The Small and Secret Things by Dawn Felagund

Evening in Alqualondë

The betrothal of Arafinwë and Eärwen. I tried here to capture the languor of Alqualondë in contrast to Arafinwë's restless anxiety at waiting for Eärwen's reply. This was tough ... in just 100 words!

Read Evening in Alqualondë

Evening in Alqualondë
It was evening in Alqualondë, the city of perpetual gloaming at a time where the mist rolled off of the sea and smeared halos about the lamps. All was silent but for the distant notes of a harp, muted in heavy air.

But for my heart, pattering too-quick in my chest.

My hand extended, fingers pinching the silver betrothal ring tightly so that they would not quiver. Jaw clenched against a shy, hopeful smile.

It was evening in Alqualondë, when a second held a thousand heartbeats and felt as long as an age of the world.

Until she said yes.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

languid LANG-gwid, adjective:

1. Drooping or flagging from or as if from exhaustion; weak; weary; heavy.
2. Promoting or indicating weakness or heaviness.
3. Slow; lacking vigor or force.

Languid comes from Latin languere, "to become faint or weak; to droop; to be inactive."

The Failure of Logic

Maedhros on standing up to Fëanor about burning the ships at Losgar. This moment has always had significance to me, for it is the first indication of Maedhros's understanding of the need--and power--of unity between the Noldor. Yet it also is the first proof of how the strife between the princes of the Noldor will forever damn their quest against Morgoth. It is a portent of many things to come.

Read The Failure of Logic

As a child, I raised my voice against my father. He could seemingly twist logic to suit his whims and, gazing down upon me from formidable height, seethed with power that rendered me silent.

But now, I should be his better, for it is my logic against his senseless madness, only I see now what escaped me as a child: Logic cannot fight madness, a foot stamped obstinately in the dust, a ridiculous assertion upheld because it is, and there is no argument.

So the ships burn.

I should be his better, but still, I am not.

The ships burn.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

countervail kown-tur-VAYL, transitive verb:

1. To act against with equal force, power, or effect; to counteract.
2. To compensate for; to offset; to furnish or serve as an equivalent to.
3. To exert force against an opposing, often bad, influence or power.

Countervail derives from Old French contrevaloir, from contre-, "counter-" (from Latin contra, "against") + valoir, "to be worth" (from Latin valere, "to be strong, to avail").

A Study of Curufinwë

Fingolfin tries to understand his half-brother's elusive affection. I have tried to use my "Nolofinwë voice" for this one: economical and to-the-point, focusing on physical (versus emotional) observations.

I totally blame Fëanáro for making him that way. ;)

Read A Study of Curufinwë

I study it closely, but the concept eludes me. So simple … I wonder: What am I missing?

I watch Curufinwë come through the door. Strides lengthen--one, two, three--and he is in our father's arms, hands clutching the other at the shoulders. He is wrinkling Father's robes.

I try it.

One, two, three--strides so long my legs ache. I cannot reach his shoulders but I clutch the small of his back so hard, trying to make his tunic wrinkle.

He peels me free.

"Nolofinwë! Leave me." Mouth down-turned, displeased.

I do not understand.

What am I missing?

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

abstruse ab-STROOS; uhb-, adjective:

Difficult to comprehend or understand.

Abstruse comes from Latin abstrusus, past participle of abstrudere, "to push away from any place, to hide," from ab-, abs-, "away from" + trudere, "to push, to thrust."

The Venerated

I've never been a huge fan of the Valar, but I have always (oddly) possessed a weak spot for Námo "Named After My Halls" Mandos. It is always fun to try to get into the mind of someone strong (or cruel) enough to bear seeing the future and knowing that he can do nothing about it. Here, he watches the Eldar arrive in Aman.

Read The Venerated

I watch the new-arrived Elves from afar, stepping from island to Aman, wide-eyed, taking in Light for the first time. It must hurt--it does hurt, I know--but their eyes remain wide, pupils tiny dots, soulless like the eyes on statues. They don't even blink.

Before Manwë, Ingwë collapses to his knees. Trembling hands catch Manwë's and kiss the bright sapphire upon his finger. Behind Ingwë, like a row of dominoes, the other Eldar slowly topple in veneration.

Begotten both in the mind of Ilúvatar, I know Manwë's surprised pride at this.

In time, he will pay for that.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

venerate VEN-uh-rayt, transitive verb:

To treat someone or something with deep respect, reverence or deference; to revere.

Venerate comes from Latin veneratus, past participle of venerari, "to revere, to respect, to worship," from venus, vener-, "charm, loveliness."

Torchlight

A double-drabble where Celegorm remembers his friendship with Oromë before he swears the Oath of the Fëanorians. I often ponder which son went first and which went last; in my mind, I often change their roles and try to develop the motives for each choice. It could make an interesting series of stories someday. In the meanwhile, it's a fun characterization exercise at least!

Read Torchlight

The torchlight paints shadows upon his face. He holds out a blade, unwavering and pointed to my chest. Your turn to swear.

