Súlimëo Quentar: March Stories by Elleth

Out of the Dust

At the end of his life, Durin remembers his creation.

Read Out of the Dust

Hands gather him out of the dust.

Two great, gloved hands, so calloused and corded with sinew and muscle that it can be felt through the fabric. But more than that he recalls the pulse of blood, the warmth of living flesh, the nimbleness of the fingers passing over his still-closed eyes.

Of course, at that point he has no word for any of it, has none of it yet – not hands, gloves, muscle, callouses, blood, flesh, fingers – which leaves him, only, with the understanding from beyond himself that these things exist, and that he exists in answer to them, is their creation.

Once more the fingers pass over his eyes, polishing cloth follows chisel over bone and brow and beard, and understanding is followed by elation that his unshaped form is assuming shape, lovingly wrought. It is thus that each of them, all of them, are wrought, they understand later, and it is thus, the wise say, that the memory of their loving creation has instilled the same love for their creations in them. And, perhaps, to forge one more link in the chain, that their creations, though inanimate and insensate, respond to them.

He himself, as craftsman, recalls the pride and anxious joy at the fulfilment of the labour, the rumble of words like thunder, and like lightning into sand, the command that sears through his eyes, leaving glassy clarity in its wake.

See, says the command, and he has sight.

It is as though peering into an endless mirror, for the creator is looking closely at him, at the creature he created and that his mind animates, back and forth from different eyes at something not yet entirely other. For how, unless he possesses a semblance of being, is he to understand that there are words that pour from Mahal's mind and into him? How else, unless he possesses a semblance of independence, is he to understand that his fingers yearn to close around chisel and hammer and make, now that the making of him is near-complete?

Then, for a while, he only remembers that there is nothing at all – not words, thought, sight, hearing, smell, touch, movement – until love, and terror, wash over him to the exclusion of all else, the great hammer uplifted, and the impulse, his own, very own, to try and ward it off, for he is.

He does not recall the long sleep, and wishes now that he did, does not remember asking Mahal if they shall meet again, to ward off the terror of the dark that is grasping for him with clawed, black hands, to press him down into the mire of dust and blood.

Sight, through no volition of his own, is leaving him. He can feel his fingers, old fingers, joints bunched and swollen, skin crinkling like leather, callouses of a long craftsman's life, slack around the helve of his axe. It has done its last service, and served him well to cleave the orc archer whose arrow found its mark in him. It is a better death than to have mourners and weepers clustered around his bed with false pity and none beyond the obvious purpose. Far better to fall in battle with the wind on his face and there, over the brow of the hill and the dark trees against the sky, his crown bursting alight among the stars. His heart swells with pride even as the axe slips from his grasp.

Before his mind's eye, the great hammer falls.

Hands gather him, broken, out of the dust. Two great, gloved hands, so calloused and corded with sinew and muscle that it can be felt through the fabric. Mahal looks closely at him, smiling bids the Deathless welcome, and passes a finger over his eyes before he begins mending the wounds.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

I18: Book Titles: Out of the dust, Dwarves of the First Age: Durin the Deathless remembers coming to life and his maker Aulë, First Lines: When shall we meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?, In a Manner of Speaking: For pity's sake, Injuries: Arrow wound, Landscape: Hil

Cradle to the Grave

A short history of Númenor. (A double-drabble according to Open Office.)

Read Cradle to the Grave

Consonance surges as the Smith's hammer tears open Arda's mantle. From her cradle, Númenor arises. Waters cascade, and from small beginnings the melody unfolds. Men and women disembark, order prevails for a time. In Nísimaldar, dogwood flowers large and white, and all but the wisest begin to fear their winter. Thence their plight begins: Knowledge of certain death, driving apothecaries and anatomists alike to find eternal life, grants Noirinan no grace, but wakes of dissonant weeping. Estë and Nienna are no longer loved, Vána and Nessa take comfort from one another while human lips curse them as mockeries. Endings abound.

Crops fail, drown, burn, never grow. Hurricanes lash them, sleet stings them, but heedless, cruelty drives people hunting and gathering, to make graceless sacrifices left to flies and maggots: Not fruits, but others' Gifts, substitute returns by force. The old ways shatter; spans shorten, wives and husbands are callously replaced. Discord swells in coves and under skies no longer lavender at dusk. The Necromancer, falsely humbled, assails the council's minds, to war. Manwë grieves the necessary justice to be ordered. Consonance surges as the Smith's hammer tears open Arda's mantle. And Númenor, as all things must, goes to her grave.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N43: Discoveries: Anatomy, Four Words: smith, consonance, cradle, mantle, Horror: Spiders, flies, and maggots, Landscape: Cove, Weather: Sleet, Women of the Silmarillion: Women of Numenor

I22: AU Card: And in that year, the Necromancer, Sauron, revealed himself, and he broke the Council that had come to assail him..., Here We Come A-Caroling: "heedless of the wind and weather", Colours: Lavender, Economy: Climatic Change, Femslash: Valier, Festivals: Funeral/Wake, Food and Drink: Hunting and Gathering, Four Words: order, cascade, small, dogwood, Occupation: apothecary, Relationship: remarriage, Second Age: The Gift of Men, Weather: Hurricane, Write What You Know: A character you dislike--what might you have in common?

With the Sight of Eagles

On Midsummer 3019 TA, Maglor lets his gaze roam from Amon Hen.

Read With the Sight of Eagles

The Seat easily affords him the Long Sight.

From Amon Hen across Rauros, to spot the water fowl a hundred miles downriver. A farmer's daughter comes running to Anduin, hitches her skirt, wades into the shallows - her ducks have escaped! He does not hear her cry, or the river's mud squelching between her toes, but he sees it all, to the glints of water on her skin. It does not do to pry - onward.

Something like summer is coming even to Mordor, where the creatures of that dark land have perished so utterly that not even flies remain to breed in the myriad dead orcs. The unveiled morning sun glints on young leaves with knife-sharp edges. It will be long until life there will normalize, until the war machines rust into nothing, but there is time. The foundations of Barad-dûr are broken, unlike an age ago, when vainglory and foolishness allowed them to persist even in victory. The Dark Lord will not return again.

South beyond, in the deserts of Far Harad, a grandmother sits clustered by the village children, turning a spit of meagre lamb for tonight's poor midsummer feast, and tells them tales of absent fathers. The war has gutted their coffers and stolen the men from this village. There will be few until these children grow. But already he can see two thumbs beyond the grandmother's notice, engaged in playful battle - a girl's, stained with henna; a boy's, stained with earth. Hope is not lost there.

Onward. The expanse of sand dips suddenly, sharply, into Belegaer. He knows those shores, even though the Northlands are his favoured abode. There is, nowhere, the reason that drove him to wander here, and make use of the longest day. Seeking the light out of deep water that his Silmaril must shine, he goes on until the air grows thick and humid, mist swathes out of the dark forests and blocks his sight. There is nothing there, and he is weary from roaming so far, sweat beading on his skin.

The Sight grows dark. Trees swim before his eyes – he never transitions smoothly into normal seeing. He sways down the stairs, and to the forest floor. Maglor sleeps.

The shadows have barely lengthened when he wakes and climbs the stairs again, easing back into the Seat. It has never merely been the Silmaril he sought, though he had come here the first time in a fit of despair of ever finding it. Thanks to a Númenorean sailor drunk out of his wits in an Umbari tavern, who had proclaimed the First Age a child's tale, and bragged about the glory of Númenor expanding beyond the Misty Mountains, Maglor had all but run to find the Seats of Hearing and Seeing. Now it is the other side of the mountains he seeks, passing Hithaeglir with the sight of eagles, and, descending over the high moor further north, down the steep cliffs of Imladris.

The Last Homely House, which he has never dared approach save this way, stands empty. But it is not misery that has befallen them, it cannot be. Maglor knows what signs battle will leave, and there are none. Nonetheless his Sight swims, wavers –

– and steadies, upon recalling the day.

It is Midsummer, and there will be feasting in the White City, if Elrond and the new king recall their customs, ancient and out of Aman. Turning his eyes to Minas Tirith at dusk, he sees that they do recall indeed, and his granddaughter is laughing at the high table. The Hobbits shuffle their feet, Olórin is enjoying a pipe, puffing great white swathes of smoke from his mouth, and Maglor almost he believes he can smell the wizard's pipeweed. Perhaps. Perhaps the Seat is augmenting more than his eyes, perhaps wishful thinking is toying with Maglor's mind. He should have been there. Among the Gondorians, yet another dark-haired, grey-eyed onlooker would attract little notice, but no – Elrond and Galadriel will surely recognize him, and there is not the time to cross so many miles.

Watching from afar must do. Unlike an age ago, when he had sat here and laughed as a madman would at the purported triumph of the Last Alliance, this time he smiles at new beginnings – for Men, at least. Elros' sceptre may have perished, but there always is a substitute, and more important than symbols of office is the hand in Aragorn's as Arwen, Queen of the Reunited Kingdom, leads her husband to the dancing.

It is evening when he is content with looking, and night until he has found the Seat on Amon Lhaw. And sitting there, with music and laughter in his ear, he himself joins in, whether or not the revellers will hear.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O68: Economy: War, Second Age: Destruction of Barad-dûr, Weather: Humid, Smells: Pipeweed, Artifact: Sceptre of Elros,

O67: Landscape: Canyon

Midwinter

While seeking for Eluréd and Elurín, Maedhros' past catches up with him.

(Horror, hence possibly disturbing images in this fic. A drabble according to Open Office.)

Read Midwinter

The forest is full of spectres, Maedhros only alive among them. Falling thick as snow, the dead of all his faults and battles, iced-over bones from Helcaraxë cracking under footsteps, dead brothers peering out from snow-drifts, blue-lipped, Fingon's ruined face blowing him kisses. Unhorsed, pathless, he stumbles, seeking – what? It's cold, midwinter. His fire gutters out, there's Ambarussa laughing. Twins. He's seeking twins, Dior's sons, and rouses the dead of Doriath, shrieking, driving needles in his face.

Enough, a woman whispers. They are safe with me. Leave now.

