Collection of Potluck Drabbles by Artano

Timeless/Vigil/Flecked/Heron

Finrod learns about Aegnor falling for Andreth

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Finrod brushes his hand over the reeds surrounding him, the river bubbling before.  The letter he had received from Aegnor requesting advice was troubling: It told of two wanderers meeting at a blessed lake, and love at first sight.  But the woman's life was not timeless.  How could this end well for either?  She would eventually die, and his brother would be left heartbroken.

Brow furrowed, he murmurs aloud, "I will set my vigil and place myself here until you shall reveal wisdom, Ilúvatar."

Disturbed by his voice, a brown heron, her wings flecked with white, rises into the sky.

Lead/Collar/Chaos/Grateful

In which Finrod has PTSD after the Dagor Bragollach

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The collar around Finrod's neck flashes in the light, blinding Edrahil briefly as he follows his lord through the crowds filling the great hall.  Laughter and music swirl around them, the chaos of the festival flooding their senses.  Suddenly a torch passes by Finrod's head, grazing his hair, and he freezes, eyes widening.  Immediately, Edrahil catches his hand and turns, leading him towards a dark corner.

"It's alright, Finrod," he murmurs. "I'm here.  That battle was a long time ago."

After a moment, Finrod blinks, eyes focusing on Edrahil. Taking a shuddering breath, he whispers gratefully, "Thank you, my friend."

Crevice/Enemy/Pledge/Restrain

Beren is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

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Hidden in a crevice, Beren glares out at the enemy's camp, cold anger mingled with grief welling within him.  Orcs gather around the fire, gloating over their victory as the captain holds aloft a severed hand, the ring Beren knows so well glinting blood red in the flickering flames.  Even if this were not the only band of orcs in the region, even if familiar swords were not strapped around their waists, this ring alone would damn them to fall to the pledge he had sworn.

But he restrains himself.  The night must fall, and then he will have vengeance.

Riverbank/Bone/Silver/Breath

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"Huan!"  Celegorm calls, tossing a bone several yards ahead of the large hound wandering along the riverbank.  Huan pauses, then turns his head, an eyebrow arched, silver eyes boring into Celegorm's.  A deep woof escapes his mouth.  Your eyes must have failed if you can mistake me for a common dog whose affections can be bought with a bone.

Celegrom sighs, his breath misting in the cool air.  "I'm truly sorry for ignoring you, Huan.  Father has kept me busy, but that is no excuse.  Would you like to go hunting with me this afternoon?  We can talk more then."

Seafloor/Stunning/Runaway/Surround

Young Eärwen enjoying a day by the sea

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Sweeping her dripping hair out of her eyes, Eärwen wades towards the shore, the brightly striped shell she had just recovered from the seafloor clutched in her hand.  A familiar figure stands by the small mound of seashells she has already collected, and Eärwen splashes towards her, grinning.

"Mother, look at what I found!" she calls, stepping out of the surf and dashing towards her.

"So this is where you've been all morning, little runaway," her mother comments, a warm smile softening her face.  "Oh, that is stunning!  It would look perfect on your bureau surrounded by your other shells."

Vines/Helmet/Date/Surprise

In which Curufin is a forgetful workaholic

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Celegorm pushes open the smithy door to find Curufin bent over a helmet, working vines along the comb.  Curufin remains engrossed in his work, not noticing the intrusion, and Celegorm smirks.  Noiselessly, he advances from behind.  

"Happy birthday," he whispers in Curufin's ear.  Curufin yelps and whirls, striking at his head.  Grabbing his arm, Celegorm blocks the blow and grins.  "Don't you recognize your own brother?"

"Why are you here?" Curufin demands, glaring at him.  "And my birthday isn't even for another week."

Celegorm's lips twitch with humor.  "Curvo.  What's today's date?"

Surprise flickers across his face.  "Oh.  It's tomorrow."

