The Book of Short Tales by Lyra

B2MeM '10 - Different Terms

Written for the B2MeM challenge for the Doors of Night: Your character has a chance to change a single event in his or her past, but doing such will forever alter the future. What will your character choose? What would they change, if anything? And how do you think his or her future would change?

In Mandos, Maedhros has a chance to consider what might have been - and learns something about the complexity of every decision.

A MEFA 2010 nominee. With bonus illustration by yours truly.

Read B2MeM '10 - Different Terms

Different Terms

Rushing through Mandos – a hurt, distraught spirit, unable to come to peace even now that it has taken its respite from the world of the living – he has passed tapestry after tapestry, history after history, in the endless halls. His family's deeds – his own, his brothers', his cousins' – seem to dominate this age: Not once did he see a story where they did not somehow make an appearance. Or maybe he only notices the tapestries that somehow concern him, all the memories, regrets, mistakes of a violent and (in retrospect) fast life?
Today the spirit of Maedhros has found a tapestry that makes him pause, and would make him scowl in derision if he still had a face. For does it not show once again how little the Valar know, how they twist the story to suit their reading? The tapestries show Losgar, but the scenery is all wrong: These jutting cliffs did not exist, that ridge upon which his Father and his younger brothers walk was not in that place. The icebergs are missing, as are the polished rocks upon the beach, which is far too fine and sandy for Losgar anyway. If it were supposed to be depicting the coast somewhat more to the south, perhaps--
But there are other things wrong, he notices. And then he wonders whether “wrong” is the correct term, and decides to replace it with “different”. They are nothing like what he remembers, but from what it looks like, they are certainly less wrong on a moral level than the true memories are.

There are the Telerin ships, and the people carrying the unloaded cargo upon that ridge that wasn't there in his memory. There is Tyelkormo, raising his torch to – wave farewell to the mariners? For the ships are making for the West, undamaged, unbloodied, unburnt, shimmering like pearl in the dim light. And there is Findekáno – if Maedhros' spirit still had a hand, even just the one, he would reach out to touch those dark braids with their golden clasps. He can see his uncles' banners – in fact, is not that Uncle Arafinwë, right there on the shore of what-should-be-Losgar?
For the first time since his arrival, he feels the urge to speak.

“That's not how it happened,” he says, or thinks loudly. “That is... how did that happen?”
He leans in to study the strange tapestry, and the story unfolds around him.

- - -

Everything is darkness and uncertainty and shifting shadows, unnerving, frightening. The guard on the harbour is jumpy, and when two darker shadows seem to materialise out of the gloom, they find themselves accosted sharply.
“Halt! Who goes there?” the guard yells, raising his spear and his lantern.
Giving the barbed fishing-spear aimed at him an unhappy look, one of the shadows removes his dark hood, revealing red hair and a finely cut, serious face. The second shadow lowers his hood as well.
“Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion and Cánafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion,” the taller of the two says, in a deliberately calm and measured voice. “We wish to speak to Lord Olwë.”
Maitimo’s calmness does not miss its mark; the spear is lowered, and after a moment’s thought, the guard nods.
“I will take you to him.”

Led into the palace through lantern-lit streets, and there into a study that under normal circumstances might afford a fine view over the sea glinting with reflected Treelight, they face the Lord of the Teleri. “Greetings, Princes,” Olwë says, bowing politely. His eyes betray a certain annoyance at the disturbance, but his outward demeanor is perfectly welcoming. “What can I do for you?”
Maitimo bows in return. “We must ask a favour of you, my lord.”
“Another?” says Olwë, not masking his exasperation anymore.
“Yes, Lord Olwë, I am afraid so,” Maitimo says. “Or rather, the same favour again. We have come to ask that you rethink your refusal.”
“Have you, now?” Olwë replies, sighing. “The answer, I am afraid, is the same that I gave your father. Again I advise you to stay, and to trust the wisdom of the Valar; but if you will not stay, we will have no part in these matters.”
Macalaurë sighs. “You see, Lord Olwë, we fear that you will have part whether you want to or no.” He exchanges a glance with his brother, who nods unhappily. “We need your ships,” Macalaurë goes on, “and Father will take them whether you will or no – it is but a matter of time.”
“Will he?” Olwë’s eyes darken as he glares at the Noldorin princes. “Then he will find that we, too, defend our property.”
“No doubt,” Maitimo says, his voice still remarkably calm. “Then there will be a fight. People will die, Lord Olwë, Noldor and Teleri both. Do you wish to be responsible for that?”
“Your father would be responsible - not I.”
“I have learned,” Maitimo says mildly, “that there are two to an argument.”
“But only one of them must relent to prevent the argument,” Olwë points out.
“Indeed, Lord Olwë. Do you think that our father will relent?“
Olwë sits down at his desk heavily. The look he gives the two brothers is unflattering – the same look he might give to a net that comes up empty after a night’s fishing, or to the hull of a ship in dire need of repairs. His fingers drum on the smooth wooden desktop.
“Very well, Princes, and what do you suggest?”

Maitimo takes a deep breath. “We would request that you strike a deal with Father while you are still in a bargaining position. You could, for instance, agree to ferry our hosts to Middle-earth, and afterwards return here with your ships...”
“You would be stranded there, then.”
“Indeed; but that is hardly your concern. Once we are in Middle-earth, you need no longer care about us. You can go home, and live to your heart's delight in whatever peace and safety the Valar can still provide. Of course, you can also choose to join us.” Maitimo gives a winning smile.
“After you have come to threaten my people? Hardly.”
“We do not threaten you, my lord Olwë; please do not misunderstand us,” Macalaurë says. “We are merely warning you.”
“Which amounts to the same,” Olwë says. “How then can I trust you? Who guarantees that you will not take the ships by force when we take you across?”
Maitimo sighs, bowing his head. “I offer myself as security. Father will not, I hope, allow any attack against your people while I am in your keeping.”
Olwë raises his eyebrows, studying the two of them. Maitimo looks serene, resigned. Macalaurë looks furious at the idea, but he does not appear surprised: They seem to have discussed this earlier.
“Very well,” he finally says. “I will think over your request. You may go.”
“Thank you, Lord Olwë,” Maitimo says, bowing, pretending to be oblivious to the discourtesy. “Pray do not think too long.”

- - -

“Our lord has decided that we will lend you aid by carrying you across the sea,” the herald declares to the gathered Fëanorian host. “But we will give you no further help than the transport from these lands. You will be on your own on those shores. When you want to return, you must make your own ships. Think well, therefore, if you do not wish to stay here, under the protection of the Valar.”
“We have sworn, and not lightly,” Fëanáro replies, “and we have no desire to return to thraldom. If you want to be nothing more than ferrymen in these great deeds that lie ahead, then suit yourselves.”
“Very well,” says the herald. “But our lord requests a safety against your good conduct. He asks that the lord Maitimo remains his guest until all our ships have safely returned.”
“How dare he? This is out of the question. My son will not be subject to the whims of some tardy-“, until Maitimo stops him by putting his hand on his shoulder.
“I can go, Father,” he says. “A good lord is he that can hold his own, and if it makes Olwë feel better to have me for company, do him the favour.”
“No, that is preposterous. I will not be insulted in this manner.”
“Please, Father,” Maitimo says. “Already we have lost time; we must not loose more, lest our Enemy has more time to prepare. You can begin the crossing right now. I will be reunited with you shortly. Let Olwë believe that he has some say – he will have to continue this petty life under the Valar’s reign, while we march into glory.”
At that, a spark comes into Fëanáro’s eyes, and he pats Maitimo’s shoulder. “Well and wise, my dear. But do not let these almost-Avari push you around. Remember who you are.”
“I do, Father,” Maitimo smiles. “Until we meet again.”
They embrace, and Maitimo bids his brothers farewell, and pretends not to understand the look Macalaurë gives him, a look that speaks volumes on the topic of manipulative diplomacy. Macalaurë perhaps can play any musical instrument that he chooses, but Maitimo plays people, and Macalaurë isn’t certain that he does not find that ability uncanny.

The host of Nolofinwë reaches Alqualondë while the ships are still underway, and Olwë again advises them to stay, to trust the Valar to make things right. “Curufinwë may be driven by his oath,” he says over dinner, glancing at Maitimo, who pretends not to be listening. “But you, Nolofinwë, have sworn no such oath, and would be welcomed back to Valinor if you went.”
“But I have sworn – that I would follow where my brother leads,” says Nolofinwë. “And I will not be forsworn.”
Olwë looks unhappy, but he can hardly try to talk Nolofinwë into perjury.
By the time the ships have returned, even Arafinwë’s host has arrived; it takes three more crossings to get them all to Middle-earth. Only then does a single ship leave Alqualondë to take Maitimo back to his family.

- - -

The Fëanorian host had already begun to construct high palisades around their camp by the time the greater host arrives, and so the first settlement of the Noldor in Middle-earth is more triangular than round, the Fëanorian party taking the point while the broader side is taken by the followers of his half-brothers. Before they have finished fortifying their settlement, Moringotto sends his hordes against them, but his misshapen, half-starved creatures cannot stand for long against the combined forces of the Noldor, who are fierce and strong, and who have soon learned how to efficiently use the blades that Fëanáro crafts. There are few losses - but those are worrying, for they are due to Valaraukar, great fiery demons with flails of fire that cannot be fought from up close, and that terrify Orcs and Elves alike.
A week later Fëanáro has designed fearsome machines of war, great wooden contraptions with a powerful sling on one end and a heavy counterweight on the other. When Moringotto sends a new army, several Valaraukar are crushed under the rocks thrown by these machines before they have time to realise what is happening. The others flee before the falling rocks and the triumphant Noldor.
The feast afterwards is greater than any celebrated in Valinor. Friendships and oaths are renewed, and Fëanáro, High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth, raises his glass to his half-brothers, whose hosts for once cheer for him whole-heartedly.

Other than that, there is still a certain animosity between the three parties, although Nolofinwë and Arafinwë behave impeccably towards their leader – until, after the great feast, Moringotto sends a messenger to plead for a truce. There is talk of surrendering the Silmarils, of Moringotto removing to the farthest East, leaving all the desirable parts of the world to the Noldor. Visions of glory abound, and Fëanáro graciously agrees to a parlay with Moringotto, from High King to Dark Lord.
It is then that Nolofinwë speaks up against his half-brother.
“With all due respect, Fëanáro, I must doubt the wisdom of such a move. Is it truly likely that Moringotto would make such offers without hidden motives? I cannot believe that he would surrender so easily.”
“Easily? We have beaten his army, crushed them beneath our heels like the roaches they are, and next we would march against Angamando. There you have your hidden motive: He knows that we would crush him utterly, and before he will be vanquished or imprisoned he will trade. And why not? Let him think that we have forgotten Father – let him think that peace can be bought with my Jewels.”
“We have beaten his army, yes, but we do not know what he holds in store yet! How can we know that he doesn't still have hosts in waiting, that will catch us at unawares? You cannot trust him! We should wait until we know more.”
“Indeed, the thought has crossed my mind. But on the other hand it is not so unlikely that he is beaten, and that we can win everything by going now, and nothing by waiting. If we wait, he will recover his strength, and we can no longer surprise him with our valour. Therefore I think we should harvest now. I will go.”
“But what if it is a trap? What if he only pretends to be weak in order to lure you away? Please, Fëanáro-”
“I might get the impression that my half-brother wishes to prevent me from completing my victory,” Fëanáro interrupts, his voice icy. “Still biding your time, are you? Hoping that, as time passes, our people will forget how much they owe me? Here as in Tirion you seek to supplant me – do not think I don't know it! Here as there you speak poisoned wisdom, hoping to win by cunning what you cannot have otherwise. But I shall not be poisoned. I will go, half-brother, with an army sufficient to bring him to justice; and when I return in triumph, you may mutter all you want, for none will then be willing to hear you.”
For a moment, Nolofinwë's eyes flash defiantly, his lips pressed together resolutely: Then he bows low, a supplicant before his king. “That was not my intention. If you understand my caution as such, I shall pray that I am wrong, and speak of it no more.”
“Good,” snaps Fëanáro, staring at his half-brother's bent neck. “While I am gone, Maitimo will rule in my stead. You will obey him in everything.”
Nolofinwë looks at Maitimo, who appears a little uncomfortable at the idea of commanding his older uncle, and bows low again. “Yes, my lord.”

And in the next morning, with a force much greater than agreed in the terms of the parlay, Fëanáro, resplendent in armour and anger and certainty, leaves the Noldorin camp for the appointed place...

- - -

And in distant Mandos, with a cry of “Father! No!”, the spirit of Maedhros is torn from the false memory. Anguished, he looks around for the continuation of the tale, praying that he may see proof that his father was right – a tapestry of Moringotto imprisoned by the Noldor, of the Silmarils restored to their creator, of Middle-earth at peace without the Valar's interference – and fearing that he might instead see his father's host dead, his father imprisoned and tortured, his father upon high Thangorodrim.
He sees neither, and that, he finds, is worse than either certainty.

“I cannot say what would have happened, had things been otherwise,” a gentle voice says, and he discovers that Vairë has joined him, pity in her grey eyes. “It is only a might-have-been, and there are many things that it might have brought to pass.”
“Just as with real decisions,” Maedhros says dryly.
“Just so,” Vairë says, and to his surprise she smiles. “Do you wish that history had happened in the manner depicted here?”
Maedhros ponders that question for a long time. “I cannot say,” he finally says. “Not without knowing what would have happened next.”
“But no matter what the consequences, there would have been no kinslaying at Alqualondë,” she points out.
“But Father might have been imprisoned in my stead.”
The corners of Vairë's lips twitch as though amused. “Or he might have succeeded. And either way the Teleri would have continued to live in peace.”
Maedhros would sigh if he could. “Yes. Perhaps.”
“You are unconvinced, I see?”
“Uncertain, I suppose. As you say, one cannot say what would have happened, had things been otherwise.”
Vairë nods.
“All I can say,” Maedhros continues, in a sudden moment of peace and clarity, “is that things weren't otherwise. Things happened as they did, and cannot now be changed. It is futile to agonise over what-ifs and might-have-beens.”

And Vairë smiles.

---

Chapter End Notes

A click on the picture will lead to a larger version, should you so desire.

B2MeM '10 - The Simple Truth

Written for the B2MeM 2010 challenge for Armenelos: Our characters often hold strong opinions, whether they be as serious as Fëanor's convictions about freedom from the Valar or as seemingly frivolous as Merry's belief in the superiority of Longbottom Leaf. Write a story, poem, or create an artwork in which a character must defend or discovers the opposite of a strongly held opinion.

The sad thing about "simple truths" is that they're never actually simple. Daeron sees the truth he's always clung to turned lie; Maglor fights for a conviction he no longer believes in; Amandil is forced to lie to keep his family safe.
Three double drabbles (as counted by Open Office Writer).

Read B2MeM '10 - The Simple Truth

The Simple Truth

1.

See her dance to my tune, my sweet Lúthien! One day we will marry, and I will dance with her. Until then, I remain hidden in the trees, watching, playing my flute.
One day we will marry, and it will be a fine match, for we both love music and our fathers approve. Until then, I watch my love and wait.
Today an oaf, a clumsy mortal crawls out of the undergrowth. A toy for my love! He sees her and is struck, of course. What a laugh! How she flies! How he tramples after her! What a precious game!

But it grows better yet, for he tries poetry! Hear him call out, "Tinúviel!" How trite, how boorish – how untrue! My love, you sing fairer than any nightingale and you are certainly more beautiful. Mortal wretch, do not insult my beloved!
Now she stands. I watch the comedy unfold. Now surely my beloved will tell him off, will make him crawl back into the brambles. Tell the mortal fool that you are mine, beloved, make his heart bleed for his insolence! And I will watch and laugh my fill. A precious game indeed!
Except... wait... are they kissing?!

2.

"It is ours," Tyelko had said, and Curvo, and Pityo. I was loyal to Nelyo and said nothing, but thought the same. What Moryo thought I cannot say.
I would not speak against Nelyo, but neither would I speak for him. He spoke for himself, of gratitude and obligations, priorities, the crown that stood between us and those whose support we needed: powerful arguments, ringing true.
Tyelko wiped them away: "On the other hand, it is ours by right."
And Nelyo had looked him in the eye, and said, "I have no other hand."
That was that.

He blackmailed me again, much later. "They are ours," he said. "After all we've gone through…"
I thought bitterly, You mean, after all you have gone through. How tired I was, so tired! For all I cared Eönwë could take the accursed things. We, I thought, were damned either way.
But Nelyo was right. We had duties.
"They are ours", he repeated.
I nodded my agreement. "They are ours", I said, "and Eönwë will see that, and return them to us. Let us wait."
Did I believe it? Not for a second.
Neither did Nelyo.

3.

"The Temple will be finished soon," Khephazôn observed.
"Temple?" Amandil said.
"You didn't know? The King commanded that a great Temple for the Giver of Freedom, the Lord of All* be built. A proper temple, not some windy field upon a rock! Perhaps you will go there to pray for your grandson's recovery?"
"Perhaps," Amandil agreed.
"That's surprising," Anárion said afterwards. "The Lord of All. Who'd have thought the King would turn back to rightful worship?"
Amandil sighed. "Even you, Anárion, son of a nobleman, should know the difference between father and lord."

Despite the black smoke and the stench of Nimloth's wood, and (worse yet) the smell of burnt hair and flesh, a certain sapling that grew in hiding chose that dark day to bring forth leaves. The following day (Erukyermë by the old reckoning), Isildur awoke and said that he was hungry.
Khephazôn the messenger saw him seated on the porch in the spring sun, pale but conscious.
"Look at that!" he said by way of greeting. "One day's prayer, and he is back to the living. Bountiful is Melkor!"
Amandil almost gritted his teeth. "Yes," he said. "Bountiful is Melkor."

---

Chapter End Notes

*"Giver of Freedom" and "Lord of All" are among the titles Sauron bestows upon Melkor when first seducing Ar-Pharazôn. I assumed those titles would also have been in common usage: While at least some people might vaguely remember that Melkor was kind of a bad guy, pretty epithets like "Giver of Freedom" sound a lot more harmless and worship-worthy until people were used to the idea...

B2MEM '11 - March 5th - Introspection

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Menegroth: Write a story or poem or create artwork that will illustrate the consequences of isolation.

Nerdanel finds a moment to ponder different forms of isolation - and its lack. A ficlet in six consecutive drabbles (as counted by Open Office Writer).

Thank you, Himring, for the nomination!
And a huge thank you to everyone who read and reviewed.
Awesome banner base by Esteliel.

Read B2MEM '11 - March 5th - Introspection

Introspection

She is happy enough, as long as she has work to do. Luckily, sculpture has never gone out of fashion. Even when, for a decade or two, the Remnant collectively banished all jewellery from their throats and hands and brows, to convince themselves that they had never supported that one particular jewel-smith – when all scholars who expressed a strong opinion on some linguistic issue had to fear for their reputations, their friendships, their positions – sculpture remained popular. She has students to teach and commissions to fulfill, so many that there is hardly time left for her own leisureable creations.

For she cannot work forever. One has to be careful these days, and nobody more careful than she. Oh, she is wholly accepted by society; she is held blameless. She has been invited to Alqualondë, to help the reconstructions and to speak to the survivors. She is welcome in the king's house in Tirion at any time, and indeed expected to attend all formal dinners there, still a member of the royal family. She is invited to balls and parties. She is asked to lecture at the craftswomen's guilds. She is asked for her judgement in contests. She is busy.

All these kindly offers are obligations as well. Being invited, she has to attend. She has to be seen in public. Everybody does. For is it not agreed that it was the self-absorbed focus on work, the locked doors and unsocial isolation in the forge, that allowed the unthinkable to grow in the mind of Fëanáro? Do not the Valar remember how Melkor's introspective journeys made him deviate from Ilúvatar's theme, perceiving thoughts unlike his obedient brethren? Is not the wife of Fëanáro in danger of falling into that same trap – are not all Noldor? Solitude is clearly dangerous.

So she had to say farewell to the day-long, week-long projects, learned to divide the ideas that demand undivided attention into small portions. Farewell also to the extended excursions into the uninhabited wilds that she used to love – for now nobody but groups and parties with a purpose, such as hunting or getting timber or quarry, can go into the wild without arousing suspicion. Welcome, instead, to entire afternoons wasted on tea and gossip and fashion; welcome to witnessing uninspired recitals of poetry by the dozen; welcome to the inanity of enforced society. Such is the price of stability.

There are no news from the Other Shore. She knows that her husband is dead: She felt the sundering of their bond long before a messenger came from Mandos, to inform her that she was free to re-marry.
Of her sons, of the others who went to Middle-earth, the Valar give no information. By now she is used to being ignorant. She tells herself that it may be better not to know, that ignorance may be a mercy. She takes solace from the fact that she is not alone. She does not despair. She is happy enough. They all are.

