Postcards from Arda by Elleth

Spell of the Crossing

Thank you, GG, for the nitpicking and patience, and the folks at the Lizard Council for their help. Mature themes are only hinted at.

Voltaire said that it's not enough to conquer: one must learn to seduce. Write a story or poem or create artwork where seduction plays a central role.

For B2MeM 2011, Day One. Helcaraxë entices and changes the Noldor.

MEFA 2011 Nominee. Thank you, grey_gazania!

Read Spell of the Crossing

Slowly, slowly, for the ice is as steady as it is shifting, it calls to them. When the ships burn in the firth of Losgar, Helcaraxë is a breath on the cold wind. Further north, its whispers trail ice across their skin, and when the naked ice lies before them, embracing it offers the only way to cross the ocean.

It is in the beginning, unused to the terrain and rigidly seeking to bend it to their will that the host suffers the greatest losses. Here Elenwë falls and is lost. Here Itaril is rescued from where she lies half in water and half buried in fallen ice. Here countless others break through whatever the surface hides, and vanish. It is here that the living divide the clothing of the dead, if they can recover it. Need by far outweighs propriety. It is here that they hunger after their provisions are spent, turning to shoes and leather belts and even the binding of books. It is here that they toil onward through the driving snow, and their feet sink into it from weariness. It is here they are wracked with fevers. The toll and tax for passage nearly conquer them.

It is not in the spirit of the ice, for the ice is treacherous; and treachery, beyond mere cruelty, requires the occasional kindness. It requires the suggestion of keeping the promise that lured the Noldor onto Helcaraxë, not a trail of dead given unwilling or taken by force. Those who never reach the other shore must succumb on their own. It requires patience. Seduction.

Helcaraxë begins to sing, and they learn to listen to its language, for are they not Quendi?

They read the whistle of the wind and the patterns in the snow, for here it blows always from the North and the chasm at the end of the world. They learn to keep their course straight eastward in the shadow of great dunes rivalling any desert, and that is one reason they are never lost. They listen to the song in the freezing air, in the groaning and cracking and breaking of sheet ice in the wind chill, of waves slapping its underside with a hollow sound like drums or rumbling like an avalanche of rocks tumbling from a mountain, in the grinding of floes past one another, the echo of steps, and the heaving and sinking of the pack ice with the flow and the currents.

Those who become entranced by the song gladly yield themselves. They break from the host heedless to the cries of their companions and vanish into the snow that eradicates their trails. They lie down to watch the wheeling of the stars when the air is clear, and are left behind. They let teeth and knives of ice rake across their skin and grant it hot trails of blood. They cast themselves into the bitter sea to be closer to the song.

These belong to Helcaraxë, and it takes them into its embrace. The rest it lets pass, although even they march in step to the rhythm it dictates. They learn to cease their own songs, the laments, the falsely cheerful cries to spur their people onward, the constant jabbering. Helcaraxë entices and changes them.

Their culture becomes one of waiting and silence and steadfast walking, and their modes of conversation become dependent on frostbitten hands and what is visible of their faces; eyebrows rise for yes, knit into a frown for no. They learn to find open water, learn that dead seals sink quickly beyond reach, they leap over crags and crannies and move onward in the rhythm of the ice. They, too, lose themselves. In a way.

When the moon rises and wraps the ice and its terrible beauty in light and swaths of mist behind them, they are the ones who stand bereft. Those who say there were trumpets, they lie.

Decision Point

Again, many thanks go to GG and the Lizards for their help.

Defiance is defined as the willingness to contend or fight. Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters defy authority in some way.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Two. A young Gil-galad draws a conclusion about his future.

Read Decision Point

The helm sinks quickly. Content with the offer, the surf blurs its contours where it lies among the sea floor rocks, almost like a great clam in colour and shape. The boy who cast it in has a piece of fabric in his hands, too; blue, silver, torn and threadbare, that his fingers twist into before he turns back to the two waiting men and his mother.

"Tell me of my father," he says to the sole unlooked-for survivor of Fingon's guard who brought tidings, cloven helm and bloodied banner from the North. Already the boy has asked the same of his mother and of Círdan, and received two different answers: The valiant prince and the husband, the king and steadfast ally.

The guard says, "The king stood defiant of the Enemy until the last."

The boy nods. Valiant, steadfast, defiant, he thinks bitterly, and for all of that, he now lies dead. I will be more prudent, rule for longer, and I will not die as he did.

The Wedding Gift

Thanks go, as per usual by now, to GG and the Lizards.

Some people have difficulty embracing changes and moving on. Write a story or poem or create artwork that shows the consequences of refusing to change.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Three: The Wedding Gift: Maedhros refuses to change an important aspect of his life. (Four drabbles according to Open Office.)

