alone in that. Hiding behind their smiling masks, shielded from her terrifying honesty, they bestowed that double-edged distinction…

Nerdanel, called The Wise.

Strength to Save

Sam had spent a week wandering the city of Tirion, among magnificent streets and houses, blushing at how elven-folk honored him at every turn. On the last afternoon, he lost his way in a web of narrow alleys, and finally stumbled into a statue-filled courtyard.

"Master Hobbit?"

He looked about wildly, and saw an elven-woman emerge from an open door. Her face was stern and angular: she had little of the beauty of the silver-haired Lady of Tirion. But there was something so striking, so arresting about her starkness that he found himself speaking.

"My lady, I never meant to come here, please forgive me," he stammered. "Should've stayed to the main street—"

"You are Frodo's companion," she interrupted, studying him. "He spoke of you often, before you came. He says you saved him from a terrible fate."

Caught off guard, he mumbled, "If I'd been stronger, I could've saved him for the Shire."

She smiled, and her expression was all at once despair and a thousand reborn hopes. A vague thought took shape. That's like my smile. Who couldn't she save?

"Let me tell you of a King's son, and the smith's daughter who loved him…"

Chapter End Notes

Note: There's some quibble about whether the hobbits could set foot in Valinor proper, but for the purposes of this drabble, let's assume they could. :)

Reality

Every day, at Már-in-Curulië, he watched her. What life did you live here, he thought silently, as we wandered about Ennor?

For she was not the person his father (and the uncles he once idolized) had told him of: the broken wife, the mother who turned her back, the woman who abandoned her family.

The histories were written by the victors, Celebrimbor mused, flattening a piece of mithril tissue-thin, and on the other side of the sea, he was the victor.

But which person, he wondered later, as twilight flitted about corners like spirits flying from Mandos, truly won here?

Chapter End Notes

I meant Már-in-Curulië to mean, roughly, "house of the artists."