He flies along a sudden path. The dead, unsatisfied, follow.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O68: Here we come A-Caroling: "We won't go until we get some!", Fëanátics: Maedhros went to look for Elúred and Elúrin, Horror: Footsteps and whispers, Relationships: same-sex relationship

Snaring Light

Young Fëanor requests a gift off his mothers. Inspired by Independece1776's A Kind of Poetry. A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Snaring Light

Laughing, Indis looked into Fëanáro's bright, expectant eyes.

"Some hair from both our heads, love? That is no hardship." She snatched Míriel's silver scissors from the tangled workbox and saw her wife (the thought still gave her such delightful thrills) nod assent without ever looking up from her swiftly-moving needles.

The gold and silver strands clutched firmly in his hand, Fëanáro forestalled the inevitable questions, dashing away. Míriel briefly rested her embroidery, smiling after her son. "I heard him boast to Finwë this morning that the Mingling would see him snare the light. We seem to be part of it."

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

067: AU Card: Identify a cultural artifact associated with a people you're interested in - how might a different history change its significance?, Femslash: Women of the House of Finwë

Specimen

The way to a woman's heart...

(Contains dead orcs, bugs and hints at medical procedures, probably not for the squeamish.) A drabble written as thank-you for GG, Pandë and Steel for help and encouragement with this particular OC's story.

Read Specimen

Idhlinn's brow furrowed. "You expect gratitude."

The hunter's face crumpled in dismay at her tone, not the obvious joy he had expected. The carcass he had brought dropped to the floor with a clank of armour.

"I am grateful," she said quickly, nodding. "I was assuming everyone believed I spoke in jest. Put it on the table."

That done, Idhlinn stripped the creature."Interesting. I hoped for a male specimen." The hunter, a hand on his stomach, fled when she set the scalpel on the orc's chest for the first incision, humming, and fondly glanced at her dermestid jar. "Soon."

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O67: In a Manner of Speaking: Skeletons in the Closet, Injuries: Stomach Ache

Communication Log of Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100

The communication log of Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100 (aka Aredhel) aboard Hospital Ship Halls of Mandos. (With apologies to aliana1, whose concept of space!Middle-earth I may have borrowed.)

Read Communication Log of Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100

WELCOME, PATIENT01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100. We hope you are settling in well on Hospital Ship Halls of Mandos despite your traumatic demise and recent arrival. Please enjoy yourself on the TapNetwork. To begin, enter your desired commands.
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>REQUEST:ARCHIVE_INT_ADMIN:open_hist_classified_Echor_Gond_FA400+.tap

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PROVIDE PASSWORD:_
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>GLINGAL
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DATABASE ACCESS
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DOWNLOADING access_echor_gond_FA400+.tap
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>REQUEST:comm_Echor_Gond_FA510: GET OUT! GET OUT BEFORE MIDSUMMER. JUST GET OUT.
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ERROR: COMMUNICATION PROTOCOL UNAVAILABLE. POST-TEMP COMMUNICATION DISABLED FOR USER GROUP:PATIENT.
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>REQUEST:comm_Echor_Gond_FA126: TURUKÁNO, LISTEN. DON'T STAY THERE. IT'LL BE THE DEATH OF YOU! IGNORE THE ULUMÚRI.
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ERROR: TIMESTAMP EXPIRED. PRE-TEMP COMMUNICATION DISABLED FOR USER GROUP:PATIENT.
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>REQUEST:private_Val_HofMand_Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100_to_ADMIN: FUCK YOU, MANDOS! WHAT'S THE HARM IN LETTING ME DO THIS?
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>REQUEST:private_Val_HofMand_Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100_to_ADMIN: NO ANSWER? HOSPITAL SHIP, MY ASS! PRISON!!! WHAT'S THE POINT OF TAPESTRY ACCESS IF I CAN'T USE IT?
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>REQUEST:comm_TalDir_Nargoth_FA400&comm_ErWeth_EithSir_FA400: FINDARÁTO, TURKAFINWË, FINDEKÁNO, ANYONE GETTING THIS, LISTEN. THE GONDOLIN WILL CRASH. IT'S ALL GOING TO HELL. ANGBAND WAR FLEET. MANDOS GOT ME (SAY THANKS TO MY LITTLE SHIT OF A HUSBAND), BUT INTERNAL ACCESS LET ME HACK THE TAP ARCHIVES. MAKE THEM EVACUATE. PLEASE.
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ERROR: CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. CLASSIFIED COMMUNICATION DISABLED FOR USER GROUP:PATIENT.
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>REQUEST:private_Val_HofMand_Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100_to_ADMIN: JUST YOU WAIT. I'LL FIND A WAY.
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>REQUEST_COMM_INT_ADMIN:private_Belegaer_FA495_ADMIN01001110 11100001 01101101 01101111_to_ADMIN01010101 01101100 01101101 01101111: Brother, your service is needed. Your messenger awaits in the Midsector, Nevrast Quadrant.
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SUCCESS: COMMUNICATION SENT.
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SUCCESS: COMMUNICATION RECEIVED.
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SUCCESS: ARCHIVES ALTERED. ADDITIONAL PARAMETERS CREATED. PLEASE ACCESS FILES FOR DETAILS:
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access_ulmo_tuor.tap
access_tuor_quest.tap
access_tuor_armour.tap
access_voronwë_survival.tap
access_voronwë_tuor.tap
access_voronwë_piloting.tap
access_tuor_echoriath_quadrant.tap
access_tuor_tumladen.tap
access_tuor_gondolin.tap
access_tuor_ulmo_prophecy.tap
access_tuor_knowledge_gond.tap
access_tuor_idril.tap
access_eärendil_creation.tap
access_idril_foresight.tap
access_orcs_maeglin.tap
access_maeglin_planet_angband.tap
access_morgoth_maeglin.tap
access_morgoth_location_gond.tap
access_morg_warfleet_database.tap
access_maeglin_gondolin.tap
access_idril_unease.tap
access_idril_escapepod_blueprints.tap
access_gondolin_tarninausta_FA510.tap
access_morgoth_warfleet.tap
access_morgoth_gondolin_destr.tap
access_gondolin_panic.tap
access_gondolin_battle.tap
access_randomselect_gondolin_citizens_hofmand.tap
access_gondolin_balrogs.tap
access_gondolin_dragons.tap
access_ecthelion_gothmog.tap
access_ecthelion_kingsfountain.tap
access_ecthelion_hofmand.tap
access_houseofthehammer_hofmand.tap
access_maeglin_idril_eärendil.tap
access_tuor_maeglin.tap
access_maeglin_amongwareth.tap
access_maeglin_hofmand.tap
access_maeglin_norelease.tap
access_turgon_tower.tap
access_dragon_tower.tap
access_turgon_hofmand.tap
access_duilin_hofmand.tap
access_salgant_bed.tap
access_salgant_hofmand.tap
access_idril_eärendil_escapepod.tap
access_randomselect_gondolin_citizens_escapepod.tap
access_cirith_thoronath.tap
access_glorfindel_balrog.tap
access_balrog_glorfindel_hair.tap
access_glorfindel_hofmand.tap
access_idril_eärendil_tuor_avernien_quadrant.tap
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>REQUEST:private_Val_HofMand_Patient01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100_to_ADMIN: TOLD YOU I WOULD FIND A WAY.

DEAR PATIENT01000001 01110010 01100101 01100100 01101000 01100101 01101100. Please be aware that your usage privileges of the TapNetwork have been revoked. We do hope that you will nonetheless enjoy your stay.|

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N41: Artifacts and Weapons: Ulumúri

O65: Artifacts and Weapons: Glingal, Genre1: SciFi, TVTropes: Overshadowed by Awesome, Women of the Silmarillion: Women of Gondolin

Nuttiness

Little Makalaurë will turn anything into a song. Silly elfling fluff.

Read Nuttiness

"Aunt, Makalaurë says his tooth hurts."

There was no reaction. Nerdanel was sleeping soundly, exhausted after a long day that had involved not merely looking after her second son, but finding herself beset with Findekáno and Findaráto, both of them several years younger and far more prone to mischief than Makalaurë. He had, however, joined them in the endeavour to escape the house to the market, because all of them craved sweetmeats, and it had taken a fair deal of chasing them, all that after a new shipment of marble blocks that needed moving to her studio. Fëanáro, as usual, had locked himself in his forge and been utterly unhelpful; Maitimo was sitting on a long council at the Palace.

Findaráto, at a loss, looked to his slightly older cousin and snuck a thumb in his mouth. They had left Makalaurë curled in his bed worrying at his mouth, and promised they'd fetch his mother to make it better.

"Ont, Mahalauë iv unwef," he tried again, mumbling around his finger, just when a bloodcurdling howl shook the house. Nerdanel bolted upright straight out of her sleep, but already the sound subsided into the softer twang of harp strings carrying what appeared, at first, nonsense.

"I found a nuuuuuut. I foooooouuuuuund a nuuuuuuut stuuuuuuuuuck in my tooooooth!"

"What's he saying?" Findekáno asked. Nerdanel passed a hand over her face, for the first time registering the two young boys in her bedroom.

"It is fine, Káno. I think that he is singing."

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N41: Injuries: Tooth Ache, Last Lines: I think that he is singing.

Host of Stars

During the departure from Cuiviénen, Finwë battles a moment of indecision. A double-drabble according to Open Office.

Read Host of Stars

Looking back, there were a veritable multitude of fires on the shore.

Finwë, leaning on his staff, closed his eyes. The fires still burned, inside his eyelids.
Half of my people remained. The failure to convince them stung, the separation tugged fiercely on his limbs to turn and lead the host of the Tatyar back with him. But stronger still pulled the desire to see the Light again. One way or another had to lie farewell. But doubt gnawed at his bones as a hungry wolf would. As the Dark Rider would, if he caught him. My choice was wise.

Opening his eyes again, he lifted them to the stars. And dropped them, to see a veritable multitude of torches following him up the pass into the cliffs; like a host of stars themselves. In their shine were children running, a shepherdess herding her flock, a musician drumming his timbrel and the man beside him laughing, all the way into the valley the glint of light on hair and eyes turned forward. Hindmost, almost beyond recognition, were the Nelyar, but even they followed.

And in the end, they will have greater lights still. Lightened, Finwë began climbing the slope ahead.