Read The Wedding Gift

Maedhros removed the eagle from its bath and, resting it on the table before him, reached for a soft polishing cloth. The solution had removed the black patina from every miniscule etching of beak, feathers and eye, and rendered the brooch a shining silver. All the same, he could not help feeling that the bird had been lacking a certain lustre since the message of Fingon's impending wedding with Alphangil of Mithrim had reached him. And yet, and yet. As he dried it and fumbled the green stone back into its socket, he could think of no other fitting gift.

There was the eagle recalling Fingon's heroism and the rescue Maedhros barely remembered, and the occasion of Manwë's momentary, momentous pity upon the Noldor, in the silver of Fingolfin's house. And there was the green stone. Flared to life once more at the first rising of the sun, it constituted a token of preservation, of healing, of growth and life unconquered by the shadow. A remnant of Valinor in the Outer Lands. It no longer seemed right for him to have it, he thought, lifted his eyes to Himring's northern windows, and, shuddering, turned from the view. He had words to prepare.

At Barad Eithel, Maedhros was hard-pressed to smile. Fingon avoided his eyes in what appeared to be guilt if they met by chance across the crowd, and rather rested them on his lady or chatted with the banquetting guests until the gift-giving. Every member of the Houses of the Noldor showered the couple in gifts: gold, silver, books of lore, carpets and fabrics, paintings, armour, jewelry, knives, while the Sindar of Alphangil's kin brought pearls and precious stones, healing herbs, flowers, saplings, a hunting falcon, a dog and her litter, even a pair of birds that would not be parted.

The Fëanorians, dispossessed, came last. Maedhros stepped up to the couple, bearing an embroidered cloth concealing the eagle brooch. Fingon averted his eyes again, but Alphangil smiled and tipped her husband's chin up.

"I bring you the Elessar," Maedhros said, his perfect composure belying his feelings. "My best wishes for your union, lady. May it never fall to darkness and ever stay blessed, as few joys of Arda are." He watched the colour drain from Fingon's face, and bit his tongue. "And may it preserve the joys that were. Bear this, and you shall always have my love, my lord."

---

Chapter End Notes

Alphangil is is meant to be the "Sindarin lady of the north" who is mentioned as Gil-galad's mother.

The Elessar that Maedhros is gifting the couple with belongs to an alternate version of the legendarium in which Fëanor is its creator and passes it to Maedhros, who later gives to Fingon.The same verse was already used in my story "Do Not Go Gentle".

The Office and the Instrument

Once more thanks to GG and the Lizards.

"There would be no one to frighten you if you refused to be afraid." -Ghandi
Write a story or poem or create artwork where the character conquers his or her fears.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Four: The Office and the Instrument: Maglor and Curufin debate kingship, politics, and Maedhros' fate.

MEFA 2011 Nominee. Thank you, grey_gazania!

Read The Office and the Instrument

Curufinwë has a habit of entering without pausing to knock. Instead he sidles into Makalaurë's dark room, rustles through a pile of papers on the floor outside the circle of light from the desk, and sneers at what his brother calls creative chaos. He places a crown on the desk, plain and largely unadorned excepting the flowing tengwar that spell out Makalaurë Noldóran.

Makalaurë, slumped in his chair and seemingly asleep with his head on the desk looks up then, and Curufinwë starts back to see his eyes bloodshot, his goblet toppling, and the liquid pooling by his brother's hand. He fishes for the cup and sets it upright again, rescues a few sheets of symphonies and laments from soaking themselves full of red wine, and nudges the crown toward Makalaurë's face.

"You shouldn't drink. They count on you," he admonishes, and his lips twist into something not quite a snarl, an expression he knows to be too reminiscent of their father for comfort. Makalaurë drains the dregs of his wine and grimaces. He doesn't say a word, and the silence is more unsettling than all the rest.

"I made your crown," Curufinwë ventures and pushes it toward his brother's face. A glimpse of lamplight reflects off a flaw in the polished metal, and Curufinwë frowns. They have not yet set up a fully functional forge again, and he lacks the tools to work to his usual standards, but doubts that his brother will ever notice. He is not a smith, nor very vain, nor keen on the office. "Try it on to see if the headband fits," he continues. It is like talking to a wall; Makalaurë neither moves nor speaks; only his eyes follow Curufinwë as he begins pacing, one-two-three, turn, one-two-three. The study is tiny, and oppressive like a jail.

"Wear the damn crown," he says at one.

"No," says Makalaurë at two.

"Do it!" Curufinwë says at three.

He turns. One-two-three.

"Are you frightened of it? It is only forged gold. You might as well be frightened of your name."

"No," Makalaurë says when Curufinwë turns again. "And you are giving me a headache."

"Wear the crown and I shall leave you alone."

"Why are you so insistent, brother?"

"I hate wasting work on anyone."

"Ah. You should have made it for Nelyo, then. Not me."

"Nelyo is dead. I do not work for dead men."

