Delicacies by sallysavestheday

B1 (riverbank, bone, silver, breath)

The river swallows them: Eldar and Orc-kind, shimmering, wallowing. Drowned.

It makes no difference to the hungry waters if they are wrapped in steel or iron. Silver and black, they sink, tarnish, fold into the riverbank like any other seam of clay or stone. The sleek fish feast on them; the roots of the waterweeds weave through their bones.

They are such small things, curled into the long arms of the river, worn softly down into pebbles, into silt. What dreams they had, what songs they sang, are lost, like their breath in the roiling stream: bubbles rising, breaking, gone. 

*****

B2 (defeated, jagged, icicle, close)

They huddle close, with the smallest at the center of their circle. Those four bright sparks, curly-haired and wide-eyed and shivering in the frigid blasts that so batter and thrash them. Gandalf eyes the jagged edges of the hollow in the mountain wall where they have made their stand: the stones, like claws, are threatening. To make fire here risks everything – but Caradhras’ malicious eye is already upon them. They are exposed. Defeated, he brushes the icicles from the edges of his hat. Mutters to himself at the blueish tinge of Frodo’s lips. Stands tall, and, shining, calls the flames.

*****

B3 (tree, origin, atmosphere, threaten)

Trust Nóm to have managed it, Balan thinks. To have raised these trees below the ground, so far from their origin, and coaxed them to grow so graceful and so tall.

The cold winds whirl and whine at the cave mouth, foretelling storms, but the atmosphere is festive in these inner rooms, and warm. Tiny candles shimmer amid the fine, green needles of the trees. Someone has strung sweets on silver wire, weaving the garlands through the branches to add their scent to the tang of the pine.

Let the winter howl elsewhere. There is peace, in Nargothrond, and joy. 

*****

B4 (reaction, excess, fossil, linger)

They wash up on the beaches: the bones of those who lingered too long at Beleriand’s foundering, or were lost to its wars. The dune-reapers wear them as necklaces; they hallow their dwellings with fossils, with the dreams of the past now captured in stone.

In the deeps, they transform in slow, sweet reactions: the once-loved mineralize, changing their robes of flesh for crystal. The spirit has flown -- all its excesses of joy and pain and grief now rendered superfluous. But the shape remains.

See. Dream. Remember: the print of this hand; the brush of that faint, feathered wing. 

*****
B5 (sweep, curtain, shadow, corruption)

Maedhros will not permit them to close the curtains on his window. Let the gawkers peep in, if they must, to see the ruin that has been made of him. He knows his body tells a better tale than any song: its deliberate reshaping a visual record of the true reach of Morgoth’s corruption; the darkness in his eyes reflective of the brush of the shadow against his soul. Let them look, and learn to fear. Then learn to fight. Maedhros was not saved for nothing. He will use the twisted flame of himself to sweep those bitter dungeons clean.

Hobbits, Fingon thinks, are the one great pleasure that Valinor had lacked. He is forever grateful to Olórin for remedying that error and unleashing on the unsuspecting Amanyar the chaos that is Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins, and Samwise Gamgee – alone, or even more enjoyably, together. The golden air of the Blessed Lands now sparkles with the smoke of pipe-weed and with hobbit curiosity. It is refreshing. Entertaining. And a gastronomical delight.

At present, Fingon has his heels propped on the fender of Sam’s fine fire, and is nearly asleep with satisfaction. His belly is full of the finest mashed potatoes he has ever tasted, and his lazy hand grasps a nearly-empty flagon of impeccable ale. The warmth, the savoriness, the practical company all bring to mind bright, ancient evenings spent with Húrin, frying potatoes in the fat of whatever creature they had hunted and toasting victory and pleasure with Dor-lómin’s beer.

Fingon sighs and grins, caught in the tenderness of memory. The soporific qualities of butter and milk and ‘taters, as Sam still calls them, are about to overwhelm him. He tips his head to catch the last few frothy drops and yawns.

Sam rescues his tankard with a practiced hand and tuts at Fingon’s dreamy smile. Who would have thought the energetic hero of so many tales would show such enthusiasm for hobbit cooking – and be so easily overcome?

“There’s a king for you!” he mutters. “Asleep already! And I haven’t even offered him the scones!”