Trinkets by Independence1776

Freedom

Elrohir goes for a sail in celebration of becoming a Loremaster. Ficlet. Rated General.

This was written for my sister several years ago.

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“Elrohir, what are you doing?”

He looked up at me with a smile. “Going for a sail.”

I rolled my eyes and said, “Father said dinner will be ready soon.”

“I’ll be gone for the night, Elladan. Why do you think I packed food?”

I looked over the small sailboat and sighed. “It’s your celebration.”

“I know. But this is how I’d prefer to spend it: alone on the open water, under the stars. I’ve worked hard ever since we arrived here on Tol Eressëa.” He looked at me, pleading. “I know Father will be upset, given he’s the one who encouraged me to become a Loremaster in the first place--”

“Elrohir!” I said, holding up my right hand. “I’ll tell him. You go have fun.”

He shot me a grin and untied the last mooring rope from the dock, coiling it up. The wind caught hold of the triangular sail and the boat moved slowly forward. I stayed at the end of the dock until he became a speck on the water. I turned around and met Father halfway along the path to the house.

He grinned. “And he doesn’t suspect?”

I shook my head. “No. He thinks he escaped.”

Father turned around, “Then we have time for the few last minute tasks your mother insisted on before the party tomorrow night.”

I nodded, but looked over my shoulder at the small black speck as we headed inside, hoping he was having fun and wishing I was with him.

Eruhantalë

Elros leads the first Eruhantalë. Drabble. Rated General.

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Elros stood in the center of the hollow on the summit of the Meneltarma, looking at the great crowd of silent people dressed all in white, standing ringed around him, looking to him for guidance. He lifted his head, looking at the three eagles soaring overhead. They had to be sent by Lord Manwë, the king decided. There was no other reason they would remain over the gathering. Elros smiled. This truly was the Land of the Gift. He raised his voice so all could hear him: “In thanksgiving for a safe and plentiful first year, we praise you, Ilúvatar.”

Maglor drabble

Maglor and Maedhros after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Drabble. Rated Teens for language.

Written for Spiced Wine as part of a drabble meme several years ago.

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“It was not your fault.”

“I should have known about the treachery of the sons of Ulfang. Maglor, we have lost when we should have won. We could have defeated Morgoth.”

Maedhros strode off into the deeper woods, away from the clearing where we had temporarily camped. I leaned against a tree, looking at but not truly seeing the forest, ignoring my brothers cooking a couple of rabbits behind me. Our pride had led to this defeat. If only we had made different choices while planning. If only we had recognized betrayal. If only we hadn’t sworn that damn Oath.

Manipulations

Fëanor and his children + modern tech in Valinor = chaos. Crackfic. Ficlet. Rated General.

This was written several years ago for SurgicalSteel and Spiced Wine.

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“Father, he’s Photoshopping--”

Fëanáro raised a hand, silencing his secondborn. He made an adjustment to the microscope and turned around, looking at Makalaurë. “Carnister is doing what?”

“He’s Photoshopping a picture of me.”

“Doing what precisely?” Fëanáro asked, rubbing his temples.

“I don’t know-- I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. But it was bad.”

Fëanáro sighed and strode from the laboratory, his son trailing after him. “I knew I should have never given him that computer, and especially not that program.”

"If you knew that--”

His father didn’t stop, but pointed his right finger over his shoulder. “You are no better, not with the horrid music games you play. I didn’t spend all that money on lessons for you to waste it playing around on a computer.”

Makalaurë stopped in his tracks. “I… I think I’ll head outside.”

“Good. You do that. And grab Maitimo while you’re heading that way-- I’m tired of him using chatrooms.”

“Yes, Father.”

Fëanáro listened to the slow footsteps head off down the hall before smirking. His plan to oust the Valar through technology had only just begun, but it was a pity his sons didn’t see the true potential of computers.

Baking

Elrond and Elros attempt to bake a cake for Maedhros. Ficlet. Rated General.

This was written for Idle Leaves for Fandom_Stocking 2011.

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It was hard, trying not to laugh. Maedhros had left the kitchen rather than keep his face straight. But he was their foster father; he couldn’t.

Elrond and Elros were covered-- absolutely covered-- in flour. Far more than them trying to make, well, whatever it was. There was no evidence to suggest they’d reached the ready-to-bake stage. Rather, it looked as if they’d managed to dump the entire container of flour over their heads. And the floor. And every surface surrounding them. “Well?” he said, leaning in the doorway and crossing his arms.

The twins looked at each other and Elros timidly said, “It’s Uncle Maedhros’ begetting day, and--”

Maglor uncrossed his arms, finally letting his amusement show on his face. “And you decided to gift him with two life-size cakes, is that it?”

Elrond laughed first. “If we clean up, will you help us make another one?”

Maglor grinned. “Of course I will.”

Maedhros declared it was one of the best cakes he’d ever eaten.

Fishing

Míriel and Indis go on a picnic, and Míriel fails to catch a fish. Double drabble. Rated Teens for mild sexuality.

Written for Elleth for Fandom_Stocking 2011.

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Indis reached the blanket in the clearing near the brook where Míriel had arranged a picnic, but her lover was nowhere to be seen. Heard, yes, but not seen. Indis sank onto the soft yellow and white quilt and picked up one of the sandwiches. She’d eaten half of it when Míriel appeared from the trees, hair and dress soaking wet.

“Did you fall in?” Indis called out to her, not taking her eyes off the way Míriel moved with the sky blue dress clinging to her.

“I was trying to catch a fish.”

Indis cracked up laughing and managed to drop her sandwich in the grass. Let the ants have it. Míriel's shoulders-- and breasts-- shook with her own laughter. “Why a fish?”

Míriel shrugged and sat down on the quilt. “I wanted to see if I could do it by hand.”

“Oh, Míriel--”

Míriel leaned over and stole a kiss before grabbing a plate of food for herself. After they’d eaten-- and moved the quilt to avoid the ants-- Míriel reached out a hand and softly ran her fingers down Indis’ face and neck, hand lingering at her dress’ neckline. Indis smiled and undid the first button herself.

No Man's Land

Maglor fights a monster during his wandering years. Horror. Ficlet. Rated Teens for mild violence.

Written for Elleth in the fall of 2012, using the prompt: "Walker sees the mist rise / Over no man's land."

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Maglor crept around the boulders littering the pebbled lakeshore, a brace of rabbits hanging over his shoulder. The sun hovered above the horizon, staining the sky red and orange. The waves lapped softly around him, nearly drowned out by the wind whistling through the almost bare branches-- and the rock formation that the local mortals said contained a monster. Maglor had spent enough time around the formation (no Man went on this side of the lake, so the hunting was plentiful) to know that the gaps in the jumble of rocks caused the hollow whistling noise when the wind blew from the north. There was no reason for the mortals to lock themselves inside the wooden palisade simply because it was an eighth of the year past the autumn equinox. A fisherman’s wife had warned him earlier in the week that he’d want to stay in the village tonight rather than in his solitary cabin that was far too close to the formation for the village’s liking. It hadn’t helped that tonight was a full moon.

But Maglor didn’t care; he’d fought in Beleriand, in Aman, and more times in his wanderings than he cared to remember. This night would be no different than any other he’d spent alone.

He crossed the lawn and proceeded to skin and prepare the rabbits for eating. One to roast tonight and one to go in his pot of perpetual soup. He finished just as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. He stuck one rabbit on the spit over his banked fire, dumped the pieces of the other in the soup, grabbed a change of clothes, and headed down to the lake for a quick wash. The birds had quieted down for the night, though he heard an owl hooting in the distance. A large bat swooped overhead and headed over the lake. The water was chilly, especially with the wind, so he didn’t linger. He wasn’t a fool, though, and locked the door behind him. There was always the chance that the fear was deliberately caused by someone in village, and Maglor knew he was an appealing target. One dead man, living alone tonight against all warnings, would be reason enough to keep the legend and the terror going.

Maglor firmly intended to disabuse the culprit of that notion.

It grew late, and the crackling of the fire was the only sound he heard. Even the wind had died down. But he should have heard owls.