Unknown/Colour/Own/Hold

Beren joins the PTSD club

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Beren whimpers, waking Luthien from her own slumber.  Raising herself onto her arms, she studies his distressed expression, concerned.  "Beren?" she whispers as another groan escapes him.  But he doesn't wake, so she shifts into a sitting position.  Gently, she brushes a strand of slate-coloured hair away from his face.  "I'm here, my love" she whispers, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead.  He groans again, thrashing under the blankets, unknown spectres haunting his sleep.  Folding the blankets down, Luthien intertwines her fingers with his, and begins to hum softly.  He stills, his hold on her hand tightening.

Sweep/Curtain/Shadow/Corruption

Finrod and Galadriel discuss a vision

- - - - -
Note: Nerwen is one of Galadriel's other names, and Findaráto and Ingoldo are both names for Finrod.  I used them here instead of their more common names, as at the time this drabble is set, they did not have their more common names yet.  In addition, Galadriel calls Finrod 'Ingoldo' instead of 'Findaráto' since The People of Middle-earth notes that name was used by his siblings.  But I use 'Findárato' elsewhere since that clarifies which character I am referring to.

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Nerwen sweeps the curtain aside, revealing the balcony with Findaráto staring unseeingly up at the stars filling the sky.  "Ingoldo?" she asks softly, studying his expression.  He remains unresponsive, and she bides her time, knowing he will eventually return from whatever vision he is seeing.

After several minutes, Findaráto blinks, eyes darting around the room as he refocuses on the present.  "What did you see, brother?" Nerwen asks, moving towards him as he notices her.

A shadow crosses his face and he looks out at the mingling light of Laurelin and Telperion. "Darkness.  Corruption.  A poison spreading unnoticed, even here."

Bless/Braid/Raise/Absence

Maglor prays to Nienna for the first time in years

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Maglor did not believe the Valar would ever hear him. Not after all he had done.  Even so, as he braids Elros' hair, he cannot help murmuring a prayer and weaving a slim grey ribbon into his black locks - a request for Nienna's protection and blessing upon him.  It was not his fault he was being raised by Kinslayers.  Perhaps, though the Valar would never have mercy upon his own family, they would pity these two boys - descendants of their own kin, abandoned by their mother, raised in their father's absence. He could not stand it if they did not.

---

Chapter End Notes

Note: the comment on Elwing does not represent my thoughts on her; it is simply meant as a representation on how Maglor might have seen her at this time in his life.

Defeated/Jagged/Icicle/Close

Elros learns an important lesson from Maedhros

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"We defeated you!" Elrond laughs gleefully as he and Maedhros pelt Maglor and Elros with snowballs, overwhelming their fortification. Elros smirks and sprints towards Elrond, intent on tackling him.  "To the death!" he yells with a grin.  Suddenly, a heavy weight barrels into him, knocking him to the ground and rolling, arms holding him close.  Recognizing the red cloak, Elros wriggles free.

He glares up at Maedhros. "That's not fair!"

"Always watch your surroundings," Maedhros replies calmly, pointing to a large, jagged icicle buried in the snow in Elros's path.  "Especially when running underneath icicle-laden trees in late winter."

Earthquake/Cultivate/Disappear/Firefly

In which Celeborn has premonitions about fireflies disappearing

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"Ever since the earthquake, the fireflies have started disappearing,"  Celeborn comments, concern creasing his brow.

"But it touched very little here," Galadriel replies. "Melian's power protected this realm from much of the damage."

"Indeed.  But they are vanishing all the same.  It does not bode well; I fear this long peace will not last much longer."

Galadriel frowns.  "All the same, perhaps this is simply a sign that we need to cultivate a more stable habitat for them."

Celeborn remains quiet for a long moment.  "I hope you are right.  But I would not stray too long from your Mirror."

Whole/Tune/Alive/Losing

Finrod grieves for his brothers (kind of)

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Finrod dances, losing himself in the enchanting music, the tunes of the singers and instruments weaving together to form an intricate melody that requires all his attention to remain in step with.  Perhaps for a few hours he can forget all the people relying upon him and all the duties he must attend to, though this to is a duty, one intended to lift the hearts of his people.  Perhaps for a few hours he can forget the sharp ache grief and guilt, and feel whole once more, as if he is back in Aman with his brothers still alive.

