Restoration & Rebuilding Instadrabbling by elennalore

It was a murky little inn in a village that would one day become Vinyalondë. Heads turned when Vëantur’s crew walked in, tall and proud.

Telda grinned. She had never been happier than during their voyage to Middle-earth.

She sat down next to Aldarion and ordered ale and stew. She liked the King’s son. She had liked his father, too.

Aldarion took an acorn from his pocket and showed it to her.

“This is the future,” he said. “It’s all in here. The tree, timber, the ship that was built from the tree. You only need to plant an acorn.”

It was a sad warehouse, neglected.

“This is your new office,” Sauron told him. He frowned. Well, it was definitely substandard, what came to his perfectionism. “Do you like it?”

He thought about it. “Better than my rooms in Barad-dûr, I guess. More windows. But it’s gloomy, and dirty.”

“You don’t like it.”

“I can restore it. That’s why you took me here, right? So that I could give it a new life?”

Sauron’s piercing eyes studied him. “I want you make me a factory, Tyelpë.”

They walked across the yard. Sauron gave him the key that opened the door.

Things Amras would have taught to Amrod:

The best place to cross the wide stream without falling on slippery rocks.

Best ways to catch salmon that swim in the river.

Where to hide when a group of bloodthirsty Orcs march nearby (and how to shoot them without being seen.)

Things Amrod would have found amusing:

That Amras has no permanent home.

That other Elves find him scary.

Even the Orcs find him scary.

Things Amras wants to do before he dies:

Walk along all rivers of Ossiriand.

Learn all the songs of the Green-Elves.

See his brother one more time.

The smell of the earth invaded his nostrils. Earth, and something else, aromatic. Mushrooms. Slowly, he opened his eyes. He lay on his stomach on tangled tree-roots. He smelled blood, too. His own blood. His hand went to his throat, shivering as he found a fresh wound there. His heart pounded hard against his chest. No, he was not going to die in Taur-nu-Fuin. Concentrate on mushrooms, he ordered himself.

There were two of them. Yellowish, nice-smelling, their shape pleasing the eye. He tried to remember the name of the species. He was sure that once, he had known it.