Sixpence by BalrogBalls

Sixpence

Maglor

Amrod laughs as the river drags them into rival channels, propels them towards a silver tipped, churning confluence. One sways, hops.

“Thplinter!” shrieks Amros. “I forgot to thand my raft!”

“Jump onto mine!” cries Elros. Palms cling, a wet frog leaps. No thplinterth on this raft, and Elrond has all his teeth. Maglor gasps. A little scrap of bone in his pocket, a loose tooth from another six year old’s story.

If there’s anything he’s learned from living too long, it’s that hearts run smoother fuelled on dreams. So the Ambarussa keep riding the river, thrieking thoundlethly all day long.

Elwing

Ada said gulls live to fifty. Still, they feel timeless, landless by choice. Almost four and hauled over a shoulder, Elwing wonders how marvellous it must be to fly over columns of listless lost things, estranged from who stole whats soaking cities red. In gull years, she’s two.

Falling, she thinks how marvellous it must be to — then there she goes, another sad story in the sea breeze. There must've been other mother birds with no time to think. There must've been other mother birds pushed to the brink. The boys are six. In gull years, so is she.

Eärendil

Never does it bore him to count stars, stars in scores he could tick off his fingers. Ten after ten, and Ithil is indifferent but the stars have been guaranteed all his life. Eärendil has come to the point in every sea journey where the horrors of the universe and wonders of it float on the horizon.

But on the bridge, if he closes his eyes, the whitewater whispers of the secret third Arda beyond the stars, where nothing has changed. There, he’s tying a string to a six year old’s loose tooth, saying it hurts but for a moment.

Elrond

“I wish I was seven! I wish I was older than Elladan!” sobs Elrohir after a tussle.

Twins to Elrond are both tithe and tether. When he first felt a doubled fëar under the warm swell of skin, he thought how many jokes must you play on me, Eru? Twins are the perpetual threat of a familiar whip, an embodied fear of halves and halving, a side-mouthed hiss of you better watch out or I’ll take one back! Galadriel says hindsight is not foresight, and squabbles are not separation. But Elrond takes no chances.

“No, Elrohir,” he begs. “You don’t.” 

Chapter End Notes

I've never actually written drabbles before so these may be doing exactly the wrong thing, but fingers crossed :-)