Jubilant Potluck by Grundy

“You know the worst part?” Elros asked.

They’d been drinking for some time, and reminiscing about Beleriand. They’d finally gotten around to the end of it.

“No,” Finrod said cautiously. “What?”

“Some of the plants were lost. They don’t grow in the regions that survived.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected,” Finrod replied, thinking on the little starflowers in the highlands of Dorthonion he’d seen nowhere else.

“My favorite food, the one they always made me when I was in the dumps, was one of them,” Elros said mournfully. “There’s a similar plant in Lindon, but it’s not the same.”

Leave a Comment

He’s only seen it twice in his life. Even in Aman, it was rare for everything to line up so perfectly. It needed a clear night, nowhere near the Trees, and no breeze.  Then all the stars in the heavens reflected in the absolutely still water below, so that it was all you see – stars all around, everywhere.

And, of course, her.

Even if he hadn’t already been falling in love, that would have done it.

He’ll never see anything as incredible ever again.

It’s the last thing he thinks of before the flames take him.

Such a heavenly view…

Leave a Comment

“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending. Didn’t the Burglar say that?” Dwalin asked.

They’ve been working hard since Gandalf and Mr. Baggins set their feet toward the Shire.

“It would have been wiser to say so comes fireweed after fire,” Balin snorted. “Look!”

He scarce needed to say it. Here and there, splashes of color dotted the shore of the lake, as the pioneer plants crowded in, making the burn scars from the dragon’s wrath less grim. Some might feel the cheerful things out of place, but Balin liked them.

“A good sign,” Dwalin agreed.

Leave a Comment

It has rained incessantly in Imladris since it lost its lady.

At first it might have been simply a spell of normal weather. But as it dragged on, Glorfindel and Erestor began to wonder.

After the third week, they sent an urgent messenger to Galadriel.

It didn’t matter what excuse Elrond made, let him make it to her. This was no natural rain.

This was grief given form. If it stopped soon, it might be written off as a blessing, the water revitalizing the land after a long, bitter winter. But without moderation, it would destroy more than it mended.

Leave a Comment

The night was starless, lit only here and there by a spark of light from an improperly shielded window. The scent was that of woodsmoke only. Good.

From his position on the rooftop, Erestor could see nothing moving in the sky.

Since the warning had come down from the armies in the north that dragons had wings now and could fly, Balar has been on high alert. It would be all too easy for one rogue dragon to destroy the last remaining elven settlement, rendering any victory in the north a hollow one.

Not on his watch, he thought grimly.

Leave a Comment

“It won’t be like this forever.”

Gildor’s eyes, when they met Círdan’s, were red-rimmed, full to the brim with both fury and grief.

“Really? You think the Valar that told my father they wouldn’t hear even the echo of his lamentations will somehow undo the destruction of his people?”

Círdan sighed.

“Lad, that wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

“They’re dead. All of them. And it doesn’t matter if they someday walk again on the blessed shores of the West, they still died. Horribly.”

“No winter lasts forever. When the snow melts, the green returns,” Círdan said softly.

Leave a Comment

Elwing has heard some think Melian diminished since she quit Beleriand, lesser for having bound herself to a Child and begotten children.

Elwing cannot but wonder at this odd opinion. Is their vision perhaps failing?

When she looks at the once Queen of lost Doriath, she sees no weakness, nothing lesser. Melian is strength unbroken despite all its trials, beauty undiminished for its losses.

Her grandmother is her model, now especially. Elos is gone and his children too are departing the circles of the world. Elrond may yet die on the Hither Shores.

She too must learn to be strong.

Leave a Comment

“But surely you see… it’s a matter of pride!”

Elrond sighed. He’s heard those words a good many times over the years. They’ve rarely presaged anything good. Far more often, they’ve been the prelude to lethal foolishness.

It needs only a glance at his two most trusted advisors remaining, Erestor and Gildor, to see they are of the same opinion. (Possibly more so. They’re older and saw more of the foolishness.)

