Instadrabbles (delayed dribbles) by 0ur_Ouroboros

The twins are led to a strange room and seated at the table. Elrond looks around as he recognizes what must be a once-great dining hall in Amon Ereb. There are cracks in the wall where moss is growing. Elros just stares at the plate and fiddles with his napkin. 

After a time, Maedhros and Maglor enter and take their seats, avoiding eye contact with the boys, and it seems, each other. 

A woman whom Elrond recognizes from the kitchen brings a plate of what looks to be overcooked pork. 

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Horse,” Maedhros says, taking a large bite.

Maglor laughs. Elros wretches. 

Chapter End Notes

Sorry about that.

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“Should we try to escape now?” Elros looks over at Maedhros and Maglor, finally asleep around the fire.

“Where would we even go?” It is more a statement than a question. Elrond looks up at the night sky, prompting Elros to do the same. 

“Think we’ll ever see them again?” Elrond says, after a time. 

“I guess we’ll see him every night,” Elros murmurs.

 It isn’t enough.

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He embraces pain and cold; he worships at their altar. But this time they are blinding. He looks down to see the blade, glowing blue, casting a curious light straight through him.

Then there is nothing.

And yet—

He feels it more than anything. A voice that beckons, a caress on his cheek and on his head gentle as summer breeze.

He is beyond thought, beyond knowledge, and still he knows to follow.

Light takes shape around a room. He looks down at his hands and his mouth gapes. They are clean, whole, each finger the same on both sides. He flexes them a little.  He feels strong. And something else too. Good. 

“What is this place?” As soon as it leaves his mouth he has the curious thought that he’s asking it of no one and everything at the same time.

“A place for restoration.” The same voice, that presence. He looks then, and sees the shadow that somehow is also a god.

“Stay as long as you need,”’ and the smile embraces him.

A smile can do that? He thinks. I have much to learn. 

Chapter End Notes

All orcs go to Mandos too. If they accept.

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She expects it to hurt, and if death be her reward, in the afterlife she will join her kin, all notes in Melkor’s choir.

For well has she listened to his Lieutenant’s speeches; her heart knows with each rushing beat of black blood that the more painful her death in righteous battle against the Western enemy, the greater the portion of horsemeat and Noldor blood-wine she can expect at the eternal banquet table.

She rushes against the colonizers whose swords glowing blue - the mark of true evil (so diligently does she recall his Lieutenant’s lesson).

She follows her brother and sisters against them in tandem, and falls on their weapons. No matter, she thinks. 

Her blood mingles with the others’, she closes her eyes. 

She soon will fly to glory, in service of the true lord of Arda.

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Maglor wanders the shore and inhales its salt-water scent in the mornings. He finds comfort in this routine, while weeks, years, or perhaps ages pass him over. Pass him through, he thinks, as a sound that could pass for laughter escapes him.

At times, he thinks, better the wound had not healed at all, that his flesh still wept fresh from the burn: a reason for his tears. A meaning. 

For where reason and meaning lead, he thinks, an ending must follow.

Yet watching his hands move under sea-water, he feels no pain. 

In his flesh, long-healed, only numbness remains. 

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Long limbs stretch their first, skin-shades blend, as they strain with hunger,

all reaching up

   and out. 

       Bright eyes blink open.

Thoughts burning bright, their greeting: the stars. 

    The sky at night.

Lungs swell with new breath, fresh mouths open and a thousand tiny songs emerge,  

carried on unsteady tongues.

It takes no words to wonder, to love. Land can withstand them, 

   say the endless stars, above 

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“Have ye ‘eard o’ this thing? Ever ‘eard of a ‘name?’” The kitchen orc whispers as she stirs elf-meat stew. The recent skirmish, where the beautiful one with flame-red braids was captured, caused the hearts of Angband’s working class to swell. All stomachs would be full tonight. Her crooked mouth cocks a smile at her sister, busy preparing elf-bone broth beside her.

“A ‘name?’ What in the void does’at mean?”

“A word of yer own. Belongs t’ ye.. But others can say it, if ye let ‘em.”

“Yer own, y’say? What on Melkor’s taint y’talking ‘bout?”

“Aye, ye get it at birth, and later too. The beautiful one says it, they says, the proud one we caught and took ‘is hair right off. Says ‘is is Nelyafin-somethin’ er other.”

“Can y’pick yer own?”

“Ask ‘em, how should I know?”

The beautiful one teaches his name, and a stirring occurs. 

Morgoth’s thralls each want one of their own.

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Beren wraps his arms around Lúthien and inhales the scent of her skin, her hair. “My dove, my light,” he murmurs, moving her hair aside to place kisses along her nape. 

“Are we fools enough to attempt this task? When death comes for me, may it be swift, may it buy you time for escape. When you return to your father, tell him then that I could not afford your bride-price after all. He will have to try to sell you again.” 

“If a fool is among us, then it is only my father,” she says, leaning into his touch.

“But I have a plan. Listen.” Beren thinks he could do nothing else. 

“Morgoth has a weakness, a crack, the birds have told me. I will go to him, a perfect offering, my song ringing bells. He will accept, he will forget, and he will sleep. You see, there is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how we’ll get the lights out.”

“These lights I hate more than Morgoth himself, though your father values them more than you. More than your life, it seems.”

“That is a war we will fight again. But later. Now, prepare for Angband.”

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“My brave, beautiful Tyelpë,” Annatar’s voice is an oozing wound. He strokes the elven-smith’s cheek and tucks a fraying braid behind his ear. 

The Lord of Eregion, once so proud and beloved, hangs his head and attempts once more to free his fëa. To send it keening toward the sun.

But he only feels the terror and dark power of the man-who-is-not-a-man gripping him. And as that beautiful skin-suit of false promises and filth touches his face, it binds his fëa to the cold ground of his flesh.

“Not yet, my ring-maker, my sun. Not yet.”

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“Kneel,” he said, his voice keening. The spirit of fire snarls and has the nerve to hesitate before raising his eyes to meet the other’s. And so slowly, so deliberately does he then bend one knee, and the other, before he raises his hands in the universal gesture.  A mockery of submission.

“Fine move, brother,” he says. 

“Foul is one who turns that into a curse.”

“The foulest,” the spirit of fire says, eyes narrowing.

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