Makalaurë sits up straight and pushes the hair from his face. He might as well wear a bitter smile, but the light-and-shadow from the lamp shape it into a terribly bright-eyed orc-grimace. "No?" he says. "But you are aware that Father also died."

"What is your point?" Curufinwë snaps. He knows that Makalaurë and his idiotically calm voice are deliberately provoking him, even upsetting him. It is only the return for his own deliberate provocation, but it stings all the same.

"My point? Is that Nelyo is alive, and I will not hear you slander that belief." Makalaurë's voice remains calm, still, seemingly effortless, but Curufinwë has spent too much time with his minstrel-brother to know what force is necessary to produce these words and acknowledge the implications.

"Slander it? Have you considered what he would suffer, if he were not dead?" And therefore cannot be alive, is the unspoken continuation of that thought.

"I have been drinking to try to drown those very thoughts," Makalaurë says finally, heavily. "And yet - he lives, and that is all that counts."

"His suffering counts for nothing? Caring. Very kind." Curufinwë does not even bother to hide his feelings beneath his usual veneer of righteous, unflappable cold.

Makalaurë contemplates this, and lets silence settle before he speaks again. "Do you recall the song I made about Father?" he asks.

Curufinwë nods. Now he believes he understands what Makalaurë is working towards and stops pacing to rest his hands on the desk. "It glorified his end. You seek the same for Nelyo."

"Yes - and no. He is in Angamando, where he is suffering for our sake and cause, and defying Moringotto in any way he can. And he will live precisely because he is too valuable for either Moringotto or us to kill."

"And you mean by that?" Curufinwë's eyebrows are rising. It is easy to believe his brother is drunk and not talking sense, but now there is an iron-clad determination beneath Makalaurë's words that drives precisely at a point, like the twang of a harpstring - or a well-placed hammerstroke.

"With Nelyo styled a martyr and suffering for our sake, the people have someone to project their fears on and draw strength from. He will be afraid for our sake so they need not be, and it will teach them respect of Moringotto. I want the people aware; I do not want them paralyzed. They cannot be frightened if they have the option of refusing to be afraid."

"What if Moringotto will treat with us again? If he offers to free Nelyo in exchange for our removal from Mithrim?"

"He will only betray us, and you would be a fool to assume otherwise, and more foolish yet to believe that I would willingly enter into any bargain with the Enemy."

"If he dies?"

Makalaurë winces, and for a moment his voice sounds all too brittle, and Curufinwë remembers that they were brothers once, not merely an office and an instrument. "He will have died for our cause. We will make it so," Makalaurë says.

"If Nelyo flees?"

"I will beg his forgiveness and understanding, and can only hope he grants it."

"You have already decided that you will make no rescue effort."

"I cannot, without risking too much, and that is another reason for you to stop admonishing me for drinking."

Curufinwë can feel his expression relax into something more akin to pity. Understanding, perhaps. He walks to the door, boots thumping on the wooden floor. "Wear the crown, Makalaurë," he says again. "You already are King, whether you wish it or not."

---

Chapter End Notes

Quenya terms:

Curufinwë - Curufin

Makalaurë - Maglor

Nelyo - Maedhros (a short form of his father-name; Nelyafinwë)

Noldóran - previously a title of Finwë; it simply means King of the Noldor.

Angamando - Angband

Moringotto - Morgoth

Different Songs

Thanks to GG and Erulisse for the input on improving this.

Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Five: Different Songs: Lúthien learns to cope with the burden of mortality. (A drabble and a half according to Open Office.)

Read Different Songs

Dusk was settling, and the winds stilled. The waterfall's voice murmured in the evening air, and from the woods beyond the river the vespertine songs of the Laegrim were winding to a close. They did not sing at night, and she had adopted their custom coming here long years ago. Now her youth was spent, and no Girdle safeguarded this land. Much hinged on secrecy. Although the moon's pull on her to chant nightingale praises was strong, she could not sing. Harsh acceptance had her bar the door against the night, and rocked her to sleep in her husband's arms.

Come dawn, she rose to let jubilant birdsong lure her from the house. The early sun set the woods agleam and a lark winged into the chill airs to vanish against the light. Lúthien closed her eyes, waiting for its trills, and willed her voice into the same sharp mortal cadence.

Fire Unchecked

Thanks to GG and the Lizard Council, once again.

Greed is good! Write a story or poem or create artwork that will prove or disprove this statement.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Six: Fire Unchecked: Fëanor leaves the Gardens of Lórien after his mother's demise. (A drabble according to Open Office.)

Read Fire Unchecked

He leaves Lórien for the last time, for Estë's maidens have ceased tending his mother. The still body, silver hair, the pointed face and puckered lips, ungentle frown, delicate, calloused fingers, will not last. The hröa of Míriel will return to the stuff of Arda, they say; her fëa remain in Mandos. No more thoughts of imagined understanding and empathy. Great crafters both, he could spin whole nights of solitary conversation, for were mother and son not alike in joy and skill? No more thoughts of waking her: he knows the damage of a greedy fire left to burn unchecked.