“I see only too well that Eärnur’s pride will be his downfall if he lets it rule him. Better by far for the king to laugh off this taunt.”

Leave a Comment

Finduilas blinked, uncertain. Perhaps it was a joke?

“I have namesakes?” she asked.

Gildor nodded, grinning.

“Many of them over the years,” he told her. “It became a very popular name among Men in Gondor, particularly for eldest daughters of noble houses. I believe there was even a princess or two of Gondor. None of them looked like you, though.”

Finduilas gave him a look.

“Most of the nobility of Gondor were dark haired. Not a golden head among them for generations – they were almost as bad as the Numenoreans about ‘pure bloodlines’.”

She sighed.

“Tell me again about Numenor?”

Leave a Comment

Elrond was taken aback. Surely his grandmother had not just…

Fortunately for him, he was spared having to break the silence by his children’s laughter.

The boys knew what it meant, of course, but Tindomiel was the one finding it funniest. She was all but crying with mirth, keenly alive to the absurdity of it being Anairë who had just made that particular gesture.

Finrod, on the other hand, was trying to unobtrusively edge toward the door.

Anairë looked at them all in mild surprise.

“Does that not express enthusiasm?” she asked. “I learned it on a visit to Numenor.”

Leave a Comment

“Men call it ‘the long sleep’,” Tuor explained quietly. “Except that from this sleep, there is no waking. And no walking again from the Halls as elves do.”

His words all but echoed in gardens fallen suddenly silent.

Anairë’s face had gone as pale and bloodless as the marble statues.

“And Elros has… chosen this?” she asked blankly.

Focusing, as with great effort, she looked at Tuor.

“Are you subject to this ‘long sleep’ also?”

Leave a Comment

In the back of the battalion was no good place to be. The officers used whips to keep them moving. But he hadn’t managed to win the scramble for place when they last formed up, so he was stuck for it. He wondered if the thrice-damned fire-eyed elves had to be whipped into place – or if their commanders spurred them on with cheerful proclamations like ‘no victory, no return!’ Not much of a motivation, really. He had little desire to return to caverns and the endless preparations for war. Win or lose, there had to be something better than this.

Leave a Comment

After all they have lost, he knew it was stupid to be crying over this. Especially when he hasn’t yet managed tears for his brother. But in this wooden crate, nestled among the straw, was the only tangible thing he had left from his grandfather. A dozen bottles of wine, from Finwë’s own vineyard, pressed by him the season before he went to Formenos. There isn’t so much as a scratch on the glass; the wax sealing the corks is pristine. It’s a reminder of better times. Curufinwë can’t touch them just yet. Better save it for a special occasion.

Leave a Comment

“Birds are lucky, aren’t they?”

Elwing looked up from where she was cutting reeds to find Eärendil watching the gulls enviously. They had been working in tandem, but she wasn’t surprised Eärendil had gotten distracted. He’d been half somewhere else in mind all morning.

“How so?” she asked.

“They can fly, away from their enemies, and up there they’re safe.”

“There are predators even in the air,” she pointed out, wondering what hurt he was trying to escape to find refuge in such delusions.

“There’s not orcs up there,” he muttered. “No Enemy.”

“Who was it this time?” she sighed.

Leave a Comment

Arafinwë had lived long enough in Alqualondë to know the aphorism - the cure for anything is salt water. Normally he would choose sea, but this time sweat was needed. He focused on washing the pavers as though his sanity depended on it.

“Time to stop, lad,” a quiet voice said.

He looked up in surprise to find Olu himself had come to tell him to take a break.

“There’s not a speck of red left that wasn’t in the stone to begin with,” Olu continued. “You’re not going to bring anyone back, living or dead, grinding your fingers raw.”

Leave a Comment

Elrond’s hand hovered above the papyrus sheet grown ever more fragile with the years. The edges curl and fray, warning their end approaches. No elvish paper, this, to endure Ages. It was an intentional choice on Elros’ part, he knew. Nothing written here was for the histories, neither great nor gruesome enough. These were the quiet memories of the good times - the child’s first steps, the lover’s joy - meant for family alone. He is not meant to copy them out, when the sheet finally crumbles away. By then, they will live in elven memory, enduring as long as Arda itself.