---

Chapter End Notes

Half the original Tatyarin population did in fact remain at Cuiviénen to become part of the Avari, their departing counterpart later became the Noldor. The Nelyar are the later Teleri, the most reluctant to depart. Many more of them remained at Cuiviénen, while others got lost along the road, so to speak. They also were the last group to arrive in Valinor.

Written for the following prompts:

B7: Here we come A-Caroling: Tidings of Comfort and Joy, Landscape: Cliffs

The Bearing of Fire

On Thangorodrim, Maedhros is plagued by visions.

(Mildly disturbing images, but nothing terribly graphic. A drabble according to Open Office.)

Read The Bearing of Fire

The stratus clouds swirl, dive, and form a vulture come to maim him to his core. Maedhros shudders. Hanging, he dreams the bird tearing, pecking, rending him. But he accepts it, reclaims a measure: His is not punishment for brotherly insubordination, his is not misfortune. This is just. He has failed to bear the fire: never cheered at Losgar, and his father's essence guttered into ashes in his hands. It is just.

Maglor later learns that story, claiming it in turn. In song, Maedhros is the one who carries on the flame. In song, that too is just.

---

Chapter End Notes

All and any similarities to the Prometheus myth are fully intended.

Written for the following prompts:

B7: Four Words: core, vulture, stratus, maim

Baptising Fire

During the War of Wrath, the first bearer of Narsil encounters his first enemy.

(Not for the arachnophobic or those disliking self-indulgent headcanon.) A series of drabbles according to Open Office.

Read Baptising Fire

War dictates where they go, these times. The North is not safe, not even remotely, but winter and the wrecking of Beleriand have them writhing in desperate straits, half-starved like dogs, and so they strike for the straightest road to the Amanyar host, to scavenge in their one-time peers' wake. By their path, Himring rises, ruined, in the distance, but gives no appearances of falling.

"You built well," Maglor says, catching sight of his brother's erstwhile fortress, but Maedhros makes no reply in words. His eyes stay shadowed, with a hard edge around his mouth that speaks of a decision.

* * *

They delay. Needlessly, some say – the typical dissenters. If their comments passed unremarked before (by now the remaining Feanorians are nothing if not loyal to a fault), the time is desperate enough to send the loud-mouths away – only foraging, revealed after a heartbeat's horrid pause: Maedhros has a cruel streak – and a kind one, too. The gang of four, remarkable only in how they obey, decides for remembered patches of blackberry bushes, grumbling about the pointlessness of niceties when ordered to make for the keep at nightfall.

"Niceties, perhaps," Maedhros says, impatiently. "But food is hardly pointless."

* * *

Maedhros leads the rest to Himring.

Orcs garrisoned there, the town below is burned. But on the hill, grass grows high within the baileys, and any sign of enemies is decades old. The doors are rusting, still untouched. Perhaps the ghost of Maedhros out of Angband, who killed orcs with tooth and nail, still haunts these halls, protecting them.

No one is surprised to find Maedhros, the real one (and yet the same) still in possession of the keys. He has ever had trouble letting go of anything. They follow in, driving a host of memories like rats before them.

* * *

The young ones only, never having been there, sense adventure. Elros pushes forward with shining eyes, receiving permission to explore as long as he can promise care. Elrond is less eager – until they pass the library.

There is no holding him; he has read most books they still possess thrice over and rejoices in the opportunity. Maglor kindles him a fire for light to read by while Elrond scavenges the shelves. There is no need for a reminder, but Maglor is quick to dispense advice. "Leave the shutters closed, it would do well to keep our presence here unnoticed."

* * *

The rest of them spread out. Some make for the orchards and the granary. Maedhros, who took stock of the storage rooms (for old habits die hard), hefts a wheel of 90-year-old-cheese that is summarily pronounced inedible. The dissenters return with a bony hart, some hands of withered berries, wild onions. They cook broth. The earth shakes twice, the sun sets in the north, or else the land's aflame with war again. Maglor grows quiet, thinking of his wife, who died in such a night. Elrond comes skipping, bringing stacks of books.

Elros found the armoury. He comes bearing swords.
* * *

"Tell us of the swords," begs Elrond, a journal forgotten on his lap. The writing spikes across the page, broken by sketches – bones, wounds, herbs.

"In return for Idhlinn's journal," Maedhros decides, extending his hand. She died at Sirion, and Cuingail, who loved her, unrequited, looks up. He protested leaving the dead weight of her things – so they kept her journals; save this left at Himring when they fled. Elrond surrenders it, and listens.

"Telchar of Nogrod made these swords," Maedhros begins. "One has no name I know of, the other he called Narsil. Will you have them?"

* * *

The notes of protest are muffled only – no one wants to forage at night, even over this strange contradiction – the harmless books forbidden, the swords – possibly - allowed.

"May we, Father?"

Maglor knows a losing battle, nodding swiftly. "Be cautious, honour them, and use them only if you must. Swords are not toys, and they can kill. Now let Maedhros tell your story." He withdraws into thought again.

"Twin swords for twins, and yet both unalike," Maedhros says quietly, earning glances. Most days, his brother is the poet. He deals out the blades: Narsil first, to Elros.

* * *

The moment passes; not profound, not quite. Elrond receives the unnamed sword and goes about deciphering the cirth on pommel and on crossguard. "Telchar forged me under moon and star, in midwinter, north afar." There is a cold glint on the blade, but no name. "I'll leave it, till it earns one," he decides.

Elros, more rash, sits with a nicked finger dripping blood onto his blade. "Narsil is mine now," he declares, inviting frowns.

"Remember Gurthang," Asgarvain cautions. She goes on to speak of Túrin's black sword that slew its masters – twice. "Do not invite your Narsil's malice."

* * *

All tales told, all cautioned and decided – and in rare shelter, sated on thin broth – they go to sleep. All save the young ones, seeking ways to lie with the new sheaths in comfort. These are the first blades they own (though not the first they used) and they are to keep them at all times.

The next day, bleary, they strike north again, across Himlad that is torn and Aglon that is levelled. It is difficult to find their bearings, in the distance rolls the sea. And ere they are aware, the maze of once-Gorgoroth snares them.

* * *

There are strange airs that make them weary. Darkness, fog and shadows dog them, never quite grasp, but pass right through them with cold shudders. Unreal clouds loom over their heads, eyes are wide with remembered terrors. Elros thinks he hears his mother cry, a distant echo as nurse Meleth rushes them away. They rest early – needs must, though things click and skitter, shadows move of own accord. They can't lift their leaden limbs much longer.

Elrond, groping for courage, says to his brother: "Remember, Beren crossed this land once, and though he never told the tale, he lived."

* * *

Elros draws comfort from his brother's words, and sleep (or what passes for it in this land, for all that dream do toss and turn) eludes him entirely. He walks past the guards, who nod on first watch. Perhaps to numb terror, all three stink of miruvor; a pilfered flask in Caunaras' hand bears Himring's emblem.

At Elros' hip, his sword shines a pale red: In wonder he unsheathes Narsil, and only then notices the stifling darkness all about him – he's strayed to far, can't see a thing. Some web of shadow has him beating blindly at the air.

* * *

From outside he hears cries, too late – he can't break through, there's stench that chokes him – sharp like onions, but fouler, the pungence of decaying meat, of writhing things in shadows, under leaves, many-legged and deadly, intent on making his life their feast.

"No," says he, barely breathing, lifting Narsil – and remembers lessons, of all things in poetics; kennings for swords involving fire, flames, and light - Narsil flickers red. Something shifts above him, like a great vaulted roof, but pocked, alive, and creasing – and eight legs like pillars, or a cage. Ungoliant, he thinks, near-despairing.

* * *

No – did she not devour herself, so it's said? Some weaker spawn, but deadly still. His eyes swim and he stumbles – there's ground beneath his cheek, feet kick the air, he's already fallen. The sword still burns, a pale brand, fingers close back about it, the pricked one smarts, the wound re-opens, drops roll down the blade again.

And Elros understands: This sword will rejoice in blood, shear through foes, and this is not the greatest darkness it will face – and master, too. Fangs scissor, grasp, the spider has a head – he stings – and swoons.

* * *

Morning is dawning purple at the edges like a bruise, and light is a reluctant thing. They all cluster around Elros, journals open, seeking cures for spider-venoms, and Cuingail shakes his head. There's nothing there.

"We can but hope he wakes," they say to Elrond and to Maglor, holding each other as Fëanor did with his sons, a habit that hardly went acknowledged. Elrond tells the story of Lúthien recalling Beren to her side, and with the midday sun burning a hole into the clouds, Elros wakes, blearily, recalling very little. Narsil is put into his hand, and he smiles.

---

Chapter End Notes

On the kennings of swords related to fire: This is a double pun, at least sort of. Tolkien originally intended Anduril (which just is Narsil reforged, after all) to be named Branding, after the poetic brand, an archaic term for sword, but with obviously fiery connotations and etymology. It also seemed fitting to translate, considering that most Elven swords seem to display a certain capacity for glowiness.

My headcanon is, of course, that Narsil used to be Elros' sword. I mean... how does a sword by a dwarf-smith who had dealings with the Fëanorians come into Elendil's possession? This is one possible way. And it's also a nice explanation why Elrond sheltered the shards, other than as an heirloom of Elendil's house.

Written for the following prompts:

B7: Artifacts: Narsil; Evil, Villains and Monsters: Shelob

N33: Artifacts: Gurthang; Here we come A-Caroling: "You would even say it glows..."; Economy: Infrastructure; Food and Drink: Miruvor; Four Words: gang, remarkable, blackberry, nicety; Smells: Onion

N31: Fëanátics: Fëanor hugged his kids; Horror: Darkness, fog and shadows; TV Tropes: Royals who actually do something; Waters: Clouds

I21: Colours: Purple; Genre1: Thriller; Smells: Meat

No Monkeys at Cuiviénen

Beer and the origin of warfare don't mix. (Not technically a Silmfic, but references Cuiviénen, so I decided to include it here.) A drabble according to Open Office.

Read No Monkeys at Cuiviénen

"No, not gorilla," says the queen to Éomer, delicately spooning soup. "It is a style of warfare. The Laiquendi – the Green Elves – favoured it. Small, mobile troops attacking suddenly, then withdrawing – ambushes, and often in forested terrain. It is an ages-old technique, presumably learned from the First Enemy himself, for he would appear, grasp the unfortunate, and speed away. The Elves of Cuiviénen reclaimed it for themselves."