Roll/Sculpture/Flower/Release

Nerdanel begins a new project

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With a grunt, Nerdanel rolls the large piece of marble towards her workshop.  All the sketches for this sculpture were finished, and she had inspected many pieces of stone before selecting this one; all that was left was to begin her work.  Several minutes later, Nerdanel shifts it the last few inches, sweat trickling down her forehead.  With a triumphant smile, she releases her hold and steps back, already imagining its final form.  Her hands ghost over the stone, tracing small hands clasped around her son's neck, flowers woven through tousled hair, a tired head resting upon a willing shoulder.

Exchange/Walk/End/Bloom

Mîm anticipates his wedding

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Mîm walks along the path towards Tarn Aeluin, breathing in the fresh scent of the new day.  He smiles as birds chirp enthusiastically in the alders above him.  Eventually, Mîm reaches the end of the path and sits on a log sheltered by a large alder.  Leaning back against the trunk, he gazes at the deep blue waters of the lake, absently fingering a lily blooming beside him as he mentally reviews the ceremony tomorrow in which he will exchange gifts with Eri.  A nervously excited smile spreads across his face at the thought of their wedding in two days.

---

Chapter End Notes

For the curious, this references another other fic I have written: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52277566/chapters/133859095#workskin

Dominant/Immune/Awake/Nebulous

Celebrimbor and Sauron post fall of Eregion

Note: insimeítara is a made-up word that in this drabble is similar in purpose to ethanol, scopolamine, 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, midazolam, flunitrazepam, sodium thiopental, amobarbital, or any of the other psychoactive drugs colloquially referred to as truth serums.

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Celebrimbor awakes from a daze, his muddled thoughts slowly clearing.  He stares blearily around the dark room, gradually becoming more aware of a dominating, nebulous aura filling the space, its almost physical presence pinning him against the chair his arms and legs are chained to.  He groans through the headache pounding in his mind.  "Sauron."
Sauron steps towards him from the table at the edge of the room.  His eyes bore into Celebrimbor as his sharp, clinical voice, devoid of warmth, responds.  "It seems you are not immune to insimeítara.  Another dose, and you will tell me all I wish."

Landscape/Eavesdrop/Copper/Gravity

Mahtan discovers Nerdanel is in love

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Mahtan frowns as his daughter's copper hair disappears behind one of his apprentice's landscape mural.  None of Nerdanel's supplies or projects lay that way, so she had no reason to be in the jewel-smiths' wing of the workshop during her lunch.  And this had been happening for weeks.  Setting down his hammer, he follows her, taking care to remain unnoticed.  His brow furrows as she strides into the workstation of Finwë's grandson, and he creeps closer to eavesdrop.  A giggle echoes from the room a few minutes later, and Mahtan's eyes widen as the gravity of the situation hits him.

Guidance/Language/Temperate/Stranger

Balan teaches Finrod his language

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Balan guides the elf's fingers against his lips as he pronounces the strange word Nóm has been having difficulty replicating the exact sounds of.  The aspirate needs to be more temperate, he instructs, demonstrating the proper placement of his lips.  Nóm nods, his brow furrowed as he copies the movement, shifting his hand to his own mouth as he mimics Balan.  After a few tries, he succeeds and grins in triumph, Balan's fond smile mirroring his in response.  

I'll be speaking your language properly in no time!

Balan laughs warmly.  You already speak it well, Nóm.

But not yet perfectly.

Contrast/Minimum/Twilight/Mother

As his diary entry shows, Fëanor has complicated reasons for creating the Silmarils

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I made a breakthrough in capturing the Trees' Light today.  But doing so necessitated combining the Lights, which reduces the contrast between the gold and silver.  With this method, I shall not be able to create a single gem preserving Telperion's Light, which looks so like Mother's hair, unpolluted by Laurelin's.  Still, the mingled Lights shall appear as the trees do at twilight, and the mixing produces an effect that reflects and increases the light surrounding them that from my measurements appears to be double at the minimum. Yet I shall continue with attempting to isolate Telperion's light.