---

Chapter End Notes

This story was inspired by several different History of Middle-earth versions of the story of Finwë and Míriel, so may not conform with Silmarillion canon depending on the way you read it.

Clouds Will Clear

With thanks to GG and the folks at Lizard Council.

Write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork reflecting identification with or connection to one's land, country or culture.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Eight: Clouds Will Clear: After the defeat of Sauron in the Last Alliance, Elrond is left to pick up the pieces. (Mentions of Character Death.)

MEFA 2011 Nominee. Thank you, grey_gazania!

Read Clouds Will Clear

The king's body lay traced as white ash against the black rocks of Mordor, while pieces of armour (one glove, a jewel, the fallen shield) littered the ground where Gil-galad had stood tall against the shadow to the last. Not far, with the grit of ash between his teeth and his mouth parched, Elrond crouched into the gorge a river of fire had burned into the earth, but even cowering against the flash that heralded the king's defeat, he was gathering resolve to rise again. In spite of the leaden weight that threatened to immobilise his limbs, he willed himself to move. It was nearly over, after seven years of siege and a battlefield littered with corpses. They had nearly won.

But his king lay dead, and Elrond knew that Gil-galad's final moments had been tainted with the certainty of failure. Even as flames devoured the king, Elrond had seen the grey eyes widen. I cannot breathe. We have failed. I will follow my father's footsteps even to the end. It fell to him to gather up the slack standard and continue. The blue fabric unfurled around the broken shaft of his banner as he staggered toward level ground. It was the same blue that the king's father and grandfather had borne (and both had met their ends ringed by fire); once a field, now only shreds, of sky - the same sky that must be waiting patiently above the gloom of Mordor.

His feet refused to carry him further toward Isildur, who stood breathing heavily and with a clenched hand over the corpse of Elendil and the ashes (again, again) of Sauron. From the corner of his eye, coming toward the mortal, Elrond saw Círdan pick his way across the battle scene. At least one had survived. Elrond stooped, and his own fingers closed around a jewel on the ground. It had been the centerpiece of his king's crown, a blue diamond of unsurpassed beauty. Scraps of silver, made molten instantly by the heat of Sauron's hand, and then hardened again (for Mordor at night was as bitter as any desert and had merited comparison with Helcaraxë from the oldest members of the host) twisted around it in mockery of former glory. Of Gil-galad, nothing was left but ashes. Aiglos lay broken amid the rocks, and he began collecting the pieces.

Once Elrond had gathered all the debris that could be found in the dark of night (even darker than it would be by day, that came marked only by a brown light casting a sickly glow on all the faces), he began gathering the ashes where the king had struck. He had been blazing like one of Varda's wayward pinpoints, ending with a flash that was not merely normal fire. Although Elrond knew with a certain bitterness that Gil-galad had abhorred Fëanor and his kin for the destruction of Doriath and the Havens of Sirion (while Elrond himself had been fostered by the two remaining sons of Fëanor) his king's end did rival the accounts of the end of Fëanor, glorified in song though they were. He half wondered if the flash of light had not been the king's spirit departing in the same white flame.

"For so fiery was his spirit that as it sped his body fell to ash, and was borne away like smoke," he said softly. There was no wind now to bear Gil-galad's remains away, but nonetheless he took care that his king's ashes did not mingle with the dirt of the ground, and scooped them gently into a piece of cloth. He would leave these to Círdan to return to Lindon, he thought at last as he bore up the silver shield studded with crystal, and returned with slow steps toward the tall figure of Círdan standing by the body of Elendil. Under his breath he began an elegy - not a lament. His king had fought and died bravely, like so many of the Last Alliance, and even though Gil-galad had been king, death had levelled all the fallen soldiers into the same station, but spared Elrond, leaving him standing with the king's heirlooms to bring to Imladris, and a promise given long before this war. Vice-regent.

As Elrond went, lifting his hand in rejection of the mountain and the tower, the clouds were shredded open. A star in the dark expanse beyond blinked once before fumes hid it again, but an unexpected wind stirred the high airs and, as though with a great hand, the whole bank of cloud across Mordor was pushed to the East. Above the miserable land a field of night blue and silver blazed, and from the camp he could hear, faint and ragged, a cheer at the appearance of the stars in all their glory. Light struck the ground, and something compelled Elrond to turn. Splinters of crystal from the fallen king's equipment studded the ground like a mirror of the sky, and Barad-dûr stood ringed in by a host of stars.

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks especially to GG for her inspiration for Gil-galad, and for the reviewers of 'Decision Point' who prompted part of this story.

Inviolate

GG, LC, thank you.