They are happy, but they have lost themselves. The great creations of the Noldor were based on self-absorbed efforts, on introspective minds. Without introspection, there are no strokes of genius. Poets now reproduce previous thinkers' works in other words, pretty and empty. Craftsmen deliver good, solid work, but no longer surprise with stunning new ideas. There are no soaring dreams of greatness now. There is no passion.
It may be better that way, Nerdanel reflects. Isolated from the world beyond the Pelóri, locked in unnatural peace, there is no use for passion. Passion is unreliable, shifting, dangerous.
How she misses it.

---

Chapter End Notes

The idea expressed in the final paragraphs, concerning the necessity of isolation and introspection for independent artistic or philosophical thought, I owe to Walter J. Ong's Orality and Literacy, which I highly recommend to anyone interested in language, language history and the transmission and development of knowledge.

B2MEM '11 - March 8th - A glorious tradition

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Dorthonion: Write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork reflecting identification with or connection to one’s land, country or culture.

Or write a story or poem or create a piece of artwork featuring kilts.

Very well! You want kilts, you get kilts!

In the early 19th century, two musicians witness the birth of a legend...

Thank you, Robinka, for the nomination!

Read B2MEM '11 - March 8th - A glorious tradition

A Glorious Tradition

Edinburgh, 1820

"So we will wear kilts for the parade, of course, in the setts of our respective clan or region," the conductor said.
"In the what?"
The conductor shook his head and gave the flutist a disapproving look. "Mr. Darron, it is time that you, too, embrace our traditions. A sett is the pattern and colouring of your clan tartan. Surely your family has one, of if you are too poor, that of the grand family of your district will do very well?"
"Never heard the word, never heard of such a thing."
Across the room, the harpist cleared his throat.

"A pity that those damned English have made us forget the fine traditions of our great past! But never fear, Messrs Wilson and Son of Bannockburn have in their possession the old pattern book, and you can write to them and ask for a sample of your sett. I expect that all of you will have found and acquired a suitable kilt by the end of the month. His Majesty wants to see proud Highlanders, and by God he'll see them!"
"In kilts? That's workman's clothing," the flutist protested, and at the stares of his colleagues, he added, "designed by an Englishman. How does that designate a proud Highlander?"
The harpist cleared his throat again, warningly.

"I'll thank you not to speak of things you don't understand, Mr. Darron! Why, a moment ago you knew nothing of setts, and now you presume to slander the history of the noble kilt? Shame on you! Do you think you are wiser than the gentlemen who are in charge of the ceremony, Sir Walter Scott and Colonel David Stewart?"
"Quite likely," the flutist replied calmly. "I do not know from what source the two gentlemen derive their information, but it is clearly a muddied well of lies."
Shocked gasps all around.
"Oh yes?" The conductor was almost shouting now, his face turning purple with indignation. "And how would you know, Mr. Darron?"
The flutist pursed his lips very tight, as if trying to contain his reply, but then he burst out regardless. "Because I've seen history! I was there, and it was different!"

"Will you stop that infernal coughing, Mr. MacLaurey!" the conductor snapped towards the poor harpist, who still appeared to be struggling with some obstruction in his throat. "And you, Mr. Darron, will cease your shameful talk at once, or you'll live to regret it! I will not hear the glorious traditions of the proud Highlands slandered any further – after all the English have done to us, too!"
But the flutist was not to be stopped now, speaking with a force surprising in such a slender fellow. "Proud Highlands? Nothing but rocks and rain and bracken, with peat and sheep for their only resources! A receptacle for exiles from Ireland – there are no glorious traditions here, and there wouldn't be even without the English!"
The harpist got up, muttered an apology and grabbed his friend's arm. They made their way towards the door while around them the other musicians jumped from their chairs, shook their fists and began to yell at each other.

"I do believe, Daeron," the harpist said when they were out on the street, "that you have lost us our job."
"So much the better! I certainly won't be perpetrating any lies about imaginary-" he imitated the conductor's bombastic tone -"'glorious traditions'."
Maglor sighed. "That's all very well, but now we'll have to move again." He walked a few steps, and then turned to look at his friend with a reproachful look on his face. "'I was there, and it was different.' Honestly."
"Well, I was and it was," Daeron growled. "You were there. You know I'm right."
"So I do, but I also know what's a wise thing to say, and that wasn't." He sighed again. "Didn't do any good, either. They so clearly want to believe in these traditions."
"That doesn't make it any better! It's all lies!"
Maglor gave a wistful smile. "I did not say it makes it better. But it will, in good time, make it accepted truth."
Daeron snorted, but his fury was gone. "Now that certainly is a fine tradition."

---

Chapter End Notes

Yes yes, I know, I'm such a spoilsport! I blame Daeron.

For some reason this appears to be the B2MeM of book recommendations. This time it's The Invention of Tradition, edited by Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger. Particularly the chapter on the Highland Tradition, of course.

For what it's worth, I love kilts as much as the next girl. They're just not that old. And they have been invented by an Englishman. History is funny that way.

*B2MEM '11 - March 11th - Seven Sacrifices

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Himring: Write a story or poem or create artwork where characters make sacrifices in order to achieve their goals.

Maedhros sees his life flash before his eyes. Seven drabbles (as counted by Open Office Writer) on the sacrifices demanded by the quest for the Silmarils.

*This chapter rated "Adult" for mature themes, mention of violence, torture and suicide.

Read *B2MEM '11 - March 11th - Seven Sacrifices

Seven Sacrifices

The first thing he sacrificed was his bright-eyed idealism, the conviction that they could do no wrong, inspired by passion and following the relentless beacon of their leader. It bled, fell, died on the lamp-lit quays of Alqualondë, drowned in the blood-choked waters, sizzled and burned with the ships in Losgar.
His inability to influence what was happening; his refusal to comply. The look of disbelieving shock, then of betrayal, in his father's eyes; the same look he imagined, across the churning sea, on Findekáno's face.
Still, they marched on, lest their deeds turn meaningless. What else could they do?

*

The second thing he sacrificed was the faith in his invulnerability, the innocent belief that he could not possibly come to harm, armour-protected and driven by a righteous Oath. It starved on the dark and hostile shore, bled and burned as his father died, suffered and screamed in the dungeons of Angamando.
His helplessness in the face of nature and death and torment; his refusal to accept defeat. The ceaseless agony as the years crawled by, his brothers' inability to save him; the vain hopes, the curses, the prayers for death.
Still, he hung on. What else could he do?

*

The third thing he sacrificed was his pride, the stubborn insistence that he needed no help, was self-sufficient, dignified, in control. It was torn by nightmares and overpowering memory, sabotaged by his wrecked body; it wept in Findekáno's arms and cowered while he yelled his suffering, his helpless fury at his brothers, at the walls, at the unhearing Valar.
The horror and pain as Findekáno cut his flesh, the tedious process of recovery, the black fear that he would never feel useful again, the self-pity. Finally, the small joys when strength and competence and self-control returned.
And he lived on.

*

The fourth thing he sacrificed was his birthright, the leadership of the Noldor, a matter of such contention and animosity. It was drowned in the sour wine of Hisilomë, strangled in the embraces of his cousins, stamped down in dance, exchanged for forgiveness.
The joyful look in Nolofinwë's eyes, the dissolution of hostility; the vague surprise how easy he found it to let go of the crown, for all his brothers' angry protests. His priorities were clear: He had never sworn to be king.
Their people reunited, their battle-strength tripled, the next campaign a grand success: So they fought on.

*

The fifth thing he sacrificed was his impatience, the desire to reach the end of the quest, to lead a life self-determined and ungoverned by threats or oaths. It was worn down by regular attacks on his lands and by periods of semi-peace, silenced by the clash of sword on sword or hammer upon anvil.
The turn of season after season after season, meaningless arguments and celebrations, the various small victories and defeats, the stroke of dispossession; the tears spilt as his uncle died, cousins, brothers, and still no end in sight.
He moved on. What else could he do?

*

The sixth thing he sacrificed was the last claim to decency, the naïve conviction that Alqualondë had been a unique occurence, a lapse that couldn't – wouldn't – recur. It drowned in streams of blood spilt in Doriath, at the Havens of Sirion; died alongside Elvish warriors, craftsmen, merchants, children.
The disbelief at what he was doing; the shock of betrayal, the self-hate at the mere sight of the dark-haired twins, his last followers' unease. Eönwë's unease, even. The empty promises: There could be no forgiveness now. He would not forgive himself.
For the last time, he had gone on.

*

The scenes flash before his eyes as he falls, half his mind turned to the past and half to the unavoidable present. The fall seems to stretch endlessly, offering time aplenty to review his life while the Silmaril scorches him, while vapours and wind make his eyes water. There is time to regret abandoning Macalaurë. There is time for elation at this final sacrifice. There may be no forgiveness, but there will be an end. Maybe punishment; maybe rest; maybe nothing. And the Oath is fulfilled.
The chasm gapes, the flames swallow him; and he must go on no longer.

B2MeM '11 - March 10, 13, 4 & 24 - Bird's Eye View

Written for the B2MeM challenges for
- Gondolin: Start a story or poem with Charles Dickens' famous opening line from A Tale of Two Cities: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
- Balar: Write a story or poem or create artwork featuring unanswered requests, prayers or pleas.
- Mithrim: Write a story or poem or create artwork where the character conquers his or her fears.
- Rhosgobel: Write a story or poem or create artwork using one or more animals as symbols, omens, or metaphors.

Four double drabbles (as counted by Open Office Writer) centered on Elwing.

Read B2MeM '11 - March 10, 13, 4 & 24 - Bird's Eye View

Bird's Eye View

***

1. The Fate of Arda Marred

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The mild seaside climate, the beauty of the havens invited a life of pleasure, while experience and dark rumours warned them to mistrust any semblance of bliss. Lush springs were followed by draughts, gentle autumn rains by bitter winter winds. The sea came rolling in, bright blue with foam-crests that glittered in the sun one day, deadly grey and black another. There were weeks of kind weather, of happiness, of wealth; there were weeks of harsh storms that filled the beaches with the rotting stench of stranded fish.

The joys of youth were tempered by disapproving looks: Her parents and her poor brothers dead, and she dancing as though she had no care in the world! Love came, and the tongues were wagging: Can she not find a husband among her own people? The splendour of their wedding - and the condemnation: Look at her boasting that accursed jewel! Has she no sense of propriety? The delights of married life – but her husband was away so often, so long...
Still, Elwing told herself, she was alive and free and healthy. Asking for more was graceless, these days.

***

2. Unrequited

Then the first letter arrived.
Maedhros Fëanorion to Ardamir Eärendil Itarildion*, greetings. Most worthy nephew, we have heard with delight the news of your marriage. The best wishes of joy, health and peace to you and your wife.
You will be aware of the exceptional value that a certain heirloom has to our house. The return of the Silmaril unto an heir of Finwë is intriguing and makes us hope for a swift and peaceful resolution to at least this part of our quest. We are naturally willing to recompense you in exchange for its delivery. Pray name your price.

The page on Elwing's desk declared, May you choke on your honeyed words. I would as soon return the Silmaril to Morgoth. She shook her head. Provocation was unwise.
She burned the letter, started anew.
My husband is currently at sea; I take the liberty of replying in his place. You will understand my reservations against yielding the Silmaril to you. It is of exceptional value to my house also. I will need time to consider this matter, and to discuss it with my husband when he returns. Do not press me further.
The following correspondence was no longer polite.

***

3. Dual

A short walk up the hill, and already she was exhausted. Elwing leaned against a pillar. Her belly stuck out obscenely large, obstructing her movement. And the heat was so oppressing. The child squirmed, touching her with too many limbs. Before her mind's eye, an octopus was swimming where the baby should be. She knew the whispers: Must be her mortal blood. Only three quarters Elvish, after all, and those Avarin². But she is rounder even than a mortal should be. Something is wrong with the child.
Her eyes burned with tears.
But there – his sail on the horizon!

A day later she could tell him of her fears, weep in his arms.
"Whatever is wrong," he soothed, "we must endure it."
We? You are never here, she wanted to say, and didn't. For he was here now. It was good not to be alone, not to fear alone; not one, but two.
Not one, but two...
She laughed. "I realised what is wrong."
"That is no laughing matter."
"It is! How foolish I was!"
"Elwing!" Less sharply, more urgent: "What is wrong with our child?"
Her eyes sparkled. "The singular."

***

4. Bird's Eye View

Dreams had haunted her for weeks. Always, it was dark. Always she was falling. Stormy wind made her eyes water; she was pounded by rain and hail. Underneath, black waters churned and foamed. Elwing screamed, and heard the sharp cry of a gull.
She heard it by day, too. She had heard gulls cry all her life; now the sound made her shiver. But the days were bright, the nights calm but for her dreams.
She rejoiced when, one day, the gulls were silent. She rejoiced until the sentinels saw the army on the cliffs.
The wind began to rise.

The storm tore at her white gown. With the Silmaril at her throat, she was a beacon. She would be discovered forthwith. She might as well return, try and find her boys.
The wind raged, carrying screams and the ringing of swords. There was nothing to return to. Her boys: lost like her brothers. Her people: dead or dying - for her refusal.
Returning now would turn their sacrifices worthless. They must not have it. She stepped into the air.
The waves churned and foamed.
Then she had wings, and tore through wind and rain. Her cry of surprise: a gull's.

---

Chapter End Notes

*Why is Maedhros writing "son of Idril" rather than "son of Tuor"? Entirely on purpose, of course. First, as he's invoking family bonds in the letter, it makes sense for him to refer to the person who is directly related, rather than the entirely unrelated mortal. Second, as a Noldië and a princess, Idril clearly outranks Tuor.
Why Quenya "Itarildion"? Because "Idrilion" and my sense of linguistic aesthetics do not get on at all.

²This is, of course, not entirely correct: Elwing is only five eighths Avarin. The missing eighth is Maiarin, which surely balances the quarter mortal at least a little. But the Noldor clearly need to feel superior. Not necessarily at maths, though...

B2MeM '11 - March 17 - Strange Gifts

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Bree: Write a story or poem in which the exchange of gifts is featured, or use "gifting" as a theme for a piece of art.

Maedhros finds Caranthir's secret. On gifts material and immaterial - love, memory, absence, and the infamous Gift of Men.

Read B2MeM '11 - March 17 - Strange Gifts

Strange Gifts

Caranthir watched with a frown while Maedhros carried two glasses across the room, balancing them precariously on the palm of his hand.
"You could have asked for help," Caranthir said reproachfully.
"I could have," Maedhros agreed. "Here, take one." He managed to set the other glass down on the table without spilling any of the pale yellowish liquid it contained.
Caranthir swirled the contents of his own glass around, frowning. "So what is this? Looks like piss."
Maedhros' lip quirked briefly. "You wound me, little brother. Do you think I would serve you piss? This is birch wine."
"Tree piss, then. So you've given up trying to grow grapes here?"
"Decades ago. It was a waste of efforts and resources. And despite the unfortunate colour, birch wine is perfectly palatable. Cheers."
Each took a sip. Caranthir smacked his lips. "Too sweet for my taste. But it could be worse."
Maedhros smiled. "Indeed. I take it you have different brews in Thargelion?"
"Mostly imports from Ossiriand. And I personally like the ale of the Naugrim."
His older brother raised an eyebrow at that, but did not voice his thoughts on the brew of the Naugrim; instead, he said, "You seem to get on well with your neighbours."
"I believe I do. Better than I get on with most of our own kind, actually." Caranthir took another sip of wine.
"Yes, I thought you would," Maedhros said. "I always felt that the Naugrim were more likely to appreciate... hm... direct communication."
"Just so."

Maedhros studied his brother for a while. They had not seen each other in person in a rather long time. Of course, they were all busy with their own provinces these days, which all came with their own share of troubles and responsibilities. They spoke regularly enough via the Palantíri, but personal contact had become rare. So maybe it was not surprising that Caranthir seemed changed. No doubt they all had changed, even now. Still...
"That is an interesting pendant you're wearing," he observed. "I don't think I've ever seen something like it."
"I'd be surprised if you had. It was a gift from... one of my neighbours."
The brief hesitation, and the circumscription that followed it, was so untypical for Caranthir that Maedhros blinked. "Indeed? May I see it?" Was he mistaken, or had Caranthir's cheeks taken on a darker than usual hue?
Caranthir stared at him for a moment, his eyes dark, almost angry. Eventually he said, "Only if you promise not to comment on the inferiority of the design to our works, or anything of the sort."
Maedhros smiled. "I am not a good enough craftsman to presume judging the work of others," he said. "I am merely a curious big brother."
Caranthir snorted, but he slipped the leather thong from which the pendant hung over his head, holding it out to Maedhros. "Very well." With another very grim look, he added, "Don't abuse my trust."
Maedhros blinked again. This certainly was serious! Instead of replying, he took his time while studying the pendant. It appeared to be carved from bone and had been polished to perfect smoothness. It wasn't entirely clear what the artist had meant to depict: the intertwined waves, crowned by an uneven oval, might be a stylised couple embracing, or something else entirely, or nothing in particular. Either way, it was pleasing to the eye as well as to the touch.
When he looked away from the pendant, Maedhros realised that Caranthir's intent stare had not left his face. He gave a smile, hoping to reassure his brother. "I assume Curufin might find some fault with this if he meant to, but I certainly can't. It's strange, but in a very pretty way." He returned the necklace to Caranthir, who slipped it back over his head, carressing the carved pendant with his left hand as he did so. Maedhros paused, wondering whether he dared to pry further. Eventually he decided to do.
"The friend who gave it to you means much to you, hm?"
Carnistir's eyes took on a bright gleam that Maedhros had never seen in them before – the passionate glow that had often lit their father's eyes. At first he did not reply, but then he burst out, with feeling: "The world."
Maedhros smiled at his enthusiasm. "I am happy for you. Will you tell me more?"
"You'll disapprove."
Eyebrows raised, Maedhros said, "I know better than to approve or disapprove of other people's relationships. That would be... somewhat hypocritical, don't you think?"
"I guess so."
"So... will you honour me with more information?" Maedhros asked after a moment's silence.

Caranthir bit his lips; finally he shrugged. "Her name," he said, his eyes flashing bright again, "is Haleth."
"Haleth," Maedhros repeated, smiling. "A Sindië?"
"No. A mortal."
"Oh, Moryo..."
"I know, I know. Entirely unsuitable." Caranthir rose abruptly as if to flee.
Maedhros rose as well, holding his hand out in a gesture of appeasement. "Oh Moryo, that is not what I meant," he said. "If you love her, she is clearly suitable. I just – I mean – if she is mortal..."
"I know," Caranthir said harshly. Maedhros walked closer, slowly, and reached out. When Caranthir did nothing to avoid his hand, he squeezed his shoulder, reassuringly.
"I am sorry, brother. I truly did not mean to criticise your choice. I am surprised – of course I am. But I do not disapprove. I am merely worried about you." He smiled tentatively. "Tell me more about her, if you wish."
Caranthir sank back into the chair and took a swig of his wine. Maedhros likewise returned to his seat, watching his younger brother.
"She is the leader of her people," Caranthir finally said, avoiding Maedhros' eyes. "She had a brother, but he was killed by the Orks. She does a better job than he, anyway." Now he looked up with a lopsided smile. "I came to offer help to her people, and they were afraid of me, I think. But not she. She glared at me and told me I'd better not waste her time." He smiled broadly at the memory. "You cannot imagine the scene! My warriors and I on horseback, still armed from battle, and all around us those cowering mortals in their drab garb, and this small woman stands there and tells me not to waste her time." His smile was infectious; Maedhros could not help but grin in return.
"Of course, I was so taken aback that I didn't know what to say, except, 'I don't mean to'. I probably should have been angry – but I couldn't. So I listened while she gave a summary of goods and services that her people might need to recover swiftly. And then I returned home and saw it done." Caranthir shook his head as if doubting his own story. "I think I fell in love with her that very moment, although I did not realise it until much later, of course. In many ways, she reminded me of Mother. No great beauty at first glance, but oh, such strength! And smart she is, too." He sobered, and his eyes lost their gleam. "They only stayed for a year. I helped her people recover only to lose her – she wanted to lead them away, to greater safety. I have not heard from her since." He gritted his teeth.
Maedhros grimaced. "I am so sorry."
Caranthir snorted. "I am glad that she's gone," he spat out, making his brother blink. Then he emptied his glass, staring angrily at the empty vessel. Silence fell.