Maglor frowned into the flames. That meant one of two things: someone was in the woods, or the monster was real. Given how close the village was to the stones despite the legend, even though it was across the lake, he knew it had to be just a story. A monster of Morgoth or Sauron wouldn’t attack on only one night of the year. It made no sense. This terror was the work of Men.

So when Maglor heard heavy footsteps crossing his wooden porch, he threw open the door, sword in hand, hoping to frighten the mortal. Only to blink in shock at the being in front of him, and then duck when the bipedal monster took a swipe at it him with its clawed paw. Maglor thrust upward, hitting it in the chest, but not deeply enough to do more than cut it. But it stumbled backwards with a roar, nearly falling off the porch. Maglor stepped forward, pushing his advantage, and it tripped down the stairs, landing unsteadily on its feet. That split second of disorientation was all Maglor needed to cut its head off.

Upon which a mist formed above it and disintegrated in a sudden gust of wind. Maglor leaned against a pillar holding his roof up and stared down at the bloody corpse. A Maiar of some kind, one of those who fled or had remained hidden these long years since Beleriand. Once a year appearances and a constant unseen threat were well within its intelligence and capabilities. And now it was dead.

Maglor hoped Morgoth was aware of what happened to his minions from his prison in the Void.

He went back into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind him, and cleaned his sword. He couldn’t move the body by himself, and having someone from the village help him in the morning would show the villagers that they no longer needed to fear it. Its death would give him some much needed respect-- and therefore space-- in this land.

On the Shore

Maglor on the modern shore. Double drabble. Rated General.

Written for Elleth for Fandom_Stocking 2012.

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The Sea swelled and crashed on the white sand, sending salt spray into the air. Maglor stared at the tangled brown seaweed floating in the surf near his ankles. He turned away.

It was nothing he hadn’t seen before.

Though he much preferred the time when the shore was deserted and lined with trees, brush, and animals aplenty. He glanced at the tall towers of condos and hotels, windows gleaming in the bright summer sunlight, and then at the sand covered by people and towels, the water crowded by shrieking and playing children. Maglor dodged a plastic beach ball thrown by a teenager with poor aim as he trudged up the sand and grimaced. He would return around sunset, when the beach would be far less crowded.

It would give him time to change out of his swim trunks and eat dinner at the local pizza restaurant the woman running the bed and breakfast recommended when he’d asked about a non-seafood restaurant that morning.

He didn’t expect to find the Silmaril. He never did. It had been Ages, and the world turned on, uncaring. But he would always look, even if was just for a week or two every year.

Return

Nerdanel thinks about Arafinwë's return. Drabble. Rated General.

Written for Avanti_90 for Fandom_Stocking 2012.

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Nerdanel’s lips thinned when she heard the news that Arafinwë had returned-- and much worse-- that he was set to rule over the Noldor. When he hadn’t been here to calm the remnants who had remained after Fëanáro’s Oath and march, when he hadn’t been here to extend a hand to the survivors in Alqualondë, when he hadn’t been here to discuss how Tirion would thrive with so few left.

But for all of that, Arafinwë was always the calmest of Finwë’s children. And that was something she had sorely missed. It would be a pleasure to work with him.

Snow

Elrond and Elros have a snowball fight. Ficlet. Rated General.

Written for Carabas for Fandom_Stocking 2012.

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Elrond woke up when Elros shook his shoulder and pointed at the window. “Look, frost!”

Elrond grimaced, but knew that remaining under the thick, warm bedcovers was pointless. “Wipe it away; see how much snow fell after we went to bed.”

Elros did so, and shrieked. He bit it off and glanced sheepishly at Elrond. He whispered, “Do you think we woke him?”

Elrond sat up, crawled over to the thick-glassed window, and peered out at the white landscape. Snow. A lot of snow. “I doubt we’ll be able to sneak out past Maglor even if you hadn’t shrieked.” He grinned. “Let’s try anyway.”

They scrambled into their warmest clothing and crept down the ladder from their loft. They avoided the squeaky floorboard and Elros carefully unlatched the lock. “Come on.”

Elrond glanced at Maglor’s closed bedroom door and slipped outside, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind him. When he turned around, he received a faceful of snow. He sputtered, wiped it from his eyes, and then ran after his brother. When he caught up with Elros, he tackled him and it was only after a wrestling match that they both simultaneously realized how much noise they’d made. Especially when they glanced guiltily at the cabin that now had smoke coming from its chimney. The door opened and Maglor stuck his head out. “Breakfast will be ready shortly. You may stay outside until then.”

He shut the door firmly behind him-- Maglor hated the cold-- and Elrond and Elros looked at each other before scrambling to their feet and continuing their snowball fight.

Comfort

Nerdanel/Indis, we found comfort in each other. Femslash. Ficlet. Rated General.

This was written for an anonymous prompter at Elleth's femslash meme.

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It started simply: a cup of tea here, a brief meeting there, a hug farewell.

But when the magnitude of the disaster abated, when the immediate concerns were dealt with, and the middle and long term ones had procedures in place to handle them-- that’s when the quick conversations snatched between meetings and crises became something longer.

Nerdanel hadn’t talked with Indis much before this, mostly because of Fëanáro, but even after their separation, she deliberately had little to do with the royal family (save her sons, but even they kept their distance much of the time, especially after the exile to Formenos). They had given her enough headaches-- and now heartaches-- to last until the end of the world. But the Darkening and its aftermath had changed everything.

When Arafinwë returned, she and Indis worked together to smooth the transition of leadership, though both of them remained on his advisory council. It only made sense to continue to meet outside of it. But their conversations no longer revolved around business.

They talked about growing up in Tirion and on the long journey to Valinor, about Nerdanel choosing a career that wasn’t traditionally open to women (her marriage to Fëanáro had done much to keep it open, especially because she gained the status to actively encourage women to enter it), about Indis falling in love with someone out of her reach, the differences in their cultures, what their favorite foods were, what they hated most about living in Aman, what they liked to do for fun. And they spent time together doing those things.

Indis took her on a picnic for lunch, but rain showers had overtaken them on their way back to Tirion. Given that Nerdanel’s house was near the city gates, they went there rather than travel the slick roads and stairs to Indis’. Nerdanel found a dress that would fit Indis, and they both disappeared into separate bathrooms to dry off and change. Nerdanel came out first, and to have something to do while she waited, she grabbed her current sketchpad off the dining room table to figure out which drawing she’d carve next.

She curled up on the sofa in the living room and began flipping through the pages, starting with the most recent. Her brow furrowed as she turned the pages. Almost all of them were of Indis-- laughing, smiling, sitting, peering out the window, talking to someone, looking over her shoulder, and a myriad of other poses. Some were only lightly sketched while others fully drawn. And the drawings that weren’t of Indis were less than inspired.

Nerdanel raised a hand to her mouth. The last time she’d done anything like this…

“What’s wrong?”

Nerdanel looked up at Indis, fighting back a blush. “I seem to have drawn you quite a lot.”

Indis smiled and sat down next to her. “Show me.”

About halfway through the book, Indis put her finger lightly on the page. “I like this one.”

Nerdanel couldn’t stop the blush this time. The drawing showed Indis peering over her shoulder with a tiny smile on her face. It was undeniable sensual-- and it had been completely unconscious. She glanced over at Indis. “I--”

Indis leaned over and kissed her. Nerdanel’s hands clenched on the sketchbook and Indis pulled back. “I’m sorry. I thought--”

Nerdanel swallowed heavily. “No, it was fine. It was more than fine.”

She leaned over and kissed Indis. They only broke apart when the wirebound sketchbook slipped off Nerdanel’s lap and clattered on the stone floor.

Family

Míriel and Indis talk about their children. Set in our “Poetry” ‘verse, so Míriel/Indis/Finwë and Nerdanel/Fëanor. Triple drabble. Rated General.

Happy Birthday, Elleth!

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Míriel joined Indis on the balcony overlooking the bustling square beneath the Mindon, wrapping an embroidered wool shawl about her shoulders against the cold wind whipping down from the mountains. Indis put an arm around her waist and drew her down next to her on the bench. Míriel peered through the stone railing at the couple sitting on the central fountain’s wide marble edge, oblivious to everything around them, and smiled. “We never do anything conventional, do we?”