"Then why is it named for monkeys? Were there monkeys at Cuiviénen?" asks Éomer, less preoccupied with history and more with beer, and takes another swig. Arwen rolls her eyes.

---

Chapter End Notes

I blame GG, entirely. Her, and the English pronunciation. Why are these things homophones? (And yes, I know that gorillas are apes. ;))

N31: Weapons and Warfare: Guerrilla Warfare

Explaining Significance

After the rescue from the Fen of Serech, Finrod swears his oath to Barahir, and explains the significance of his ring.

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"If not for your timely aid, I would be more than humbled; I would be slain."

The man watched Finrod with bright eyes, betraying no grief, though many of his company had paid for passage of the spear-wall with their own brief lives.

"But glory is fleeting. My father said so to me when I was very young, and gave me this." Finrod worked a ring off his swollen finger, scraping it over joint and skin. "Perhaps it was his own small piece of foresight; if so he acted upon it far differently than his half-brother did." He held up the ring for all to see: Two snakes crowned by golden flowers, that one upheld and one devoured. "And thus the badge of my House. Pride and humility, and both intertwined, for the most mighty may fall the most swiftly."

At Finrod's solemn gesture, Barahir knelt.

"I have nothing greater to give than this, and with it my solemn oath, to render the service you already gave, to come to your aid and your family's if your own glory is fleeting, and be ever a friend in need."

The elf-lord also knelt, and, sealing the troth, laid the ring in Barahir's palm.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

I21: Artifacts and Weapons: Ring of Barahir

Safe Haven

Phazganôn, son of Pharazôn and governor of Pelargir, has a secret name that is not altogether secret.

(Grisly subjects, though nothing graphic. AU.)

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Phazganôn has a secret name that is not altogether secret.

"Amandur," his people hail him when he buys bread on the Pelargir market, or come crying at some minor injustice, for even the Faithful, law-abiding as they are, are subject to the whims of mortal men. He does his best to bring their wrongs to right, lower the crippling taxes that his father imposes from across the sea, works with the councils to deceive in records: Sixteen Faithful to the flames, he writes.

His father begins to question the smooth sailing after a time, desiring proof, but the Zigûr will not let him leave to Pelargir; instead he sends some high lord of the court. Amandur becomes Phazganôn then, donning Adûnaic robes and titles, and Melissë the draper, his betrothed, is forcibly called Izrê. Her glares at Lord Ûrêbalak would melt a glacier, but her saving grace is that she's fair, and a foothold with the Faithful, to better undermine them – or that is what they say. She is not there by force at all.

Ûrêbalak stays months, indulges in Umbari luxuries, drinks wine laced with herbs that make him easily susceptible to lies, and others that will make him tired, enough to be convinced that this climate means him ill, but that Phazganôn is working well – there are Faithful prisoners aplenty in the dungeons, quailing (though unbeknownst, they are fed well, their families are reimbursed for trouble, and the captives may walk free at night), and at the time the twentieth is caught for some minor disobedience, he gloats about the burning a week hence. A great fire it shall be, all honour Mulkhêr. Amandur appears to be chewing lemons by the faces that he pulls, but only behind closed doors, and arranges for ships to depart just-so with the first set of missives homeward-bound to calm the thoughts that wing his way from Númenor, although it costs him dearly. It is the price to pay to match his father's guile.

A day before the burning, Ûrêbalak takes ill with a sudden, crippling fever, and dies the next night, while flames of the supposed sacrifice dance red before his sickroom windows. His last word and testament again praise Phazganôn's work and curse the darkness coming onto him. Melissë supplies the shrouds and funeral cloths – a long time ready, made in secret - and (so Phazganôn's letter says) Ûrêbalak is embalmed and put to rest with pomp befitting any of the Adûnâim, in mock-faith to the Zigûr's preaching. After all, there is good hope that he will not need to sleep for long, and, having risen experience not only the burning of all Faithful, but of Amatthâni proper. Phazganôn is certain that will please his father. Pharazôn is many things more than guileful – predictable in his hatred one of them.

Pelargir, for a time, is a safe haven once more; the Faithful go free again. The human ash that Phazganôn encloses in his letters is not theirs. With love, he signs his reports, knowing his mother at least will read them as they are intended.

---

Chapter End Notes

Amandur: Quenya for 'Aman-servant'
Phazganôn: 'Conquerer', tentatively, in Adûnaic
Melissë/Izrê: Quenya and Adûnaic for the same meaning, 'beloved'
Ûrêbalak: Adûnaic for 'Sun-vessel'
the Zigûr: The Adûnaic moniker for Sauron, meaning 'wizard'
Amatthâni: Adûnaic name for 'Aman'.

Written for the following prompts:

B15: Economy: Taxation; Landscapes: Glacier
G50: AU card: In 3285, Ar-Pharazôn installs his son and heir as governor of Pelargir among the Faithful...; In a Manner of Speaking: Silent as the grave; Occupations: Draper; Skills: Weaving

Embroideries

During Tirion's Midwinter festival, Míriel, Indis and Finwë announce a strange renewal. (An AU to Indy's A Kind of Poetry verse. Warning for bigotry against poly relationships.)

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When she stepped into the small family dining room, spotting a tired-looking Míriel at the far end of the table, she couldn't help but remember the days following Fëanáro's birth, the difficulties in helping Míriel through her depression, or the aftermath when the three's relationship became public. (A Kind of Poetry, by Independence1776)

* * *

Winter has come to Tirion. It is a time of pleasant temperatures, still hot, but less stifling than in summer, and the obligations of sowing, tending and harvesting are past; Yavanna rests. The country-folk flock to the city, gossip flies, the Noldor of Tirion mingle in the squares and trot out fashion-statements. This year sees little needlework, or gold, or official emblems: The Needlewomen's Guild has issued complaints, few Vanyar still feel welcome in the city, and allegiances to the King's house are hushed up at best, if not denied outright. Debates flare up, the central question:

Can they do this?

"They can," some answer. "In fact already have, they are betrothed, or so most gossip says. Or they will be, very soon," says a young woman, shyly stroking the intricate weave of her companion's hair, a married lady twice her age. Both are wrapped in resplendent embroidery, not quite Míriel's, but a statement of their own. "And why should they not? Love is love." To that not all agree.

Laurelin waxes light on midwinter as on every day, touching her rays on preparations for a festival – the calenders continue unchanged by the petty troubles of the Eldar, and rites must be upheld.

On a dais made for two thrones years ago (when the world was right, some say), now, awkwardly and a little crowded, are three, awaiting their occupants to sit traditional offices, to pledge renewal for the coming year. It is an age-old rite, now only ceremonial in nature, for in Valinor, all nature is governed by the Valar, the Eldar need not fear for their survival. Garlands are strung – white roses, yellow ones, and red amid a weave of leaves.

Midday finds the square beneath the Mindon packed with people. Sweat beads on the faces of many that have come to gawk, not from the day's warmth only – at the edge of the crowd, a few wear lavishly embroidered robes and dresses, some even draw on their courage and dare hold hands. Two men and a woman stand in debate with a shouter seeking to condemn, one anxious eye toward the waiting thrones.

"No one has reported such madness from anywhere! Where are the Valar in all this? It is perverse! Neither here, nor on any of Oromë's rides to the far corners of the Outer Lands have we encountered anything alike! The order of all things is threatened, what happens here – the Laws and Customs speak of no such thing! If they have shared a bed already as is said, did that not end our normal way of marriage as an instintution before Eru? Is it not said that all things must have their opposite and mate? Why else did Imin, Tata and Enel wake next to their wives?"

One of the men laughs. "A children's counting tale is your chief argument? Does it make mention of their people, the ones they found in the woods around the lake, and whom they loved?"

He means to make reply, but trumpets blast an interruption, and after the fanfare, a hush descends. From the palace, over the walkway, come Finwë and a tired-looking Míriel, and Indis holding infant Fëanáro, side by side by side, to take their places. They all are wearing lavishly embroidered clothes, Míriel's needlework for certain, the way it shifts and shimmers in the light. Little Fëanáro grasps at crystals studded over Indis's dress.

None of the three look thrilled – many recall past occasions, when all three were smiling, although the crowd would wonder at the presence of the chief of Míriel's handmaidens, then standing trusty behind her lady's throne. What silences the crowd now is resolution in their eyes – even in tired Míriel's, that they will not be shaken, or dissuaded, and Finwë's speech that follows says as much.

It is a short occasion, an address more than a celebration, brief words by both Míriel and Indis, and the renewal rite brings chaste kisses rather than the overt fertility rituals of old Cuiviénen - but for the murmur of the crowd, all three royals might as well be nude and jumping in the firelight. A myriad of unpleasantries lurk behind the faces of the watchers, save the happy few who find themselves confirmed. They cheer. Few others do, but none are so overbold that they would dare rebel openly against the King, Queen, and their lover.

Then, as some have suspected – and the young woman curls her hand into her lady's palm, watching from where they stand on a balcony not far away, still close enough to hear – comes the announcement that the three are engaged, and eyes drawn to their fingers confirm the presence of slender silver rings. Normal, as in any ordinary courtship, and yet there are three. Or so the masses say and think. That is a renewal of a very different sort.

The fireworks that sign the celebration's end go off, gunpowder smell hangs heavy and bitter in the air. Problems will grow from this day, as though official confirmation of their love has opened them to criticism – and will renew, as per the day. But so will the strength of the few who still wear their embroidered clothes.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

I21: Off the Map's Edge: The Rides of Oromë; Weapons and Warfare: Gunpowder

B15: Festivals: Winter; Let's Get Meta: A gapfiller to another author’s fanwork; Relationships: Betrothal; Weather: Hot

Paper City

Tirion is a paper city, with all the consequences. A double-drabble according to Open Office.

Read Paper City

"Tirion is a paper city," Ortaquin explains to Estelindë. What her father means is this: The city has been drawn and planned before its raising by the Eldar and the Valar, and when she runs her errands, she'll happily pretend the streets are ink marks on a sheet. Her game reveals a host of ingenuities to marvel at: the marble stairs, the bridges spanning waterfalls, the Mindon rising like a needle in the center. It fails to tire her until she departs for Lórien. The gardens there are wildly grown, not built, a first hint of the greater world outside.