"Because... she is no longer tempting you?" Maedhros said softly.
Caranthir laughed without mirth. "Hah! No. I would give in to that temptation happily." He shook his head again. "No. I am glad because I will not have to witness her fate." He leaned forward, wringing his hands. "I will love her forever. With any luck, I can pretend that she will forever live. She was young and strong when we met – she still is young – but she will age, as all mortals do, and no doubt she will die. Soon. But if I don't see her grow old and weak, and if I never see her dead body – that is almost as if she will forever stay as young as she is now." He sniffed angrily, and glared at Maedhros, daring his brother to contradict him.
"And she will be, in your memory," Maedhros said instead. He felt cold, and he felt sorry or Caranthir. Even love, it seemed, would not grant them unshadowed joy.
"Yes," Caranthir said. "So I am glad that she left before she could be claimed by age. Or desaster." He let out a slow breath. "That is what I keep telling myself," he said. "But oh, I miss her! Sometimes I am tempted to ride out and find her again. But it would never end well. So it is better that I believe what I told you."
Maedhros nodded, refilling their glasses.
"Very reasonable. But I am nonetheless sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
"I note you are no longer wearing your star pendant. I assume you gave it to her?"
Caranthir took up his glass again, but instead of drinking, he merely stared at the wine. "I did. I hope she will remember me for-- for as long as she lives." He shrugged. "At any rate, I can tell myself that she will, right? I don't know what happens. Maybe she falls in love with one of her own people – maybe she already did! Maybe she will throw my gift away. But I will never know. In my memory, she'll always be my true love." He looked at Maedhros again, and now his eyes were bright with suppressed tears.
"She will be," Maedhros affirmed. "Forever."

---

Chapter End Notes

I wanted to write an entirely different story centered on Haleth and Caranthir, based on an entirely different prompt. It was supposed to be less cheesy and more scathing, too. Instead, you get this piece of bittersweet fluff. Maybe the other thing will be written later.
At least I finally managed to write some Haleth/Caranthir. Yay!

B2MeM '11 - March 12 - The Course of Nature

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Sirion: Elves are one with Nature. What about Men? Hobbits? Dwarves? Write a story or poem or create artwork where the way different races relate to Nature is shown.

Elves are one with nature? Really? Haleth, at any rate, begs to differ...

Read B2MeM '11 - March 12 - The Course of Nature

The Course of Nature

They stood upon a foothill overlooking the mortal settlement, an unequal pair. The man was tall and slender, with long raven hair that flowed freely in the spring breeze. His face could have been called beautiful, had it not given the impression of frowning too often. His riding clothes were made of fine linen and silks in tastefully matched shades of red, embroidered with gold thread and topped by a padded jerkin made of soft deerskin. Any watchers would have glanced at the woman – small and stocky, dressed in leather and undyed wool roughly stitched into garments of uninspired shape, with a plain round face, her darkish hair tied back into a sobre plait – only because of the stark contrast to her companion, before returning their gaze to the more handsome prospect. Only the most attentive of observers might have noted the likeness of their eyes: steel-grey, alert, and filled with the fire of a rash and stubborn spirit.
But there were no observers: He had purposefully left his entourage behind, and her people had more important things to do than to climb mountains. There was nobody to witness how the man ducked his proud head in order to better be audible to the small woman.
"Your people are recovering well, I see," he said in the wooden accent of a Noldo uneager to use the Sindarin tongue. "The building progress is quite impressive."
The woman shrugged. "As well as can be hoped," she said in the rough, halting manner of mortals. "We have worked hard, of course. And no doubt we owe much of the progress to your generous provision of tools and materials."

The tall man smiled. "No doubt. I wonder all the more why you insist on declining my offer of further help. There is so much that can be done, and I can easily spare a couple of people for a while. I can send you scholars to teach you letters and to write down your history. Or gardeners so that you can learn how to grow most of your food, and do not have to go scavenging into the woods anymore! Or you could have craftsmen to build stronger houses and to make better weapons, and to make you fine clothing and dress you properly as a lady..."
"Of course you could," she said. "But we do not need any of your people, Lord Caranthir. Your help with the healing and reconstruction was appreciated, but now that we have recovered, we do not require further help." With a sly grin upwards, she added, "Besides, I do not like your attitude towards nature, and have no desire to copy it."
Caranthir blinked. "Our attitude...? Lady Haleth, what can you mean? We have the utmost love and respect for nature; we use it well, don't we? We plant trees and gardens, we delight in its beauties, we breed and feed beasts – if we behaved like the Naugrim, I would understand your reservations, but that is not our way!"
"What do the Naugrim do that you don't?" Haleth said wryly. "Do you not cut trees for timber and firewood, and dig out ores from mountains?"
Somewhat too hotly for polite society, Caranthir replied, "Naturally we do. But we see so much more! The Naugrim would never go into the woods unless they need timber. But we? We go for long pleasurable walks, too, and see the beauty of the trees. Besides, your people, too, need firewood – and don't you also dig for roots and pluck berries?"

"Naturally we do," Haleth echoed him. "But we go where the berries grow. You dig out the shrub and plant it where you want it. Yes, you plant trees all over your settlements – but would the same trees grow there on their own? You plant flowers in your gardens, but will you not tear out any weed that you do not want? If a willow is growing next to your house where you do not want it, will you not cut it down?"
"No. If at all possible, we will dig out the tree with its roots so that we can plant it elsewhere."
"But you will not leave it."
"Not if it is shadowing the house, or takes water away from other plants – what of it?"
"You have no respect for nature, then. For obviously nature wanted that willow tree in that place, and you should have built your house elsewhere if you do not want it shadowed."
Caranthir stared at her, his eyebrows contracting into a dark frown. "You cannot be serious. Do you mean to tell me that we should roam the woods for food, instead of growing it where it is convenient? That we disrespect nature by planting trees where we can best admire them?"
"I do not mean to tell you what to do, Lord Caranthir. But you do disrespect nature. You see it as something that you are free to control. That is not respect. And it does not end with trees and gardens. What about your letters? Words are something that is spoken, heard, not seen. But you lock them into something to look at. It is nature's way that things are forgotten - but you will pin them down on paper so that they cannot find oblivion. You are free to do so, of course. But you should agree that you are not respecting the course of nature. Otherwise you are fooling yourself."
The elf balled his fists. "I will not be lectured by an unenlightened mortal," he almost shouted. "One look at your people makes it plain how ineffective your way of life is – and yet you presume to teach me?"
"No. But I do not want to be taught by you, either."
"But you need to learn so much – otherwise your people will never grow, will never reach the strength of the Eldar--"
Haleth smiled at him, widely and innocently. "The strength of the Eldar is unnatural to my people. Maybe, then, the ways of the Eldar are likewise unnatural to us?"
Caranthir snorted. "You could still learn them."
"If we wanted to become like you. But we do not. We have our own ways, Lord Caranthir, and although I appreciate your help, as long as I live I will refuse to turn my people into a copy of yours. It would never be a good copy, anyway."
"It would be better than your current state of misery!"
"You are free to think so, of course, but I will not strive to prove you right." Haleth tilted her head, and suddenly she laughed. "But look at you! First you judge what tree is to grow where, and now you judge what nature suits my people. If you think that is love, if you think that is respect, you do not understand what either word means."

That was too much for the proud elf. He took a deep breath, preparing to yell or strike. Then he turned on his heel instead, and marched away with huge steps. The long grass bent under his feet, and sprang back upright when he had passed.
Haleth looked after him with a regretful frown, but the corners of her mouth quirked in an amused smile. She did not try to stop him. Let him run – he would come back. For some reason, he always did.

---

Chapter End Notes

This is the Haleth/Caranthir story I meant to write before "Strange Gifts" came along. Hurrah, I did it. And lo, my "love" for fanonic generalisations strikes once more...

*Random - The Children of Alqualondë

Frustrated by obvious inconsistencies, a Fëanorian muses on the poets' treatment of the first kinslaying.
Written in an attempt to deal with a line that absolutely annoyed me in a fanfic I read a while back: I figured tackling the issue creatively was healthier than running around screaming, foaming at the mouth and starting a flame war...

*This chapter rated "Adult" for mention of blood, guts and gore.

Thank you, Grey Gazania, for the nomination!
And a huge thank you to everyone who read and reviewed.

Read *Random - The Children of Alqualondë

There were no children playing on the docks of Alqualondë.

You have all heard the songs, of course. You probably know them by heart. And you have pictured all those white-clad Telerin children, floating face-down in the ruby-coloured waves or lying on the piers like so many fallen cherry-blossoms. You have seen them before your mind’s eye as you listened to the songs. You know exactly what happened, don’t you?

I know it too, for I was there; and those children never existed. In all honesty, if you thought about the scene for a moment, you'd discard the horrible beauty of the songs even without my testimony. I know you will not believe me, but think.

Think for a moment. Think what it was like to live through those days. The light of our world had been extinguished mere days ago. By that time we knew how the Trees had died, and how Melkor, who had only just been named Moringotto, had escaped in the darkness; how the Valar had been powerless to protect their realm. People were afraid. We came to Alqualondë as an army, bartering for the ships. We withdrew, defeated for the moment. The only thing we all knew was uncertainty. And fear, of course: fear of the darkness.

Do you truly believe that any self-respecting Telerin parents would have allowed their children to go and play outside, on the docks or elsewhere, under such circumstances? Do you think they would have allowed their children to go out into that darkness, with the Enemy who-knows-where, a not entirely friendly army encamped nearby, and doubt and fear abounding? Do you think the children would have wanted to play outside, on the docks, at that time? Do you think that, when the fighting began, any such children would have continued to play on the docks, oblivious of the killing until our swords stopped their little hearts and sullied their white frocks with blood?

Don’t be absurd.

There were no children playing on the docks of Alqualondë. There were no fishers going about their business, no merchants bustling in the market, no lovers kissing on the beach. There were no carpenters bringing wood to the wharfs, no artisans gathering shells; and there were no playing children. There was only an uneasy watch on the harbour, armed with fishing spears (and notice how all the beautiful songs never mention those barbed fishing spears, nor the sort of wounds that Telerin harpoons are capable of inflicting) and working knives (and notice how the poets, whose faultless fingers only ever strung harps, never bows, are unaware that a blade crafted to gut tuna-fish can be just as deadly as a regular sword). We came uninvited, and they defended their property; we fought, and they lost.

I am not trying to justify our deeds. There is no excuse for the kinslaying. I will not say that we weren't the ones who started the fighting (although it is true), for we shouldn't have come there in force of battle, nor should we have tried to steal the ships; and though we did not start the fighting, we certainly finished it. I will not say that we didn't understand what we were doing (although I daresay it is true for many of us), for there are things that ignorance cannot excuse. It was our Oath that caused the killing, our foolish obsession that made us blind to the horror of our deeds. There is no excuse. This is no attempt to make us look any better than we are. There can be no doubt that we deserve the blame.

Yet they make me angry, those songs, those tragically beautiful lines about the murdered children of Alqualondë, those cherry-blossoms, those tempest-tossed pearls. For a long time I was not certain why. I thought at first that I was angry because they reported an untruth, but there are many songs that embellish the truth or flout it altogether, and they do not anger me. Then I thought it was because they were trying to make us look worse than we truly were; but we deserved every bit of condemnation, so what did it matter if a little judgement was for crimes that we did not, in fact, commit?

But that line of thought brought me to the answer, the reason why I so detest these songs.
They make me angry because they tell me that the poets did, apparently, not find the truth horrible enough. It isn't bad enough that we had slaughtered other Elves. It isn't cruel enough that we had cut them down, hacking and slashing and stabbing our way to the ships. It is not dreadful enough that we didn't waste a single thought on our victims, that we sailed off into (as we then thought) glory without qualms.
No.
The poets feel that it takes sweet children, scythed in mid-play by Ŋoldorin blades, to give their songs the proper ring. Dead people just aren’t enough.

Perhaps they are right. Most people who listen to their songs are moved to tears only when the singers reach the part about the little children floating in the bloodied waters. The things that really happened – the brutal honesty of blades rending flesh, of bloodshed, of a fighter slipping on the guts of his felled opponent – they make for an exciting tale. Only when the fictional children enter the scene does the audience begin to grasp the monstrosity.

I should not care either way. Personally I am disappointed whenever I catch an obvious untruth in a tale – it makes me doubt the truth of the whole thing – but maybe other listeners are less critical. I should not be angry. In the end, the lie gets the story across.
But I cannot help but wonder: If there is a need to embellish the horrible truth, if it must be made poetic, if it is not horrid enough on its own – what does that tell us about the poets, and their audience?

Random - The Key

For Instant Drabbling Friday Night, a triple drabble for the prompt The Key: Can open anything.

Sometime in the First Age, Nerdanel unlocks the past. A triple drabble according to OOW.

Read Random - The Key

There was not much demand for keys and locks, when my father first invented them. This was, after all, the Blessed Realm. Things that you did not want others to see were just laid aside or, at most, put inside a drawer. Things that might be dangerous to children were simply put on high shelves, out of reach. Houses were unlocked: There were no intruders to be feared. If you asked somebody to stay away from something, they would – naturally – comply. Even for Angainor, no key was needed: It was locked or unlocked when Aulë willed it so.

But Father had shown foresight: After Melkor's Unchaining, keys became popular. My late husband used them profusely: on our house, on his workshop, on the chests of jewellery and tools. Even when he went to Formenos and I stayed behind, he sent me a key to his house in exile. I never needed it. I did not go to Formenos until all was over, and then the doors had been thrown open, the locks broken.
But inside the ruins that must have been his workshop, I found a hidden box. There was no key to be found for its lock.

It took me a long time to face Formenos, and longer to remake a key for that box. First I told myself that it must be insignificant. Then I feared that its contents might trigger painful memories. After that, I didn't want to invade Fëanáro's privacy. Finally I found that the lock was more complicated than any I knew.
It took many failed attempts to produce a working key, but at last the box opens, revealing -- my old letters, sketches, trifles I thought I had lost. Enshrined like sacred heirlooms.
After all this time, there is no pain: only fondness.

---

Chapter End Notes

It is nowhere said that Mahtan invented keys and locks; I just liked the idea.

B2MeM '12 - I18 - Birth

Written for the "Dwarves in the First Age" prompt, Durin the Deathless remembers coming to life and his maker Aulë, and for the "In a Manner of Speaking" prompt, "for pity's sake".

Durin recalls what must have been, on the whole, a really weird and disconcerting experience...
Officially my first piece of Dwarf fanfic! Yay!

Read B2MeM '12 - I18 - Birth

Birth

The Maker was proud of his creation and overjoyed at its accomplishment, and his pride and joy were the first things we ever felt.

I say "we", for in those moments the seven of us thought and felt as one; and we thought and felt as the Maker did. He gave us names, to each his own, and spoke to us separately: That is how we learned that we had separate bodies. The Maker gave us words for the things around us, the cave-hall and the furnace, the tools and metals and gems. He spoke to us, and we treasured his words and answered as he bade us. He was pleased, so we were happy. He showed us how to use his tools and apply them to his materials, melting ore from rock, casting it into bars, and shaping it anew. He loved his work. So did we.

But then his joy was clouded, and we froze still. We felt that something was going on in the Maker's mind, but for the first time, we could not share it, for it was beyond comprehension. We understood that something was making the Maker feel unhappy. We felt that it distracted him, so that we could no longer work nor speak. All we knew was the strange, powerful presence in the Maker's mind, and the guilt it caused him.

Then everything was loss and confusion. Suddenly the connection between us, the connection to our Maker, was cut. Without warning, we were on our own in a world that no longer consisted of joy and pride, but of loneliness. I found that I could look at my brothers of my own volition, and that I could see on their faces the same fear and bewilderment that I myself felt – but I no longer felt with them. And I no longer felt with the Maker. Instead, there were new, sudden sensations: The hardness of the ground, the heat of the fire, the suppleness of the leather apron on my skin, the coarseness of my beard.

But that was not the worst yet, for now the Maker raised his hammer. He was weeping, and although I did no longer share his mind, I realised his purpose. He was going to destroy us. I did not understand why – had he not loved us mere minutes ago? were we not his pride and joy? - but I saw his great hammer descend. Such a lovely and useful tool, but it caused me terror.
Mercy! I found myself crying, and Please, no, begged one of my brothers. Despite my imminent death, I found myself surprised, for the Maker had not taught us such words: Whence had they come?

Then the terrible moment was over. The hammer's movement stopped in mid-descent. I had thought that I would be flattened like metal bars between hammer and anvil, but here I was, cowering with my hands over my head. Alive. I was flooded by a new feeling - relief, I thought, and that was another word that the Maker had never told us. I heard my brothers sigh. Barazturg and Falakzugul (1) embraced each other. We had survived the crisis. We would live.

We must have fallen asleep then, giddy and relieved, for I do not remember what happened next. For a long time, there was only darkness and rest. When my eyes opened to a new life, the Maker had disappeared. From the feeling of the cave around me, I was in a strange land far from the Maker's hall, deep underground. The rock was different, harder than those familiar walls had been, unsmoothed and unloved. It smelled of dampness and of raw, unrefined ores.
It was cold.

My brothers were not in the cave with me. I was alone.

---

Chapter End Notes

(1) As far as I know (and could research), Tolkien never gave us the true names of the seven Fathers of the Dwarves, so I made something up.
Barazturg is presumably the father of the Firebeards, for his name consists of the elements baraz "red, ruddy" and *turg "beard" (following the assumption that if khazâd "dwarves" is the plural of khuzd "dwarf", and rakhâs "orcs" is the plural of rukhs "orc", then the missing singular to tarâg "beards" might be turg - I feel validated at least in that Helge Fauskanger of Ardalambion fame came to the same conclusion...). Falakzugul is shameless conjecture, really; the F-L-K radicals are stolen from felak, a broad-bladed chisel used for hewing stone, hoping that every other broad things might also have an F-L-K root. Z-G-L was stolen from zigil, which may mean "spike" (or "silver", but I prefer the "spike" version), assuming that other longish, narrow things – like beams – might have the same radicals. Voilà: *falakzugul, father of the Broadbeams (*falakzagâl).

Great. More footnote than story...

B2MeM '12 - O72 - The Lands of their Fathers

Written for the "Dwarves in the First Age" prompt, Awakening of the seven Fathers of the Dwarves.

The Elves aren't the only ones who fill the early world with music... A drabble according to OOW.

Read B2MeM '12 - O72 - The Lands of their Fathers

In Cuiviénen, the land was ringing with the song of Elvish voices; but to the North and South, the East and West the mountains lay stark and silent. Immutable they were in their majesty, untouched and unexplored.
But no longer. Under the mountains, deep in the dark bowels of the earth, something began to move. Keen eyes opened, sturdy limbs stretched after a long sleep; and like bearded ants walking on two feet, the Dwarves began to delve their halls and tunnels and build their kingdoms into the rock.
Soon the mountains were ringing with the song of their hammers.

B2MeM '12 - I22 - The Sorrows of Young Daeron

Written for the "Maglor in History" prompt, Sturm und Drang.

Daeron is not happy with Maglor's response to the latest literary fad. Warning: Potential spoilers for Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther. Hey, fair is fair.

Read B2MeM '12 - I22 - The Sorrows of Young Daeron

With a deep sigh, Maglor shut the book. "Very well. That's done."
"And? What do you think?" said Daeron, leaning forward with eager excitement in his eyes.
Maglor looked at his friend's face and said, almost apologetically, "I'm afraid I didn't enjoy it as much as you did."
"Nobody can enjoy this book as much as I did," Daeron said emphatically. "It speaks to my very soul. But you liked it?"
Maglor grimaced. "I'm afraid I find it a little overrated."
The excitement bled out of Daeron's eyes, making way for indignation. "Overrated? Overrated? How can you say that? It is the most beautiful thing I ever read! Surely you appreciate the power of the language – the passion! The poetry! This Goethe fellow is a genius! How can you join the ranks of the haters?"
Maglor stood up from the couch. "My dear Daeron, I did not say I hated it. I merely said I find it overrated – by haters and lovers alike, to be honest. You are right: The language is beautiful. The descriptions of nature in particular are indeed poetic and wonderfully vivid. Unfortunately, they are drowned in pages over pages of lovesick rambling. And the end – well, I just cannot sympathise with a man who kills himself over unrequited love. Even you didn't go quite so far."
"Yes, it's so much better to get yourself killed over a couple of jewels," Daeron snapped, and got up likewise. He snatched his coat and hat from the hatstand by the door, and was out of the door before Maglor could say another word. The door slammed shut behind him. Angry footsteps echoed on the stairwell.
Maglor looked down at the slender volume. "Passion and poetry," he said. "I'll give you that. " He set a pot of water on the stove to prepare coffee. Daeron would have walked off his rage in an hour at the latest. Passion or no, Lotte was after all no Lúthien.

B2MeM '12 - O67 - As long as you need me

Written for three O67 prompts:
- "Silmarillion Fanon", Death of grief = fading;
- "Sons of Fëanor", Curufin and Nerdanel;
- "Women of Arda", Míriel.

In the middle of the night, Nerdanel has to convince young Curufin that she is not going to follow the example of his grandmother.

