Jubilee Drabbles by Elrond's Library

There is a lightness in falling, the wind whistling as you fly towards the ground at the speed of gravity. Eöl is under no delusions, the Golodh King keeps a strict hold over his city, and he is stuck under circumstances of his own making. He has killed his wife, the shock and hurt rebounding and doubling through his tenuous marriage bond with the white princess. The hurt and anger runs in tandem with betrayal, and a complex sort of love. He imagines himself a bird, a dark nightingale, as the sharp rocks of the cliff of Caragdûr swiftly approach. 

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Amrod burned for far longer than the flames. His skin cracked and flaked, turning black and red and yellow in ways skin never should. He choked back his screams and held his mind tightly away from his worried other half when the healers came with salves that cooled and burned in equal measure. The days blurred together as the fever came, drenching him in sweat that stung. Years later, when he regarded himself, the scars would remind him of the swirling currents that led him to the flames. The cure for anything is salt water - sweat, tears, or the sea. 

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The stars sang, the space between them a silence that did not last. The waters of the lake reflected the light, and the song, and the myriad faces of those who stared up at the sky and down at the waters. Beauty they knew before they could name it! Light and song twirled around the Firstborn in the days before language, in the time before structure, rule, custom, or law. They awoke with the stars at their fingertips, is it any wonder, then, that they continued to hunger for it, that the light continued to inspire for all the ages?

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Maeglin labored late into the night, metal wires twisting easily around the jewel his House had given him from their latest expedition. A delicate wing took shape under his hands, the jewel serving as the bleeding heart of the bird. Too obvious? Maeglin mused to himself, even as he worked. No, Idril might guess, but it could be from any of her admirers throughout the city, he reasoned, and Turgon had not seen enough of his work to have a clue if she brought it to the King. A secret gift for her, his first love, his one guiding star.

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They had spent so long in the light, that when the darkness came, so did the night terrors. Time ceased to have a proper meaning. Memories of the harrowing journey to Aman prevailed: the Dark Powers stealing children from the train, the hunger that gnawed at their bellies, the uncertainty that all this would be worth it. And then the island, and Ulmo’s unfathomable power, and the Trees! The beauty of the land of the Valar could not be diminished, they thought, until it was, by that Dark Power’s master. Until, finally, the light of the sun broke the darkness.

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They lay in the grass together, sweaty and exhausted, practice swords abandoned somewhere behind them. Fingon hummed a wordless tune, while Maedhros tried to quell his shaking limbs through sheer force of will. He pushed himself hard, always striving forward, towards healing, towards authority, towards mastery of skills that came naturally … before. The wind blew over the grass, carrying the sweet scent of clean water and the fluttering of butterflies. Fingon raised a lazy hand, and the jeweled insect rested there. He looked at Maedhros, his smile saying look, even in this wounded world, there is wonder and joy.

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Nerdanel laughed as Fëanáro tugged her through the palace, matching his grin. The bright light of Laurelin was fading into the mellow silver of Telperion, the future spiraling away from them. Married! Finally, after what seemed an age, married before the One and for all to see! They tumbled into bed, kisses and touches singing between them as heavy robes and ornate adornment fell to the floor. Nerdanel sighed, burning with anticipation and pleasure, fire and lightning traveling up her nerves as Fëanáro caressed her skin. This is a torch song, she thought to herself. Touch me and you'll burn.

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“Who wants to tell him?” Maitimo asked his assembled brothers. They all stared up at their oldest sibling, eyes wide. A pause. Silence. “I don’t want to do it. He’s bound to be working, if he hasn’t noticed …”

“Stone, paper, knife?” Little Curufinwë asked, hopping off the bench to close the circle. “Or nose-goes.”

“Stone, paper, knife,” Carnistir muttered, putting aside his embroidery project. “Tyelko moves too fast for nose-goes.”

They collectively glared at Tyelkormo, who raised his hands up in a gesture of defense. “I’m not apologizing,”

Maitimo rolled his eyes and stuck out his hand, and they all joined him. “One, two, three, oh–” as he quickly realized he had beaten all his brothers.

“You always chose paper, brother dearest,” Makalaure laughed.

Maitimo glared. “Fine,” he muttered. “Stay here.”

He went in search of his father, who would be in his workshop. He was always in his workshop these days, light spilling out from under the door at odd intervals. He hated being disturbed.

“Atar,” Maitimo called, opening the door slowly. “Atar, we have good news.”

Fëanáro just stared at his oldest, eyes beady behind protective goggles. “What now?”

“Twins, Atar. Your count of sons increases two-fold.”

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