A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins...
Write a story or poem that starts with this line or create a piece of art that reflects this line.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Sixteen: Inviolate: Lúthien finds hope on the ruined isle of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Inviolate

A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins and coaxing life back into the barren soil. Rising with Lúthien's song as she paced a widening circle, shoots of palest green followed her footsteps to climb through the desolation of snow and over the pocked stone that she had toppled. On the highest point of Tol Sirion, Beren was kneeling with his face toward the dawn, earth-flecked hands in his lap, by the grave of Finrod.

"Have hope," Lúthien said, and tipped Beren's head toward a first unfurling leaf in the midst of winter. "The isle shall be inviolate again."

Breaking Bread

As per usual, my thanks to GG and the Lizard Council. 

The cuisine of the Shire is unsurpassed. Write a story or poem, or create a work of art, featuring food.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Fifteen: Breaking Bread: Shortly after the attack on Sirion, Maglor and Maedhros endeavour to win the trust of Elwing's sons.

MEFA 2011 Nominee. Thank you, Himring!

Read Breaking Bread

Maglor picked himself up from the mossy spot that had served as his bed for the night, although sleep had been long in coming and brief in duration before the blood spilled at Sirion had drowned his chances for a peaceful rest. It had been three days, and they had made good their escape from the coast. No pursuit had followed them inland - Gil-galad and Círdan's strength lay in secret landings, swift attacks and swift retreats, entirely unlike the Noldorin style of dogged pursuit. It was well-nigh impossible in the densely forested area of Taur-im-Duinath where they had made camp.

Maglor recounted names again as he walked to the brook to wash - the dead themselves would have to serve as a lament. He had no heart to compose a song.

"Amrod, Amras, Idhlinn, Tatharim..." The line wound on and on, although he ceased naming them aloud when branches cracked behind him, and, with a hand on his dagger, he turned to look. "Nelyo," he said softly, spotting his brother, and threw another handful of water in his face. Maedhros had agreed to keep watch while Maglor slept, and now he looked tired and distraught. "What is it?"

Maedhros turned his anguished gaze upon him and tugged on the mess of hair that had been a braid three days ago. "I am searching for the twins. They have hidden from me, and I cannot find them."

A pause hung heavily between them as Maglor wondered. His brother had been known to walk in nightmares ever since his recovery from Angband, and often it was hard to tell whether he slept or was awake. And ever since Doriath, and the loss of Eluréd and Elurín, the hauntings had been worse. Now, with Amrod and Amras also lying dead, and Elwing's twins their charges, he could not say which twins his brother meant, and asking - if he were awake - would invite nothing but a fit of rage at the helplessness the question would reveal.

"Why don't you show me where you last saw them?" he said at length. "We will see if they left any traces and try to find where they went."

In truth, the loss of Elwing's twins would be no detriment, Maglor thought as they walked toward the centre of the camp, only two mouths less to feed. They were worth nothing as hostages, for neither he nor his brother, nor any of their remaining handful of men, would have the heart to threaten children. They were all heartsick and would not harm the little ones if the situation arose. But he refused to let his brother suffer and have yet more innocents die at their hands. Briefly, he ducked into the one tent they had set up to keep their few spare provisions dry in case of rain, and emerged with a bundle that he took along.

After some searching, Maglor found a faint trail of footsteps and stirred-up leaves that ran away from the camp and deeper into the forest.

"Here," he called. It was easy to follow, and he could feel his brother's presence behind him like a shadow as they searched. At last, a whimpering sound alerted them to the presence of the twins. Maglor had to admit that they had hidden well, tucked out of sight behind a cluster of blueberry bushes and overhanging tree roots.

Maglor paused. He knelt and unwrapped the loaf of dark bread he had retrieved before their departure, breaking it in half to share with his brother, earning a confused look.

"What do you seek to do?" Maedhros asked quietly, but he knew to keep his voice down.

"It is a ritual among the Sindar," Maglor said, his voice pained, although he tried to hide it. Losing Lasbaneth still haunted him as much as Fingon's death haunted Maedhros. "Lasbaneth taught it to me at the Mereth Aderthad when I sought to speak to Daeron of Doriath and met with disdain at first." He drew a satchel of salt from his pocket and sprinkled a measure into his cupped palm, indicating to his brother to do the same. "It is a gesture of respect, hospitality, goodwill, even a blessing and a rejection of evil. And as their mother came from Doriath, I think they might be familiar with it."

Ducking, he crept forward to the twins' hiding place, and met with two wide-eyed stares brimming with tears. The older of the twins - Elrond, Maglor reminded himself - had pushed himself in front of his brother and tried in vain to scowl at his suspected attacker.

"I do not seek to harm you," Maglor said. He took care to speak slowly and give his voice a reassuring tone. "Here, look what I brought. It is not much, but I hope it will serve."

"Bread and salt?" Elrond asked in a thin voice. He was already reaching for it.