Read B2MeM '12 - O67 - As long as you need me

As long as you need me

Nerdanel was exhausted. Her head and back were aching fiercely, and she was wishing for nothing but her soft bed, but on the way to the bedroom the sound of stifled sobbing made her stop. Listening on the doors of her sons' chambers, she decided that it was Atarincë who was crying. She knocked on the door, softly, and came in.
Atarincë was rocking back and forth in his bed, his pillow lodged in his lap; his face was buried in it. The sobbing was urgent and desperate, suggesting a misery that could not have been sparked by a simple nightmare.
Nerdanel snuck closer on tiptoes so as not to awake Carnistir and Tyelkormo, who appeared to be still blissfully asleep.
"Hey," she said softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Atarincë threw away his pillow and buried his face in her bosom instead, wrapping his arms tight around her.
She held him and rocked him gently, stroking his hair and whispering, "All is well, Curvo, all is well, my dear," until the tears stopped. Finally, Atarincë peered up at her, his tear-drenched little face serious, his eyes gleaming wetly in the silvery twilight. Seeing her young son so distressed made Nerdanel's stomach constrict painfully. Exhaustion and headache were forgotten.
"Nana?" Atarincë said in a small, choked voice.
"Yes, my dear?" she whispered.
"Are you going to fade?"

The question caught her by surprise. She hadn't begun to guess what might have caused the little boy such despair, but she certainly would not have guessed that he was afraid of her fading.
"No, sweetie," she said truthfully. "What makes you worry about that?"
Atarincë sniffed, and Nerdanel let go with one hand to pull a handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress. Atarincë blew his nose noisily, and his mother looked around: But the older two boys were oblivious of their brother's affliction and slept on.
"You are so unhappy," Atarincë said in an almost reproachful tone when he had thoroughly emptied his nose.
Nerdanel's eyes widened. "I am unhappy? I'm a bit exhausted. But that's just because the five of you are keeping me quite busy, darling. I'm not going to fade."
"Oh, good," Atarincë said with a sigh of true relief. "I thought you were." The misery returned to his voice. "Everyone says I'm so much like Atto, and he made his mother fade..."
Where had Atarincë picked that last bit up, Nerdanel wondered? The children knew why they had only one grandmother, but nobody had ever blamed Fëanáro for that. Maybe Atarincë had deduced it from bits and pieces he had heard. His little mind was always at work.
"Your father did not make his mother fade," Nerdanel said firmly. "She laid down her life because she was worn out." She bit her lip immediately. What an unwise thing to say, after she had assured Atarincë that she was 'a bit exhausted'!
"I thought his birth made her so unhappy," Atarincë said.
"Unhappy!" said Nerdanel. "No, my dear, I don't think so. It was hard work, and it exhausted her so much that she could not live on. But she was not unhappy. People do not fade just because they're a bit unhappy."
"But Nelyo told me a story of a woman in Cuiviénen who died of grief because her husband disappeared in the woods," Atarincë insisted. Nerdanel decided to have some Words with Nelyo tomorrow. He really should know better than to tell such stories to his impressible little brothers.
"That is something different," she said out loud. "That lady was probably heartbroken, and she lost her will to live. Fading is different – you grow weary of the world..." Her voice faltered. This really was no matter to discuss with such a young child. How to explain it, anyway? She barely understood it herself. Even at her most exhausted or most depressed, she could not imagine wanting to lay down her life – either for weariness or for grief.

"Anyway," she said decisively, hoping to distract and reassure him, "it is true that you are much like your father. But I am not like his mother."
Atarincë did not look convinced, so she spoke on. "See, your father was her first child, and his birth was very difficult for his mother. But when you were born, I already had four sons, so I knew how it worked." And compared to Carnistir's birth, yours was easy, she thought to herself – but that thought went unvoiced.
"And Grandmother Míriel was a seamstress, while you are a sculptress," Atarincë said, sounding more thoughtful than miserable now. "A thread is much easier cut than rock."

Nerdanel was not entirely certain that this sort of logic applied to people, but at least Atarincë seemed to believe her now, so she nodded in encouragement.
"So you see, my dear, you need not worry about my fading," she said. "Is that why you were crying?"
Atarincë nodded with a somewhat sheepish look. "I was so frightened that you would follow Míriel, and leave me alone," he whispered.
Nerdanel gave him her biggest, brightest smile. "Do not be afraid of that, Curvo," she said. "I will always be there for you – as long as you need me."
"Good," Atarincë said, hugging her tightly. "I love you, Nana."
"And I love you, my little man," she said and kissed his brow, smoothing away the last traces of a frown.

---

Chapter End Notes

Oh yay, name confusion! It's only proper Silmarillion fanfic if there's some name confusion. ;)
Atarincë is Curufin's mother-name, so Nerdanel thinks of him as Atarincë. However, the nickname used for him in everyday life is Curvo, shortened from his father-name, Curufinwë. So Nerdanel addresses him as Curvo.
In direct address, I've used the Quenya terms "Nana" (proper Quenya for mother would be amillë or ammë (the latter reminds me awfully of the German word for "nurse", Amme; I am certain this is no coincidence), but little Curufin is young enough to use the childish nana yet) and "Atto" (properly atar, but again, Curufin is young enough for "Daddy" rather than "Father"). However, when the characters refer to someone indirectly, they use the English terms. That is because few things annoy me more than random "your naneth" or "the ellon" or what-have-you, and I'm certainly not going to start that sort of thing myself.

B2MeM '12 - N41 - Fatal Errors

Written for the "Sons of Fëanor" prompt, "the cruel servants of Celegorm..."

Two of Celegorm's servants face Maedhros, who is Not Amused.

Read B2MeM '12 - N41 - Fatal Errors

Fatal Errors

Whatever Orgalad and Hatharan had expected, it had not been Maedhros' wrath. Nonetheless they stood like errant schoolboys while he towered before them, the heat of his rage almost tangible.
"What were you thinking?" he said, his voice all the more terrifying because he did not raise it. "They are children!"
"Their father killed our lord!" Hatharan exclaimed. "Your brother!"
Maedhros looked at him directly. The fell gleam in his eyes shone harsher than usual; Hatharan quailed visibly.
"For that, Dior died, as did Nimloth," Maedhros said, still in that eerily quiet voice. "One should think that is quite enough."

"Your brother..." Hatharan began. Orgalad interrupted him. "Please, my lord Maedhros, we did not think it would anger you. They are your enemies, after all..."
He, too, seemed to shrink under Maedhros' glare.
"Did they withhold the Silmaril?" Maedhros said softly. "Did they threaten my brother? Did they raise arms against you?" He did not wait for a reply. "Then they are not my enemies." He took a deep breath. "Orgalad and Hatharan, you are banished forthwith. I will ride in an hour: By that time you will have left our camp."
Orgalad closed his eyes in dismay, but Hatharan protested. "My lord! It is winter! What are we to do? How are we to survive?"

Maedhros' hand had clenched around the handle of his great sword. It was trembling as though Maedhros just barely kept it from taking the blade to his late brother's servants.
"That is no concern of mine," he said coldly. "I daresay you will have a better chance than those children, and you did not ask what they were to do." His voice trembled during his last words; the raw quality of it made Orgalad and Hatharan shiver.
"Now go," Maedhros said in a deadly whisper, "before I forget myself! If I ever see you again, I will cut you to pieces."
They fled, helter-skelter, before the fire of his fury.
An hour later Maedhros rode out, and searched the woods for weeks on end. He came back empty-handed.

B2MeM '12 - B4 - Critique of Pure Reason

Written for three B4 prompts:
- "In a Manner of Speaking", Forever hold your Peace;
- "Silmarillion Fanon", Maglor the Mighty Wimp;
- "Sons of Fëanor", Maedhros alone stood aside.

As the swan-ships burn, the eldest sons of Fëanor have an argument.
Apologies to Immanuel Kant for shamelessly and inappropriately stealing his title.

Read B2MeM '12 - B4 - Critique of Pure Reason

"Nelyo, be reasonable!"

Maitimo turned away from the light of the burning ships. The heat that carried across the water was great enough to make his skin feel dry, almost sore. Whenever the spray from the angry waves got carried across the rocks and onto his face or hands, it stung. Against the raging inferno, his face was unreadable in the dark until he raised his torch, still held in his hand when all others had already cast theirs. His posture betrayed anger and frustration; so did his voice.
"I am being reasonable. I am possibly the only reasonable person on this shore."
Macalaurë gave him a reproachful look. Maitimo shook his head. "Please, brother. Do not tell me you think there is any sense in burning these ships."

Macalaurë snorted. "Maybe not - but there would have been little sense in sending them back, either. I can count the people who would've been of use on one hand. Findekáno, Turukáno, Irissë, Findaráto, Artanis. That's it."
Now it was Maitimo's turn to look reproachful. "There were more than five who saved us in Alqualondë. Yes, you heard me right: they saved us! The Teleri had us cornered like fish in a weir. Hadn't Nolofinwë's host arrived, the stain of the kinslaying would've been on Olwë's people – and we would be in Mandos already. Nolofinwë may not love Father, but he followed faithfully and did us a great service. Is this how we repay him?"
"Well, you can't change it," Macalaurë pointed out. "And Father is fuming. Be reasonable. You can't help our uncle, but if you keep standing here, you won't help your own situation either. There's no accounting for what Father will do later on. He has already named you a traitor and a coward!"
An expression of pain crossed Maitimo's handsome face, but he jutted his chin resolutely. "Then let him call me traitor – coward I am not. I will have no part in this madness. That is my decision, and I will not be moved from it. We came here to be free of the tyranny of the Valar – I shall not bow to any other tyrant, though he be my father."

Anger blazed up in Macalaurë's eyes. "Careful, Brother. I love you dearly, but if you name Father a tyrant, you truly are a traitor - a pet of the Valar, no better than Arafinwë!"
Maitimo, with some difficulty, maintained his composure. "I do not wish to hurt your feelings. Or Father's. I shall not speak my mind on this matter again, though it may mean holding my tongue forever." He took a deep breath. "But I will not act against my conscience. Please accept that, Cáno."
Macalaurë's jaw worked as though he had to forcibly repress a scathing reply. Finally he nodded and said, "Fine. Give me your torch, then. If you will not do it, I shall throw it in your place. The people must not see our family disunited."

B2MeM '13 - Knowledge vs. Ignorance - The Price

This ficlet started out as a response to the B2MeM '12 prompts O67 (Scientific Achievement: Pharmacy and In a Manner of Speaking: Skeletons in the Closet) and G50 (Scientific Achievement: Medicine), and then languished in my WiP folder until I read the theme quote for Knowledge vs. Ignorance for B2MeM '13. So I thought I'd finish it, polish it, and post it at last!

Istimë muses on the price she (or her patients) had to pay for her knowledge.

Read B2MeM '13 - Knowledge vs. Ignorance - The Price

The Price

Of course she had made mistakes - particularly in the beginning. How else should she have learned? She only got formal training after her people had reached Aman. In the early days, everything she knew had been acquired by trial and error. Nowadays, of course, it seemed incomprehensible that a healer would not rightly know what to do about an injury or illness: Even if the healer's own experience failed, one could turn to Estë, and she would gently explain how the body worked, and how to counter whatever was ailing the patient. At any rate, the number of patients had dropped drastically once they were in Aman. Rarely, craftsmen slipped with their hammers, or children fell off rocks or trees or horses. That was about it. If there had not been a regular need for midwives, the healing profession would surely have died out – with all the necessary knowledge about healing easily available.

In Cuiviénen, however, there had been wild beasts and poisonous berries, treacherous heights and the strange illnesses that came by air or water or food. There, medical knowledge had been direly needed; and Istimë had had to acquire it all by herself. Her students had avoided her mistakes because she had made them in her time, and could warn them. And oh, they never asked how she knew that rue healed sore eyes and ears, but made pregnant women lose their unborn children; that willowbark cured fevers, but could made the blood run dangerously thin. She knew these things - that was enough.

But she knew that for every person she had healed, at least one had died or been crippled. Thus she had learned that wounds had to be cleaned, that bones had to be set. Thus she had learned what herbs could be used for healing, and in what quantity, and in what combination. That was how she learned to remove every last part of a splinter so that none were left inside to fester, how to make a splint, how to staunch bleeding. That was also how she learned that though two plants might look almost the same, they might have very different properties. Mistaking hemlock for chervil was deadly. Lily-of-the-Valley made people fight for breath, or faint, or worse, while ramsons was strengthening and could heal weak stomachs. She had learned to pay the utmost attention to characteristic smells, to minuscule differences in leaf-shapes and stem-form.
And she knew that sometimes, when she said, "I could not make him better," it really meant "I made him worse"; "I could not heal her" meant "I harmed her".

She was revered for her wisdom. Tatië had graced her with the epithet of Istimë, wise-woman, and in time the name that had been hers at birth was all but forgotten: She was Istimë now. She was indeed a wise woman; but her greatest wisdom was the price it had cost her, her and anyone else who had worked as a healer in those early days. Certainly, some patients might have died even without being administered brews of yew bark or berries of nightshade. But some would surely have lived. Some, also, might have lived if she had known then what she learned later.

Istimë did not reproach herself overmuch over those who had died by her hands or under her hands. It could not be helped. She accepted responsibility and then moved on. You had to take the bad with the good.
Perhaps it was this knowledge that made her more forgiving towards others: Everybody could made mistakes, and good intentions were not enough to keep people alive.
It certainly was a potent cure against pride.

---

Chapter End Notes

Disclaimer: The things Istimë identifies as dangerous in here really are dangerous. Don't try them at home, or anywhere else for that matter.

B2MeM '13 - Friendship - Eulogy

Begun for several B2MeM '12 prompts - N38 (Sons of Fëanor: Celegorm and Aredhel and I27 (Fëanatics!: Family Guy and TVTropes: Kill it with Fire); finally finished for B2MeM '13, March 1: Friendship.

Celegorm regrets the loss of a friend.

Read B2MeM '13 - Friendship - Eulogy

Eulogy

We were never in love.
We were friends, once, and spent most days in the week together – our interests were the same, after all: woods and wildlife and hunting. None of my brothers shared my temperament in horse-riding; she did. We held archery contests, and she often bested me, and I accepted it with more grace than I would ever have shown with anyone else. I knew that if I ever fell in love, it would be with someone like her, swift and strong, playful and iron-willed. But we did not fall in love. Even our friendship came to an end when Father was exiled from Tirion, and we never quite managed to rekindle it.

Still I cared about her; and when I met her in the forests of Nan Elmoth with her son, an invisible arrow pierced my heart. Was I jealous of the lout she had married? I like to think that I merely hated him for what he had done to her – tricked her, imprisoned her, hurt her, shamed her – for we were, after all, cousins. Blood is thicker than water, and family loyalty runs deep. Oh, we fight amongst each other, I'll grant that – but hurt one of us and you'll have the rest of us at your throat, no matter how we feel about the person you hurt. I still felt the memory of our friendship when I met Aredhel in the woods, and so I was furious at the bastard who dared to call himself her husband.
But I also hated the son, although he presumably had done her no harm. Maybe I was jealous after all.

Jealous or not, I helped them both. What choice did I have? If I had offered help only to her, she would not have accepted it. She was doting on the youth. He was, after all, her son.
So I gave them horses and counsel, and I wanted to give her riding gear, easier to move in and harder to spot than the white gown she insisted on wearing.
"Everyone will notice you in that thing," I said. "If that bastard follows you, he'll have no trouble finding witnesses to point him your way."
The son clenched his jaw and his fists when I spoke about her husband that way. Of course I noticed it. So he had run away with his mother, but he also felt loyalty towards his father. He would. Blood, as I said, is thicker than water. That was a problem in the making, I thought, for even if the two of them made it to Turgon's city, there would always be a shadow of the father over them. And who knew what the troubled son might do, if he did not feel at home among his mother's people? Conflicting loyalties are a terrible thing.
But I could hardly tell Aredhel that. She would not leave the youth behind – indeed, could not, at this point – and what else was there to do?

Aredhel, maybe unaware of her son's reaction, gave me a sly smile. "I do hope so," she said.
It confused me, but after some reflection it made sense. She was certainly not too foolish to choose the right sort of clothing for a flight through the forest; if she wore that cumbersome white gown, it must be for a purpose. She was hoping that her husband would follow her, then – follow her all the way to Gondolin, where Turgon's guards would deal with the intruder in their notoriously uncompromising way. I should not have been surprised. If Aredhel felt slighted, she would not rest until she had taken revenge. And in this case, who could blame her?
But it was a long road to Gondolin yet, and much could happen in between – the husband might be faster than she was giving him credit for, for instance.

I spoke softly, hoping that the son would not hear me: I did not know how much of her plans he knew – how much she wanted him to know. "Would you like me to waylay him? I can make sure he will not trouble you again – in whatever way you wish."
"Do not trouble yourself, good cousin," Aredhel said. "That problem will solve itself."
"I would not rely on it," I said – still softly, but urgently. "Let me take care of... the problem for you. That way, you have certainty. Your brother's guards may be feeling merciful. I won't."
"I said, do not trouble yourself," Aredhel repeated, louder this time. "I do not want his blood on your hands."
I could not help but snort. "We both know that it's too late to worry about blood on my hands."
She smiled. "It's never too late to worry about you," she said, as though I were the one escaping from an unwise and abusive marriage. I did not point that out. No good in shaming her further.

But I knew in my heart that if I caught sight of that worthless Avarin bastard, if I heard so much as a rumour about his presence, I would hunt him and destroy him, cut out his heart and burn his sorry remains just to be absolutely certain he could not further trouble my cousin, my best friend, the one woman I might have been tempted to marry.
She knew it, too. "Tyelko," she said in the language of our youth, "for the last time: Do not trouble yourself. Slaying Eöl is politically unwise - he is not your enemy, he has given you no offense!"
"He has given me great offense if he has harmed a friend of mine."
Aredhel gave a little sigh. "That is sweet of you, but I'm afraid others will consider that insufficient. It would drag your name further into the mud if not worse! He is not worth that - I will not give him that triumph! So promise me that you will turn a blind eye when he passes through your lands, and that you will neither pursue and harm him nor send someone else to do it. Promise me – if you still call yourself my friend, promise me!"
Well, what choice did I have? I sighed. "Very well, Irissë, I promise if I must. But I beg you to reconsider. I do not worry about politics, or my name," although she was right, of course; slaying a Sindarin traveller without apparent cause would make my life a lot harder, "I worry about you."
She smiled, and kissed me on the cheek, and returned to her son's side. "Don't," she said, easily getting into the saddle despite her long gown. "All will be well."

All would not be well, I thought. Still, I kept my promise.
I wish I hadn't.

B2MeM '13 - Judgement - The Flammifer's Wife

Begun for B2MeM '12, B13 (B13 TVTropes: Tangled family tree!, Women of the Silmarillion: defying expectations and Here we come a-caroling: And they looked up and saw a star), but yet again left to languish in my WiP folder. Finally finished for B2MeM '13, March 1, "Judgement" -- I love that Gandalf quote excessively, but once again it made me think of quite a different story...

Elwing finds herself judged, and muses on double standards.

Read B2MeM '13 - Judgement - The Flammifer's Wife

The Flammifer's Wife

She should have died in Beleriand, of course.

She had wanted to die, too: Her people murdered, her children lost, her home burned, and all for pride and an accursed family heirloom. It was not worth it - but she only realised that in the end, when it was too late. And so, she had jumped.

Ulmo had seen fit to save her from drowning; but he could not have saved her from the disapproval and scorn she met, even if he had cared to try. How could a mother leave her infant children behind? How could she have ended up so far from them that she did not know their fate? Heartless mother, unnatural woman! She should have died with them or lived with them. Oh, she knew what they said, some out loud and some behind her back. She saw it in their eyes when she was introduced to distant relations, her husband's army of a family. She did not know these people, and they did not know her. Yet she saw judgement in their eyes, and incomprehension. How could you? Eärendil was celebrated left and right, having brought that gem to the Valar, having knelt and pleaded and wept for Elves and Men in Middle-earth. He was a rising star, a hero, and no-one said, heartless father, unnatural man, how could he leave his family behind, unprotected while he roamed the sea on a wild-goose chase?

Elwing did not wish such judgement on him, of course. Oh, she was glad that he was beloved and praised, for had he not defied the Valar by coming here? He had paid for his trespass, and his reward was glory. She did not begrudge him the celebration.

Yet, how would he have brought them the Silmaril if she had not first brought it to him? Seeing how Eärendil was loved and admired, and being told that her boys were alive, even treated kindly, and could look forward to living in a world without Morgoth, she thought she could live on. She had chosen the unending life of the Eldar, believing in a happy ending like a foolish girl. And if her heart ached with the loss of her children, would she not be recompensed with new friends, new family, all those in-laws in the Blessed Realm? Would they not ease her pain and calm her sore conscience?