-- Curufinwë Finwion

 

Reaction/Excess/Fossil/Linger

In which Elros's son, Atanalcar, is an underwater archaeologist 

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Elros lingers at the water's edge, watching the harbor for the expedition's return.  Soon a ship comes into view, sailing towards him.  As it drops anchor, an excited young man leaps onto the dock, a cloth bundle held in his arms. "We found an abundance of artifacts this time, Father!" he exclaims, striding towards him.  "Truly in excess of what we predicted."  Shifting the packet to one hand, he hugs his father in reaction to his relieved smile.  Stepping back, he unwraps the bundle, revealing a flat stone with dark leaves imprinted on it.  "This time we found a fossil!"

Tree/Origin/Atmosphere/Threaten

Azaghâl and Maedhros enjoy a quiet moment during the Union of Maedhros

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"You do not like forests?" Maedhros asks, leaning back in his chair and sipping from his goblet.

Azaghâl's expression darkens.  "They have a threatening atmosphere to them.  We Dwarves do not belong in forests, and they do not want us there.  And our origin is antithetical to theirs."

"What about a small grove or a singular tree?" Maedhros asks curiously. It was rare to find a moment when they were not planning for the coming battle, and he was determined to make the most of it.

"Those are not as foreboding," Azaghâl replies.  "But forests are not for us, Elf."

Diligent/Steep/Volatile/Alive

In which Fëanor makes progress with creating the Silmarils

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Fëanor stirs the volatile liquid, watching the flames ensure he does not overheat it.  After several minutes of diligent stirring, he adds a golden flower to the mixture.  A silver blossom joins the first precisely a minute later.  Withdrawing the glass stirring rod, Fëanor watches the flowers steep in the clear liquid.  Half an hour later, he strains the particles of the blooms from the mixture, a triumphant smile lighting his face as he stares down at the radiant liquid swirling within the crucible, gold and silver light mingling and flowing with each other almost as if it were alive.

Ribbon/Mirror/Fortune/Instinct

Galadriel's wedding is not without sorrow

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Galadriel finishes tying the ribbon in the final braid, her hands moving instinctively as she glances in the mirror.  She would have preferred a more intricate hairstyle, but Doriath favored loosely styled hair.  Since her wedding would be a rather public event, she had settled for five small braids, woven into a crown.  Gems adorn the rest of her hair, but only one bead had been placed in each of the braids.  Galadriel traces the gems, from the pearl to the snake-etched emerald, a pang of sadness rising in her.  They should have been here to see her good fortune.

Imminent/Shady/Deserving/Lyrical

How Lúthien and Daeron first met

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Daeron dances in the shady clearing, the soft whisper of his robe melding with his lyrical voice as he sings of the imminent moonrise.  Alone, he lets his voice soar as the moon rises higher, bathing the clearing in silver light.  A sudden rustle from nearby bushes cuts into his song, and he freezes as a raven-haired girl enters the glade.

"That's beautiful; may I join you?" she asks with a bright smile. "Your song deserves at least another dancer."

Daeron hesitates, caught between fleeing and happiness at her compliment. After a moment, he smiles shyly. "I would like that."

Ahead/Inn/Lamplight/Prince

The beginning of Azaghâl and Maedhros's friendship

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Maedhros urges his horse towards the lamplight glimmering in the dusk ahead, indicating help for the injured dwarf slumped before him.  Reaching the inn, he carefully dismounts, supporting Azaghâl's weight as he slides from the saddle.  Immediately, the Dwarves lift their lord from his hands and carry him inside, where Maedhros's soldiers have already alerted the healer of the injured Elves and Dwarves.  Maedhros enters the inn, and the dwarf lord's eyes meet his as the healer begins unwrapping Azaghâl's makeshift bandages.  He beckons him closer despite his grimace of pain. "You have my thanks for your aid, Prince Maedhros."

---

Chapter End Notes

(I'm aware 'Prince' is likely not what his title was, but idk maybe the Dwarves called him Prince as a way to show honor above calling him 'lord'.  Really, I just needed the word to show up in the drabble XD)