"Bread and salt," Maglor agreed. "We mean you no harm." From the corner of his eye he could see his brother creep closer, hand outstretched, and the younger twin looking up.

He felt more than saw Elrond dip a piece of bread into the salt on his palm.

---

Chapter End Notes

The ritual of bread and salt was approximated from a wide-spread tradition in our primary world. Although it is presented slightly differently here, I tried to maintain the same spirit and did not intend to step on anybody's toes. If I managed to do so after all, please let me know so I can make amends.

Lasbaneth, in my personal verse, is Maglor's wife. She is a Sinda from the north with distant ties to Doriathrim royalty, who married Maglor early in the First Age before any news of Alqualondë and abandoning Fingolfin in Araman reached Beleriand.

By Any Other Name

GG and Lizard Council, many thanks for the nitpicking and help.

Overcoming prejudices is as hard in Middle-earth as in our primary universe. Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters try to reach across racial or gender or any other barrier.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Seven: By Any Other Name: Maglor and his betrothed seek to negotiate differences and similarities between the Sindar and Noldor. (Rather more fluffy than the summary hints at.)

Read By Any Other Name

In the early days, they had few cares. While his father and brothers laboured to set up camp, Makalaurë and Lasbaneth were given leave to roam, under the pretense of "strengthening the alliance" or "exploring the land". It was a whirlwind courtship, forged soon after the Noldor had landed, but neither of them had entered into it with a heavy heart. They rode together under the starlight and through the mists of Mithrim with song and laughter between them, and near-incessant chatter in a curious mix of both languages. He kept stealing glances at the ring on her finger, silver and unadorned, and at its counterpart on his own hand.

"Galadh," Lasbaneth said as though unaware, pointing at a beech tree spreading its canopy above them.

"Alda," replied Makalaurë, and "feren".

"Fêr," said Lasbaneth, and they both laughed.

"You have a talent for languages that rivals any of us. You are a true Noldo," Makalaurë said and reached out to touch her hair. "In our legends it is told that only half our kin departed across the sea. Half remained - you must be descended from them."

"No," said Lasbaneth. "I am neither Noldo, nor Tatya - nor Lachenn," and briefly her eyes darkened. "You come from across the sea, burn the vessels in which you came, you barely ever speak of anything but stone, you are loud and arrogant, you quarrel even among your kin: your father and older brother hardly speak to one another at all. You are keeping secrets and came seeking war. We are seeking peace and made alliance with you to find it again."

"We came, in the end, for the sake of peace. You know this." Makalaurë confirmed, but his smile turned bitter knowing what deeds had forced his family into exile, and what oath of revenge they all had sworn. He evaded Lasbaneth's inquisitive look and gentle hands, and said instead, "You are Linda, then. Many would call you Moriquendë, and your people dangerous and unwise."

"I am Mithrim. And if I were unwise, would I seek to reach across our divide?" Lasbaneth asked.

"Some would say so." Makalaurë bit his lip. "I have heard it said in both our camps. Your own opinion of us seems widespread, and some of my own brothers think your people savages. Curufinwë delights in calling them cave-elves."

"Then we are not so un-alike after all," she said. "After all, he is a true example of a deep-elf."

A breathless moment passed, and the shadow between them with it. Lasbaneth laughed.

"And you sing nearly well enough to be Linda. For a Noldo."

---

Chapter End Notes

galadh, alda - tree in Sindarin and Quenya respectively
fêr, feren, - beech in Sindarin and Quenya respectively
Tatyar - the second clan of the elves, the ancient name of the Noldor
Lindar - the third clan of the elves, the ancient name of the Teleri
lachenn - a Sindarin term for the Noldor, meaning flame-eyed

Regarding the differences between the Noldor and different Middle-earth Eldar I have taken some liberties about their reception - the Tatyarin fragment of the Avari they first met were unfriendly to the Exiles, the Mithrim Sindar apparently had more cordial relations with them. Nonetheless I can't quite believe there being no reservations whatsoever, which is what I tried to work into the story. For more information on the topic, please see Angelica's excellent essay, Name Calling: Group Identity and the Other among First Age Elves.

As for Fëanor's being alive, the Shibboleth states that he had time to learn Northern Sindarin, which to me strongly implies that he was there to witness at least some contact prior to the Dagor-nuin-Giliath.

The Araman Tower

Once more thank you for the help and encouragement, GG and people at the Lizard Council.

Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed to have ...
Write a story or poem that starts with this line or create a piece of art that reflects this line.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Twenty-three: The Araman Tower: A monument has different meanings to different people. (A drabble according to Open Office.)

Read The Araman Tower

Everyone avoided the tower. It was believed to have been raised by the hands of the Valar or none at all, on the very cliffs beneath which the greater part of the Noldor had gladly pushed onward into their doom. None lived there, it was said, and fishermen's darker songs only marked the place for one purpose: before the floes of ice upon the sea grew perilous, or treacherous currents swept a ship into exile, it was time for turning homeward. Other stories yet, whispered among those that had returned with Arafinwë, only called the spire a monument of grief.