Returning, she is always slightly restless, all too aware of rules and restrictions placed on her, the stifling weight of expectations that she stop her healing and her studies to marry and have children. These rules, too, being set on paper, make the city, the underpinnings, stanchions and supporting beams glossed over or invisible. How she detests these little details, the jealous thou-shalt-nots that her sister's eyes are windows into.

It takes Fëanáro to transform all that; she gladly joins his service. And at last, with torches flaming orange, he proves that papers cities also burn. Speaking figuratively, of course.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

G50: Book Titles: Paper Towns; Colours: Orange

G51: Relationship: Jealousy

The Patient Eagle

Fingon tames an eagle, with a special purpose in mind. A drabble according to Open Office.

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It takes twelve years for the eagle to understand that Fingon means no harm in feeding her, and another until she lets the elf approach with meat before rushing into flight. This bird is no Thorondor, yet patience makes her an exception nonetheless. Fingon's right hand soon bears scars other than from Helcaraxë, but he repays her with the hospitality of the Eldar, rebutting any asking if he'll sell her. At Mereth Aderthad he bears her on his hand to Maedhros, speaking quietly.

"We'll teach her to fly the way to Himring, for bearing secrets we don't want to publish."

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B15: Four Words: exception, hospitality, sell, publish; Snippets of Verse: I am the swift uplifting rush

Farewell Plans

A visit by the Naugrim interrupts Aredhel's routine. A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Farewell Plans

"Shut up the child before it brings down the roof," translated Eöl with a withering look at his wife. Aredhel knew why her son was crying. He had considered the hammerfalls reverbrating off the forge walls with wide-eyed interest before, they didn't scare him. He wanted his song. Normally, this hour would find them both walking in the forest, seeking the rare light between the trees – and remembering Valinor, she'd sing. Not that Eöl or the Naugrim would understand her sudden rush of song in Quenya – or welcome it. But Lómion would soon be old enough for travelling...

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B1: Dwarves of the First Age: Naugrim meet Eöl's wife; Talents and Skills: Translating

A Thread, Pulled

Vairë weaves her tapestry, and something changes in Doriath...

AU, non-graphic character death. A drabble according to Open Office.

Read A Thread, Pulled

A thread pulls from the tapestry, and silver shears are quick to clip it.

The minstrel cries, "An evil walks the wood, away!" The maiden flees, hides herself in Thousand Caves, still hemlock in her hair. Above, the slow, dull thread of mortal feet falters, ceases as he falls. Doriath's archers swiftly restore peace, and take the ring from mortal hand. "A common thief," they say, dismissing,"'tis Finrod's sigil."

Thus, in Nargothrond still music plays. On Himring, Maedhros sits in gloom for years on end. In Angband, Morgoth is sensing uproar in the fabric of the world – he laughs.

---

Chapter End Notes

Some phrases are borrowed from the Lay of Leithian.

Written for the following prompts:

N38: AU Card: Lúthien never loved Beren

Sugar Rush

The continuing adventures of Makalaurë's sweet tooth. Or: Estelindë tries to babysit. More elfling fluff. A drabble according to Open Office.

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"It is far too sweet. Makalaurë, are you seeking to ruin your teeth?"

The little one grins at the healer, unconcerned, and she can feel her eyebrow climbing in response. There is less tea than honey in his cup. How he can drink it, and look so happy – a mystery. The thought of sweetened tea gags her; Estelindë admits rare weakness, shuddering.

"Without honey, it tastes and smells like grass," he chirps, laughing. "And that's for cows."

Nerdanel, come home quickly, Estelindë implores with an eyeroll. Before the sugar rush begins. Perhaps together we can tame your wayward minstrel.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N38: Smells: Grass; Write What You Know: A food you dislike

The Wave in the Mind

The wave is dark, not sea green. Tar-Míriel's last moments.

(Non-graphic character death, suicidal ideation.) A drabble according to Open Office.

Read The Wave in the Mind

The wave is dark, not sea green, tearing dirt, dust and lives across the whole of Númenor. From her high place, through the fumes, Tar-Míriel can see it coming for her, and in her mind it takes the form of shining hope. End this, all this, and end me too.

It is her body that betrays her, only, clawing and climbing the steep slope of the Mountain's side. So even she has fallen under shadow of the fear of death, not caring that it spells deliverance, for the wave rushes at her like a predator, heaven-sent though it may be.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N38: Colours: Sea Green

I27: Book Titles: The Wave in the Mind

A Change of Stars

At Cuiviénen, Elenî-mirê draws on a special power to save her sister from the doom that has been foretold for her.

Read A Change of Stars

The sky is clear and without clouds when Elenî-mirê pushes aside the leather curtain and steps from the hut beneath the stand of trees. It falls back into place with a whisper, swings for a moment, then hangs still. No clouds, and no wind either, and the last fleck of snow by the large rock is gone – that is not a happy portent, but it means the time is right.

The stars twinkle. They seem to agree with her, perhaps they even know what she is planning – and whyever not? They know so much, and will spell it out to all who can read the patterns that they whirl across the sky – fortunate omens and unfortunate both, as anyone has always known. The soothsayers can scry them, and their task is to aid those seeking council – at childbirths, namings, before hunts, the tidings that a year will bring, the question why when another goes into the forests never to return. There are few answers to that, and hearing death is the gladdest one of them. Other, darker fates, of imprisonment by the Dark Rider, and twisting torture making elves into monsters – they are known, but never spoken aloud, for fear of calling that fate upon oneself. Not even the soothsayers themselves dare, and many have started to fear the silence.

Soothsayers' divinations, based on the stars, the planets, and other, rarer things – the flights of bats across the sky, a certain fall of stones and shells they use to print star-patterns on the ground, are not the same as mother's foresight, because mothers haven't got control over their forebodings – her mother surely doesn't. Elenî-mirê hasn't forgotten the last time, when her own mother convulsed and shook and dropped the bowl of dough so it was ruined, and Elenî-mirê was the one to gather up the shards. Her mother had been heavy with her sister then, and Elenî-mbalê became – as the vision had foretold – a fussy baby and a restless girl, always underfoot and dangerously, unheedingly lighthearted even with perils all around. She'd gone into the water, she'd gone into the forest, she'd even gone into the mountains, for no good reason whatsoever.

She'll come to an evil end soon, the soothsayers portended at their last foretelling. They are wise men and women, but it doesn't take the knowledge of the stars to know that, Elenî-mirê tells them, and faces the rebukes chin-up. She's certain they only mean to punish her, by adding, when the last snows of winter melt. But with the wise it is best to take no chances. Elenî-mirê dogs their steps until they relent and show exactly which stars and signs have told them that her sister will find her fate so soon.

Because there is one thing Elenî-mirê knows, and they do not: She has a power that will let her change her sister's fate, to realign her stars.

Soon she is far into the forests up the slope, far out of earshot from the settlement. It's more than far enough for danger – bears, lynx, wolves, and the Dark Rider especially, but she knows nothing and no one will harm her today, she asked. A change, the soothsayers murmur at her, a great one, but that only helps to strengthen her resolve.

She climbs a boulder in between a stand of pine trees, and kneeling on the fallen needles closes her eyes and begins to concentrate on breathing. The air is clear and crisp here above Cuiviénen, not as mild as by the lake, and raises goosebumps on her arms. The smell of the pines tickles the insides of her nose, the noises of the forest the insides of her ears: the splash of water from a snowmelt brook nearby, the deep silence of the trees, the faintest rustle of a breeze, the muffled thud of a pine cone falling onto the forest floor, the scuttle of small things, and far too loud, the inner workings of her body. No matter, it is all part of the song, and that's what she is listening for. There is a melody to all these noises, especially the water. Not all will hear it, this she also knows – and fewer still will join and answer. To date, she thinks she is the only one.

The first time has been an accidental thing, a discovery – one of the words Tata's people from across the bay made for learning things they did not know before. She had been working outside the hut, pounding roots into a pulp for drying to make flour, and singing while she worked, swaying with the rhythm, and in song implored the pieces to stay inside her bowl, not skip out as they would usually do. They had lain quietly, afterward, at least while she kept singing. She'd thought of chance and given it no further thought, but later on at play she found the right words would stop her sister's pebble rolling toward the hole they'd scratched into the earth, or even, when she'd put her mind to it, sing up a wind that hadn't blown before.

There had been many more such instances, through several long turns of the stars, and using her songs had slowly left her less and less tiring. She hadn't dared tell anyone, lest they'd think her wrong, crooked, or somehow touched by the Dark Rider. But now she'll show the soothsayers.

This time she'll sing stars from the sky – enough to change her sister's fate.

Elenî-mirê, looking up, raises her voice – there, can feel it winding through the things around her, rising overhead, and reaching, glinting like silver on the trees, the stars whirling overhead. Stars, she implores, aid me, save my sister, cast your treacherous brethren from amid your host, so she will not meet an evil end, please. Her name is Elenî-mbalê. Please.

The song spins out of her control, climbing further, rising, rising, and there - a streak of light crosses the sky, and there another, and another yet – can it be? Has she really done it?

Her knees shake hard enough to make her running difficult, stumbling and crashing through the underbrush back to the village. The people are gathered on the open space between the huts, around the fire, talking and pointing at the sky – there are more and more, and more stars yet, all falling, and a thunder rolling from the north where, above the hills, the sky is dark. Has she really done all this?

Horror has her cower around the edge of a hut, and almost turns her around back into the forest; only the question remains: Is her sister safe? If she did this, did she move the right stars? She searches the crowd – there her mother and father stand in the open among the people of the village, joining the murmurs of 'Arâmê, save us,' and looking northward with a mask of fear like all the others - and they are holding Elenî-mbalê close.

Elenî-mirê takes heart and evades the look of Olos-rîgê, one of the soothsayers, who has spotted her hiding – she knows, for certain, and will be quick to place the blame. A change, they said. Who knew it would be of this scale? Perhaps it wasn't her fault, perhaps it was. Her song moved something. But Elenî-mirê steps up to her family. Her little sister grins at her, and this, whatever come, was worth it.