Indis chuckled. “Fëanáro is our son. And the heir marrying a commoner is less controversial than what we did.”

Míriel peered up at her wife. “They aren’t even engaged yet.” She glanced back down at Fëanáro and Nerdanel. “Though if he doesn’t ask soon, I think she will.”

Indis kissed her cheek. “Finwë will be ecstatic either way. You know how he feels about children. And with how those two behave, I wouldn’t doubt we’ll see our first grandchild as soon as it won’t cause scandal.”

“Speaking of children…”

“I decided to wait and Finwë agreed,” Indis said. “This is Fëanáro’s time of joy; I don’t want to overshadow it.”

“But after?”

Indis nuzzled Míriel’s neck. “After.”

Míriel pulled away. “Not in public.” She nestled against Indis’ side again. “I came out here to tell you that we’re having an early supper tonight. Between Olwë’s visit next week and the mess with the tanners’ guild--”

“I’m surprised we even have time for a sit-down meal.”

Míriel snorted. “Finwë insisted. And I need to wrangle Fëanáro into attending. Between his work in the forges and his courtship, Findis and Nolofinwë haven’t seen enough of their brother recently.”

“Just invite Nerdanel. He’ll have no choice then.”

Míriel laughed. That was a wonderful solution. “I shall.”

She kissed her wife and went to do so.

Music

Written for grey_gazania's prompt: "Maglor, Indis, and music." Ficlet. Rated General.

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Indis leaned back into her plush velvet seat and listened to the concert hall grow quiet. Once silence reigned, Makalaurë put his hands to his harp and began playing the song Finwë had commissioned for her begetting day. She closed her eyes and let the music sweep over her. It sounded like racing barefoot on the rustling grass, leaping over a babbling mountain brook, playing a happy song on her own harp. And the shifts between her favorite Vanyarin style and a Noldorin style she’d come to treasure worked, far better than many would have thought possible.

When the song finished, Indis opened her eyes as the echoes faded. She met Makalaurë’s eyes and he relaxed minutely when she grinned in sheer joy. That, right there, made him one of the best musicians she’d heard-- he cared not only to please his grandfather, but the one whom the song was truly intended for.

On the Straight Road

Two Elves of Aman find a dead mortal’s boat. Ficlet. Rated Teens for language and mature themes.

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“Damn,” Veryacirië said. “There’s another one.”

Ilarwa peered over the side of the boat, not yet untethered from the short wooden dock, and sighed. There was a small rowboat drifting in the gentle waves, with both oars missing and a mortal man-- now dead-- inside. “So much for getting our prime spot today.”

But there was nothing else they could do; his body needed to be buried. Veryacirië jumped over the side, waded out to it, and grabbed the anchor’s rope to pull it ashore. By the time she beached it, a handful of people had gathered, two carrying a stretcher between them, and Ilarwa joined them. He peered at the dark-skinned Man. “Any identification? Anything to help us know who he was?”

Veryacirië shook her head. “He was just a fisher, probably out enjoying himself,” she said, pointing to the fishing pole in the bottom of the boat. “Makes me wonder why the Valar bother.”

“This is the third one in a dozen years, isn’t it?” Veryacirië shrugged and they stepped away from the rowboat, heading back to their own. Ilarwa continued, “I wish they’d stop. It’s not a good thing to be torn from everything you’ve known, with Aman possibly relegated to the realm of legend, and be confronted with the truth and a sight that means your death.”

“Maybe it is a reward. There are bad things happening in Middle-earth, what with more Eldar fleeing here. Maybe they just want to protect those who wouldn’t otherwise be safe.”

“Maybe…” Ilarwa looked over his shoulder at the group of people gently removing the Man’s body from his boat. “I still don’t think it’s much of one.”

Veryacirië clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll at least be buried in a nice place.”

Which was accurate enough. The cemetery for those mortals who happened upon the Straight Road was on one of the rolling hills overlooking the Sea. Veryacirië spent a fair amount of time there, both as a caretaker and someone who recorded the mortals’ histories as best as she could. But Ilarwa rather thought they’d prefer to have been buried where their families could leave flowers or stones or whatever mortals preferred on their graves.

---

Chapter End Notes

This based on the last lines of the Akallabêth: “And tales and rumors arose along the shore of the sea concerning mariners and men forlorn upon the water who, by some fate or grace or favor of the Valar, had entered in upon the Straight Way and seen the face of the world sink below them, and so had come to the lamplit quays of Avallónë, or verily to the last beaches upon the margin of Aman, and there had looked upon the White Mountain, dreadful and beautiful, before they died.” It’s described solely as a rumor, but I wanted to explore the idea as if it were truth.

Not Just Rumors

Nerdanel spies something rare on the plains of Aman. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Nerdanel brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face and crested the hilltop, looking out over the gently rolling hills and then down at the bottom, hoping for a creek to cool off in. The day was hot, though the light breeze from the north felt nice. But she wasn’t the only creature here. She slowly sank to the grass so as not to startle the herd of horses grazing at the bottom of the hill. But that didn’t stop several of them from lifting their heads in alarm. Nerdanel inhaled sharply. She’d thought they were only rumors.

Unicorns.

They looked almost like normal horses-- same coat colors (though there were more grays than usual), same general body shape, same behavioral patterns-- save for the short horn on every single head. Even the foals had little nubs.

After the alarmed ones settled down, she pulled out of her pack her lunch-- dried fruit and meat-- and her sketchbook and pencils after she finished eating. She stayed there for the rest of the afternoon watching and drawing them and planning her next statue.

---

Chapter End Notes

Unicorns may not exist in Middle-earth, but there’s nothing that says they can’t exist in Aman. From ‘Of Eldamar’: “For all living creatures that are or have been in the Kingdom of Arda, save only the fell and evil creatures of Melkor, lived then in the land of Aman; and there were also many other creatures that have not been seen upon Middle-earth, and perhaps now never shall be, since the fashion of the world was changed.”

(In case you’re wondering, this was written mostly as a reaction against the outcry of Mary Sues riding into Middle-earth on such uncanonical creatures that pervaded the fandom-- and unfortunately still does-- when I entered it in the summer of 2004. Which I’m not going to get started on, save only to say that Mary Sues harm no one and that there’s nothing wrong with power fantasies.)

Chapter 16

Maedhros frets. Fingon calms him down. For Zeen for Fandom_Stocking 2013. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Maedhros rose from the window seat when Fingon entered the house. “Do they still bicker?”

“Have they ever stopped?” Fingon snorted and closed the door. “Despite that, Father has acquiesced to meet with you.”

Maedhros nodded and sank back onto the cushion, Fingon joining him. “My own siblings fear I have lost my mind. Not all of them-- Maglor and Amras agree with my reasoning-- but I remain grateful that apart from them, only you know my purpose.”

Fingon smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair off Maedhros’ forehead. “It will work.”

Maedhros turned his head to stare out of the window at the waters of Mithrim. “If it doesn’t, I don’t know what will heal the rift between our Houses.”

Fingon nudged Maedhros’ shoulder. “Stop fretting. It will.”

Chapter 17

Makalaurë and Findaráto leave Tirion. For Iavalir for Fandom_Stocking 2013. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Makalaurë paused. “Are you sure? This was rather abrupt.”

Findaráto laughed and finished saddling his horse. “If you wish to spend the next three months baby-sitting your brothers…”

He shook his head and mounted his mare. “Alqualondë for the season it is.”

They trotted out of Tirion and broke into a canter when the road cleared of traffic. Findaráto said, “I look forward to dragging you to my newest haunt. You’ll enjoy it.”

Makalaurë shot him a wry look. “Just like I enjoyed the hunt you dragged me on, what, half a dozen years ago?”

Findaráto laughed. “You won’t be ambushed this time, I promise.” He grinned wickedly. “At least not by any beasts. Musicians, undoubtedly.”

Makalaurë rolled his eyes. “That will not be so terrible.” He glanced over his shoulder at Tirion and nudged his horse into a canter. “The sooner we arrive, the sooner you can arrange it.”

Findaráto cackled and swiftly caught up.