---

Chapter End Notes

The tower is entirely my own invention. I failed to meet the challenge using any canonically described building.

Whatever Betide

GG, thank you for the help with this one. 

Write a story or poem or create artwork where the characters have to decide between loyalty or betrayal.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Nine: In Nargothrond, Edrahil has to choose between instinct and faith. (A drabble according to Open Office.)

Read Whatever Betide

Stories would claim that Curufin conjured up visions of dread and shadow with the very skill of minstrels to evoke the image of their songs. It was no lie - the Dark One himself was striding over Talath Dirnen to lay claim to Nargothrond. His fell beasts would devour all. With a clang, hollow, King Finrod's crown fell. All was lost. Many were already crushed into the panicked throng of bodies rushing toward the gates of the deeper levels.

Flee. Hide. Perhaps survive.

Edrahil wavered, turned around. He breathed out, fought, stood. Faith.

He stooped to pick up the crown. Whatever betide.

Diplomacy

Thanks to GG and the Lizards!

The act of kindness or hospitability usually comes from a generous heart. Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art where your character displays this virtue.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Eighteen: Diplomacy: Fingon seeks to negotiate a reconciliation with the Fëanorians at Lake Mithrim.

Read Diplomacy

"I told you, King Makalaurë is indisposed. He will see no one, not even me. It is no personal insult, Prince Findekáno."

The words did little to assuage the sting. Makalaurë's persistent if unknown conditions had caused him to hide away for a season and conveniently seemed to arise whenever a meeting had been decided. Since our arrival in the beginning of the first sun year, his wife - one of the Lindar of Mithrim - had been the driving force behind any contact from their side, and she at the very least had been courageous enough to try and heal a rift that was not of her doing. Her Quenya was passable, I had to admit, sometimes liltingly accented and stumbling with peculiar idiosyncrasies that I suspected were remnants of her native tongue. She was far younger than anybody had expected when the news came, but as the Queen of a people alien to her land and culture, she was doing well enough. Noldóranis, they called her sometimes, likely as a sign of respect, not truth, though I had heard both Carnistir and Tyelkormo address her by her real name, Lasbaneth.

She was watching me now from across the table, with lively eyes that, although dark and lacking any spark of the treelight marking ours, showed determination and eagerness despite the shadows beneath them. Those hinted at some sorrow and gave her claim some credibility.

Her guardian - assigned by an overattentive father who had risen to the opportunity and offered her to the Fëanárions when they came his way - was staring at me, unblinking, as though I might do her harm. That was not my intention; I merely needed time to sort the facts again. The unlikely alliance, I had learned, nearly shattered before it even was formed: Lasbaneth's father had only reluctantly consented to her marriage to Makalaurë instead of Maitimo as the first-born (who would, I imagined, have had none of it, being stupidly and irrevocably in love with me despite the distance then). But as threads of fate went, this one had been kind, and her and Makalaurë's love was said to be deep and mututal, even though her words sometimes made me doubt it.

Looking around brought a partial explanation for her sorrow, at least. I silently counted the array of nine empty bottles on the shelf behind Lasbaneth, knowing that this was Makalaurë's study. The bottle designs, used in Valinor to hold liqueurs, wines and spirits, explained why he would see no one. It also explained the sour smell that sometimes hung in this room beneath the incense that they burned when my visit had been announced. I would have to ride around the lake unannounced more often, and perhaps discover more evidence to support my idea before they cleaned it away, but even this oversight on their part was better than nothing.

"Well," I said, and tried to keep my voice neutral, even jovial, despite the fact, and although the bleak despair in my stomach that had settled there ever since the news of Maitimo's loss had come, made it ring false even to my untrained ear. She was a minstrel like her husband. "He would not have had to hide from me this time, as I came with thanks and good tidings. We settled well in the lands you left to us, and the fields bear grain and fruit. As the main negotiator in leaving us your former camp, and with your husband granting the permission, we would like to invite you to our harvest celebration."

"Thank you," she said, and if she was surprised was able to hide it well, and took time to formulate an answer. "But it was not from the generosity of our hearts that we left you the settlement. It was the only atonement that we could grant to your need and losses. It is not necessary you repay duty with kindness."

"No," I said, and resolved to take a swig of the wine they had offered, but with my eyes lighting on the bottles again, set it down still untasted. "I suppose not, in this situation. Take it as a token of goodwill, then."

"I would rather your token of goodwill were to keep from pressing gifts on us that you cannot afford to give," she said softly, and nearly sounded sad. She knew, then, perhaps from mistress Estelindë, who continued to ride to us every few weeks to assist our own healers, that we were not nearly as recovered as we claimed, and that many still harboured no small resentment toward the House of Fëanáro. "I will see that a shipment - is that the word you use?" she looked at me until I nodded, " - a shipment of grain is made ready and delivered to you in time for the festival as a sign of our appreciation of your invitiation. It would not be wise to come in person."