---

Chapter End Notes

Since it felt absurd using Quenya names here, I tried to reconstruct Elemmíre's name using Primitive Elvish, and built others to fit. Whether or not they are correct I can't say for certain, but Elemmírë and her sister Elemmallë are meant to mean Star-Jewel and Star-Path. Olos-rîgê would be olorrínë in Quenya, I believe, coming to mean Dream-Crowned. Arâmê is the (attested) primitive form of Oromë.
The cataclysm at the end was intended to signify the beginning of the War of the Valar on Morgoth, but whether or not Elenî-mirê's song had anything to do with it...

A great deal of thanks to GG and the fabulous Lizards who nitpicked this. All remaining errors are my own.

Written for the following prompts:

G51: Discoveries and Inventions: Songs of Power; Injuries: Torture; Scientific Achievement: Print

B1: Book Titles: Silver on the Tree; Smells: Pine Trees

 

Thimble of Ashes

The immediate aftermath of Fëanor's demise.

A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Thimble of Ashes

Curufinwë groped dully for his father's ashes. Wind, blowing them apart, and low clouds rolled from the north, blotting out stars. He had hoarded a small mound, hands blindly cupped around the smouldering remains. A far buzz of thunder sounded, not yet close enough to rumble.

"We should move before the storm reaches us," spoke Maitimo, surveying the weather. Curufinwë studied his brother, incredulously.

"I will stay, gathering as much as I can. Father would have us honour him, would honour us if we were slain by Cosomoco, and he was greater than half a thimble full of ashes."

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

I27: Evil, Villains and Monsters: Gothmog; Fëanátics: In Beleriand - Family Guy; Four Words: apart, buzz, half, thimble; Weather: Windy, In a Manner of Speaking: Blind as a Bat

Gifting the Stones

How the Palantíri came to Númenor.

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"Grandmother," Elros says to the woman disembarking behind a host of others. She carries herself like Maglor did, and her hair, if darker than Maitimo's, has the same glint of copper. It must be Nerdanel – far stronger and sturdier than he ever imagined her from tales and childhood stories – both Maedhros and Maglor have done their mother a disservice, mentioning a frail person sagging under the weight of her husband's shadow, but this lady has stonemason's arms and the dress sits a little oddly on her frame, too tight across her hips, breasts and shoulders – birthing children, whittling stone, and kindness in her face. She has healed, no doubt, if she ever was afflicted.

He smiles. How can he not? They have written for a hundred years or more, since first a ship from Avallóne has landed in Andúnie, and found themselves much alike in spirit, and if her letters clearly spoke of grief, then that, also, was old and at the least scabbed over.

"Grandson," she replies, and clasps his hands. Hers are a little rough with callouses, and smudges of colour stain her fingers. "I have been drawing on the journey," she explains, noting his gaze. "The sailors make good models." And slings her satchel off her shoulder to present her work.

Elros offers his arm, and leads her to a white bench by the water while from the ship, crates and gifts are unloaded in masses and placed on waiting horse-drawn wagons that will later take the gifts and company to Armenelos. The Noldor bear the Númenoreans goodwill, and lack shyness about giving gifts or sharing riches. He has been told that Aman is a land of plenty, once again after the Darkening, so why not give?

Nerdanel's sketches show as much. If the colours are anything at all like the land – and Nerdanel does not seem like one given to hyperbole, artistic or otherwise – there is little even on Númenor that matches it. An earthly paradise, perhaps. But earthly all the same. Nerdanel, who must easily be able to guess at his thought, leaves the sketchbook in his hands. She speaks far less than in her letters, but her eyes make more than up for it. Elros feels awed. When Maedhros and Maglor found him, the proverbial light of Aman in their eyes had been just that – proverbial, no brighter or less than that of eyes he'd known before. In Nerdanel it continues shining, if he is any judge of it, undimmed.

"Ah," she says suddenly. They have begun speaking of their children – Maedhros – Maitimo was something of a scholar in his youth in Aman, and so is Vardamir. The topic can't not be laden with a pang of regret that lies bitter on Elros' tongue, but Nerdanel, even while talking, has studied her surroundings, undoubtedly committing it all to memory, and watching out for the gifts that she herself announced to bring: Just as she disembarked last, they are unloaded after all else, seven sturdy metal caskets of differing sizes, and each bears, etched – can it be? - the Star of Feanor, a device that Elros has half hoped and half feared seeing again. For a moment his palms grow sweaty, remembering it tattered on Maglor's tunic before their last farewell. Nerdanel lays a hand on his arm, a key in his hand, and moves to retrieve one of the smaller boxes to set it on his knees.

"Open it," she coaxes. "They are Fëanáro's work, made so our family could see each other even across distances. And we all hated to have good work sit unused, which it has done too long. Now that Aman is no longer veiled by spells, they ought return to their original purpose."

Now curious, and endeared by the idea, he opens the casket to find a perfect black sphere.

"A Palantír," says Nerdanel, and in her quiet but eager voice explains their purpose and usage in more detail, a master-stone that governs all others newly set on Eressëa as a conduit, no longer on Aman where it stood. The stones will be turned elsewhere now, she concludes.

Elros finds himself speechless at such a mighty gift.

"Even if you will not use them," says Nerdanel with another of her enigmatic smiles, "My heart already told me that much good will come of them, though many times and tides may pass. Keep them here."

And so he does.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B9: The Second Age: The Palantíri

First Encounters

How Eöl and the Naugrim met.

(Some obliquely hinted-at dark themes, aka Eöl is a creep.) A drabble according to Open Office.

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"Kamacite..."

Eöl ran a hand over the pocked surface of the rock. It still was warm, almost a living body lying at his disposal, despite the time it had taken him to find the impact site. Let those Iathrim chant to the Star-Kindler, he much preferred them fallen, the Dark Lord's work or no. He allowed himself a smile, and straightening, spotted dark, stunted figures crouched along the crater's edge, watching.

He eyed the meteorite again. There would be enough to satisfy, and the Naugrim surely could teach much to one who freely showed them goodwill. He waved them down.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B9: Genre1: Adventure; Science: Metalworking; TV Tropes: Ultimate Blacksmith

Sunset Into Night

Maglor and his wife share a moment. Not much later, tragedy strikes in form of the Dagor Bragollach.

(Offscreen character death, war.) A double-drabble according to Open Office.

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Maglor draped an arm around Lasbaneth. The westering sun tinted Lothlann's brittle winter grasslands golden. Below them, a herd of horses racing for the joy of it shook the ground.

"Do you still regret coming here?" he asked as she rested her head on his shoulder. In this light, his wife's hair shone honey-coloured, and he pressed a kiss to her braids when he noticed her look to the North where sunset was faltering in unnatural shadow.

"No," Lasbaneth replied eventually. "Not entirely. Even so vulnerable to the North... there runs our cavalry. It helps me trust in our safety."

-

With battle over, the cavalry returned. His burning fortress shone a ghastly, flickering, livid light, but Maglor raised his lamp all the same. Blackened grass for miles, a trample of orcish boots and dragon's claws. His face, in the blue glare of the crystal, might have been a stone mask. His horse stomped; lowering the light threw him into shadow.

Outriders returned. "No tracks leading from the keep, my lord," one called.

Lasbaneth, he realized. My people. Dead. Maglor choked down grief and guilt. No. His men still relied on him.

"We try for Himring!" Maglor cried. They began moving.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B9: Artifacts: Feanorian Lamp; Weapons and Warfare: Cavalry

B4: Silmarillion Fanon: Maglor the Mighty Wimp

What Ivrin Saw

What Eithel Ivrin saw in Beleriand. Five drabbles according to Open Office.

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The Powers march to war. Gigantic, in their passing they leave footsteps, imprints on the land. Hithlum is Estë's, the reason for its grey and misty climes, and Nienna follows. Her tears are what gathers on the mountains, into cracks and crannies, and springs elsewhere, rippling over stone to pond and pool and gather. The water is clear, and cool, and unlike the Weeper's tears, runs sweet. Eventually, full to overflowing, a river rises from them. The Weeper's tears are boundless, and Ulmo lays his blessing. This will ever be a place of healing, as long as it does last.

The Sindar come after the animals, singing under starlight. It is here by the clear waters they stay, drink, and rest, swim, find safety, sustenance and strengthening, build shelters in the woodlands all around - but the pond's edge remains their gathering place. They pluck reeds and nimble fingers make them into pipes, but give back song and music, telling the story of this land. Perhaps it's true. The waters shiver, as though they are laughing – or, as it's their origin, weeping for the joy of it. Not all tears are an evil, and Ivrin glitters in the night.

The Noldor come marching in their heavy boots, seeking reunion, but even they cannot be blind for the way the waters of Ivrin glint at them in the moonlight. A minstrel watches his wife dance in fireshine, there is healing of feuds, reconciliation until morning dawns into a summer day that burns all colour from the land. But Ivrin, cool and radiant beckons them to stay, and one of them sits by its shore, praising the sunlight shining through the leaves as though it were alive. The glitter of the sun on Ivrin, it will help him live through Angband.

The mortal comes to Ivrin dulled with grief, led by the hand like one so struck with tragedy that his mind has fled to reaches where it knows no pain. And the waters work their heritage, engulf him gently, soften the layers of grief until his tears can spring, and finally, he weeps. It is a necessary process, for this man-child, who has lived through great evils, and though many are of his own devising, a greater malice them founds all. Ivrin cannot quell that entirely, but voiceless bids, in rippling waters: Stay, be rested. Heal here for a while.

Glaurung comes with heavy thread and glint of gold. The evil Ivrin knew would come, for weeping is ever in her source, is on the march. Reed burns like tinder, trees burst into flame, the waters shiver, but for once it is not joy that moves them. Who could say that even waters would know fear? For Ulmo has withdrawn from here years ago, his power weakens even in swift-flowing Sirion. The time is near for the Valar to march once again, and in their wake, even Ivrin will be quenched, for after them, with battle done, will flow the sea.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N38: Waters: Pond

The Artisan's Daughter

A change of heart for Nerdanel also means a change of history.

AU, a series of five drabbles according to Open Office.

