Tengwar Drabbles by cílil

Calma

Summary: Galadriel and Amarië enjoy a special festival together.

AN: Arë Silmëo (Day of Starlight) is a spontaneous little innovation of mine, a sort of festival celebrating the awakening of the Elves under Varda's stars. Lamps, lanterns and candles are lit to remember those first lights that guided them.

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The atmosphere of Arë Silmëo always felt special, magical even. Lanterns of all shapes, colours and sizes floated in the air and the wells of Varda, bathing their surroundings in a warm glow as if the stars had come down to Arda to shine among them for a time. 

And next to her, Artanis' hair shone as well, golden and silver light seemingly captured between its strands. 

Amarië brushed her fingers against the back of her hand. Artanis, without hesitation, took it and squeezed. 

Her smile, too, was luminous, and Amarië felt overjoyed to experience this festival together with her. 

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Chapter End Notes

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Ungwë

Arien barely manages to escape Ungoliant's web. Estë works on freeing her.

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"It feels as though it refuses to let me go."

Arien shudders as she tries to free herself from Ungoliant's web of unlight once more. Burned and blackened from her fire, it nevertheless clings stubbornly to her luminous fána.

Thread by thread, Estë patiently works to unravel the web in which the Spider Queen has attempted to ensnare the poor fire spirit.

She doesn't wish to dwell on what might have happened if Arien hadn't managed to flee.

"It is persistent," Estë agrees, calm yet determined. "But it matters not. Once it is removed, I will take care of you." 

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Chapter End Notes

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Alda

Celegorm seeks out Tilion to invite him to his next hunt.

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He finds him sitting underneath a mighty tree, humming to himself as he tends to his silver bow.

"Tyelkormo." Tilion doesn't raise his head, but gives a nod.

Whether he knows him by scent, footsteps or something else, Tyelkormo knows not. He hears a smile in Tilion's voice and responds in kind.

"Will you be joining my next hunt?" He sits down.

"Maybe." Midnight-blue eyes glance up at him in time to see his disappointment.

"Do you want me to?" As always, Tilion is direct.

Tyelkormo shifts nervously. "Maybe," he retorts in kind, quick as always.

Eyes sparkling, Tilion laughs. 

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Chapter End Notes

Some budding romance perhaps? ;)

Unque

Maeglin's mining efforts go south - or rather, too deep.

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He shouldn't have done this. Shouldn't have mined so far away from Gondolin, not this mountain, not at this depth, whatever his mistake was.

Now Maeglin stands in pitch-black darkness, lost in a hollow cavern in the depths, eyes wide yet unseeing.

Here in the silence of Arda's bosom, his breath is too loud.

Inevitably, his gaze is drawn to the only source of light — a pair of fiery, glowing eyes opening slowly.

Maeglin has been spotted, and the rumbling noise of something rising in the dark sends a shudder down his spine.

"Hello, little Elf," a deep voice purrs. 

Aha

Fëanor's first meeting with the fallen Vala does not go as expected.

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Many things Fëanáro had expected to see in the eyes of the Dark One. Shards of ice, deadly flames, poisonous green of twisted truth or darkness everlasting. 

Yet when the Vala sought him out at last and he fearlessly met his gaze, the only thing he could see... was Fëanáro himself. 

"What fell magic is this?!" he demanded, irate. 

Melkor did not even do him the favour of blinking. 

"What did you expect to see?" he asked mockingly, a grin splitting his face. "Something strange, monstrous or wicked? Nay, Fëanáro, all evil there is to glimpse lives within you already." 

Quessë

Finarfin adds a new feather to his collection.

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Another one for the collection. 

Finarfin places a large white feather on a satin pillow and closes the glass cabinet. A gift from the Elder King himself, bestowed upon him as a token of gratitude after the War of Wrath. It's intended to be used as a quill, but he cannot bring himself to stain it with ink. 

He regards his collection for a moment, smiling to himself. Most of his treasures are from Eärwen and Eönwë, feathers of all shapes and sizes, some pure white, some mottled and speckled. 

His favourites are the ones she wore for their wedding. 

Yanta

Elrond seeks out a kindred spirit.

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Night has fallen and the moon shines over Imladris, but Lord Elrond sleeps not. 

As if bound by the invisible spell of soundless song, he walks down to the river. There is light in his eyes, like the star of Eärendil. 

Elrond stands on the bridge and looks down at the rushing water below, searching for something other eyes can't see. 

There is a presence hidden within, one that answers only him. An ancient, beautiful face, wide dark eyes and silvery skin, a voice singing in a strange language. 

Smiling, Elrond listens to them, and something in his fëa understands. 

Anca

Dior finds himself face to face with Celegorm.

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To meet the gaze of Celegorm is to stare into the eyes of a beast, or so Dior would have thought if he was an ordinary being. 

"Welcome, kinslayer." He greets the prince with a smile. 

Celegorm bares his teeth at him, snarls almost. So fair, so deadly. Despite everything, Dior finds himself fascinated. 

The Silmaril blazes around his neck. Celegorm eyes it, hungry, desperate. Wants it, needs it. 

Dior's smile brightens. To tame the beast would have its appeal, but to deny him would be so exciting. 

He wonders what Celegorm is like when he is made to beg.

Súlë

Gil-galad finds comfort in his dreams.

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War and death had darkened the waking world, yet in his dreams there was beauty and peace. 

At times Ereinion felt guilty for seeking refuge there. But nothing put his mind at ease like the faint sounds of wind chimes accompanying him as he walked the Path of Dreams, nothing warmed his heart like watching the lord of this magical realm dance across lakes and lily pads. 

Irmo's laugh, bright and joyful, filled the air. 

"Will you keep me waiting forever, or will you join me across the sea?"

"One day, I will seek you and be yours," Ereinion promised.

Malta

Mairon has become a king of kings.

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Rings of gold gleam against their skin, like wedding bands promising an eternal union. 

Like golden collars around the necks of beasts lounging at the feet of a king. 

Their eyes are all on him.

Mairon radiates the eternal life and beauty they desire so much, appearing almost like a spectre of gold and fire. When he lifts his hand and beckons them, many rings gleam in the twilight. 

Once-proud kings falling to their knees, lips pressed reverently against immortal golden skin. Whispered words of worship, breath frozen in time. 

Mairon accepts their affection, and in his heart he laughs.