Indy's B2MeM Stories by Independence1776

2015

There are two stories posted in this chapter-- a Maglor and Elrond ficlet (rated General) and a Nerdanel/Fëanor Cuiviénen AU double drabble (rated Teens, warning for mature themes).

Prompt: This fic uses “Books! Create something from the Library of Rivendell: Any kind of fanwork - story, art, craft - show us or tell us about a book/scroll/manuscript from Elrond’s library” and touches on two others (an injured Maglor brought back to Rivendell by Elrond and anything about idioms and translation).

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Elleth for the beta and also to SurgicalSteel for medical advice. The title comes from this Sydney Smith quote: “Live always in the best company when you read.”

Summary: Books can keep people close, even if they're far away.

The Best Company

The book sat on a shelf in Imladris’ library, rarely touched. It didn’t take pride of place among the books of the Eastern languages; it was a copy and not in the author’s hand.

On occasion, though, on certain days of the year or when specific songs were sung in the Hall of Fire, Elrond would go to the library and pull the Variag-Westron dictionary off the shelf. He would stand there, slowly flipping through the pages. When the book had been made he did not know, nor why the trader who had overwintered in Imladris one year had it. But he could imagine the hot, dry air of the steppe surrounding the scribe as he worked, could imagine the time and care spent to make the book as useful as possible, could understand why Maglor would to turn scribing to make a living.

But he knew nothing more than that.

It was then Elrond would close the book, run his fingers over the camel-leather cover, and slide it gently back onto the shelf where it would remain until the next time he thought of his foster-father.

* * * * *

Maglor reached for the camel-leather book on the shelf, nearly hidden between two larger tomes, and carefully pulled it out. He nodded to himself when he saw the title and opened the book to a random page in the middle, recognizing his own handwriting. He turned when he heard footsteps on the flagstone floor behind him. He raised an eyebrow, but smiled at Elrond. “How did you come to have this?”

Elrond half-smiled. “A trader a couple of decades ago had it. I don’t know how it came to him; all he said was that he’d picked it up in Gondor.”

Maglor shut the book and slid it back onto the shelf. “The author hired me to make a dozen copies for her trade caravans. Tidir wanted there to be less chance of misunderstandings between her people and the Gondorians. Trade happens, but with the constant tensions between the countries, it was safer for them to have their own copies rather than be forced to rely on the diplomats for every problem.”

Elrond nodded. “How well did you know Tidir?” Maglor moved to the nearest chair and sat down, getting the weight off his ankle. Elrond sat down next to him. “And how is the boot working?”

Maglor said, “Very well.” He’d completely torn the ligaments when he’d slipped off a boulder near the sea, and despite Elven healing, his ankle would never be the same. The lace-up boot with its built-in supports would ensure that his ankle had the support it now needed. “I knew Tidir well; she was a dear friend. When I left Khand a dozen years ago, she was still the reigning matriarch of her house. But I cannot stay in one place overly long, no matter how friendly, and if I am away from the sea too long…”

Elrond frowned faintly. “The Sea-longing or--”

“The Silmaril.” Maglor rubbed the fingers of his left on the ugly scar that covered his right palm. “It calls to me sometimes.” He fell silent for a bit, trying not to think about why, and finally met Elrond’s eyes. “I know you worry about me, that you wonder how I am doing, how I am surviving, or even if I’m still among the living. But--” he looked around at the library, the people scattered around reading or researching, the garden and the mountains beyond the windows-- “I cannot stay among the Elves. Do not ask me to.”

“I won’t.” Elrond reached out and placed a hand on Maglor’s. “All I ask is that you write to me when you are able.”

Maglor thought about his lonely wanderings, his journeys in the empty parts of the world, and his occasional forays into larger towns and cities. “I cannot guarantee it will be often, or that my letters will be long, but I will try as best I can.”

“Thank you.” Elrond leaned back in his chair. “What is Khand like?”

Maglor smiled. “The stars are different.”

* * * * *

In Elrond’s library, there was a book in the section about the Eastern countries. It was not often read save by those who were curious about Khand’s history and culture, or those who wished to read about one merchant family in particular. For Elrond, though, it was a gift that both kept Maglor living in Imladris well past the time his ankle had needed to heal, and for the detailed glimpse of several decades of Maglor’s life it let Elrond have.

*************

Prompt: Finwë never travels to Valinor, instead remaining in Cuiviénen with most of the Noldor. He marries both Míriel and Indis. Some years after the birth of their last child, Finwë is taken by the Dark Rider.

Author's Note: This is not the story I meant to write when I left the prompt, but it works much better than my original version.

Summary: Nerdanel will not fight.

Art and War

Fëanor stared at her. Nerdanel sighed and turned to look at the running water of the creek. They sat in silence for a while, listening to the water, the bird song, the rustling leaves, and the noises of other animals in the woods. She finally said, “I cannot go with you. All of our sons are. Fingolfin and Lalwen are, as are most of our nephews and some of our nieces. You do not need an artist at your side when you are leading a war, Fëanor.”

He lifted up one of her hands and kissed it. “Do they really need you here?”

Nerdanel sighed. “People need art in times of trouble even more than they do in times of peace. And your mothers and siblings need assistants, if you want a place to return home to when you are victorious. Someone needs to farm and gather and weave and smith. We can't all fight.” She met his eyes. “Go avenge your father, Fëanor. We will ensure you have something else to fight for.” She leaned over and kissed him.

He shifted slightly and raised his hands to the string lacing the bodice of her dress up. “I already do."

Chapter End Notes

I wrote one LotR-based fic this year and it is posted on AO3.