Tales of Thanksgiving: A Drabble Collection by Dawn Felagund

What Becomes

Caranthir's symbolic journey to the moment that he took the oath, for Tárion.

What Becomes

I.

"Like this."

Memory of youth is blurred by the years, but I remember this: Atar's hands on mine, showing me how to properly hold a hammer. I was making a gift for my mother, determined to do it on my own. Happiness: it was golden like the pendant that I sought to shape with my own hands.

Yet I perceived Atar's happiness as well. Happiness that at last he had a son eager to follow him into the forge, whose tentative hammerfalls showed that I had a hint of talent.

I remember best: gold, happiness.

His warm hands on mine.

II.

"Carnistir? Ready?."

Atar adjusted my hands and nestled my little brother into them. He squawked, and I shifted uneasily.

"Atar, I'm going to drop him."

Atar laughed. "You're not going to drop him. Relax." His warm hands rubbed my shoulders until I had no choice. I felt Atar's contentment--another healthy son born--and relief as cool and pale as water. I relaxed into that feeling and my brother stopped whimpering.

"See? It's natural for you. You will be a wonderful father someday, Carnistir." His hands still cupped my shoulders. He trusts me, I realized, with his most precious blessings.

III.

"Carnistir?"

I heard my brothers laughing and realized my eyes were squeezed shut. Violently, I shook my head and clenched my lips shut as though the light--and I could sense it, even if I couldn't see it blood red through my eyelids--would invade me if I let it. Fools! To think that we can own light! It will always be the other way around.

I could feel it thrumming in my hands with the same intimate mystery as feeling another's heartbeat. My brother's laughter was subsiding.

I won't look!

"Carnistir?"

His voice puzzled, disappointed.

I opened my eyes.

IV.

Now, I stand in a ring of torchlight, in a throng of people--my people--silent and awed. Afraid.

"Carnistir. Take it."

Curufinwë is wrapping my hands around the hilt of my sword. For a moment, time has folded upon itself and I am small upon the knee of another Curufinwë--though he would ever be called Fëanáro--and they are his warm hands. I can do this. I can hold the hammer ... and the hammer becomes the Silmaril becomes the sword, and there I am.

Standing before my father whose eyes--hands--I no longer know.

"Carnistir--are you ready?"