They would not. They could not grasp how a woman would leave her children for the sake of a bauble, fate of the world or no. The fate of the world, it seemed, was none of her business: Her business would have been to protect her boys to the very end, and die alongside them. Her family did not say so, but their thoughts were clear. A very few showed pity, not disapproval; but she grew tired of seeking them out.

She lived away from them, now, and often returned to the feathered shape Ulmo had granted her. As a bird, her thoughts were simple: The smell of the sea, the light of the stars, the wind beneath her wings. She simply was, and she was free. She was happy. In her Elven body, she no longer could be. Sometimes she thought of flying away, leaving all this behind – leaving even Eärendil behind. But she knew it would do no good. There was no salvation in flying, not ultimately. That much she had learned.

Far, far away in Beleriand, the children grew up motherless. They looked up at night, and saw a bright star.
They never saw the white bird.

---

Chapter End Notes

In the books, of course, Elwing is not actually facing any of the judgement she receives here - however, I keep reading these allegations from fellow fans, so I put them in the minds and mouths of the Elves of Eldamar. It fits the mindset I'm imagining they might have.

B2MeM '13 - March 12 - Broader Minds

Started for a couple of B2MeM '12 prompts (O65: Women of the Silmarillion: women of Gondolin, Scientific achievement: statics, Smells: soap, TvTropes: Overshadowed by Awesome and O62: Women of the Silmarillion: Passing the Bechdel test), finally finished for one of the B2MeM '13 prompts for March 12 (Idril's feelings concerning Maeglin).

Idril disliked Maeglin before she even found out about his obsession with her. Here is why.

Read B2MeM '13 - March 12 - Broader Minds

Most children learned the craft of their parents – smithcraft, the study of language, administration, public speaking, herb-lore – but Elenwë had chosen not to follow that tradition; instead, her daughter had gotten a taste of everything, learning the theory and the basics of a variety of Noldorin crafts and sciences.
Idril had not been happy with that. "Everyone else gets to do what they want," she had complained. "Why do I have to study such useless things?"
"The knowledge of statics is not useless," her tutor had said. "If you want to build a house, you have to know these things so the structure is sound."
"But I don't want to build a house."
"Maybe you will want to do so in the future. Even if you merely supervise the construction, you can use your knowledge of angles and loads and forces."
Idril complained to her mother, too.
"No one else has to learn all that if they don't want to be builders. All the other children only have to learn the one thing they care about."
"Life is long," Elenwë had said. "If you learn many things in your youth, you have a broad base on which to build your later studies."
"The others don't need that, either."
"The others don't know what they are missing," her mother had said, decisively. "When I was young, it was clear that I would become a singer, so I have only ever learned singing. I regret that, now that I live among your father's crafty people. Maybe I could have been a good craftswoman, or a councillor, or a farmer. But I did not learn the necessary skills, and nobody will teach a grown woman. So you must use the opportunities your youth offers. Whatever path you later decide to follow, at least you can make an informed choice."
Idril had not understood what her mother meant at the time. Still, she'd had to learn statics, and all the other sciences that she found abstract and useless. She knew that she would never become a master craftswoman or a master rhetorician or even a self-sufficient farmer, for her knowledge was broad, not deep.

- - -

Yet it came in handy: When Gondolin was built, Turgon's young daughter had a good basic knowledge about building, statics, logistics, about the practicalities and needs of a city. She could thus take an active part in the building of his city, mediating between the craftspeople and the king's learned councillors. It was her responsibility to keep track of the progress, to ensure the flow of goods and materials, and to explain what was possible and what was not. She shouldered the responsibility easily: She did, after all, have the necessary skills.
It had been easy to overlook her mother next to the charismatic leaders of the Noldor, Idril thought while she walked with her aunt Aredhel along the as-yet-unpaved street towards the as-yet-unfinished great fountain. But just because she did not shine and dazzle everyone around her with the flame of her intellect, just because she did not display power and cleverness, she had been no less brilliant. Elenwë never came out of the forge, smeared with soot and smelling of scorched skin or burnt hair, with some unique creation; nor did she deliver rousing speeches in the market-place until she was covered in dust and hoarse as a raven. She was always immaculately dressed, always smelled of soap, and always spoke in a soft, polite voice. Yet Elenwë's ideas about a broad basis of knowledge, Idril thought, had in their own way been as revolutionary as the ideas that led to the creation of Silmarils or the Crossing of the Ice.
If I ever see her again, Idril thought, I must remember to thank her.
Out loud she told her aunt, "I think we should build a school."

- - -

She was full member of the royal council, secretary of education and sciences, and the patron and headmistress of Gondolin's ground-breaking Academy of General Knowledge. These were her duties, and she embraced them; they never felt like a burden to her. She did them well, and they gave her a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Maybe it was Maeglin's refusal to understand that, his insitence that her offices must be a load and a nuisance upon her fragile female shoulders, that first led Idril to resent him. He certainly gave her no other cause for resentment in the beginning, being ever courteous and obliging – almost too much so – towards her. But his company constantly set her teeth on edge, even before she realised that he desired more than her company, that merely being her cousin did not satisfy him.
"If I had a daugher," Maeglin would say, glancing at Turgon, "I would not make her strain her mind to grasp subjects beyond its horizons!" And Idril thought, You mean, beyond your horizons.
"How unnatural it is to expect so much work of you, when your mind could be at peace in your household, with no care greater than fashion or the upbringing of your children," he would tell her, and she thought to herself, You would know all about 'unnatural', of course.
Out loud, she said, "It is none of your concern."
"It is, for I love you, and you know that," said he.
"Even if you were not my cousin," Idril said, "I would never be able to love a man so narrow-minded."

---

Chapter End Notes

Yeah, I shamelessly made that stuff about Idril's education up. Come on, they have to do something with all that time!

*B2MeM '13 - March 4-12 - The Lucky Ones

At last, a story that's wholly B2MeM '13! Inspired by the Númenor quote for March 4 (Breaking the Ban of the Valar), and incidentally also covering March 5 (Going aboard the Alcarondas), March 8 (Persecution of the Faithful), March 9 (the Gift of Ilúvatar), March 12 (Ilúvatar changing the fashion of the world). Oof! Quick, post it before yet another prompt comes along!

"... and there was little wind, but they had many oars and many strong slaves to row beneath the lash." One of these slaves looks back on when it all started to go terribly wrong.

*This chapter rated "Adult" for allusions to extremely disturbing subject matter, such as human sacrifice and cannibalism.

Read *B2MeM '13 - March 4-12 - The Lucky Ones

The Lucky Ones

We considered ourselves the lucky ones. Like most others of our faith, we had been arrested under some bogus charges, like Sedition or Espionage or Rebellion; but unlike most others, we were not brought to the Temple, where we knew people were tormented and then burned in sacrifice. Instead, we were chained and marched to the west coast, where they assigned us to the shipwrights that were building the King's new fleet.
So we would live; and we gave thanks for our good fortune, our strong arms and broad backs that had bought us this respite.

I know, I know: Being of the faith, we should have been ready to accept the gift of death willingly, when our time came. It was just that we were very certain that our time was not yet at hand.
And indeed, it was not. So, although the work was hard, and the food was bad, and the beatings were frequent, we counted ourselves lucky; and though we guessed the purpose of the fleet that we were building – for indeed, one would not have needed such a fleet to conquer any realm to the East – we ignored our misgivings and did as we were bidden.

Well, not all of us: There were some who tried to tamper with the materials, who shortened the nails so they would not hold under pressure or did not seal the oakum that was meant to make the seams between the planks watertight. When they were found out, we heard them scream and plead for three days and three nights, until they fell silent forever; their mangled bodies were hung from the quay walls to feed the gulls at low tide and the fish at high tide.
After that, nobody tried to hamper the progress again. We did the work we were assigned, and we did it as well as we could -- or else. Indeed, I admit I took some pride in my work. There is a certain elation when a newly-built ship is launched, when newly-shaven oars glide into the water, when newly-woven sails are hoisted for the first time.

It was harder to ignore the purpose of the fleet when the work was complete, and the armada – so many ships that they spread out in all directions further than the eye could see, so many that you could walk from the westernmost cape of Andustar to the westernmost tip of Hyarnustar in a straight line without getting your feet wet – were laden with provisions and horses and tools and, above all, weaponry. But I did not worry about the Lords of the West just then, for I was more worried about my own fate. We had been left alive because we were useful, but now the fleet was built; would we now be taken to the Temple, to bleed and burn as the King prayed for a safe journey and a succesful campaign?

But we were lucky again, for we were brought aboard the King's ship, the Alcarondas, a marvel and a beauty without peer; and there we were chained to the thwarts. It seemed that the King's ship was to be rowed by Adûnaic slaves only. I do not know why. Maybe the King thought us more trustworthy than the foreign slaves. Or maybe he sought to demonstrate how utterly we were conquered, forced to speed his unrightful expedition to make war upon the West? Be that as it may, it was the strength of Faithful arms that brought Ar-Pharazôn to the Blessed Realm – although not all of us on the oars were of the faith; some also were proper criminals, brought in for theft or worse crimes.

Still, the thought that we were instrumental to the King's campaign now troubled me. It troubled me so much that I could not keep it to myself, even though we were forbidden to speak and severely punished when we were caught. But I was twice lucky: There were four men to an oar, and I was the last in line, sitting right next to the ship's wall where the creaking of the oar and the sloshing of the water would drown my whispers, if only the guards did not see my lips move.
"What will happen to us," I asked my neighbour, "when this campaign fails-" for it would fail, it had to fail, with all my heart I had to believe that it would fail – "and we are taken prisoner? Will we be judged alongside the Unbelievers?"
"We will appeal to Their clemency," my neighbour whispered back. "We are slaves; we are not here of our own choice. We had no choice. We are not Their enemies. They will show us mercy."

So we reached the Blessed Realm, where all was quiet and there was no army to block our way. The deadly silence was unnerving, but it was soon filled with yelled commands and the noises of unloading, the uneasy neighing of the horses, the clinking of armour and the crack of the inevitable whips. The King claimed all the land, and we all knelt to him in his splendour: Because we would have to, anyway, and because he truly looked like the King of all the World in that moment, and because it would not do to draw attention to ourselves in case this campaign would not fail after all.

We were made to carry the provisions inland and dig ditches and put up the tents and gather wood for the fires; and the King and his warriors laid siege on Tirion upon Túna, a city I had never thought I would see with my own eyes and could not believe I was seeing even now, in that unreal silence in the gloom of dusk. We saw no watchers upon those high, white walls; but surely they were watching us somewhere?
I stared too long at the white city and caught a couple of lashes for it. On that evening, I was glad of it. I was glad when we were chained outside to sleep under the the leaden sky. Anyone could see that we were slaves, that we were forced to take part in this heresy, could they not?

Still, I did not sleep well that night. I was homesick, thinking of my home in Nindamos, of my dear sister and my old parents – but no, they had been taken to the Temple, they were no longer there.
I wept a little, and I was sweating. It was oppressively hot, and no wind was moving the air, which was stuffy and metallic, not at all sweet and fragrant as you would expect the air of the Blessed Realm to smell. Maybe the next day would bring a thunderstorm.

And oh, there was a storm indeed; but we did not see its end. For the walls of the Calacirya came down and buried us beneath them. I thought we would be killed as the rocks fell, and for a while everything was confusion and darkness; but then one of the soldiers lit a lantern, and as far as I could see we were still alive, King and warriors and slaves and horses all, but buried underneath the rocks, which enclosed us in a sort of cavern.
They made us dig, then, to try and force us a way out of this cave. But it was as if the rocks had melted and melded together, covered by a thick, smooth layer of volcanic glass; and though we dug and hacked and chopped at the walls until our arms were tired, and they whipped us on till their arms were tired, we did not make so much as a dent, let alone a tunnel.

We watched as they rationed the provisions that had been buried with us, and doled out this day's portion: A bowl of gruel for the King, and half a bowl of gruel to each of the soldiers, and half a cup of water for each of us. We tried to guess how long our provisions would last: not long. We tried to guess how much time had passed since we had been enclosed in this cave, but it was impossible to tell; no light came into the cave from outside, and the temperature of the air did not change in any way that could have told us whether it was day or night outside. It seemed that our cavern was altogether closed in onto itself, with no connection to the world outside whatsoever. In the dark, time stretched out immeasurably.

"We will suffocate," some said then; but we never did. The air grew ever hotter, and ever more smoky from the fire the warriors had lit, first burning the wood we had gathered for the cooking fires and the palisade; and when that was used up, they burned the poles and the canvas of the tents. But still we could draw breath, though it smelled foul and stung in our dry throats.
"We will die of thirst," some said, but that did not happen either: Even when the barrels had been empty for what certainly must have been a week at the very least, we lived, though we were parched and miserable.
"We will starve," it was said. The provisions had run out, and the King's men were arguing whether one should butcher a horse. The men of Númenor, it was said in the old days, would starve before they would eat their beloved horses; but that, too, was a lie, for by and by, they did slaughter the horses and ate their meat and drank their blood. I would have, too, given the chance, but they offered nothing to us. It did not matter: We could certainly feel the hunger, clawing at our bellies like an angry beast, but it did not kill us.

I was indeed praying for death in those days, calling upon Eru Himself and every Vala whose name I remembered. Many of us were praying openly now, and many of the King's men were also praying – not all of them to Melkor. But either our prayers could not reach outside the walls of our cave, or there were none to listen.
"Or they will not listen," one of us said. "We wanted life neverending, and now we have it. We forsook the Gift of Ilúvatar, and now we are forsaken and forgotten."
"We did not want life neverending," I protested. "They made us come! We never would have come here, if not for them."
He shrugged. "We should have refused," he said.
"Then they would have put us to death."
Another shrug. "Yes. We should have died while we had the time."

We were praying, for mercy or release or death, and there was no answer. We were indeed forsaken. The good thing, I thought, was that at least it could not get worse - until one of the younger slaves said, "How long, I wonder, until they decide that we are not much more than beasts of burden?"
Most of us did not understand what he meant, so he explained, "What happens when there are no more horses to eat?"
"Then they, too, will starve as we do," I said.
"Not, I think, while we are here," said he.
It took a while until we fully understood his meaning. "They wouldn't!" many protested then.
He shook his head, and said, "Just wait."
"They wouldn't," we said again. And I was certain that they wouldn't. There was only so low a man would stoop, wasn't there?
"What," another man asked, "if that won't kill us, either?"
One thought more terrifying than the last! I am certain I was not the only one whose blood seemed to turn to ice at that question, despite the suffocating heat in the cave.
"We will be lucky," said the man who had sat next to me while we had been rowing. "We will die."
"And stay dead?" someone else muttered.
My thwart-neighbour frowned, but insisted, "We will die."

And we did. We were, after all, the lucky ones.

B2MeM '13 - March 17 - Bested

Started for the B2MeM '12 prompt N31 (Fëanatics!: Fëanor hugged his kids and TvTropes: Royals who actually do something) and finished for B2MeM '13, Wildcard Day: "Finish something!" (My WiP folder will be forever grateful for this task.)

Fingolfin reflects on his difficulties with the uninhibited behaviour of children.

Read B2MeM '13 - March 17 - Bested

Bested

I envied Fëanáro for his easy way around children - particularly his own, of course, but even strangers' children were enchanted by him, and he returned that affection easily. Being his younger brother (half-brother, as he would not tire of stressing) who had rarely received friendship, let alone love from him, I sometimes found it hard to bear and harder to understand.

I never quite knew what to do with children, even my own, especially when they were too young to be reasonable. Oh, I do not mean that I did not love my children – far from it! But I loved them more distantly, as it were. I did not play with them; I did not tell them stories. I did not lift them up and throw them into the air and catch them, rubbing my nose against theirs and laughing with them in the undignified manner Fëanáro had around children. I did not carry them around when they were too tired to keep themselves entertained, crooning silly lullabies until they fell asleep against my shoulder, the way Fëanáro would. Anairë sometimes reproached me that I was more like a teacher than like a father. Maybe she was right. Maybe this was something I could have learned from my brother – my half-brother – but he had never deigned to teach me.

I remember one time when I had been permitted into his sanctuary, the forge, because Father had asked Fëanáro to craft a coronet for me. Neither of us were comfortable with it, but we both loved our father and obeyed him even if we had nothing else in common. So I was permitted into the forge where Fëanáro showed me his design sketches, expecting me to choose between the designs, all different, all beautiful, all equally desirable. Even while we were talking, Carnistir came running in, sobbing for whatever reason – small children weep so easily. He attached himself to Fëanáro's leg and would not let go. I busied myself with the sketches, looking down so Fëanáro would not feel embarrassed – he could be cruel when he felt embarrassed – and could deal with the problem swiftly and discretely. Findekáno had once similarly embarrassed me by running from his nurses and to me while I was sitting in council, and though the other councillors had smiled at him sympathetically and told me he was no trouble at all, I had felt deeply ashamed that my son would be so uncontrollable. I had torn my robes from his fingers, and handed him – screaming and flailing his arms and crying so hard that some of his tears splashed on my shoulder and left salt stains on the silk – to one of the servants. The lords and masters of the council said that it was no trouble, but I could see and read their disapproving stares, and I was ashamed.

Fëanáro did not lash out. He did not appear to be embarrassed, either. He gently pried Carnistir's fingers off his breeches and lifted the boy up in his arms. "Hey, little warrior," he said, "what is wrong?"
Not a sensible word could be heard from Carnistir; he buried his head in Fëanáro's shoulder and clung to him and sobbed on while Fëanáro rocked him, saying "There, there" and "Good little Moryo" and "All is well" and other things like that, things you would normally hear women say.
Soon Carnistir raised his head, wiped his eyes, gave his father a noisy, wet kiss on the cheek, and then writhed, impatient to be let down. Fëanáro smiled and returned the kiss (less wetly, perhaps, but just as noisily) and set Carnistir back on the ground, where the boy ran off outside after giving me a disconcerting, dark-eyed stare. Carnistir was an ugly child, but Fëanáro – so beautiful in contrast – still gave him a bright smile.
I braced for Fëanáro's wrath then, but it still did not come: Instead, even I got a smile, slightly apologetic this time. "Where were we?" he said. And we had returned to the matter of my coronet. The whole interlude had not lasted much longer than it had taken to get rid of Findekáno on that council day, than it had taken until the sound of his crying could no longer be heard down the corridor.
After that incident, I wondered whether the other councillors had truly disapproved of Findekáno's behaviour - or maybe of mine.

No wonder that his children loved Fëanáro. No wonder that Findekáno loved him. Oh, of course he loved me also – I was his father, after all – but it seemed to me that it was a dutiful love, a pious love, not the deep and vibrant sort of love that you felt between Fëanáro and his sons.
Anairë agreed. "Findo loves you in the way you love Manwë," she said. It rang true, and it displeased me, for it felt wrong; but I did not know how to help it. Maybe it was true in return also: Maybe my love for Findekáno was likewise more dutiful than passionate.
As Findekáno grew older and more intelligent, I better knew how to spend time with him. But he grew also more willful, maybe as a result of spending so much time with his willful cousins. I must admit we argued often. In one such argument, after I had tried to assert my authority when Findekáno insisted on questioning whatever I said, we both grew heated. Finally, Findekáno yelled, his hands balled into tight fists: "I wish Uncle Fëanáro were my father, not you!"

I knew at once that I was feeling the right sort of love just then. It hurt. It felt as though my heart had been torn from my chest, as though the air I was breathing had been replaced with water. I gasped and sputtered and looked into his face, young and soft and much like my own, now contorted with anger; and I was overwhelmed with terror at the idea that this my son was ready to disown me as his father. I stood speechless; and then I did the first thing that came to my mind: I stepped closer, and embraced him.
I briefly felt Findekáno's shoulders stiffen, and I feared he would push me away; but then my son's tense body relaxed. I felt his hands around my midsection, and his head leaning against my chest, and I could breathe again.
"You did not mean it, Findo, did you?" I whispered, not trusting my voice not to betray my distress.
Findekáno shook his head, still burrowed into my tunic. I did not care that he would wrinkle the fabric or leave stains on them. "No, Atto," he whispered back. "I love you."

I was relieved - yet I also felt embarrassed. I loved my son, and I was overwhelmed with relief and bliss at his words; but did I deserve his love?
I felt helpless as well. I could control myself, but I could not control my son's feelings. And though it seemed that Findekáno was not truly planning to replace me with Fëanáro, I knew that my half-brother had bested me – yet again.

---

Chapter End Notes

No, the books (TM) do not state that Fingolfin was a distant or otherwise less-than-perfect father. However, and that's the important part, they don't say that Fëanor was unkind or distant towards his kids, either...
Credit for my interpretation of paternal behaviour in the House of Finwë goes largely to Ivanneth and Dawn Felagund, whose fanfic has informed my own views immensely.