Chapter 18

Makalaurë tells his mother about the house he bought. For Idleleaves for Fandom_Stocking 2013. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Nerdanel placed a hand on Makalaurë’s shoulder. “I appreciate your telling me, my son. But don’t you think you should have waited until after the wedding to buy a house?”

Makalaurë shook his head. “Better that it is ready to move into than live here for however long it would take.” He grimaced. “I do not think anyone would appreciate that.”

Nerdanel laughed. “Especially your younger brothers. Now, are you going to show me the house?”

Makalaurë gestured out of the window at the carriage waiting by the road. “Of course.”

Nerdanel kissed her son on the cheek and went to get her wrap and shoes.

Chapter 19

Míriel and Indis in bed in the morning. For Elleth for Fandom_Stocking 2013. Ficlet. Rated ADULT for moderate sexuality.

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Míriel rolled over in bed, rustling the sheets, and looked at Indis, the dim golden light filtering through the sheer curtains dappling her face. She lightly kissed Indis’ cheek and her eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” she mumbled.

Míriel smiled and brushed a hand against Indis’ cheek. “You are beautiful.”

Indis smiled sleepily up at her. “You woke me up to tell me this?”

“Of course I did.” She leaned over and kissed Indis’ lips. “You’ve done it to me often enough.”

Indis chuckled and slid her hand over Míriel’s breast. Míriel gasped and Indis grinned wickedly. “I may as well return the favor, then.”

Morning love had never been so sweet.

Chapter 20

Maglor, Elrond, and growing up. For Kaz for Fandom_Stocking 2013. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Elrond shook his hair out of his eyes and looked at Maglor. “How was that?”

“Much better.” He paused. “I think it’s time you had a haircut. I know your brother needs one.” He looked around the clearing. “Where is he, by the way?”

Elrond shrugged and sheathed his sword. “Hiding from Maedhros and his scissors.”

Maglor laughed. “Really?”

Elrond shook his head. “He’s with one of the twins down the road. She said something about a new bow.”

“Ah. That would do it.” Maglor looped an arm around Elrond’s shoulders. “Do you wish for a haircut?”

“I like my hair longer. I think I’ll grow it out.”

Maglor nodded and let his adopted son go. They were growing up: Elros’ interest in girls and Elrond’s wish for an adult hairstyle… They’d soon have to return to Gil-galad and his people. But that time was not now; they could put off breaking apart their family (again) for a little while longer.

Chapter 21

Elrond and Elros on the night before Elros leaves for Númenor. For Carabas for Fandom_Stocking 2013. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Elrond leaned on the ship’s railing and looked at the sunset. Elros half-sat on it next to him, facing away from the setting sun. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

Elrond half-smiled and stared down at the water lapping against the ship. “Exactly what you’ve done with me.” He looked up at his brother. “Elros…”

Elros pulled him into a hug. “Elrond, I don’t know how to say farewell to you. We’ve been together through so much. Losing you…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “This is the hardest part about our separate fates.”

“I don’t think anyone knows how to say good-bye.” He certainly didn’t, despite everything. Facing the long ages of the world without his brother at his side… He’d avoided thinking about it. Now the time had come when the reality was unavoidable.

“Come on, then. One last dinner together.” Elros released his brother and strode down the deck toward the gangplank.

Elrond followed him, wishing the dawn wouldn’t come.

Belief

A Vanyarin adolescent’s belief differs from her parents’. Written for Legendarium Ladies April. Double drabble. Rated General.

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“Ára, come on!”

Her twin younger brothers raced up the stairs to the bridge, despite their parents’ scolding, but Árasurë stayed on the landing, looking at the short waterfall. It fell into the greenery-lined pool from the stream that ran by the shrine just a little further up Taniquetil that their parents brought them to once a year, to give thanks to the Valar for bringing the Elves out of the darkness of the Outer Lands. Despite the winding stairs it took to reach the landing and bridge, this was her favorite part of the journey.

It made more sense to thank the Valar here than in the dark shrine. Here was Manwë’s air, Varda’s light, Yavanna’s plants, Ulmo’s water, Aulë’s stone, Nessa’s deer, Oromë’s trees, and hints of the other Valar as well.

Yet her parents seemed determined to rush by it. They were so concerned with being Proper Vanyar that they missed the point. When she had children of her own, she’d teach them otherwise: that the Valar weren’t remote beings to be admired from a distance, but as living beings with their own delights. And what better way to thank them than by appreciating what they loved?

---

Chapter End Notes

While this perfectly fits the beliefs prompt, it was actually inspired by the April 16 picture prompt.

Until the Change of the World

Idril and Tuor encounter the Enchanted Isles. Written for Huinárë’s June of Doom and Gloom challenge. Ficlet. Rated Teens for mature themes.

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Idril stumbled out of the surf, the water tugging at her feet. Her wet braid slapped against her sodden clothes and her boots crunched on the gravel. She looked over at Tuor, his gray hair dripping water. He sat down on one of the larger rocks strewn across the rocky shore and started coughing. She rubbed his back and looked out at the fog, the sound of the remains of their boat crunching over and over again on the rocks dull and strange-sounding. She shivered, her soaked tunic and trousers clinging to her skin. Tuor was no better-- and he was an old Man, too. He could easily sicken and die from this.

She did not want that to happen. For him to die in Valinor, a reward for a hard life well-lived-- yes. But not here and not like this.

After they wrung out their clothes and redressed, he said, “We need to build a fire. If this is Tol Eressëa, there should be some sort of dry wood nearby.”

She nodded. The debris from their ship would be too waterlogged to burn. “We go together. It would be far too easy in this fog for us to become disoriented and never find each other again.”

He took her hand and she let him lean on her. The warmth of his body mitigated the chill somewhat, but they needed to get warm fast. Hypothermia killed both Man and Elf.

After an unknown time walking and scrambling over boulders, they finally reached the forest that marked the interior of the island. They pushed their way into the interior through the underbrush and found a freshwater spring a short distance inward. Tuor sat down on a fallen log while Idril collected enough kindling and broken branches to start a fire. She scouted around the spring, never leaving eyeshot, while Tuor used friction to light the fire. When it finally caught, she returned and said, “I think this will be a good camp. There’s fresh water, plentiful wood, and there are enough small animal tracks and edible plants that we’ll be able to feed ourselves while we build--”

“I’m not sure we’ll be able to make a new boat,” Tuor said, feeding a small stick into the flames. “We have no tools.”

“We should try.” Idril rested a hand on his shoulder. “The fog cannot last forever. Maybe we’re far enough West that a signal fire will be spotted by the Teleri, or even by a Maia of Ulmo’s. We have options.”

“I know.” Tuor put a hand on hers. “But even if we are stuck here and I die, don’t give up in despair. You will eventually reach Valinor. And while it may take until the end of the world, we will meet again.”

“I know. And we will.”

She stayed by the fire, drying off and warming up, resting her sore and weary body, and trying not to contemplate the fact that the fog bank had looked entirely unnatural as they sailed toward it. After she warmed up, pushing her concern that this was where they would both die to the back of her mind, she told Tuor to remain by the fire-- they could not risk it extinguishing-- and she gathered armfuls of pine needles to make a comfortable and insulating bed a safe distance from the fire. By the time she was done, it was beginning to grow dark and Tuor has managed to spear a fish from the spring with a sharp branch and cook it over the flames.

A hot meal heartened their outlook: they could survive here, at least for a little while. After they ate, Tuor banked the fire and they crawled into bed, covering themselves with the pine needles as much as possible. She pulled him against her chest and glanced up at the dark sky.

The fog had not lifted and there were no stars to be seen.

She kissed the back of Tuor’s head and closed her eyes, letting the exhaustion that had been pulling at her ever since she’d stepped foot on the island overwhelm her at last.

---

Chapter End Notes

The title comes from this line in “Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor”: “And in the twilight a great weariness came upon mariners and a loathing of the sea; but all that ever set foot upon the islands were there entrapped, and slept until the Change of the World.”

Sunrise

Míriel/Indis, post-Darkening. Written for the 2014 International Day of Femslash. Drabble. Rated General.

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Indis smiled as she watched Míriel walking up the same path Finwë had traveled so many years ago, her white dress’ silver embroidery flashing in the early morning sunlight.

