Fire in Four Quarters by sallysavestheday
Fanwork Notes
Inspired by the tengwar for the cardinal directions: numen, formen, rómen, hyarmen. Alas, there is no place that is truly safe. With the right kindling, everything burns.
- Fanwork Information
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Summary:
For the Tengwar challenge, four poems in which Beleriand and Middle-Earth are threatened by flames (once from each cardinal direction).
Major Characters:
Major Relationships:
Genre: Poetry
Challenges: Tengwar
Rating: General
Warnings:
Chapters: 4 Word Count: 339 Posted on 1 May 2024 Updated on 1 May 2024 This fanwork is complete.
North (formen): Bragollach
- Read North (formen): Bragollach
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Who knew fire
could run like water,
slinking and slithering its way
across the plains,
lapping up every
nest and
wallow and
sliding into every den,
scalding
with its wet,
red,
tongue?
Ah,
how the pines of
Dorthonion
kindled,
the sweet pitch of
their hearts
blown
up and
out,
crisping and
drifting
on the burning air,
ash falling like confetti
at the end of some grim,
incendiary
ball.
But
voices
yet sing in the scorched woods,
on the burnt plains.
Ghostly minstrels
still spit defiance,
weaving
a bitter harmony
with the gritty wind,
cursing Morgoth,
refusing Mandos,
howling and mourning
through the memory of
their cracked and
blistered
lips.
East (rómen): The Lands Beyond
- Read East (rómen): The Lands Beyond
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The first Men
to cross the mountains
murmur tales of
drought,
of hills bleached to sand,
meadows dried and
dulled until they
flare like tinder to a
thoughtless spark.
Their hollow eyes
remember the pale
bones of herds
and flocks too great
to water, fields
left fallow,
abandoned hearths.
Finrod listens.
In his mind’s eye
sweet Cuiviénen’s hollow
lies sere and dry,
the pale earth
cracking,
revealing bones
where once were
stars.
South (hyarmen): Slaves
- Read South (hyarmen): Slaves
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The Men of Umbar haul
in others’ traces.
Named lesser and
lower,
passed from
fist to fist,
from one armed lord
to another, like working
beasts:
so many hands,
so many backs,
so many ships.
To raise a proud head
risks losing it;
to speak in their own
language
ends with tongues clipped.
But -- even from the
droning depths
of misery --
all hearts yearn.
Is it truly
any wonder
that,
whispering on their
secret altars,
dark flames burn?
West (numen): Durin's Doors
- Read West (numen): Durin's Doors
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The sinking sun
kindles the gate-stream,
sets alight the hauberks
of the doorwardens
dicing and laughing under the hollies.
Light spreads its gilded fingers
over the threshold
where the doors
stand
ever open,
welcoming.
The guards’ abandoned halberds
flash and flare –
their shadows
thrown across the gate,
lengthening
as the sky burns
and spills scarlet
across the white stones
of the road
to Ost-in-Edhil:
that city of friends
from which nothing
evil
ever comes.
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