Tales of Thanksgiving: A Drabble Collection by Dawn Felagund

Gladly

Three hopelessly romantic drabbles about Amrod, for Isil.

Gladly

I.

When I was small, I asked everyone I knew: What is love?

"Love can't quite be defined," said Nelyo, though he gave me a list of novels, paintings, and treatises that made a decent start.

"Love licks your face and you don't care that he was just eating rabbit scat," said Tyelkormo.

"You die for love," said Atar. "And gladly."

"Love is us, Ambarussa" said Ambarussa.

Lastly, I went to Macalaurë, recently wed and poetic beside. "Love is when everything stops"--he stopped, breath held--"and you can feel the world spinning. And you know that love moves the world."

II.

My life never stopped, and I found myself at Doriath with little idea how I'd gotten there. The refugees were being removed, marching before me, tired eyes fixed upon the ground rather than me, part-destroyer of their homes, the sword at my side still wet with the blood of their brothers and husbands.

Love doesn't move the world, I thought. Swords and lies and hate move the world.

But then, she was there, walking before me.

The world stopped.

Wind, birdsong, my brothers' shouts--all stopped. My heartbeat ceased too, and I might have died there.

But she marched on.

III.

I kept thought of her secret. Nelyo spoke of oaths and loyalty as reasons to march upon Sirion. I agreed to go, but it was not a Silmaril that had my heart or my loyalty. And when we reached the city, my sword stayed bright while others were made filthy by the blood of kin.

I found her in a cottage. She was not craven and wielded a blade with awkward determination. "I fight for peace," she told me, and I answered, "I fight for you."

My father's words made sense then.

Gladly, I tossed my sword at her feet.