Some whispered Indis was cursed, to be so continuously tied up in the strange situation. Some whispered she was simply unlucky or contended the curse was merely an over-invested heart.

Indis knew better. It was no curse to love and to be loved in return.

She stepped away from the white marble portico and met Míriel on the gravel path, gently brushing Míriel’s lips with a kiss. “Welcome home, my dear.”

Trick or Treat Ficlets

Five ficlets written for the Trick or Treat meme on LJ: four Maglor, one Elrond. Rated General.

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For Makalaurë, young Maglor in Valinor:

Makalaurë stared across the field at his brother. He waved at Maitimo, who turned his bay horse toward him. When Maitimo reined to a halt on the other side of the fence, Makalaurë said, “Father wants you. And given the amount of time I’ve spent here waiting for you, he’s not going to be happy.”

Maitimo sighed and dismounted. Makalaurë opened the gate and his brother led his horse through. As they walked to the stable, Maitimo said, “Did he tell you what he wanted?”

Makalaurë shook his head. “A letter from Uncle Arafinwë arrived shortly beforehand, so I guess it has something to do with that.”

“Politics, then.” Maitimo sighed. “At least he wants my opinion this time.”

“You’re his heir,” Makalaurë said as Maitimo handed over his horse to a groom. “He--”

“I know what he’s training me for, Káno.” He smirked. “You’ll get roped into it soon enough. You’re also a Prince of the Noldor.”

Makalaurë pulled the house’s back door open as he said, “Maybe I’ll run away to Alqualondë.”

“Sure you will.”

Makalaurë stuck his tongue out at him and went into the kitchen for a glass of water.

For Huinare, Elrond and astronomy:

Elrond sat down on a low rock on the boulder-strewn beach. This late at night, the only sound was the waves crashing onto shore. It made him wonder just how often Ulmo looked in on the Elves, or more specifically, Eärendil’s remaining child. It was an unsettling thought, that he was still so important despite having done pretty much nothing. Or maybe the Valar didn’t care anymore. He didn’t know which was worse.

In order to get his mind off those thoughts and back to the reason he came out here in the first place, he looked up at the stars. Maglor had taken Elros and him out numerous times, anytime of the year and night, in order to teach them how to navigate by them, but also to tell them lore, how Varda made them Ages ago, both the thousands they could see and the billions they could not. But he also made up stories: about the swordsman, the butterfly, the horse, the ship, and so many more.

The one thing he had nothing to say about was Remmirath-- Elros had interrupted when Maglor began speaking about it to tell him they already know the story of the Netted Stars. Elrond had remained quiet; talking about it would only have brought tears.

Hearing Mother talk about Remmirath, how they were fish escaping from a mighty fisher, and how it was one of the myths passed on from Cuiviénen was one of the few clear memories he had of her.

For Samtyr, no prompt:

Maglor walked down the country lane, the reds and golds of autumn spread out on either side of him. It was a season that never failed to remind him of always-green Valinor. He wondered now if it remained that way or if it too now had seasons-- or if the weather drove a dry season that would bring a similar effect to the leaves.

He honestly ws not sure which he preferred. He enjoyed the colors of autumn, but Valinor’s stasis was in some ways more pleasant than the ever-changing world. For him, a chance to rest for years at a time without worrying what mortals would think of him or needing to keep track of time would be a blessing. But it was one he wouldn’t ever have: Valinor was a home he could never return to.

The next two stories take place in the same world as A Change in the Wind, my B2MeM 2014 fic.

For Keiliss, Maglor and his dog:

Varnë stared up at him, a stick in her mouth. Maglor rolled over in bed with a groan. He heard the stick drop onto the floor and then Varnë barked. He sighed and sat up, the blanket falling off his shoulders. “Normally you leave the kindling pile alone. Why, why did you suddenly change your mind this morning?”

Varnë picked up the stick, her tail wagging madly. Maglor padded barefoot over to the door and opened it. Varnë darted out, stick still firmly in her mouth. Maglor left the door open behind her and turned to the banked fire. First he would make tea and then he would think of some way to make sure his adolescent dog wouldn’t get into the kindling bucket again.

For Elleth, my Kinn-lai Avari and Maglor:

Asmal studied his second cousin. He was worn, weather-beaten, and while there was clearly steel in him, he acted as if anything he did would cause him to be kicked out. He knew full well why Maglor did not trust other Elves, but he had already been punished for his crimes by his permanent exile from the land in the West. There was no reason he could not make a home here.

Maglor lifted the cup of lavender tea to his lips, his strange, light-filled eyes flicking to Lillin in thanks. She sat down at the table with her own cup. “Maglor, when was the last time you spoke Quenya?”

He looked fully at her. “About two centuries ago. I don’t--”

“Would you like us to learn?” Asmal said.

He stared at them. “I’m not even sure I’m staying.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “You can teach us as we teach you our language, no matter how little that ends up being.”

“But--”

“I know you miss it,” Asmal said. “What will it hurt?”

“It won’t,” Maglor said. He took another sip of his tea. “Thank you.”

Lillin rested a hand on his own. “What else is family for?”

He looked as if he hadn't let that sink into his head yet. With a twisted smile, he said, “Yes, what else is it for?”

Míriel/Indis epistolary ficlet

What it says on the tin. Set in the early Second Age. Written for Elleth for Fandom_Stocking 2014. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Dearest Indis,

I anticipate your return at the end of spring. I know Lalwen is as well. I have enjoyed getting to know your daughter during her visit here; she is a wickedly intelligent ruler and her penchant for pranks has left me wary to enter my chambers on more than one occasion.

I wish our schedules has left us more time to write each other. Little notes are not enough.

I miss you, dear one. I miss waking up next to you in the quiet mornings. I miss our late night conversations and our walks in Tirion’s gardens and fields. I miss our dinners together and dancing under the stars. I miss simply being with you. It is that I look forward to most when you come home.

With all my love,
Míriel

Maglor and Elrond ficlet

What it says on the tin. Written for Winterwitch in Fandom_Stocking 2014. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Maglor looked up from his paperwork when a knock sounded on the door. It opened and Elrond poked his head around it. “May I join you?”

“If you’re quiet.”

Elrond slipped into the study, shutting the door behind him. “I brought a book.” He pulled it out from under his arm and curled up in the window seat overlooking the snow-covered village green, somewhat awkwardly due to the sling on his right arm.

“You wish you could have gone hunting orcs with Elros and Maedhros, don’t you?”

Elrond nodded. “But there will always be more opportunities. And new books are rare.”

So that was the book he had. Maglor had already read it, but it had disappeared from the shelf this morning. He didn’t think Maedhros had taken it, given the puzzled look he’d caught his brother giving the empty space. “That they are.”

“I hope I enjoy it.”

Given his foster son’s voracious appetite for history, Maglor had no doubt. “You likely will.”

Elrond grinned.

Failure

Maglor dreams about his family. Horror. Ficlet. Rated Teens.

Written for Scribe of Mirrormere for the 2015 Trick or Treat Exchange. Many thanks to Elleth for the beta.

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“Makalaurë.”

Maglor turned from the strange, wispy, dark trees, their bare branches only half-seen through the fog, and faced his father. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t--”

“You failed.” Tiny flames flickered on the outline of Fëanor’s body. “You lost against Morgoth. Your brothers are dead. You tossed away the Silmaril you regained like it had been no more than rubbish. And you dare call yourself my son.”

Maglor took a deep breath to steady himself, to push back the heartache, but suddenly three of his brothers were there beside Father, their own forms hardly more substantial than the fog closing in from behind, leaving only the sight of Thangorodrim far in the distance. Curufin said, “You failed us. The Silmaril fled from Doriath. You were not strong enough to retrieve it.”

“It was not--”

“It was,” Amras said, appearing out of the fog with Amrod at his side, both with their bloody mortal wounds. “You failed to keep Elwing from leaping into the sea with it. Now no one can retrieve it.”

“I at least held mine until death,” Maedhros said in Maglor’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine, before walking around and joining the group. “I did not willingly release it.”

The seven of them stared at him, Thangorodrim wavering in and out of sight behind them in the fog. “You have failed in your duty as my son. You failed to keep the oath that you willingly swore twice over.” Fëanor stepped forward, the flames roaring to life as he did so. “And for that, you will never know peace.”