B2MeM '13 - March 18 - Debts Repaid

Once again, this one began life for B2MeM '12 (B15 - Dwarves in the First Age: Azaghâl gives Maedhros the Dragon-helm) and then languished in my WiP folder. But it kind of fits the B2MeM prompt for March 18 (battle-gear of the Dwarves for the Nirnaeth Arnoediad), so I brought it to a close.

Before the Nirnaeth, Azaghâl brings Maedhros a rich token of his gratitude.

Read B2MeM '13 - March 18 - Debts Repaid

Debts Repaid

A mis-matched pair had met a little way from the warriors' training ground, not quite out of earshot: the ringing of blades and the occasional shouts of encouragement or frustration could still be heard. One of them was an elf-lord, tall even for one of his kind, with short copper hair and gilded armour. The other was a dwarf-lord, stunted and sturdy, with long curly raven-black hair and an equally long beard, braided and adorned with clasps of steel and copper.
"Your armour was not made for you, or it was ill made," Azaghâl said disapprovingly when they had finished their formulaic greetings.
"Astutely observed, Master Azaghâl," Maedhros said. "You are right, of course; this used to be my father's armour."
Azaghâl nodded. "A craftsman sees such things. It is too short and too wide. Does it not hinder you?"
"I can't say I've noticed that it does," Maedhros said calmly. "I am used to it."
"Hmpf," said Azaghâl. "Use is, of course, every warrior's friend. Still, you should take care of those vulnerable spots."
Maedhros half-bowed. "I shall."
"That includes your head," the dwarf-lord said. "I have brought you a token of gratitude in return for my rescue." He held out a round object, wrapped in soft leather and cerecloth. "This helmet was made by Telchar himself. I want you to wear it."
He continued to hold the helmet so that Maedhros could unwrap it single-handedly; then he handed it over. Maedhros held it up reverently. It was at once beautiful and fearsome, made of supple steel inlaid with gold and engravings in the angular style of the Naugrim. It had been crafted to resemble the head of a dragon, the gaping jaws forming the faceguard. After the manner of the Dwarves, it came with an iron face-mask. Maedhros imagined how the burnished iron would shroud the wearer's face in darkness, making his eyes shine all the brighter.
"It is an amazing piece of work," he acknowledged. "Do you think it will suit me right?"

Azaghâl snorted. "Better than no helmet at all."
With a wry smile, Maedhros asked, "Do you know why I ride into battle without a helmet, Azaghâl?"
"Because you Golodhrim are damned proud fools," Azaghâl said, "no offense meant."
Maedhros raised an eyebrow, perhaps wondering how 'damned proud fool' could be inoffensive in any language, and said, "I ride without my helmet so the enemy will know who I am."
"Damned proud fools, as I said," Azaghâl repeated, without rancor. "Trust me, the enemy knows exactly who you are, helmet or no. Meanwhile, you're risking your head. Mighty useful, heads. You'd miss it if it were gone." For a split second, his eyes flicked down to Maedhros' right wrist. "It's not like you have one to spare."
Maedhros laughed at that, loud and with genuine amusement. "Wisely spoken, oh Azaghâl. I shall follow your advice, then, and protect the dearest head I have."
Azaghâl nodded in approval. "Do that. The helmet will suit you well enough. Your hair will be the dragon's fire."
Maedhros bowed, his eyes still twinkling with mirth. "I am in your debt, Azaghâl."
"You saved my head," Azaghâl retorted, "I have repaid my debt. When the helmet thwarts two arrows or blows - then you'll be in my debt."
Sobering, Maedhros said, "That may happen very soon."
"Yes," Azaghâl said, "I know. The smithies of Nogrod and Belegost are at your service."
"And for that, I truly owe you," Maedhros said. "Let no-one say the Dwarves are not a generous people."

B2MeM '13 - Zeal - Love and other rash vows

Another beneficiary of the B2MeM '13 Wildcard task "Finish something".
This one was begun for the "With a bit of fairy dust" challenge, continued for the B2MeM '12 prompt N31 (Crossovers I: ... with a fairytale or folktale), and left unfinished... until today. Also covers the March 1 prompt "Zeal" (Oath of the Fëanorians, Lays of Beleriand alliterative edition).

Two very different lovers find themselves on a very similar quest. A Lay of Leithian/Taketori Monogatari crossover.

Read B2MeM '13 - Zeal - Love and other rash vows

Love and other rash vows

- - -

この玉を取り得では家に帰り来な!
If you cannot attain that jewel, you need not return to this house!
~The Tale of the Bamboo-Cutter

- - -

Beren stared in amazement at the parade before him – or at what would have been a parade, had the dense undergrowth allowed the marching men to file out properly and move with the appropriate dignity. As it was, the foremost four tried to clear a path with their spears, which had long curved blades almost like scythes and were surprisingly succesful at cutting through bushes and felling small trees. The remaining ferns and brambles were cut down by two men with long knives to make room for the servants who followed, four of them bearing a large, fabric-draped box on spars and four more carrying smaller wooden boxes between them. At their tail, another four knife-bearers and another four spear-bearers followed, looking around apprehensively.
Aside from the absurdity of crossing the forest in such a manner, the clothing of the company was another matter of wonder. It appeared entirely unsuited for the forest, for even the servants' robes had wide sleeves kept in check only by narrow ribbons slung around the shoulders, and the wide puffy pants invited the thorny tendrils of brambles. Instead of proper leather boots, even the armed men wore stockings made of fabric, the soles of their feet merely protected by sandals made of wood and straw. And the colours! The most impressive fabric had been used for the drapings and curtains of the large box, sleek gold-coloured fibres interwoven with threads of silver, but the bright reds and greens and golds of the warriors' robes and the deep, inky blue of the servants' dress likewise demanded attention. The boxes were glossy and red or black with inlays of gold and mother-of-pearl. Even in King Thingol's realm, Beren had not seen such pomp. He stared and stared and could not tear his eyes away.
He tried to figure out what they might be. He had never seen armour like theirs. Their attire was too rich and complicated to suit any mortal house, and these people were clearly too tall and wore too much fabric to belong to the Naugrim. Elves, on the other hand, surely would not march through the woods in this manner, cutting down whatever grew in their way just to be able to carry boxes between them. Not even the Noldor, of whom all kinds of strange tales were told, would do such a thing! Their behaviour was downright Orcish, Beren thought – but then, neither their gear nor their faces looked like those of Orcs. Nothing about them made sense.
Curiosity made Beren forget his mission for a moment. When the strange company had passed, he followed them.

The strangers were noisy and inattentive, but the proper inhabitants of the forest were not, and Beren soon paid the price for dropping his guard. His only warning was a low rustle of leaves before he felt a blade at his throat.
"Your name and business, stranger," whispered a soft but stern voice next to his ear. Beren supposed that he was lucky not to be cut down at once, intruder that he was. He answered willingly.
"Beren son of Barahir. I am seeking Finrod Felagund," he set in a soft voice.
The soft voice chuckled. "I serve Finrod Felagund. Why should I believe you?"
Beren took a deep breath. "Look at my right hand. I am wearing a ring you might recognise. Your lord certainly will." He felt the guard's hand on his own, and made a fist to keep the ring safe. He knew he was risking to offend the elf by showing such mistrust, but it would not do to loose the precious heirloom – again.
"I see," the elf said. "And they?"
"Trust me, I have no idea. I was trying to figure out who they are myself."
The guard came to a decision. "Will you surrender your weapons?"
"If you let me," said Beren.
"Certainly. Remove your sword-belt, then."
Beren did as he was told, unbuckling his sword-belt and handing it to the guard. Without the familiar weight of sword and dagger on his waist, he felt strangely naked and helpless.
"Good," the other said and sheathed his sword, replacing it with a tight grip on Beren's right arm. "Now you will follow me."
While he was marched away, Beren could see that a group of Elven archers had already surrounded the odd company.

- - -

Beren offered no resistance against his captivity, and at any rate it did not take long until Finrod Felagund affirmed his story and embraced him as a friend. The strangers were worse off; they were bound as prisoners. Their apparent leader was understandably furious, and spoke out in a loud and angry voice; unfortunately, no-one understood a word of what he was saying. The language did not sound the least bit familiar to Beren, but then he was not a scholar. However, even the raven-haired, flint-eyed elf whom everybody treated with a certain wariness and whom they addressed as Lord Curufin appeared to be stumped, to the surprise of all.
"It is not any mannish tongue that I know," Lord Curufin announced, "nor Khuzdûl, nor any manner of primitive Elvish that I have ever encountered. To my ears, it sounds too complex for Orcish, though of course my brother has more knowledge of that than I do." Many of the present Elves were visibly shocked, shuddering at his words. "Well, I daresay it is not a language native to Beleriand at all, nor related to any language we know," Lord Curufin concluded with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But let him rant on, and let them speak among themselves. Maybe I will be able to make heads and tails of their lingo yet."

It was not until a few days later, after the prisoners had been left to their own devices in the cells of Nargothrond under the attentive ears of Curufin, that the Elves learned about their purpose. Beren, too, had kept his true purpose to himself so far. For one, he was somewhat worried how Felagund would react. Would he be willing to help – did the promise he had once given Barahir suffice to draw him into such a risky quest? Beren was afraid that his father's old friend would refuse to support him; what, then, would he do? Moreover, he would have preferred to speak to Finrod in private, and he had not yet had a chance to do that. Least of all did he want the Fëanorians to be present – and whereas the Lord Curufin was busy puzzling out the tongue of the mortal prisoners, his golden-haired brother seemed to be constantly present. Beren wouldn't even have trusted his dog (although that was a very well-behaved, friendly animal), let alone its master.
Finally Curufin re-appeared, looking very satisfied with himself. "I think I am beginning to understand it," he announced. "You can question their leader again, and I will do my best to interpret."

The leader of the strange troup had apparently regained his composure; he was no longer raging, but speaking in a clear, clipped tone of voice.
"His name," Curufin said with a slight frown, "apparently is Ōtomo no Miyuki. He is some sort of dignitary, and asks that he be treated as such."
Finrod frowned. "That remains to be seen. First and foremost, he is an intruder in my realm, and his followers have done quite some damage to the woods. I expect an explanation for that."
Curufin spoke to the stranger in a halting manner, presumably relating Finrod's words to him. Ōtomo no Miyuki sneared a little, clearly unimpressed by the Fëanorian's grip on his language. Still, he seemed to understand his words well enough. He replied at great length, during which Curufin's brow creased more and more. Finally, with an emphatic nod, Ōtomo no Miyuki ended his speech.
Curufin shook his head. "I am not certain that I understood him right," he said, turning to Finrod. "Syntactically, it seems to match; but the sense... well, it makes no sense."
With a sigh, Finrod said, "Let's hear it anyway."
Shaking his head again, Curufin said, "Well, if I heard him right, he came here because he must... prove his love by bringing his beloved a shining jewel that can be found on a monster's brow."
"A Silmaril from Morgoth's crown!" Celegorm threw in at once. Finrod rolled his eyes.
"Indeed, that interpretation crossed my mind," Curufin said. "But that does not help to bring sense to the story."
"That is true," Finrod said. "Who would ask for a Silmaril as bridewealth? And what sort of fool would actually agree to such a request? Entirely absurd!"

"Ahem," said Beren. "As a matter of fact..."

- - -

When Finrod Felagund and Beren and the ten faithful men who had agreed to follow them on their quest made ready to leave Nargothrond, they found to their surprise that the sons of Fëanor were also packing. Ōtomo no Miyuki was with them, pacing impatiently and occasionally speaking a few words with Curufin, who now appeared to be reasonably fluent in the strangers' language.
"I profess myself surprised," Felagund said. "Did you not say you would have no part in such madness?"
Celegorm and Curufin exchanged glances. "I said that we would not allow anybody to take a Silmaril. We stand by that," Celegorm said. "But the honourable Ōtomo no Miyuki has made us a... rather irresistible offer. You see, it turns out that he only needs to show that shining jewel in order to prove worthy of his lady-love. He does not need to keep it, and indeed has sworn that he has no intention of wronging the rightful owners. Therefore we will accompany him, and when the Silmarils are won, we will graciously allow him to borrow one until he has wedded his true love."
"'When the Silmarils are won'?" Finrod said."You appear very certain that you will succeed! Is it not more likely that we will all perish on this foolish quest?"
"Why, goodly cousin," Curufin said with an unpleasant smile, "what then brings you on that foolish quest, if you know that it must fail?"
Finrod sighed. "You know well that I have sworn an oath that I will aid the kin of Barahir in whatever need. Now I must keep it."
"I know that indeed, goodly cousin," said Curufin. "And you may be aware that we have also sworn an Oath that we must keep...?"
Ōtomo no Miyuki interrupted their argument with a question, and Curufin nodded. "We are wasting our time. Neither of us will be dissuaded, so we may as well save our breath."
Finrod shook his head, sadly. "So you will not aid your own cousin, but will lend help to this stranger whose intentions may not be as pure as he pretends?"
Celegorm spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "He offered the right price, goodly cousin. We all have our price, haven't we?" He gave Finrod a meaningful look. "I do hope yours is worth it."

---

Chapter End Notes

No offense to the Japanese, either historical or contemporary, or their culture or language is intended. This story is told from Beren's eyes, and he's presumably not the most cosmopolitan of characters.

In the original Taketori Monogatari, ?tomo no Miyuki abandons his quest because the ship on which he travels to the land of the dragon (Curufin here translated the word as "monster") gets blown off course. Here, he apparently stranded in Beleriand. Whether or not he can complete his quest with the help of Celegorm and Curufin is up to you... (My money is on "No.")

B2MeM '13 - March 28 - Dark Fruit

A response to the B2MeM '13 prompt for March 28: But Morgoth himself the Valar thrust through the Door of Night beyond the Walls of the World, into the Timeless Void [...] Yet the lies that Melkor, the mighty and accursed, Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hears of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest days.

Imprisoned in the battle-camp of the Valarin host after the War of Wrath, Melkor receives an unexpected and unwelcome visitor... and does some last-minute sowing.

Toeing the AU line; you decide which side of the line it's on.

Some of the allusions in this piece may make more sense if you've read the first chapter of The Tempered Steel (warnings for torture and other forms of violence). Not that I'm pimping my own fic here. >_>

Read B2MeM '13 - March 28 - Dark Fruit

Dark Fruit

The flap is opened, permitting a cold stripe of daylight to spill into the tent. Then, the voice of Eönwë, stern and cold: "Half an hour, then. And remember what you promised."
"No reminder necessary," another voice retorts, flatly. "You will find that I have a certain reputation for... keeping my word." Eönwë makes no reply.
The tent flap closes, and the narrow strip of light disappears. Instead of the uniform dimness, there now is a diffuse shadow, cast by the tall visitor.

Melkor straightens as much as the confounded chains will let him, which is not much. He has to crane his neck to be able to see the other's face, increasing the uncomfortable pressure of collar and chains. Rather against his will, a hiss of pain escapes him. The visitor raises his eyebrows, but says nothing.
"Fëanorion," Melkor growls, feeling a flare of pride and fury. It is bad enough to be defeated, worse to be dethroned, worst of all to be imprisoned in such an undignified manner. He hates that his fellow Ainur can see him like this, wearing only loincloth and undershirt, forced onto his knees on the bare earth, his back kept perpetually bent by the chains – but being seen in his humiliation by a former prisoner, by that one of all people, that is too cruel a visitation! He finds it uncommonly difficult to mask his true feelings. Only after a few long, silent minutes does he manage to recover some measure of composure.
Maedhros watches him, still not speaking, but Melkor thinks he can read a certain amusement in those pale eyes. Already his neck is aching from pushing against the iron collar, the collar that once was his crown – but lowering his head is out of the question.
The silence persists. Melkor would not normally mind silence, but then, he normally is in control of things. Now he very much – very obviously – is not, and the more the elf watches him without even deigning to speak, the more Melkor feels how desperate and embarrassing his circumstances are. He forces his face to be blank, tries to mirror the other's expression. He studies Maedhros, hoping that his stare will make the elf uncomfortable; but Maedhros meets his eyes in calm challenge. A long time ago, Melkor remembers, he could drive fear and despair into those eyes. Now there are disdain, grimness, and a slowly simmering anger. All the fear and despair in the tent are Melkor's own.
"Well," he finally says when Maedhros has still not spoken, trying to get some control over the situation. "Have you come to offer your allegiance after all?"

That makes the other laugh openly – a short, harsh laugh more like a bark. "I might as well ask yours."
Melkor purses his lips and tilts his head as if considering the request. "If I gave it, would you have me released?" And, with a flash of his eyes, he adds, "Lord?"
Maedhros does not laugh again, although the corners of his mouth twitch. "There is nothing you can offer me that could ever tempt me to release you, Moringotto - even if I had the influence to do such an absurd thing."
Melkor nods, permitting his neck to recover a little from the strain and trying to find some leverage on his interlocutor. "Ah yes. You are no longer a leader, I expect. They wouldn't let you. Aren't they all so much better than you, these do-gooders?"
Maedhros shrugs. "They've had less occasion to get their hands dirty," he simply says. His voice betrays no resentment, no anger, no bitterness, and in that moment Melkor hates him for his self-control.
"And one hand gets dirtier when it has to do the work of two, I am sure," he says, again hoping to drive the bright spark from Maedhros' eyes.
But Maedhros merely snorts. "That, too," he says, and instead of clouding over, his eyes light up with a gleam that Melkor, to his surprise, finds hard to bear.
"I should have turned you into an orc while I had you in my power," he spits, and hates how little force the insult carries, given the circumstances.
Maedhros raises an eyebrow as if to illustrate just that, but he replies in an almost pleasant voice. "If it is any consolation, I am certain that many in this camp think you succeeded."
"That is such a relief," Melkor says. He can no longer resist rolling his stinging shoulders, accompanied by an infuriating jingle of chains. He barely manages not to try and shift his weight; his thighs feel ready to explode, but he has already shown too much weakness.
For of course nothing of his discomfort is lost on Maedhros. "So you feel it, too?" he says, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "Interesting."
Melkor curses this frail form, these treacherous limbs, and counterattacks. "I remember a time when our roles were reversed."
Maedhros folds his arms across his chest, resting his handless wrist in the crook of his left elbow. The amusement is gone. "So do I, I assure you," he says, and Melkor suddenly feels afraid. How much of the half-hour, he wonders, is over already?
"Is that why you are here, then?" he asks, and hears to his frustration that he hasn't entirely managed to mask his anxiety. "To torment me?"

"Any more than these chains, and my presence to witness them, already do?" Maedhros says with a terrible smile; but then he grows serious again. "To be honest, I was not certain that you really could feel pain until just now," he says in a calm, analytical voice. "And even now I cannot help but wonder – is it truly pain, or do you merely chafe at your humiliation?"
Melkor manages to force his lips into a smile. "What did you feel, sweet Maitimo, pain or humiliation?"
Again, the arrow goes amiss. "Both, initially, but soon enough I had no mind left for anything but pain." Maedhros' voice is still even, detached, and even now his eyes refuse to show the hoped-for distress. "It does become quite overpowering after a while. Maybe you will come to that place, too. You won't be surprised that I spent a long, long time there."

This time, Melkor asks out of true confusion. "And yet you have no desire to take revenge?"
Maedhros smiles again. "I have indeed considered it, briefly," he says. "But I have more important things to do. I also do not think I would be good at it."
"What, did you leave Angband too early to learn anything?"
"It is not that I do not understand the workings, Moringotto," Maedhros says, sounding strangely reproachful. "It is just that I do not think it would satisfy me. Eönwë, of course, thinks that I would enjoy it greatly. But then, I think he does not see much difference between the two of us."
"Maybe there isn't?"
"What, you consider yourself no more powerful than a mere dispossessed elf? I am shocked. First half an offer of allegiance, and now this." Maedhros smiles that disconcerting smile again, but then his hand moves impatiently, wiping the subject away. "Even if had the sort of mind that delights in pain and destruction - and difficult though it may be to believe it, I really don't – Eönwë made me swear that I would not try to harm you." The tiniest snort accompanies that statement, as though Maedhros finds it absurd that he is made to swear something, all things considered.
"Goodly Eönwë," Melkor scowls, but he cannot help feeling a certain resentful gratitude to the Maia.

Maedhros shrugs. "He tells me that you will be judged soon and without clemency, so I am not certain that goodliness has anything to do with it. Looking at the way they left you..." Briefly, the tip of Maedhros' boot touches the iron collar around Melkor's neck, and Melkor snarls at him until he realises that it might make him look like a dog. The elf does not appear impressed or intimidated, anyway. "That used to be your crown, is not that true?" he asks, and continues without waiting for a reply. "They certainly know how to humiliate - and how to cause discomfort. They did not even ask what you did with me; it seems they came up with the idea all by themselves. Strange, is it not? Are they not too good and too pure for that sort of thing? Apparently not." He shrugs and begins to pace. "But your fate is not my concern. I have more important things to do."
"More important things!" Melkor snaps, for what could be more important than he? "Like what - the Silmarils?"
"Obviously," Maedhros says, and Melkor finally thinks he sees an opening.
"Hah! Forget it," he says, putting more scorn into his voice than he currently manages to feel - if he cannot sow fear, then maybe doubt will work. "You'll never get them. They certainly won't hand them over to you."
"Probably not." Maedhros agrees in an affable tone. "Still, there's nothing to do but plead our case."
Now the scorn is real. "What case? After all you've done to gain them, they'll never agree to give them to you."