"No," I said again, if this time in agreement. "And I would we could agree to no longer ask the acceptance of alms from one another." We were all exiled, and they were doing better only because they thrived on the goods they had brought on the ships, if never as much as they could have. Had they not burned them before all things had been unloaded, I might have reconsidered. Of this malicious squandering of blessings, too, I knew from Estelindë. Compared to our dire need, it also rankled.

There was silence from Lasbaneth for long enough to think that I had offended her, although her face remained unreadable. "Very well," she agreed at last. "If we can also agree to turn to one another in our need."

I reached across the table to clasp the proffered hand, and banished the misgivings that wanted out. "Let that be our kindness to one another, then."

---

Chapter End Notes

If you'd like, this can be read as a continuation of the arc started in 'The Office and the Instrument'. Lasbaneth has appeared a few times by now, she shouldn't need any further introduction.

Noldóranis is my own coinage based on the canonically attested Noldóran (King of the Noldor) and nís (woman) and patterned after aranel (princess; with -el possibly being a feminine suffix). 

Homeward

Thanks for the nitpicking and concrit, GG and Lizard Council.

Refugee issues are our issues; their plight is our plight. Write a story or poem or create artwork that illustrates the situation of some displaced group in Middle-earth.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Twenty-Two: An injured Fëanorian meets her end at the Havens of Sirion. Warnings for blood, violence and OC character death. A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Homeward

Sand crunched beneath the approaching steps. Idhlinn spat out a mouthful of choking blood and struggled to lift her head. Help was coming, surely - Havenfolk bore their living from the carnage, speaking softly as she would have done... but the shadow falling on her bore a knife.

"One of the kinslayers," went the alarm. "A Fëanorian!"

Cold words; the only blood on her hands had been in healing, never slaughter... but speaking was no option; she didn't have the strength to gain her voice through the pain.

Hands tore at her hair. Steel bit her throat.

Come homeward, child...

---

Chapter End Notes

Displacement (of the Fëanorians and people of Sirion both) may be less of an issue, but the consequences should be easily apparent.

Gathering Strength

Thanks for the beta, GG, and the concrit from the Lizard Council.

Write a story or poem or create artwork where your character battles and overcomes their darkest hour.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Twenty-Nine: In helping others, Nerdanel gathers strength to overcome her own grief. (A drabble according to Open Office.)

Read Gathering Strength

After the blood spilled at Alqualondë, Nerdanel helps re-light the town, cleanse the quays, re-sculpt the toppled statues, and carve a memorial into the living rock of the harbour's arch.

The guilt is not hers to assuage, nor the shame hers to bear. But some grief dissipates with each lit window, goes dripping into the sea each time she wrings the scouring cloth, dwindles each time another statue is restored, and falls from her with each sliver of stone.

She gathers strength to scale the steep hill yet before her. On its summit waits Tirion, and waits yet more healing.

Cartography

Thanks to the fantastic GG, Aria, and the Lizard Council for their help.

Write a story or poem or create an artwork in which a character unaccustomed to acting as a leader must make an important decision.

For B2MeM 2011, Day Twenty: As the new High King of the Noldor after the Dagor Bragollach, Fingon receives a reminder that not all is as grey as it seems. A double-drabble according to Open Office.

Read Cartography

Ard-galen, burnt. Dorthonion, burnt. Lothlann, burnt.

Fingon wet his brush and coated the lost realms in another layer of drab ash grey from west to east, and a swath that the enemy had cleft nearly to Ossiriand. Hithlum, sheltering behind the Ered Wethrin, lay safe yet. Fingon's face hardened. He stabbed the brush into the grey again, and resolutely drew it around his towns and villages in the colour of impenetrable stone.

"Ready a messenger," he said to his servant. "The new High King of the Noldor wishes to contract the Naugrim to build and fortify the city walls of his realm."

-

Returning to his lectern in the evening, Fingon found the map unrolled. In the dim light he examined it closely for changes.

Ossiriand burgeoned in shining green. A minuscule dancer graced a glade in Doriath. Nan-tathren flowered. In Hithlum, lush ivy and roses climbed the walls erected with his brush. And where he knew the gardens of his keep lay, a carpet of tiniest purple harebells spelled out their author's name as clearly as the writing in his wife's hand: Do not make your father's mistake and see only war and loss. Remember that which you seek to protect.

Eventually, Fingon nodded.

---

Chapter End Notes

The mistake that Fingon's wife is referring to was based on this passage from the Silmarillion:

Then Fingolfin beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of the Noldor and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses; and filled with wrath and despair he mounted upon Rochallor his great horse and rode forth alone, and none might restrain him. (Of the Ruin of Beleriand)