Indy's B2MeM Stories by Independence1776

2010

“Negotiations” has been slightly reworked into a “Sparks” story. The stories that don’t belong on this archive are posted here, as is one Silm-based story that I hope to rework and expand one day.

The Singer
Janelle slipped out the back door of the beach house, careful not to let the rickety screen door slam, and for a second stood silently on the back porch in the darkness. She needed to see what the ocean looked like under starlight, so she could plan tomorrow night’s photography, if the weather held. She walked to the sea and stood there, staring at the water and the stars overhead, feeling the wet sand between her toes, hearing the crashing waves-- and something strange: a gorgeous voice unlike any she’d heard before, singing in a language that sounded vaguely like something she’d heard in those Lord of the Rings movies.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a tall man walking along the shore. He passed by only a few feet above the waterline, acknowledging her with a nod, but he didn’t stop singing. Entranced, Janelle could only watch until he was indistinguishable against the night.

She turned back to the sea, but no longer focused solely on the patterns of light. Janelle couldn’t help but wonder what the singer’s story was, and she knew it was likely she would never learn. Still, she could imagine…

Negotiations
Makalaurë turned, mixing bowl in hand, only for me to chuckle when I saw the amount of flour he wore. “Maitimo! Please, can you cook dinner tonight? I promised our parents it would be done by the time they returned from Lady Vilyandolië’s poetry reading, but I completely forgot I was meeting Narmincë in half an hour for dinner and a concert.”

I raised a hand to stop his flow of words. “What will you do in return? You know you shouldn’t break your promises, especially to Father.”

His shoulders slumped and he nearly dropped the bowl. “Anything you want.”

“Anything? Even something unpleasant?”

“Anything!”

“You can intervene the next time Father wants to pick a fight about my lack of interest in romantic relationships.”

“Fine!” He shoved the bowl into my arms and ran out of the kitchen. I shook my head as I heard him pounding up the stairs. He’d regret the agreement once he actually thought about it, but he was my brother. How could I not help him meet his sweetheart?

Pride
It hurt! That thought kept jolting through my mind with every jostling step my sons took, to the point where I had trouble concentrating on what I needed to tell them.

I made them stop. I could travel no further, wanting my last sight to be of Thangorodrim.

Fighting to breathe, to talk, I said, “Swear to me. Swear you will keep the oath, that you will bring the vengeance of the House of Fëanor to Morgoth, that you will not rest until you have regained the Silmarilli. Swear it.”

I died with satisfaction, knowing they would continue the fight.

Red
The color of Maitimo’s hair, though it wasn’t a true red, more a dark copper, almost auburn.

The color of the coals in Father’s forge.

The color that ran from a cut on my arm, when a harp string broke.

The color of metal heated by fire, to be turned into swords.

The color that spilled from Grandfather’s broken body.

The color that we spilled on the quays of Alqualondë.

The color Father was bathed in when he died.

The color our swords and armor turned in skirmishes and battles across Beleriand.

The color of leaves in the strange season we learned to call autumn.

The color our brothers shed from their mortal wounds, what Maedhros jumped into.

The color that, in retrospect, dominated our lives.

The color of our lifeblood, our history, and our legacy.

Red.