Maedhros heaves a pointed sigh. "After all we have done, one should think that people would finally realise that we can stop at nothing until we have fulfilled our Oath. Surrendering the Silmarils would have saved so many people so much misery." He tilts his head and smiles down at Melkor. "Even yourself, it would seem. Keeping them from us cannot discourage us; it only makes us more desperate."
"They will never agree," Melkor insists, "you must know that. I think Eönwë just isn't dashing your hopes right away because he wants you to stand trial and be judged – no less harshly than I will be, I daresay."

"You know, you may be right," Maedhros says, making it sound as though he is being extremely generous in admitting the possibility. "On the other hand, I cannot help but notice that I am not trussed up beside you."
"And you really should be," Melkor growls. What little patience he has is waning fast. As there seems to be no hope of convincing Maedhros to side with him, his only chance for freedom seems to be death – to shed this miserable form and become a houseless spirit again, free to escape and start over, before his vengeful brethren can judge and destroy him forever.
But the Fëanorian refuses to be provoked; he merely shrugs. "I expected to be. Yet here I am, free to stay or walk away. So I wonder – is there hope after all?"
"Not for you and not for me," Melkor says through gritted teeth. His limbs are screaming with pain by now; he cannot help but try and shift his weight now, to no effect other than Maedhros' mild amusement. Oh, if only his hands were free, Melkor thinks, clenching them to angry fists where they are shackled at the small of his back; how he would love to throttle the arrogant elf, drive that spark from his eyes! Again, he has to struggle hard to get his anger under control. It will avail nothing; he has no weapon but his words.
"So what will you do, Fëanorion, when they tell you that they will never give you your precious heirlooms?"

Maedhros smiles in a manner that seems almost serene. "We'll burn that bridge once we've crossed it, if it's all the same to you." he says.
"Yes," Melkor growls, "you're good at burning things, I have heard."
Still the Fëanorian's unsettling calm won't be shaken. "Indeed. But for now, I shall simply be satisfied that you get a taste of your own medicine, and hope that your punishment will be merciless and absolute. And when --"
There is a flurry of motion at the entrance. Cold daylight spills into the tent again, and Eönwë enters. "It is time, Nelyafinwë," he says sternly. His distaste for the Noldo is clearly audible, and Melkor makes a last desperate attempt – either at getting himself killed, or at the very least at getting the infuriatingly calm elf into trouble. As Maedhros obediently turns to leave, Melkor tries to force himself upright, straining against the chains with all his might and crying out in true anguish, "Eönwë, do not let him go! He has told me that he plans to steal the Silmarils from your keeping. Yea, he has even tried to enlist my help! You mustn't trust him--"
Eönwë is clearly taken aback; but then Maedhros does the one thing Melkor hasn't expected. He neither starts protesting, spilling out defenses and explanations; he does not run away, nor does he strike out in anger. He simply leans his head back and laughs, not the bark-like sound Melkor heard earlier but a real, loud, amused laugh. "Ah, Morgoth Bauglir," he says when he is done, "you have indeed grown desperate when such feeble lies are your only resort."
He shakes his head in disdain and turns back towards Eönwë. "You are right, Lord Eönwë; I have no more business here. Let us go."

The flap closes behind them, the light returns to filtered dullness; and Melkor is left to feel utterly abandoned, utterly helpless, and utterly without hope. He enjoyed this feeling whenever he observed it in his prisoners; now he despises it. He certainly does not appreciate the irony. Now, his only hope is that his little seed of doubt may grow.

B2MeM '13 - Friendship - Forgiveness

Oh look, I wrote something for the actual March 1 "Friendship" quote after all! Because I just can't leave Maedhros and Fingon alone.

There can be, Findekáno knows, no forgiveness and no reconciliation.

Read B2MeM '13 - Friendship - Forgiveness

Findekáno pictured their reunion, every night before he fell asleep. "How could you?" he would ask, his voice hot and furious. "How could you abandon me? How could you not even try to tell me? Does our friendship mean nothing to you?" And, because even in his angriest moments his heart refused to believe that there could be a "yes" to that last question: "How could you let it happen?"

He pictured Russandol's reaction, too. Would his cousin apologise – shame-faced, weeping? Would he defend himself, petulant and unyielding? Would he try to explain his actions – or inactions – away, try to turn his treason into something he did for his cousin's own good?

And how would things continue, after that? Should Findekáno curse Russandol to his face, wish a cruel fate upon him? He certainly deserved it - how could he? Sometimes, Findekáno felt the rage inside him surge up so that he could not sleep for a long time: His heart would beat faster, his jaw would clench, and his fingers would twitch underneath the thin blanket (for he found it too warm in Hisilomë under the young sun, even at night), claw at the roughly-woven bedsheet, ball into tight, merciless fists that punched the reed-stuffed mattress, again and again. He would imagine that he might strike Russandol, bruise that flawless face, tear his beautiful hair out, push him to the ground, kick him – until Russandol would beg for mercy, crying and bleeding, invoking the friendship he had so foolishly neglected.

But no – Findekáno struggled to to suppress his violent urges – he would not dirty his hands. He wanted Russandol to plead, but only for forgiveness and for a renewal of the friendship they had once shared. And then Findekáno would give him a cold look, channelling all the terrors and hardships of the Helcaraxë in his eyes. Maybe he would be silent, and simply turn and walk away never to speak with Russandol again. Maybe he would deign to speak one final "No."
There could be, Findekáno knew, no forgiveness and no reconciliation. The thought saddened him a little, but he fell asleep grim and satisfied. It was, after all, only just.

But reality ruined his poetic plans. His dreams of revenge fell flat, and Findekáno's mind was no longer grimly satisfied. Instead, he slept the uneasy sleep of the guilty, as though by his fantasies he had somehow contributed to Russandol's cruel fate.

Thus, when they spoke again at last, it was Findekáno who begged for forgiveness; and it was Russandol who said, "No." He could hardly keep his eyes open, and his tongue was heavy with the spirits they had administered against the pain, and his lips were bruised and swollen; yet he struggled to articulate the word: "No." And so softly that it was barely audible, so slowly that Findekáno kept thinking that his cousin had fallen asleep in mid-sentence: "Truest of friends, it is I who must beg forgiveness."

And Findekáno kissed Russandol's feverish face, and looked at his frail and broken form with a warmth his heart had not felt in a long time, and he said, "There is nothing to forgive."

B2MeM '13 - March 19 - Inheritance

Begun for B2MeM '12's B6 (Fëanatics: Daddy Issues); continued and finished for B2MeM '13's prompt for March 19, O (Fëanorians exploring all of Valinor up to the Outer Sea).

Fëanor makes plans for his sons' inheritance. Unfortunately, few things go according to plan. - A quintuple drabble (according to OOW).

Read B2MeM '13 - March 19 - Inheritance

Inheritance

Finwë rejoiced when he learned that Nerdanel was pregnant again.
Of course, he was delighted that his son's union should be so blessed, and that he would have a second grandchild. But most of all, he rejoiced because surely Fëanáro would now understand that having two children did not mean loving one less than the other; that a father's love was not divided, but increased with each new child. Surely, now Fëanáro could forget his animosity, and embrace Nolofinwë and Arafinwë as a brother should. Surely, his sons would now be reconciled. The new baby would make sure of it.

But it turned out that Fëanáro could be a doting father of two, or even three, four, five, seven sons, and yet remain a hating brother to the sons of Indis. No subtle hints of Finwë could change his mind; not even Nerdanel, whose wisdom was the only counsel Fëanáro accepted, could move him. He would not forgive. There was no parallel in the mind of Fëanáro between himself and his half-brothers, and Maitimo and his many brothers, who grew strong and proud and happy in the certainty of their father's immovable love and their own love for each other.

But as his sons grew, Fëanáro's mind was troubled; for if his half-brothers begrudged him his birthright, however feeble their own claims, might not his younger sons also begrudge Maitimo his crown, in those far-off days in which he, Fëanáro, might tire of the throne?
His nimble mind soon thought of a solution. The problem was, of course, that there was only one realm of the Noldor, one crown, one throne; the obvious way out was to create further kingdoms, so that each brother could be a king in his own right, and none would be servant to another.

The foundations for his bold dream of a Noldorin – nay, Fëanárian – empire had to be laid betimes, while Finwë was still reigning upon Túna and Fëanáro was free to explore: Thus he, his wife and their household – sons, apprentices, servants, admirers and all – were always travelling the confines of Aman, from end to end, ocean to ocean – searching, measuring, mapping. Officially, this was done so they could better appreciate the magnitude and beauty of Valinor; but on his private map, which was not to be published, Fëanáro noted down things like Rich woodlands; for Turko?

But Fëanáro had forgotten that in his absence, his half-brothers would become the young faces of the House of Finwë, the heirs of the king that all of Tirion knew. Fëanáro returned a stranger – stranger to the people, and to their latest customs and fashions.
Only one of the planned settlements was ever realised – in Formenos.
Much later, far away, the map of Fëanáro's secret ambition lay upon King Nolofinwë's council table. Maitimo's single hand smoothed the ancient parchment, and he read a scribbled note in the margin: What of Endorë?
Indeed, Father, Maitimo thought: What of Endorë?

B2MeM '12 - N38/I27/B4 - Proud Craftsmen

Started for a couple of B2MeM '12 prompts: N38 (Women of Arda: Galadriel; Women of the Silmarillion: Women of Doriath; Dwarves in the First Age: Melian and the Dwarves), I27 (In a manner of speaking: Blind as a bat) and B4 (Women of Arda: Lúthien; Economy: Luxury Items; Botany: Elanor).

Melian has invited some Dwarvish craftsmen to create a begetting day gift for Lúthien, and asked Galadriel to help her choose. But first, a PC briefing is in order...

Read B2MeM '12 - N38/I27/B4 - Proud Craftsmen

"Thank you for agreeing to help me choose," Melian said as they strolled towards the appointed meeting-place. "My daughter is now of an age where I am no longer certain that I know her mind and tastes. In that, you are much closer to her."

Galadriel smiled. "It is no trouble at all. I am glad to be of help – you have been so kind to me, after all. I will try my best to guess at your daughter's taste. Besides, I must admit that I'm more than a little curious about the Naugrim."
"Ah, yes," Melian said. She put a gentle hand on Galadriel's arm. "Please do not call them so to their face. It is terribly impolite – and inappropriate, really. By their own standards, they are not stunted at all."

Galadriel's eyes widened in alarm; she nodded. "I will take care not to offend them."
"That is wise of you. In general, it would be good if you could not show them if you deem them ugly, or even just strange. They are proud and easily offended, and I am sorry to say that many of our people do not particularly try not to give them offense. Which is very silly. Most of our baubles and trinkets these days are made by the Cadhadrim. We have neither the time nor the resources, and they do it so eagerly when they are paid for it. Some seem to assume that because we pay them in commodities and pearls, we owe them nothing more; but it is not so. We owe them respect and gratitude for their craft alone."
"I resolve to judge them only by their craft and their behaviour," Galadriel said, peering at her mirror image in a dark little pool and adjusting her wreath of elanor-flowers. "I will not judge their looks – however those may be."

"Very different from our people's," Melian said with a smile, picking up a flower that had fallen from Galadriel's adornment. "It is said that Aulë created them with very specific ideas about hardiness and strength in mind. As he did not then know the design of Eru's Children, he came up with... well. Some call it a mockery, although it cannot have been intended that way. We cannot well look beyond our own boundaries, after all. Father knows that, even though some of us seem to have forgotten."

Galadriel frowned, uncertain whether she was hearing correctly.
"Boundaries, my lady? You seem so powerful to us."
Melian's smile turned even brighter. "In our appointed field, yes, of course. It is not hard to be superior to you Children there. We have been created for very specific purposes – like the Cadhadrim, really. They are meant to mine, so they can see well in the dark and feel uncomfortable in bright, wide open spaces. They are meant to shoulder great weights and withstand the dangers of these lands, so they are bulky and compact. That is their blessing. At any rate, the Cadhadrim treat us with the utmost politeness, and they really deserve that we treat them equally respectfully in return. We must remember that to them, we are as strange as they are to us. One man's shortcoming is another man's blessing. A bat may be blind, yet it will not fly into obstacles – it has other senses that you can but dream of. As we do – as the Valar do." Melian shrugged her shoulders. "In the long run, you Children will always outdo us. You are so versatile. You can compensate. That is your blessing." Melian waved her hand in a gesture of resignation. "Try to remember that. Always."

Galadriel smiled. "I will. And I hope you need not worry about my treatment of the – Cadhadrim." Her smile took on a slightly mischievous tint. "I have some experience with proud craftsmen..."

---

Chapter End Notes

Naugrim, a common enough Sindarin word for "Dwarves" (as a people), literally means "stunted ones", which assumes that the Elves set the standards and is really rather impolite. Melian uses Cadhadrim, a Sindarinisation of Khuzdul khazad + collective plural ending. (The "normal" plural of Sindarinised cadhad would then be cedhaid.)

Random - A Darker Shade of Black

In a discussion about femslash a few days ago, I snarked that I wouldn't touch it if the pairing didn't work for me, like Varda/Thuringwethil. About 24 hours later, I was bitten by a plotspider. It seems that Varda/Thuringwethil doesn't work for me, but Varda/Ungoliant does...

Kinda experimental, but there you go.

Read Random - A Darker Shade of Black

A Darker Shade of Black

They were created from the same thought, light and shadow. High-bright was the most powerful of them, and from the beginning, Soft Twinkle, Secret Shadow and Gloom-weaver* followed in her wake. But dearest to High-bright was Gloom-weaver, her opposite, and they loved each other: Not as sisters in the thought of the One, nor as lady and vassal, but in the way that opposites attract, and one cannot go without the other. They sought each other's presence constantly, entwined, mingled, poured their thought into each other. The melodies of High-bright were brilliant and acute, flashing and burning almost painfully; but the soft, dark silence of Gloom-weaver mellowed them, took the edge off them, soothed hurt senses and wove gentle darkness around them. Together, they were in harmony.

Together, they explored the secrets of their respective powers. Sometimes, High-bright felt that Gloom-weaver understood light better than she did. She certainly understood the need to look closer, see clearer, but where High-bright was blinded by her own light, limited by the gleam she cast on all things, Gloom-weaver could creep into the smallest crannies of creation and look into the deepest darkness behind the mists of time. What she found there, she shared with High-bright, in the way that they shared a theme in the music, their joy in existence, their very essence. They loved each other, enveloped each other, probed and caressed and kissed the deepest depths of each other's spirit. It was a love burning bright and hot, and yet dark and deep.

It did not last. Shadows are soft and passive, but light consumes and constantly needs fuel. By and by, High-bright was drawn rather to spirits more like hers, bright and sharp and powerful. Perhaps she was a little too flattered when some asked her to shed light on shapes they had thought out, or when they praised her for the beauty of her gleaming spirit. Perhaps she had grown tired of Gloom-weaver, whose spirit she now knew intimately and entirely, and who could offer her nothing new. Perhaps she meant no harm, but simply did not realise the hurt she caused Gloom-weaver, no longer tuned in to her silences. Perhaps she expected her to follow her, as Soft Twinkle did, ever at her heels to admire her. Perhaps, also, High-bright meant to return to Gloom-weaver later, once she tired of the novelties that now enthralled her, once she tired of the Blessed One, who charmed her most of all.

Gloom-weaver did not want to be reduced to a hand-maiden or an awe-struck observer, watching while the most gifted of Ainur interacted in splendour. But she did follow High-bright, trying to win her back with the arts she had been given. She toyed with the intensity of shadow, so that things could appear brighter, or darker, or other than they were. She made a whole spectrum of shades, all slightly different, each a little darker than the other.
But High-bright had no mind to admire them, when the Blessed One could mirror her flashing fire in gleaming air, and could break her light into many colours. And the Blessed One scorned Gloom-weaver's work. "See, all you can do is take what others make, and dim its brilliance. But I can make new colours where before there were none." And together, High-bright and the Blessed One turned away.

Gloom-weaver persevered. She wove shadows deeper and darker than any she had made before, so dark that they could swallow light rather than merely dim it, so dense that they became a thing of their own. But High-bright did not care for the un-light, when the Blessed One could clothe her light in white clouds that shone and shimmered and spread her light in the most enticing ways. And the Blessed One scorned Gloom-weaver again. "See, what you have made is but darkness. There was darkness before there was ought else. This is nothing new!"
And to High-bright he said, "Who is this lesser spirit who pesters us with her games?"
And High-bright, fearing that he might think her unworthy of his attention if she defended Gloom-weaver answered, "It is Gloom-weaver, one of my servants."

It is not known whether she spoke with regret, or whether she even understood how deeply she had hurt her one-time lover. In a single flash of light, all love for High-bright was burnt from Gloom-weaver's spirit forever, and her heart was scorched so deeply that it could never heal. The light was now hateful, the music was now a noise unbearable, and even her own existence was despicable. Gloom-weaver withdrew into the Void and wove mists of unlight around her, swallowing all light and muting all music. If High-bright ever looked for Gloom-weaver, she had no hope of finding her, for she could not penetrate the unlight, nor could she understand the darkness that was darker than the Void.

There Gloom-weaver might have remained, silent and invisible, forgotten until the end of creation. But in time she realised that she was not alone in the Void; and in more time, curiosity grew where she thought all feeling had been killed. She went to observe the spirit in the shadows, waiting, gathering strands of information. He was powerful and bright and sharp, she realised, easily as powerful as the Blessed One and High-bright together. Yet he was not with his brethren, showing off and making noise. Instead, he was exploring the darkness, quiet and alone. Gloom-weaver was intrigued. At last she came out of hiding. When she revealed herself, she fully expected to be scorned again. But the strange spirit was polite. He introduced himself as Arising-in-Might. He admired her unlight, and listened to her silences. He flattered her and asked to learn her powers. She wove the finest webs of shadow, the likes of which she had once made for High-bright. She showed him how she could change the shade of things, to make them seem other than they were. She showed him how she could protect herself from the hateful light.

He watched, and listened, and learned of her. He never mastered the art of weaving, but he became very apt at painting with shadows.
"I, too, have learned things that the others do not understand," he said when she had shared all that she could. "In the Void, I have looked into myself, and there found many things strange and wonderful. To thank you for sharing your wisdom with me, I would now share my knowledge with you. I have discovered a new concept that may be of particular interest to you..."
She leaned in to listen.

"I call it 'revenge'", he said.

---

Chapter End Notes

* As the Valarin corpus is ridiculously tiny and I would have had to make up pretty much everything (except for High-bright, which might be *phanai-dahan, perhaps with a personal ending -(long vowel)z), I gave up on constructing Valarin names for these folks. So I call them by English translations of what their Valarin names might have been. Believe me, it makes more sense than making up neo-Valarin words. - High-bright is Varda, Soft Twinkle is Ilmarë, Secret Shadow is Thuringwethil, and Gloom-weaver is Ungoliant. The Blessed One is Manwë – this is indeed what his Valarin name Mânawenûz translates to – and Arising-in-Might is Melkor.

B2MeM '16 - Caranthir defends the Naugrim

For different B2MeM '12 prompts, I started three separate stories in which Caranthir defended the achievements of the Dwarves against critical brothers. I never finished any of these stories and probably never will, so for this year's "Memories" theme, I finally condensed each of them into a drabble to make up a short series.
Touching the following BINGO prompts:
N33 (Economy: "Infrastructure" and Here we come a-caroling: "You might even say it glows");
G51 (Scientific Achievement: "Print")
G59 (Dwarves of the First Age: "Curufin receives Angrist")
Also sort of covers the 2009 prompt for March 17 (stereotypes).

Curufin is unimpressed with Caranthir's neighbours. Caranthir showcases some of their achievements to change his brother's mind.

Read B2MeM '16 - Caranthir defends the Naugrim

Paving the way

"I really don't know how you put up with those bushy little faces," Curufin said, twirling his cup of mulled cider. "I passed a bunch of them on the road here. How ugly they are! And Yavanna knows what's living in those beards. They should never leave their mines."
Caranthir stared into his own cup, avoiding his brother's eyes. "You came here by the road, yes?" he said, his face burning bright.
Curufin frowned. "Of course. Didn't you listen?"
"Unfortunately, I did," said Caranthir, looking up. "If you came by the road, you shouldn't insult the people who created it."

