In love that we are made by stormfallen

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Fanwork Notes

So come, my friends, be not afraid
We are so lightly here
It is in love that we are made;
In love we disappear
Tho’ all the maps of blood and flesh
Are posted on the door
There’s no one who has told us yet
What Boogie Street is for

"As ages passed the dominance of their fëar ever increased, 'consuming' their bodies (as has been noted). The end of this process is their 'fading', as Men have called it; for the body becomes at last, as it were, a mere memory held by the fëa; and that end has already been achieved in many regions of Middle-earth, so that the Elves are indeed deathless and may not be destroyed or changed."
-Laws and Customs Among the Eldar

 

Originally posted on Tumblr here.

Fanwork Information

Summary:

They say there are cities far to the East and South, for those who can find them, whose entire populations slowly forgot the need for flesh and faded into memory of routine, living in their empty homes and walking their empty streets even when those homes and streets are no more.

For thousands of years the City has awaited you.

Major Characters: Original Character(s), Setting as Character, Avari

Major Relationships:

Artwork Type: No artwork type listed

Genre: Experimental

Challenges: Experimental, New Year's Resolution

Rating: General

Warnings:

Chapters: 1 Word Count: 307
Posted on 31 January 2024 Updated on 31 January 2024

This fanwork is complete.

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1
  • The gates are open, yet you know you are watched as you walk in.
  • Surely that is the sound of a bustling marketplace around the bend? But no, you reach the square and it's empty of life. The stalls are open, but none sell food.
  • You take a wooden knickknack from one stall. As you walk away you feel— thiefthiefshameguiltyguiltyTHIEF
  • You double back and leave a coin. The pressure fades.
  • On the counter of the inn is a mug of fresh beer, waiting for you. You leave a coin. No, two coins. This was generous.
  • You sit at an empty table and do not feel alone. You can almost hear the bawdy singing and smell the roasting pork.
  • The ale tastes like the farm in the dells where you danced with your husband in the wheat fields and kissed him below the endless stars and the bedroom where you promised your eternal soul to his and the floorboards he cut himself that you buried his empty shell under and the green door you closed behind you for the last time as you set out for something new and the eastward breeze that sometimes carries his voice out of the Uttermost West and the answers you’ll never give him
  • You were never married. You’re not thirsty anymore.
  • As you lie down in an empty room, nothing wishes you peaceful dreams.
  • You wake up. The bed is a mound of dirt. The inn is dust. The marketplace is stones and overgrowth. The gate is closed. The walls about it are gone.
  • In what might have been the rot of the stall you visited, no copper gleams. You take the toy you purchased from your pocket. The paint is still unchipped.
  • You leave through what might have been a watchtower, once. Remember, you do not hear it say.

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