Leave a Comment

One of the benefits of the new lights in the sky is the new plants that awoke with them. Círdan is already amazed they ever managed without this particular one. It is as though Ivon had designed the plant with his people in mind – everything from the canvas of their sails to the ropes to hoist them with can be made from the sturdy plant, which even filters impurities from the water. There are those who say it is only the Lord of the Waters who remembers them now; Círdan knows better, and thanks the Lady of the Earth daily.

Leave a Comment

The most marvelous thing about returning to life, Elurín thought, was being able to wander the forest as they would. Elwing was bringing them up in Mother’s absence. She did not need to worry about them here – in their people’s lands, they were perfectly safe. The birds and the animals and the trees were all friends, and he and his brother had spent several contented seasons getting to know them all, from the rough bark of the puzzle-trees to the impossibly soft fur of young rabbits. There were days he could almost believe Beleriand had been only a bad dream. 

Leave a Comment

He understood, at the end, just how he had failed.

Love not too well the work of thy hands

But he had. He built his city with love. Every brick laid, every last bit of metalwork, had something of his thought and care, songs of protection sung into the bones of every building.

He can only hope the other half of the warning proves true – the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West, and cometh from the Sea.

If any of his people survive, it is to the Sea they will flee.

He will not be among them.

Leave a Comment

This is not the first time Elwing has had to build her life anew, to find a way to call a new place home. She did not choose it, but she will find a way to live with it. Her uncle’s people still treat her like she’s made of glass. She isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, but she wants to tell them she has never been wrapped in cotton wool. She was carried from the sack of Menegroth with her eyes wide, watching the destruction. She can stand to hear the fate of both Sirion and her sons.

Leave a Comment

“I do not understand ‘sod it’, either. Sod is a useful building material.”

Elros gave in, howling with laughter. The explanation of both what an enema was as well as why you would be able to bury someone in a matchbox after one had already had him on the edge. Elrond’s mouth twitched, but if he broke down, they’d never get through this.

Celebrimbor’s first encounter with Men other than Turin or Tuor had not gone well. His impulse to ask the twins to explain some of the things said to him in (not entirely unjustified) exasperation wasn’t wrong, exactly, but it was as well none of their elders had heard that Elros knew quite a few of the expressions – or Celebrimbor’s puzzlement at them.

He’d started with, “how could my genitals fly away even if they did sprout wings? They’d still be trapped in my trousers. They’d not break the linen, much less the leather.” It had gotten more (or less, depending on your perspective) amusing from there.

You’re no help whatsoever, Elrond grumbled.

Am so – I’m the one who will take the blame for us knowing all these reprehensible concepts when we tell Aunt Eärwen about it later.

Leave a Comment

“Stop. It’s no use. Spread the word to our people – pack what you can, move to higher ground.”

Oropher watched another few yards slide into the sea. They’ve been working frantically to save the land, fighting for every inch.

In desperation, they resorted to coarse-woven cloth, on its own or filled with sand, to hold back the sodden ground. Nearly the entire season’s jute harvest went into the effort, only the finest fibers kept back for clothing.

But try as they might, there was no undoing the damage. The War may have been won, but Beleriand itself has been lost.

Leave a Comment

Some disdain the plant, and while the Eldar do not apparently have any word for weed, Tuor had noticed they had quite a few derogatory names for it. Morgoth’s grass, spear-growth, north-screen, and something that if he doesn’t misunderstand means ‘stupid-stick-thing’ and sounds unlovely besides.

Tuor doesn’t agree. He thought the humble plant and its toughness a sign of hope. It clung to life, spread, and grew despite the ever-worsening conditions around it. Besides, his people had been fond of what they called bamboo – with clever management, you could make so many everyday necessities from it, and even eat it.

Leave a Comment