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This is how it goes: Mahtan forges, and Cemnarë potters, spinning the wheel with steady click, pulling shapes from clay over her bulging belly. In the evenings, her husband reads to them, and it is thus that Nerdanel, once born, grows into a bright-eyed child grasping at books and light, and playing with stone and metal. Cemnarë laughs, picking her up from a patch of light, amid piles of pebbles, fast asleep. Her girl, waking, joins the laughter; mother and daughter much alike, loving laughter, thought and crafts, and both are soon called wise before their time, Istarnis and Istarnië.

-

Cemnarë opens doors and windows, dusts and tidies, and finds no time to potter. No matter, there's greenware enough to dry while the house readies for Prince Fëanáro's arrival. To work as an apprentice, since Mahtan will have him, and he'll have to grow used to the clutter that a family brings. Nerdanel is all aflutter, the talk of the town has turned her head enough to wax lyrical over handsomeness, although she has never seen the Prince in person – and dreams of love, unwise though she knows that is. She is neither earnest nor wise all the time.

-

Fëanáro adjusts easily, works well in every field, earns praise. Cemnarë has more time for pottery. Sitting shoulder-on-shoulder with her in the studio are Nerdanel and Fëanáro, working on their own designs, and stealing glances. Nerdanel sneaks out a hand, corrects flaws that Fëanáro overlooked, and earnestly returns to her own work. Her daughter is skilled, but her heart is not in pottery – it is, much more, with him, and unfulfilled.

In the evening, alone with her daughter, Cemnarë cautions: "Don't lose heart, Istarnië – but however much you yearn, remember – not even here, love is always returned."

-

Cemnarë's warnings fall on fertile ground – and come merited, as well. There is some brief romance, she hears from Nerdanel, some stolen kisses, related with a girlish blush and laugh – and then, "He is not for me. I love him, but his first love is his craft. I will not be second-best, someone to turn to only when he tires of his forge and its creations."

A surprise indeed, but she knows to trust her daughter's heart. Fëanáro, wroth to be so shunned, departs, leaving autumn burning the leaves brown in his wake.

Cemnarë sighs, firing her pottery.

-

Cemnarë finds Nerdanel sleeping in her patch of light, and gently shakes her child awake, though child is hardly the right word now. She is a woman grown, and stubbornly unmarried, helping to glaze and burnish pottery, pumps bellows for her father, chisels her statues and ignores the gossip of Fëanáro obliging, and marrying some highborn lady. "I had a dream – if we had married, all would have come to darkness, and a star to save us." Cemnarë looks at her with pity, a daughter realizing that was all she ever really wanted.

In the kiln, her pottery breaks.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N32: Last Lines: And realized that was all she ever really wanted.

O64: All OCs, All the Time: An Artisan; AU Card: Identify a crossroads in the life of a character you like writing about - write a story in which s/he goes the other route.; Book Titles: The importance of being earnest; Here We Come A-Caroling: If the Fates Allow; Colours: Brown

Bread-Crumbs

Why Haleth denied Caranthir's offer. Poetry (an attempt at Sapphic Meter).

Read Bread-Crumbs

Baking bread, she was not prepared when the
Orcs came slaying, shearing through fence and flesh both;
Haleth found her loaves were pitiful swords.
Steel in hand served.

Loudly blowing, trumpets amazed Orcs and
Haladin, elf-bright the fair ones, driving dark
Riverward, victory denied. Hands opened:
Bread in them, palms wide.

Breaking bread, she is not prepared when the
Elves afford her honor, salt-like denies
Lands and shelter, knowing that bonds must stand on
More than just bread-crumbs.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O64: Fëanátics: Caranthir helped Haleth; Talents and Skills: Baking

Beneath the Tower

On the Horrors of the Siege of Barad-dûr.

(Horror, hence possibly disturbing themes. Character death.) A drabble according to Open Office.

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Anárion dreams of stones falling, and when he wakes it's not a dream.

There is a sure-fire bombardement from Barad-dûr; for seven years now they have been sheltering behind a sand dune. Boulders roll down it, slowed and harmless. Many bear missives, black messages spelling hatred, and even the soldiers turn into orc-like creatures. For want of water they go dirt-smeared and stinking, showing the Enemy disdain. They want for no filth, bodies provide that, to smear their own messages. Siege turns into walking nightmares.

Anárion dreams that a falling stone crushes him. And, relieved, understands it is no dream.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O64: Silmarillion Geography: Barad-dûr; Horror: Psychological Horror; Landscape: Sand Dune

Lessons Learned

Young Estel's difficulties with a First Age healing text turn out different than expected. A drabble according to Open Office.

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"Mildest form: Fear, dispiritedness. Direct Exposure: Loss of consciousness, evil dreams, nxie... I can't read that. Pro...erm... prolonged contact: delirium, progressing uncon...sciousness, unresponsiveness to speech or pain. Hy...hy...pothermia, decreasing bodily functions. Death within days even in the strong-spirited," the boy read. "Called Thúl Vorn. There's something newer in brackets: 'Westron: Black Breath.' Proceeds from servants of Gorthaur the Cruel, first reported upon the Sacking of the Isle of Minas Tirith... Proposed cure: Athëa Aranion. Idhlinn, Master Healer of the House of Finwë, Year of the Sun 457."

Estel looked up from the book, at Elrond. "She had really bad handwriting."

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts::

062: Injuries and other Ailments: Black Breath

Curse from Afar

After the encounter with Beleg on Amon Rudh, Mîm swears vengeance.

A drabble according to Open Office.

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The blade that drinks his blood is black, strangely shining; dwarf-craft wrought by elven hands. It sings to him, piercing his body. Mîm has no time to wonder because he wants to live, but locks the song of the metal and the bladesmith's skill into himself, fleeing Beleg's reach.

In the dark caves that he finds, moist and cool, it is time to marvel, finally. Anglachel, the steel whispers from the edges of his wound, with malice toward the elf that wielded it, and Mîm chants his own curse and bloody blessing from afar: Die upon this blade yet, Beleg.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O62: Dwarves of the First Age: Mîm and Beleg; Occupations: Bladesmith

N36: Landscape: Cave

Halo in the Mist

Mithrellas, as a mother, cannot bear mortality.

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The stars form halos in the mist the night Gilmith is born. Mithrellas pushes, strains and screams, expelling life into the world – first touch confirming former guesses. The girl, too, is mortal, and Mithrellas is no Lúthien, nor Elwing, to offer her a choice.

The girl grows swiftly. She likes the nights when stars form halos in the mist, recalling birth and name. And all too soon, time, trusty, calls for tribute. Gilmith's hair was always silver, but frosty white is new. She takes her mother's hands, bidding her go. Her choice is peace.

It was a nightmare nonetheless; Mithrellas' heart pounds, waking. Gilmith lies sleeping in her cradle. Far, the stars form halos in the mist. She will grow, the nightmare may well have been truth. It is, or will be.

So Mithrellas sails, and grieving wonders. Will stars form halos in the mist across the sea? Give peace?

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N36: Snippets of Verse: Time, which takes in trust our youth; Women of the Silmarillion: Mortal Women

B13: Here We Come A-Caroling: "And they looked up and saw a star..."

Home Sweet Home

Newly arrived at Himring, Idhlinn settles into her new healing ward. A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Home Sweet Home

The vase, a big earthenware container with holes along the top, went into its place last.
"Done! These are leeches," Idhlinn explained at Maedhros' questioning looks. He had come, bearing an armful of books as gift, to investigate how well the Master Healer's settling-in progressed, and found her nearly finished, bustling around aglow with pride.

Idhlinn strode ahead, her boots thumping over gleaming marble floors. "Think of the possibilities, and see here!" She opened a door marked as private, revealing the laboratory full of glass applicances and herbs strung along the wall, and grinned. "A cup of tea, my lord?"

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B13: Four Words: vase, leech, armful, possibility; In a Manner of Speaking: Home sweet home; Last Lines: I'd just make more tea.

A Moment after Rain

A moment after rain on the Hill of the Slain. Poetry (didactic cinquain).

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Petrichor
Gentle, clean,
Haudh-en-Ndengin's grass breathes
Over bones, rusting blades,
Relief.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B13: Smells: Petrichor (Smell of Dust after Rain)

G59: Genre1: Tragedy

Revenant

Something dark has found its way into the Echoriath.

(Horror, hence possibly disturbing themes.) A drabble according to Open Office.

Read Revenant

Dusk was tinting the sky rose over Tumladen, and lights, one by one, flickered and blinked on in the city down below; the sentries on the mountains were inattentive, preparing their evening meals.

Slowly, slowly, something dark crept through the mountains from the North, veiling itself from the views of eagles and other watchers, vanishing in the dark. Soon, soon, it found what it had come for, creeping, with luminous eyes like faraway cold stars, into the cairn in the Echoriath. Pale light flared between the stones, dust long undisturbed stirred, long-cold fingers curled around Ringil's hilt, long-dead eyes opened...

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B13: Artifacts and Weapons: Ringil; Colours: Rose; Evil, Villains and Monsters: Barrow-wight

Queen of Her Domain

Arien walks the Outer Lands.

A drabble according to Open Office.

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Melian was not the only one who walked in the dark of Middle-earth. When Arien grew tired of the restraints and lights of Aman, she forsook her incarnate form and passed as a flame across the skies, resuming it in a dark land of the utmost East. Her footsteps, for once unrestrained, left wildfires, burning the forests into a desert of great dunes, sand that prickled and melted on her skin, wood smoke that veiled her. Where Melian walked with nightingales and stood bespelled by love, Arien laughed freely, step by step laying claim. This land would evermore be hers.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

G59: Off the Map's Edge: Land of the Sun

B6: Smells: Wood Smoke

Compromise

Maedhros, Idhlinn, and some banter among friends. A drabble according to Open Office.

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"I have no time for festivities, there is work to be done," Idhlinn said curtly.

"It is a social event. What will my guests say if my esteemed Master Healer is not present for the harvest celebrations?"

Idhlinn carefully measured clear, needle-like crystals into another container.

"The weather is lovely," Maedhros coaxed.

"Menthol," she countered. "Thirteen Easterlings have contracted chest infections and coughs. Chest rubs and teas to make, you see I am busy."

"Virtuous excuses remain excuses. Join the feast when you are done here?"