Maglor woke with a gasp, breathing heavily as he tried to force the memory of the dream to fade. But it was not the first time he had dreamt it and he knew that he would fail, the memory hindering his chores and attempts to make this seaside cabin into a proper home.

He flung back the fur covering him, put on his boots, and padded over to the fireplace to stir the embers back to life and use the kettle to heat up water for a cup of raspberry tisane. The warmth would help dull the terror, though it could never banish the thoughts that tormented him during the day and crept into his dreams at night.

He rubbed his face with his free hand when he swung the kettle into place over the low flames; from the weight of it, he’d forgotten to fill it last night so he wouldn’t need to go to the well until after breakfast. Going out in the false dawn did not appeal, though any chance of returning to sleep required a hot drink. And that was more important. He took the kettle off its hook and fumbled with the latch on the door. When he pulled the door open, he froze at the sight of seven ghostly figures on the patch of bare ground between him and the well, the nearest wreathed in flame.

Avarin femslash

Written for Elleth for Fandom_stocking 2015. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Aiwê leaned against her betrothed and looked at the stars. “Do you ever wonder what became of those who left?”

“Sometimes.” She turned her head and kissed Aiwê on the lips. “But they deserted us and our task to heal this world. Why should I give them more than a few moments’ thought?”

“Curiosity, I suppose, as to how they live in a world of constant light and no dangers. It seems rather dull to me.”

“Well, our lives here certainly aren’t dull. If Mother has her way, all the villages from here to the sea will be invited to our wedding.”

“Mmmm. Don’t remind me. Are you sure you don’t want to sneak away to another village and find a priestess to marry us there?”

“Very. Your sister would be disappointed she couldn’t perform the ceremony.”

“We could drag her with us.”

“I don’t think we’d need to drag her.”

Aiwê laughed. “Probably not.” She looked at the position of the Great Bear hanging in the sky. “It’s late; we should return home.”

“Probably.” But they made no movement to leave.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Elleth for help with one of the names.

Oromë finds the Quendi

Written for Kaz for Fandom_stocking 2015. Ficlet. Rated General.

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“Hush. Do you want Him to hear you?” one of the mothers hiding further in the bushes said in a whisper.

Elenê ignored her and peered through the leaves at the Rider on His horse standing in the midst of their village. The Rider didn’t so much as look in their direction, being much too entranced with the equipment the Quendi had left behind on their flight into edges of the forest. That… was not what she had expected from someone who should have known how they lived, given the numbers who had been taken by Him.

Were the rumors wrong? Was there another Rider, a good one? There was only one way for the Quendi to learn.

She stood up and pushed her way through the bushes, feeling the skirt of her dress sliding through fingers that were slightly too slow to catch her. The Rider looked over at her as she marched up to Him, not letting any fear show on her face or in her body language. Pointing at Him several times, she asked, “Who are you?”

The Rider smiled wider, appearing delighted that one of the Quendi spoke to him. “Arômêz.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Elleth for help with the names.

Insomniac Maglor in Himring

Written for Himring in the Fandom_stocking 2015. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Maglor stared out the window at the stars, the stone sill cold where he leaned on his hands. It was far too late in the night, shading closer to dawn than to sunset, and he could not sleep. Tomorrow would bring yet another council with his brothers on how to best defend their lands and sleep would help him keep his temper when their ideas inevitably clashed.

But no matter how long he’d lay in bed, sleep would not come. Scattered lines of poetry and songs ran through his head in a jumble, some of them his and some not. If only there was a way to make his mind quiet.

A shooting star flashed by in the distance and Maglor stepped away from the window in quiet disgust, letting the heavy drape fall and keep out the cool night air as best as it could. He’d counted dozens of them that night and it had not helped, either. He sank down onto the chair in front of a small desk and lit the candle placed there. If he was going to be awake all night, he may as well review the latest intelligence his captains had gathered for him.

Lúthien on Tol Galen

Written for Wavesinger in the Fandom_stocking 2015. Ficlet. Rated General.

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Lúthien stepped in front of the door of their finished dwelling on Tol Galen. They had worked hard over the past season to complete it before winter, as well ensuring Beren and she would have enough food to last through until spring.

It brought a pang to her heart knowing that she would never see Doriath in the spring (or any season) again. But she had made her choice and was happy with it. She reached down, touched the stone pendent carved with the image of the gates of Menegroth strung on a necklace that her mother had given her in remembrance, and stepped inside her new home.

Nellas in early autumn

What it says on the tin. Drabble, rated General.

Written for Scribe of Mirrormere for FandomGiftbox 2016.

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Nellas sat back against an old oak tree, the bark catching on her dress, but she paid it no mind. The oppressive heat of summer had finally broken, though it was still warm, and the cool water of the stream felt delightful on her bare feet. The sun sparkled on the water, green leaves floating downstream on the gentle current. The animals hunted and gathered, preparing for winter largely unseen though heard by her. She tilted her head back, looking up at the blue sky through the leaves just beginning to turn.

The autumn promised to be lovely this year.

Tears Unnumbered

Maglor and Maedhros talk about the Prophecy of the North. This was written for Tic_Tac_Woe, the apocalypse mini-bingo community on Dreamwidth, for the prompt "Prophecy of Doom." Ficlet; rated Teens for mature themes.

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Maglor leaned against the tree, watching the two boys playing in the middle of the cleared ground near the campfire. “Do you ever think about what Mandos said?”

Maedhros snorted. “You mean the prophecy? ‘Tears unnumbered ye shall shed…’ We fought a battle and lost so badly that’s its name. Damn right I think about the Doom-- and damn ourselves for thinking we could escape it or that songs would matter. They don’t.” He froze and then looked at his brother. “I didn’t mean--”

Maglor gently touched Maedhros’ shoulder. “I know you didn’t. Songs can’t bring back the dead. They can’t solve anything. Maybe inspire a little courage-- but what else is there? There are so few survivors, no matter if they were our followers or not. Morgoth has all but won, brother. We can only hope the end is swift.”

Maedhros shook his head. “It won’t be if Morgoth captures us, not for us two. You know he’ll delight in our suffering. Remember Húrin-- and we were far more annoying than a mortal.”

“If Morgoth doesn’t capture us?”

Maedhros sighed. “There’s barely a hundred of us left. Everyone else is on the Isle of Balar and that too will be breached in time. Our only safety is being constantly on the move. Even then, our numbers will be slow attrition until there is no one left. There are simply too many Orcs in Beleriand now and no one will help us.”

“Rather deservedly,” Maglor muttered. “Do you think we should give the children to Círdan?”

“Could you give them up?”

Maglor looked back at Elrond and Elros. “It may spare their lives. It may not. We don’t know if Morgoth will attack Balar first or if he’ll concentrate on finding us or simply let all of us be. He knows we are no threat to him.”

“We have done his work enough.” Maedhros ran his hand down his face. “We are neither of us cowards, but I grow weary. The boys are soon to be adults; let them know their other kin before the end.”

Maglor glanced at his brother. “Do you truly believe that?”

He shrugged. “What else is left but hard-scrabble existence and death? There are simply too few of us left.”

Maglor nodded, knowing his brother spoke some truth. “I will at least ask their opinion. If they wish to leave us, we shall bring them to Balar. If not, they will stay with us.”

Maedhros nodded. “Do as you see fit, Maglor. They are your foster sons.” He strode off into the woods, silently slipping among the trees to check on the guards. Maglor sighed and turned toward the fire and the children.

Desolation

Maglor after the War of Wrath. This was written for Tic_Tac_Woe, the apocalypse mini-bingo community on Dreamwidth, for the prompt "Wizards’ War/War of the Gods." Triple drabble; rated Teens for mature themes.

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Maglor sat on a boulder and stared at the boiling waves. The Silmaril had long sunk out of sight, not even a hint of light shining from the deep, dark water. He had wrapped and cleaned his hand as best he could, ignoring the pain.

There was nowhere for him to go. He would not return and beg Eönwë for mercy. The lands of Beleriand he had grown familiar with no longer existed, lost under the waves as a result of the fight between Morgoth and the army from Aman.