Copyism

"Look at this," Caranthir said, handing Curufin a leaflet.
Curufin studied the unintelligible writing. "Am I supposed to be impressed by such uninspired penmanship?"
"No penmanship! That is the point." Caranthir produced further leaflets, exactly like the first.
Curufin was frowning still. "Consistently uninspired writing – so what?"
"It's no writing," Caranthir said triumphantly. "It's print! The Naucor engrave it on a metal plate in reverse, then ink it and stamp it onto paper. They can produce thousands of copies in a very short time."
Curufin shrugged. "They're clever little buggers, I admit. But I'm sure I could improve it."

Understatement

"Finally, to convince you that the Naucor deserve your respect and your business," Caranthir said, "here is a gift from them." He pulled a knife from its lacquered sheath.
Curufin raised an eyebrow. "I can make my own knives."
Caranthir took the knife to a chandelier. "Not like this. Behold!" He cut through the iron as though carving tender meat. The severed arm of the chandelier thudded down onto the table.
Frowning, Curufin took the knife. He tested its balance, swished it through the air, searched for flaws in the tightly folded steel.
At last, he acknowledged, "Not too bad."

B2MeM '16 - A bittersweet reunion

Begun and abandoned for the B2MeM 2012 BINGO Bash (Woman of the Silmarillion - G51 - Women who survive). Inspired by GoldSeven's "All the others, gone". Dug out and polished for B2MeM 2016. Also sort of covers the B2MeM 2011 prompt for March 19: "Write a story or create a piece of artwork centred on meetings or reunions."

While preparing for the War of Wrath, Finarfin has the most important meeting of them all.

Read B2MeM '16 - A bittersweet reunion

It had been a long time since the Lady Galadriel had behaved in such an indignified manner. She jumped off her horse and ran across the camp of the host of Valinor without bothering to wash her face, without exchanging her travel-stained, dishevelled clothes for a clean gown and her riding boots for something more becoming, without even combing and re-braiding her hair. Eldar and Maiar looked after her with disapproval, but little astonishment: They had always expected the Noldor in Middle-earth to go to seed.

Galadriel came to a panting halt when she'd found the tent marked by the banner of of the leader of the Noldorin Remnant, took a deep breath, and marched in.
She interrupted an informal meeting of the lords of the Noldor, who stood poring over a map of the likely battlefield. She neither cared nor apologised. The lords politely withdrew when they saw their king rising, eyes shining, map forgotten, to greet the intruder. Galadriel flung herself into her father's arms.
He held her tight, smiling and weeping at the same time. "Artanis!" he said, burying his nose in her hair while she pressed her face against his collar-bone.
"Atto", she said, muffled by fabric and emotion. "I've missed you so much."
"As I've missed you," the king said with a wet smile.

"Atto..." she began, and hesitated. But it had to be done. "I'm the only one left," Galadriel said, still clinging to him.
"I know," her father said, "I know. The others – all gone." Tears came freely. "But you are here..."
"Yes," she said, and drew back so she could see his face, his eyes. "It is so good to see you again."
Another smile. "If only the circumstances were different." He held her by the shoulders, studying her face. "You will fight?"
"I must. I can hardly stand back and leave the dirty work to you alone!“
He frowned unhappily, but accepted her decision: He had observed that trying to stop a stubborn Finwëan always backfired. "Just promise me one thing, Artanis. Don't you die on me as well."

Random - Authority

Melkor discovers the power of a mother's voice. (AU, somewhat cracky)

Read Random - Authority

“Put that back.”

Melkor stared at the elf-woman - more broad-shouldered than most, but still far slighter than his own intimidating form - who stood in his way. Confusion got the better of him. “Pardon me?”

“Put. That. Back.”

So he had heard right after all. He broke into laughter. “How about no?”

“Then, young man, someone will be going to bed extra early.” She was blocking the doorway out of the treasury, giving him a look that was entirely unflattering - and, worse, entirely unimpressed.

Melkor wondered whether she somehow didn’t understand how much damage his mace could do. Then again, he wasn’t holding it anymore. He had propped it against the wall after smashing the doors of the treasury so he could grab the jewels with both hands. That was a little awkward. Still, he was more powerful by far --

“Extra early,” Nerdanel reiterated. “No supper and no bedtime story.”

This was not going at all as expected! Melkor knew how to frighten people, and he knew how to feign friendship, even submission when it was necessary. But he did not know how to deal with this resolute woman, refusing to acknowledge his power or her own helplessness. Baffled, he heard someone ask, “What kind of supper?” He recognised the voice as his own.

For the first time, the fierce set of Nerdanel’s jaw relaxed a little, although she was by no means smiling. "Put the jewels back and I’ll tell you.”

Melkor had never had a mother, but he nonetheless recognised a tone that brooked no argument. “Fine,” he grumbled. “Whatever. I’ve got no use for your shoddy pebbles anyway.” He dumped the gems from his right hand on the nearest presentation table.

“All of them,” Nerdanel’s voice rang out behind him, echoing in the cavernous room.

Scowling, Melkor dropped the crystal casket that contained the Silmarils on top of the heap.

“Back where you found them, dear,” Nerdanel said. “Each in its proper place.”

Melkor turned to give her an incredulous stare. “The showcases are broken!”

“Yes, someone’s made quite a mess. We’ll discuss how you can repair the damage later on. For now, just clean the shards away and put the jewels back where they belong. Be careful not to cut yourself.”

“I am Melkor, He Who Arises In Might, and I am far too powerful to be cut by mere Elven glass!” To emphasize his words, Melkor swept at the nearest broken casket. Part of it broke with a satisfying clang, its fragments tinkling onto the floor. The other part lodged itself firmly in his hand, adding a fierce stinging ache to the burning sensation left by the Silmarils. Blinking rapidly, Melkor gripped the shard and jerked it out of his hand. Suddenly, there was blood. Melkor did not mind the sight of blood, provided that it was not his own. His own, he minded very much. He minded so much that he felt rather dizzy, overcome by a sudden need to steady himself.

“Oh dear,” Nerdanel sighed as she walked up to him. “You don’t really know your hroä well, do you. We’ll have to take care of that cut. You’ll probably need stitches. You can tidy up tomorrow.” A firm hand gripped Melkor’s wrist. Before he even realised what was going on, Nerdanel had begun to lead him out of the treasury. Weakly, Melkor protested, “You don’t understand. There will be no tomorrow. I didn’t come alone. I brought Ungoliant, weaver of gloom, and she will not be stopped!”

Nerdanel stopped by the door. Without breaking her grip on the wrist of his injured hand, she picked up his mace with her other arm, carrying it across one shoulder as easily as if it were a common sledgehammer.

“Don’t you worry,” she said blithely. “I know perfectly well how to deal with pesky spiders.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Prompted by a commentary by Tumblr user spacehobbitses:

"Nerdanel is a f*cking legend I mean 7 kids and married to Fëanor. Forget Fingolfin fighting Melkor, Nerdanel could just fight Melkor in an ally way and walk back into the street without a scratch and with the silmarils she doesn’t want to make Fëanor feel bad."

Then... this happened.

B2MeM '19 - I20 - When in Doriath

On her first evening in Doriath, Galadriel is desperate for a drink.

Written for B2MeM 2019, for the prompts "Overcoming my past" (Person vs. Self) and "Who now shall refill the cup for me?" (Tolkien Quotes), both I20. A slightly irreverent take on the prompts. I apologise.

Read B2MeM '19 - I20 - When in Doriath

It was not customary in Doriath to wait for someone else to fill one's cup. Decanters were placed on the table at convenient intervals, and you were expected to help yourself when you were thirsty. But Artanis did not know that.

In retrospect, she had to laugh. Having observed that, once the meat was cut, you took your own piece from the platter, she could have guessed that the people of Doriath had similar customs concerning their drinks. But she didn't; and after the hotly spiced first course and the salty goat's cheese for the second, she was desperate for some refreshment. There were no servants standing behind the table, and after fruitlessly trying to figure out how she could summon one without causing a fuss, she decided that she would have to ask her seat neighbour for help. The lady on her left was engaged in conversation, so addressing her would have felt impolite. The gentleman to the right, however - King Singollo's grand-nephew, if Artanis remembered her introductions correctly - wasn't currently occupied, so it was to him that Artanis turned. "Excuse me, sir - this is probably a foolish question, but whom do I have to call if I would like to have more wine?"
His eyes widened in surprise, briefly, before their corners creased in a concerned smile. "Oh! Are your hands hurt -- do you need assistance? It is not foolish at all, you should have said so much sooner. Here, let me help you!" He reached out - halfway across her plate, which would have gotten him a very disapproving look from the Lady of the House in Tirion - but this was not Tirion, and for a moment, Artanis felt the bite of homesickness. Stronger than that, however, was the taste of embarrassment, because he was reaching across her plate to take a decanter that had been standing there, within her easy reach. He poured the wine for her, and she felt the blossoming of a blush that she'd thought she had outgrown decades ago.

Briefly, she considered going with his suggestion and pretending to have injured her hands, to spare herself from the embarassment, but then she thought better of it. Hadn't she resolved to start over in these new lands, among these related yet unfamiliar people? There was already enough she had to hide, enough she had to remember not to speak about, and it felt unwise to add another deceit - even if it was only a minor one this time. It simply wasn't worth it.
So she thanked him, and added, "But I must confess that I'm not hurt at all; rather, I am unfamiliar with the customs of your land. From home, I am accustomed to have my cup filled by others; it would be considered improper if I did it myself. I erred, assuming that it would be the same here. I apologise for troubling you."
His smile intensified - not in a mocking way, but in honest cheer. "It was no trouble at all. Feel free to ask me anytime you have a question! I never thought that our brethren across the sea might have different customs from ours, but it has been a long time, and I expect the Belain have different habits altogether. So if you find anything confusing, you are welcome to ask me - that is, if you do not prefer some other guide..." Now it was his face that took on the reddish hue of embarrassment, as if he felt that he had taken a step too far. He had very interesting eyes, Artanis thought: not lit with the brilliance of the Trees, but bright nonetheless, less like the silver gleam of Telperion and more like clouds mirrored on a pool.
"I know no other guide yet," she replied, smiling back at him, "and I hope you will not regret your generous offer, because I suspect that I will make use of it."
"Please do!" he said. "I'm at your service."
He held his hand out to her, and she gripped it in a conspiratorial handshake. She quite liked him, she decided. Maybe her foolish question hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

---

Chapter End Notes

- - - Note on names: I used Quenya names, since this story is observing Galadriel's thoughts and she probably wouldn't think in Sindarin yet. Artanis - Galadriel's father-name, "noble lady" Singollo - Thingol's name in (standard) Quenya Celeborn, meanwhile, speaks Sindarin: Belain - Valar

B2MeM '19 - The Good and the Bad

Young Aragorn discusses Noldorin history with Erestor, touching upon matters of good and evil, tough choices, and how to deal with mistakes.

Responding to various B2MeM prompts:
On the Fëanatics card, 072 (Fëanor: saviour of Middle-earth), I18 (In Beleriand... freedom fighter), B14 (The war of Telerin Aggression) and I25 (Knight in shining armor);
on the Person vs. Self card, I16 (peer pressure), I24 (making tough choices) and N44 (self-doubt);
on the Emotions card, N44 (amusement);
and on the Mary Oliver 1935-2019 card, G55 (perfect imperial distance).

Read B2MeM '19 - The Good and the Bad

The young fellow had been sneaking around the library for a while, staring at him from afar but turning towards the bookshelves whenever Erestor looked openly in his direction. Eventually, the counsellor decided to address him. Estel looked vaguely guilty when Erestor approached; in fact, he gave the impression of considering running away, which did not seem like Estel at all.
Erestor frowned at him. "What's the matter, Estel? Why are you hiding here in the dark? Have you misplaced a book, or are you planning some mischief?"
Estel shook his head. "I would never! I just... ah, never mind."
The counsellor's stern face softened. "Come on, it can't be that bad. What's troubling you?" Privately, he thought that it must be very troubling indeed, for it wasn't like Estel to hide behind bookshelves or to avoid giving a direct answer. Estel seemed to be chewing on his reply, but a last he managed to get it out. "I've been reading about Fëanor," he explained.
"Oof," Erestor said. "Not exactly a matter for light bedtime reading. And now you're having nightmares?"
"No," Estel replied with some scorn. "I have questions that I wanted to discuss with Master Elrond, but he is still in the Hall of Fire. So I'm waiting here until he goes out."
Erestor raised an eyebrow. "You could wait until tomorrow. It is probably going to get very late."
"I know, but the questions have been keeping me awake."
Erestor sighed. "And talking about them will keep you awake even longer, no doubt, since I expect they aren't simple questions." Estel shrugged. Erestor studied the young man earnestly. He found it hard to judge Estel's real age; he seemed simultaneously much younger, and yet more mature than his years. Following a sudden impulse, Erestor suggested, "Would it help you to discuss the matter with me? I know I am not Master Elrond, but maybe I can still help you to put these questions to rest - at least until the morning?"
Estel smiled. "That is very kind of you, Master Erestor, but I would not want to keep you from the Hall, either."
"That's quite alright," Erestor said cheerfully. "I was just looking to do some quiet reading. I can do that anytime."

They sat together in Erestor's study, a pot of tea between them, the curtains open to overlook the lantern-lit courtyard. "So," Erestor said, handing Estel a cup, "what about Fëanor has been keeping you awake?"
Estel breathed in the steam without drinking. "Well, the thing is this," he began. "I know that Fëanor was evil, alright? That's not it. He's not a hero in shining armour. He shed a lot of blood and caused more bloodshed even after he was dead. I understand that. But nonetheless..." He paused. "Promise you won't kick me out if my questions are too bad?"
Erestor blinked. "I cannot imagine that they are bad enough to warrant that," he said, "and at any rate it would not be my decision alone!" Seeing Estel chew on his lip anxiously, he spoke more gently, "Come on, out with them. I promise we won't kick you out so easily."
The anxious look didn't quite leave Estel's face, but he nodded.
"What I've been wondering," he said, "is this. Fëanor did all these wrong things. But if he hadn't - if he had obeyed Manwë's messenger - if he had turned back - if the Noldor had stayed behind - then who would have fought Morgoth? Because the Elves in Middle-earth weren't doing it either, not even Thingol who was more powerful than the others. And my people - mortals, I mean - who would have looked after them? The Lindar hated them and the Sindar hated them, so they'd probably all have been overrun and corrupted by Morgoth. Or killed." He took a deep breath. "So the Noldor had to come back to Middle-earth. So the Valar were wrong, and Fëanor was right. Wasn't he?" He gave Erestor a worried stare. "Are you going to kick me out after all?"
Erestor, whose face had taken on an increasingly bemused look at Estel's sudden barrage of words, very nearly laughed. "Estel, if I thought that the Noldor should not have come back to Middle-earth, do you think I would be sitting here right now?"

That clearly gave the youth something to think about; his mouth fell open, and he stared at Erestor no longer in fear, but rather in awe, as if he had not previously considered that the events of the First Age, ancient history to him, were within living memory for the Elven counsellor.
Erestor smiled. "Like most matters where actual people are concerned, this is a lot more complex than 'right' or 'wrong' can cover," he said. "I agree with you; it would not have been right for all the Elves to remain in Valinor, to leave Middle-earth unprotected and undefended against the rage of Morgoth. He would have turned all of it into his dominion - maybe even Doriath, though Melian might have held it for a long time - if he had not been distracted by the returning Noldor; and he would certainly have brought your ancestors under his power, if he had not killed them outright. In that light, Fëanor was right to insist on leaving Valinor. The Valar should perhaps have sent us back of their own accord, but I suppose they loved us too well and wished to protect us. Perhaps they should have gone themselves, but they were afraid of the damage they would do. So they chose to do nothing: to keep a perfectly peaceful distance, imperial and impartial, to watch from afar and let Morgoth do as he would. I must accept that they did what they felt was best, but I cannot claim to agree." He lifted his cup to his lips and drank, watching Estel's face, inviting the young man to comment; but Estel was in turn watching him avidly, waiting for him to continue. Setting his cup down, Erestor went on, "But the return to Middle-earth, even though it had to be done, still should have been done in a different way. We should have attempted further negotiations with the Teleri, or we should have built our own ships, or we should have gone on foot right away, as most of us ended up doing anyway. Attempting to steal the ships was wrong, however right it was to get to Middle-earth. The first kinslaying was a direct consequence of our impatience. The Teleri shot the first arrows and cast the first blows, but they would not have done it if we had not attacked their havens. We cannot justify that by saying that ultimately, Middle-earth needed us. Do you understand?"

Estel nodded, still awestruck. "So you mean that people can be right and wrong at the same time," he said, "about different things - or maybe even about the same thing, in different ways."
Smiling, Erestor agreed, "That is indeed in our nature. It is very rare that somebody is wholly evil, just as few people manage to be purely good."
At that, Estel frowned. "But you are good, and Master Elrond is good," he said, "and I am told my parents were good, too."
"I am flattered," Erestor said. "And yes, I do my best to be good. And therein lies the key: One has to choose to be good. Nobody is born wolly good or wholly bad. Goodness is a choice, and we must make it every day. Sometimes it's an easy choice because you have no reason to do something bad, but as you grow up, you will find yourself in situations where it is tempting to choose something that is wrong. Maybe it is the easier path, or maybe you think you cannot achieve your goals in another way, or maybe the wrong choice is simply tempting and glittering. At such times, being good is hard work. Remember that. Goodness does not come from nothing. Both goodness and badness lie within the freedom of Ilúvatar, and you only become a good man by choosing to do good things."
"I shall remember," Estel said. "And I thank you. For listening, and for not telling me that I'm horrible to have these thoughts."
"On the contrary, I think that it is a very good thing that you're having these thoughts. It shows that you are thinking beyond the simplistic patterns that we teach to young children. That will be important - on your own way, and also when you sit in counsel or judge the deeds of others. Master Elrond will be very proud of you when you speak of this with him."
"You think so?" Estel sat up proudly; but then his brow creased in another frown. "But what if I fail? What if I cannot always make the right choice?"

Again, Erestor found himself studying the youth, wondering at how swiftly time seemed to have passed for him. "You are right," he said, "that might happen. Good intentions are fine, but mistakes can happen to the best of us. Sometimes we are weak or misled. That, too, is within the freedom of Ilúvatar."
"That sounds awfully dangerous," Estel said. "As you said, people can be weak or misled. I certainly feel weak sometimes. And I don't always know enough to know what's the right choice. And sometimes I do things because my friends do them. But I don't want to make mistakes!"
"You will," Erestor said. "You will, and I pray that they may only be light mistakes, but it may well be that they are serious mistakes - though not, I hope, mistakes as grave as Fëanor's." He leaned ahead conspiratorially. "Do you know what's the most important thing is about mistakes?"
"Learning from them?" Estel suggested.
"Learning from them! Indeed! Understanding why they happened, and then making sure you don't repeat them. And you know what else is important?"
Estel shook his head.

Erestor reached out and took his hands. "That you don't give yourself up," he said. "You will make mistakes. Everybody makes mistakes. Small mistakes, embarrassing mistakes, or even awful mistakes. But when you have made a mistake, don't let that mistake define you. Learn from it, take responsibility for it, make up for it if you can, and above all, don't forget that you can still be a good person. If you forget that - if you think that your mistakes have made you bad - then you will no longer strive to do better, and you will end in despair, and people will later say that you were evil." He gave Estel's hands a gentle squeeze. "Don't give yourself up. Even if somehow you come upon an evil path - which I think is unlikely, but nothing is impossible in this marred world - you can still strive to make your way back towards good."
"Really?" Estel asked, wrinkling his nose.
"You called me a good person just now," Erestor said, "and yet I, too, unsheathed my sword in Alqualondë."
Once again, Estel was speechless. It was a bit much for one evening, Erestor supposed. "It is possible to turn back from evil deeds. Sometimes you may not be able to make amends, but even then, you can go on to make better choices in the future. Some people have forgotten that. You should not."
"I won't," Estel promised; and although he said it with the ready eagerness of a child, something in his eyes convinced Erestor that he would keep that promise.

---

Chapter End Notes

Inspired by Lordnelson100's Silm fic Untended, which my Tumblr queue happened to bring up again yesterday, and bolstered by Tolkien's own thoughts about motives in The Silmarillion:
"If we consider the situation after the escape of Morgoth and the reëstabishment of his abode in Middle-earth, we shall see that the heroic Noldor were the best possible weapon with which to keep Morgoth at bay, virtually besieged, and at any rate fully occupied, on the northern fringe of Middle-earth, without provoking him into a frenzy of nihilistic destruction. And in the meanwhile, Men, or the best elements in Mankind, shaking off his shadow, came into contact with a people who had actually seen and experienced the Blessed Realm." ~ Morgoth’s Ring, "Notes on motives in The Silmarillion"