"Very well," she grumped, eyebrows rising. A pregnant pause, then both burst into laughter.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

O70: Festivals: Harvest; Four Words: social, weather, virtuous, thirteen; Injuries: Cough

Safeguarding the Sun

Returning from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Maeglin finds reasons to craft the Gate of Steel.

(Mentions of war, obsessive thoughts.)

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The moment he believed he had come from the War and survived saw Idril emerging between Belthil and Glingal like a sunburst through Nan Elmoth's canopy, and racing down the steps to meet the warriors. She bore flowers in her hair while he still felt rough from battle, even though the army now marching into Gondolin had taken their rest in the Orfalch Echor to wash, tend to the wounded, and clean orc blood off their plate mail. Heroes did not return from grim reality, they returned from noble efforts, and these two, Maeglin knew, rarely intersected, and the people of Gondolin had sheltered here behind the mountains for a reason. It would be cruel enough already to read the lists of the fallen; Gondolin did not need any more reality.

Idril woke him from his dark thoughts with her mere presence and relieved laughter, but when she had greeted her father and came to hug him, her arms slid off his mail, the bulk too much to embrace. He lifted her up with ease, breathing in the scent of flowers that surrounded her and she slung her arms around his neck, placing a kiss on his forehead. "Cousin," she said brightly, but privately and for his ears only, and Maeglin suppressed a shiver, "my prayers have been with you as well, and I thank that Valar that they permitted both of you to return unscathed!"

Maeglin said nothing in reply, but he smiled, and reluctantly set her down. Idril continued to pass down the ranks of captains, greeting each in turn – Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Egalmoth, Duilin, and the remaining heads of the Houses. He could nearly see Húrin and Huor stand among them, though both likely dead now, and again the ominous words he had witnessed on the battlefield echoed in his mind. "From you and me a new star shall arise." From whom, if not Idril, who was a sun all in herself?

"Uncle," Maeglin said quietly. "Seeing her so careless has woken the wish in me to guard Idril against all evil that may yet befall, for I fear that ill chance will yet allow enemies into Tumladen unless we take action. Allow me to craft a great gate of steel that will seal the Orfalch Echor beyond the six that already guard it, as final precaution."

For a while. Long enough to detain whatever intruder would seek her. She was his, and he would see to safeguarding her light from other hands that sought to hold her tight.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

N39: Here We Come A-Caroling: If you really hold me tight; Geography of the Silmarillion: Gondolin; Smells: Flower; Weapons and Warfare: Plate Mail

Mithrim Flowers

Maglor's wife discovers a strange door and a remarkable gift. Fluff.

Read Mithrim Flowers

Lasbaneth discovered the door a little while after they moved to Lothlann. It was no surprise; beyond the western wing set apart for her and Maglor, which she had come to know quite well, the keep was vast measured by any comparison she could make. To find gateways and corridors leading to unfamiliar parts of the building was a logical conclusion. This door was in no way remarkable, excepting only the shafts of light filtering through the cracks. The room behind must be very bright, Lasbaneth thought, and reached for the handle, finding none.

When she told Maglor about the strange door, he merely smiled and leaned in to kiss her. The topic soon was forgotten, but a few days after, Maglor had left a package sitting next to her pillow when she woke. He must already be riding dawn patrol, Lasbaneth decided after a look out the window, where the early sunrise stretched first fingers over the sky, before turning to the gift. The package revealed a door handle; surely the one that had been missing, beautifully wrought in brass, with copper leaves snaking around it like a vine. Thrill had her laugh out loud, and after breaking her fast she quickly made her way toward the door.

The handle, after a little trying, fit, and the door swung outward soundlessly. Sunlight momentarily blinded Lasbaneth, but when her eyes adjusted, they found a courtyard, stretching between the inner walls and the keep itself. The morning sun slanted into it, revealing a landscape of rocks, trees, and high, nodding grasses in a light breeze. In between them, specks of colour in the grass, small lilac asters, lilies in bright orange, feathery coltsfoot, buttercups, carnations, even a stand of great pink peonies, and cinnamon roses beginning to climb the walls – all flowers that she knew from Mithrim, all flowers whose names she had learned in early childhood, all here. Her breath caught as she began to explore and the smells – grass, trees, flowers - wafted up around her.

By the time Maglor returned from patrol after noon, he found Lasbaneth still in her garden, on a shaded spot beneath a pine, apparently deep in thought, but smiling contendedly. Spotting her husband in the doorway, finally, she jumped up and lightly ran to him, leaving the flowers bobbing in her wake.

"Do you like your garden, love?" he asked, smiling, when Lasbaeth embraced him.

"I do, I do," she confirmed with shining eyes. "It is a piece of home. Why have you brought it here?"

"Because you followed me, and this was the least I could return," Maglor said, and happily met Lasbaneth's lips as she pulled him down into the grass.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

G59: First Lines: ____ discovered the door a little while after they moved into the house.; Last Lines: I'll Come With You.

Just in Time

Maedhros wakes in a field, disoriented and full of blood.

(Predictably, mentions of blood, violence, and possibly disturbing themes.)

Many thanks to GG, who was very patient betaing this, and Zeen for (unknowingly) inspiring the fic.

Read Just in Time

Maedhros woke with the tang of iron on his tongue. He was barefoot, cowering in the long grass outside camp, out of breath as though he had run a long distance, and the front of his nightshirt stuck to his chest. It was drenched in red, luminous on the light fabric. His hand, too, was slippery and red, growing cold in the chill wind, five deep weals across the back of it throbbing and swelling. Night was rapidly falling.

Behind him, carried on the wind, he heard voices yelling his name, one voice specifically that sounded a great deal more fraught than the others and, strangely, made him want to hide even more than the simple fear of discovery merited. Fingon. Maedhros cowered deeper into the grass, and on hand, stump and knees began to crawl toward a copse of trees not far ahead. If he found a space to hide and wait out the uproar, he hoped it was possible to slowly make his way to the other side of the lake by stealth. His brothers – surely – would not betray him.

For the blood on his shirt, hand, lips, this he was easily certain of, was not his own.

The voices behind him grew closer, and Maedhros crawled faster, remembering from years ago when his family had first made their camp nearby, that hidden among the trees stood a cairn the Sindar had erected as landmark. Reaching it, he forced himself into the hiding space, and lying on the dry earth underneath the rocks drew his knees up to his chest. He had been hounded like an animal in Angband more than once, but here, never before, and the shouts outside came closer yet. He bent his head. In the gaps between the rocks, he could see booted feet walking past. They did not discover him, never even thought to look underneath the large slab of stone that topped the stone structure like a crooked table plate. His heart was hammering so loud they surely must hear it, find him any moment. Maedhros closed his eyes, but dared no breath of relief until the shouts vanished, eventually, into the distance. He crawled out with shaking knees, shredding his skin on the stones.

"I thought you were here," said a voice. "You left a trail in the leaves."

Maedhros started, climbing to his feet. Sitting on the stone slab, looking at him with a frown, was Fingon. "What happened?"

Although instinct told him to run, Maedhros felt as though his feet were rooted to the spot; he didn't move. Not that his constitution would allow for a great deal of running before it would fail him entirely.

"What do you think happened?" he asked. Even to his own ears, his voice rang hollow. Fingon had always been exceptional at reading him, and it was doubtful the feeble evasion would work.

"An Enemy servant killed the guard, attacked you, and attempted to abduct you, to – take you North. Of course," Fingon said. "I found you just in time." His eyes, large and luminous in the dark, never left Maedhros' face, intently searching for a reaction.

"I found you just in time," Fingon repeated. "Now tell me what happened."

"I – I do not know," Maedhros replied, faltering at the supposed understanding between them. "I killed the man. I must have. I do not know why – a nightmare. I have nightmares. Perhaps I - no, not perhaps - I sleepwalk. I must have thought he was -- I - I must have killed him as I killed orcs in Angband. Tooth and nail. Is it possible to kill while sleepwalking?" He felt his composure, and the panicked disbelief, rapidly leaving him, reaching his hand out to Fingon. The blood on it was smudged with dirt from crawling. Fingon did not take it, folding his arms back against his chest.

"Kill me. Tell them I attacked you, I was mad, a servant of – please. I am mad. And an unrepentant murderer."

"Hardly unrepentant, if your begging me to kill you is any indication. But no. Killing you now – that would ruin all relations with your brothers. There would be another kinslaying, right here. How dare you ask me to kill you, again, after we all went through the trouble of saving you? After I risked my life for you - twice?"

"Please. I would deserve it. I killed one of your men. How can you be certain I am not -- under M- the Enemy's sway?" Fingon, Maedhros could see, was working himself into a cold, frenzied anger that he had last seen in Alqualondë, and that must have been the same that sustained him over Helcaraxë. A similar mood, some grim determination had always seen him through the long-distance races that he had been so fond of during his athletic youth in Aman. But it seemed that that anger was vanishing as soon as it arose, being replaced by something else that was entirely new to Maedhros in Fingon. It reminded him of Fingolfin.

"You are not. I found you just in time," Fingon repeated again, looking incredulously at his cousin. "Now come back, you will catch your death out here in your condition."

Maedhros shook his head. He was not hanging helplessly from a cliff, reduced to begging, this time. The world would be a far kinder place without him. He summoned what strength he still had, braced himself for the attack, and, although his muscles were beginning to shake, launched himself at Fingon.

A fist connected with his temple. Maedhros' knees buckled, and he felt Fingon's warm hands catching him even as he fell, and his vision dimmed. "It is fine. I found you just in time," Fingon said almost gently.

* * *

Maedhros woke in his bed back in the camp. His mouth tasted of mint, and a clean nightshirt covered him. His hand was the first thing that swam into focus, pale as always; the scratches had been bandaged, and it was bound to the side of the bed with a strip of gauze. Just lightly, and he could have easily broken free, but instead Maedhros relaxed and closed his eyes again. Somewhere in the room he could hear Fingon speaking.

"... pursued a trail from the copse where you left me, and I was lucky to have found him – how an enemy made it into camp I will never know. Some dark magic, or have the guards been asleep?"

Fingolfin's answer was muffled by the door as father and son left the room together. Perhaps, Maedhros thought, Fingon was right. Perhaps, in time, he could even come to believe it.

---

Chapter End Notes

Written for the following prompts:

B6: Genre1: Murder Mystery

O62: Genre1: Mystery