He suspected now one of the reasons the Valar had not fought Morgoth’s entrenchment: innocents would die, never suspecting why.

They should have listened to the legends from Cuiviénen, of the terrors and horrors of the Ainur at war, only hints then, never experienced.

Now he had. Now they all had.

Little was left of Beleriand, only a narrow strip of Ossiriand left between the Blue Mountains and the newly widened sea. Hundreds of leagues of land, gone. Any survivors eking out an existence in the wild that had not been found or had not fled into the ever-retreating refugee camps, dead. Lands where the Sindar and the Laiquendi and the Dwarves had lived and died, gone. The lands where his father and brothers had died, gone. The only exception was Maedhros, and Maglor had put as much distance between that crack in the land and himself as possible before throwing his own Silmaril into the Sea.

He rubbed the tears from his eyes with his unburnt hand. There was nothing left for him here. Let him wander until he found a new home or peace, whichever came first.

His own actions had started him down this road. Others’ actions had sealed his fate.

Maglor the Kinslayer.

Maglor the Wanderer.

Arda Marred

Nienna and unending grief. This was written for Tic_Tac_Woe, the apocalypse mini-bingo community on Dreamwidth, for the prompt "War Without End." Triple drabble; rated Teens for mature themes.

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Nienna sat on a rocking chair on the porch of her house overlooking Ekkaia, watching the sun set, ignoring the bustling inhabitants of her house as they prepared for supper. She mourned, as she always did, even when others would have thought she had temporarily put aside her grief.

But she had entered Eä in grief and could no more do so than she could return to the Timeless Halls.

The war against Melkor and his servants had begun before Creation and would continue until the universe slowly, silently faded into the death entropy decreed.

The Ainur had fought before the creation of Eä. They had fought for Arda, laying down their burden only to pick it up when Morgoth took advantage of the lull. The Elves had fought him. They had lost despite small victories-- or large, as many would say of Lúthien’s recovery of a Silmaril.

But Melkor’s servants had not all been captured. Some indeed had turned away from the mercy of the Valar and had become almost as terrible. Mairon’s victory on Númenor had paved the way for his eventual defeat-- but still lives were lost and the world forever changed.

Even when the Elves had left for Aman or faded from mortal memory the fight continued: the Secondborn were not content to live peacefully, always restless, always striving to mastery, always wanting. There was a hunger in them Nienna thought would never be satiated and a rather unfortunate lack of foresight and understanding. They changed the world, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. The battles were simply no longer fought against the Ainur, but against Middle-earth and themselves.

So she mourned: for the lives lost, the possibilities removed, the changes that could never be undone.

She would continue to mourn until Arda Healed.

Lament

For Silm40. Maglor and the Noldolantë.

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Maglor ignored the bustle of the camp hidden behind the hide walls of his tent, staring down at the rag paper on his travel desk, a quill in hand ready to dip into the black ink. How to tell of the glories and the exile, the Darkness and the light? Not just of the Sun and Moon, but the stars and the Silmarils and the people? What could be told of those days long in the bright days of Valinor under the Two Trees and short in the overshadowed days of the Outer Lands? What could be told of the disasters and the battles and the Kinslayings?

How could one lament contain those multitudes?

He did not yet know, though he knew it would be his greatest work. The fall of the Noldor deserved no less.

Genesis

For Silm40. JRR Tolkien begins the Silmarillion.

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The notebook lay open in front of him, waiting to be filled with the mythology and languages that lived in his head. Convalescing in the countryside of Great Haywood with Edith encouraging him and the war ever-present in the background meant one thing: he could no longer wait. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien picked up the pencil and wrote, “Then said Littleheart son of Bronweg, ‘Know then that Tuor was a man who dwelt in very ancient days in that land of the North called Dor Lómin or the Land of Shadows, and of the Eldar the Noldoli know it best.’”

---

Chapter End Notes

Author’s Note: The quote is the opening sentence from “The Fall of Gondolin” in The Book of Lost Tales. It is the first story Tolkien wrote in what would become The Silmarillion.

Views

Celebrían looked up from her early morning cup of tea at her husband, who stood bare-chested by the window. She'd chosen the house deliberately for its view of the water, but the view inside at the moment was just as lovely.

Many thanks to Ysilme for the beta.

Written for Grundy for Innumerable Stars 2017. Rated General. Ficlet.

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“I miss the mountains.”

Celebrían looked up from her early morning cup of tea at her husband, who stood bare-chested by the window. She'd chosen the house deliberately for its view of the water, but the view inside at the moment was just as lovely. “When you live in a valley for thousands of years…”

He turned and made a face at her. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

She hummed a bit, hiding a smile. “There are heights for you to climb here.”

That wasn't all of it, of course. Imladris had been his home for longer than it had been hers. His influence-- regardless of Vilya-- had been everywhere, from the construction of the house to the plantings in the fields. She'd made the valley her home, of course, and had her own role running the household. But it was not the same.

Elrond walked over to her and picked up her free hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing her palm. “I presume you are not talking about the tower with the Master-stone?”

That was a temptation they both fought: neither one of them wanted to look back at Middle-earth while simultaneously desiring to know their children's lives and choices. “No. There are mountains on Tol Eressëa. I'm likewise sure Manwë and Varda would love to speak to you on Taniquetil.”

That brought a quick smile to his face. “Later, I think.” He glanced back at the window. “I would rather explore Avallónë first. I had forgotten the taste of fresh seafood.”

“There is the restaurant our old cook opened a long-year ago. It's well-established now and we won't need a reservation.”

He kissed her hair. “For supper? I'd rather spend the day by the shore.”

As much as he loved the mountains, he loved the shore as well. It was one of the reasons she had chosen to live here in the city outskirts and not in the city center. “As long as you don't brood.”

He blinked, startled. “I don't--” He laughed a little. “I have been, haven't I? I managed not to while in Imladris, but now that I'm here? It seems everything has struck me anew.”

In a low voice, she said, “Elrond, what was your main concern then, apart from the Ring?”

“Our children,” he said as quietly. “All three of them are difficult-- were difficult-- in their own ways. Arwen we have lost forever and you weren't able to say farewell to her. Our sons we don't know if we will ever see them again. I cannot help but dwell on that.”

She kissed the back of his hand. “I do the same, Elrond. But our sons will make their choices soon-- and best that we have a life here to bring them into than a half-life stuck in the past.”

“Our life here can never be stuck so deep. You are here, after all, and there are many new things to experience and learn.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Are you sure they'll sail?”

She nodded. “I know them. They'll make sure their sister is happy-- and then will they come.” She finished her tea, put the empty cup on the table, stood, and pulled her hand out of his. “Regardless, if you wish to spend the day outdoors, you'll need to finish dressing.”

He glanced down at himself. His startled expression made her chuckle. “Yes, I suppose I must.”

Chapter 40

Written for Snowflake Challenge 2017 Day 12 and inspired by some meta about Elrond and Maglor I wrote for Day 8. Drabble-and-a-half, mildly AU, rated General.

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“You heard that.”

Maglor stepped out of the shadow of the doorway into the Last Homely House. “How could I not?” He glanced at where the Company could hardly be seen in the trees across the Bruinen River. “It is sound advice.”

Elrond sighed. “Learned through lived experience. You are better now than you were after--”

“That is not a high wall to climb over.” Maglor absently rubbed his right palm, feeling the ridges of the scars underneath the wool knit glove. “Regardless, if you would have made them swear, I would not have spoken to you again.”

Elrond’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. “Yours is not the only oath on my mind. There are the Paths of the Dead.”

Maglor flinched. “You think Aragorn may have need of those oathbreakers?”

Elrond’s gaze moved to where his children stood huddled together at the far end of the courtyard. “I do.”

Chapter 41

Written for Grundyscribbling for a hurt/comfort prompt on Tumblr: Turgon/Elenwe and “Hey, just look at me. Breathe.” Drabble, rated General. AU.

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“Hey, just look at me. Breathe.”

Elenwë gasped for air. Turukáno held her close, the large gap in the ice that had opened underneath her feet far enough away that it no longer looked threatening. But it had nearly swallowed her and several others. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

She said, “I should change into dry clothes.”

Turukáno nodded and helped her to her feet. They’d learned early what to do to survive the Grinding Ice. As fast as she could warm up, she should-- and then they needed to move. The swifter they reached land, the safer they would be.

The earth in flame

Elrond and Celebrían supervise a fire-starting contest for their young twin sons. Triple drabble, rated General.

This was written for the Competition/May 2018 SWG Challenge. It's loosely inspired by Elnur & Samir’s “Day After Day,” specifically the line, “The earth is in flame and you must share the blame.”

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Celebrían wrapped an arm around Elrond’s waist after he finished explaining the terms of the fire-starting challenge to Elladan and Elrohir, who then scurried off to collect flint and kindling. “Why do I sense that there is a story behind you having them hold the contest on our stone porch rather than a patch of dirt?”

Elrond smiled. “There is. Maglor said his mother held a similar challenge for her twin sons and they nearly burned down the garden in their enthusiasm.”

She snorted. “I suppose Maglor held one for you two?”

Elrond nodded. “We took it rather more seriously, though. Our sons are-- and Nerdanel’s sons at the time were-- not living in hiding in a war-torn land.” He sighed. “From what both Maglor and Maedhros said, neither Amrod nor Amras lost their love of flames.”

Celebrían lay her head on Elrond’s shoulder. “I suppose they found other uses for fire in the end?”

“Morgoth was not the only one to use it in war. He was merely the first to weaponize it on a vast scale.”

Elrond shoved aside the memories with the ease of long practice. Now was not the time to dwell on the First Age and its ending, nor of the twins he had never met as they’d died in the battle where Elros and he were taken. They had both heard a multitude of stories of the older set of twins.

Elladan and Elrohir never had to grow up with the intimate knowledge people died with frightening ease. Instead, they were learning a necessary survival skill-- even if they’d use it solely on hunts, though Elrond thought the peace would not last-- and having fun doing so.

Though it did mean there were several dozen buckets of water on the porch next to them.

Chapter 43

Maglor on the night before an important event. Ficlet, rated General.

Written for the Teen Spirit challenge, with the prompt "exams."

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I stared down at my music, the notes swimming on the page. After so long studying them, singing them, measures over and over, the song sung so many times I heard it in my dreams, they were flat, lifeless, a mess. If I couldn’t perform tomorrow, my life was ruined. I would be an embarrassment to the House of Finwë, never to show my face in public again.

The door to my room opened after a soft knock. “Makalaurë, sweetie, I brought you some tea.” Mother put the cup and saucer down on my desk and gathered up the sheet music from the stand, putting it on the corner of my desk. “I think you should rest--”

"But--”

She put a calloused finger on my lips. “Right now, what you need most is sleep. The music will be there in the morning. You have enough time before we have to leave for your exam to run through it again two or three times.”

“You don’t understand!”

"Of course I don’t. This is your exam and while we all may have gone through similar things, we aren’t you. But I do know what helps: a cup of tea, a good night’s rest, and something to eat in the morning. You know your music, Makalaurë. Even if you end up not sleeping, a break from it will help.” She picked up the cup of tea and put it in my hands. “Trust me.”

She kissed my temple and left my room, closing the door behind her. I looked down at the sheet music and turned my back on it. Right now, I would drink the tea. And then I would think about taking the rest of her advice.

Sea-longing

Maglor and the Sea. Rated General.

This was written for the "the night is time for…" prompt for SWG's 13th Birthday Instadrabbling. It's not properly a drabble; it's slightly too long.

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The night was time for silence. Maglor liked the quiet in the early morning, before the birds woke. But it was never truly quiet: there was always, always the Sea. Sometimes he was near it, and he was able to live side by side with it in a truce. Other times, when he'd wandered inland, the Sea entered his dreams and never left him in peace. He would toss and turn, hear it in his waking hours. It was never, ever the Silmaril; that had not troubled him since he'd thrown it. It was the Sea itself, calling him, uncaring he could never sail across it to go home.

Cold

This was written for Teitho's November/December 2019 challenge "cold." It came in third.

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Cold, the sickle of stars shone over the North.

Cold, his brothers called him when he refused to go after Maedhros.

Cold, their relations had grown with those who had crossed the Grinding Ice.

Cold, had their relations ever been with Thingol and worse they became when the truth was learned.

Cold lay the bodies of their fallen kin and friends.

Cold lay his instruments after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, unused as he paced back and forth, unable to compose, to sing, to play.

Cold lay their metal blades until the Oath drove them to be coated in warm blood.

Cold were the eyes of everyone who had devastated Doriath, the Havens.

Cold Elrond and Elros should have remained toward him, but did not.

Cold he stood now on the shore, the war camp to his north and vast lands to his south.

The Silmaril did not burn cold.

Maglor turned and walked South, away from everything he’d ever known, in hope that one day he would be warm again.

Chapter 46: Ribbon-cutting ficlet

Daisy Gardner tells an Elf to get off her lawn. Rated General. Ficlet.

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Daisy put her hands on her hips. It was an absolute riddle why an Elf of all people would wander into the Shire, well after everyone knew all of them had gone West. But here one stood in the midst of the sunlit lawns of the outskirts of Hobbiton. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He looked down at her. “No, I’m merely passing through.”

“Good. The Big People are supposed to stay out of the Shire and that includes yourself.”

“My pardon. I’m merely heading West and this was the road I was told to take.”

“Be on your way, then.”

He bowed his dark head and moved to the opposite side of the path, continuing his journey to wherever Elves ended up.

---

Chapter End Notes

This was written for the Ribbon-cutting event on the SWG Discord to celebrate the new site's opening. I completely forgot about it until now.

The prompts were: daisy, riddle, sunlit, lawns.

With thanks to Grundy for a description that makes for a great summary.

Chapter 47: SWG Olympics fic

Estel, Elrond, and drowned Gondolin. Rated General. Ficlet.

This was written for the Boccia team challenge; Daughterofshadows of Team Rivendell gave me the surprise prompt of Aragorn asking to visit Gondolin.

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"And that’s how Tuor came to Gondolin,” Elrond said, rolling up the map Glorfindel had made as a teaching aid yéni ago.

Estel frowned. “And then eventually the Balrogs came and Glorfindel died. But he came back. Could Gondolin ever come back?”

Elrond bit back a smile and grabbed another map, this time of the few places from the drowned land that were above water marked out in red ink. “No, the War of Wrath destroyed rather a lot of Beleriand.”

“Could someone swim down to it?”

Elrond didn’t bother to hide his smile this time. “It’s too deep. Maybe someone will invent a way to reach it.”

“I will!” Estel said. “I’m going to figure out how right now.” He slid off the stool and ran toward the door, though he thankfully had not lost all of his manners in his enthusiasm and shut the door properly behind him.

Elrond chuckled and rolled up the Beleriand map and put both of them away. Gilraen would undoubtably talk to him sooner or later about Estel’s latest idea, but unlike the time when he’d thought it would be a grand adventure to hunt for trolls in the dead of night and snuck out of his bed, she would be amused by it.

48. Tumblr-based Crackfic

Aulë, Finarfin, and Maglor's ignored return to Aman. Crackfic. Rated General. Ficlet.

This ficlet was inspired by this Tumblr post.

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“What do you mean, he’s not here? I saw you talking to him yesterday!”

Aulë smiled. “If Kanafinwë is here, which he assuredly is not, he is an Elven problem and as he is a Noldo—“

“—He is my problem,” Arafinwë said with a sigh.

“I’m glad you understand,” Aulë said and excused himself.

Arafinwë sighed again and switched to Sindarin. “You may as well come out and join us for dinner.”

Maglor stepped inside from where he’d been lurking on the balcony of the suite Arafinwë had been given while visiting Tol Eressëa. “Hello, Arafinwë.”

“Hello, Maglor. It’s been a while. You must tell me all about it.”

“Including how I arrived?”

“Oh, no,” Arafinwë said, putting an arm around his wayward relative’s shoulders. “Galadriel and Elrond were very insistent on telling me every single detail. She could barely stop laughing. No, I want to know everything else.”

Maglor glanced over to see the wicked smile Arafinwë had let show and swallowed.