I wonder how the torchlight looks upon me and hope it hides the doubt carving a frown upon my face. Or eyes suddenly welling with memory of forsaken friendship.

It is my turn.

For Curufinwë went first, son in image of father, then Nelyo, acting the obedient heir; Macalaurë next, in his brother's footsteps; the twins with eager, red-rimmed eyes and Carnistir last, strange motives of a strange heart as ever indecipherable as he spoke our father's oath.

Until only I am left.

Firelight gilds Father's blade; the steel runs red.

Even in Formenos, I remembered Oromë.

But I will not think that. 'Tis not his blood in my veins, nor is love for him first in my heart.

Nonetheless, I hesitate.

Eldar weren't meant to be seen this way, in torchlight, feral beasts drawn to heat of flame. Only once before have I known such fire-streaked darkness, in the womb, with his blood in my veins.

Valinor's plains gilded by Laurelin--and friendships found there--can be no more.

I take my place at my father's side.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

factious FAK-shuhs, adjective:

1. Given to faction; addicted to form parties and raise dissensions, in opposition to government or the common good; turbulent; seditious; prone to clamor against public measures or men; -- said of persons.
2. Pertaining to faction; proceeding from faction; indicating, or characterized by, faction; -- said of acts or expressions; as, factious quarrels.

Factious derives from Latin factiosus, from factio, a party, a group of people, especially a political party, faction, or side.

There Was Long Ago a Tree

Nerdanel remembers life before the Darkening and her estrangement from Fëanor. This is a weird tribble (300 words) with some darker themes but nothing graphic. It was inspired by Noliel's much brighter Swinging in the Rain for Seven in '07.

Read There Was Long Ago a Tree

There was long ago a tree that held a swing and upon it, love was kindled. Fëanor's hands upon her back, pushing her, warming skin cold and unloved.

Daily, she sat in the swing and closed her eyes and

were those hands?

let the newborn Sun still so strange in the sky--so painful, so wrong--warm her back.

In place of his hands.

The breeze pushed her gently upon the swing, upon the tree that had grown old and died without the Light of the Trees to grant it life everlasting, until it was a gnarled husk, angry branches scratching the sky.

Long ago, he'd pushed her here. Long ago, he'd gone too far, too hard, not understanding when her screams of joy turned to fear and gravity seized her and dragged her to the earth. You do not belong here, in the sky, amid the clouds and Light. Long ago, she'd bled and wept and his hands caught her tears and stemmed her blood, and she knew, no matter what the others said--among them her father--that he could set aside his own desires to love her as she supposedly deserved.

But now, the tree was dead and dried, and the hands that had pushed her/healed her/loved her had been reduced to ash and borne upon the west winds to the halls of Mandos.

Feet firm upon the ground, she pushed herself.

Higher and higher she arced, and she never knew when sobs turned to screams of laughter.

The dried-dead bough of the tree broke. Sent her sailing into gravity's embrace, yanked back to the earth.

This time, there were no tears.

Only blood.

And with a lap of her tongue and a swipe with the hem of her tunic, yes, that was gone too.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

sere SEER, adjective:

Dry; withered.

Sere comes from Old English sear, "dry."

Difficult

Maedhros on acclimating to Himring after life in Tirion.

Read Difficult

The acclimation should have been more difficult: from Tirion to Himring in fewer years than--once upon a time--it had taken my father to complete a commission. Stepping onto the balcony in the morning, where once was a balmy breeze (in Tirion), I am slapped across the face with a whiplash wind. So cold it burns.

It should have been difficult, leaning upon the railing with my hips, my skin already frozen fast to the steel.

But with time, I grow numb to all feeling. Happiness and love. Sadness, grief. Pain.

It should have been difficult.

It was not.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

acclimate uh-KLY-mit; AK-luh-mayt, transitive and intransitive verb:

To accustom or become accustomed to a new climate, environment, or situation.

Acclimate is from French acclimater, from a-, "to" (from Latin ad-) + climat, "climate," from Late Latin clima, climat-, from Greek klima, "inclination; the supposed slope of the earth toward the pole; region; clime," from klinein, "to lean."

Exchanged Aborning

Finwë considers Míriel's sacrifice for Fëanor. This loss--a husband's loss of his wife on an occasion supposed to be joyous--has always been to me one of the most tragic tales of The Silmarillion. My stories never quite do it justice … but I keep coming back to it nonetheless.

Read Exchanged Aborning

How it must have been: an exchange of life, like pebbles passing from one hand to another. He was born. She died.

I sit beside her in the garden on the night she has chosen. I call all her names and plead to her with every last bit of the persuasion and charisma that has landed me as king. Her hand is cold in mine.

Her eyes stretch open to slits. "You would choose him over me. You know that."

I open my mouth but cannot lie. I shudder at the chill in her touch.

Her hand slides from mine.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

aborning uh-BOR-ning, adverb:

1. While being produced or born.
2. Being produced or born.

Aborning is derived from a-, "in the act of" + English dialect borning, "birth."

The Gift Horse

Maedhros gives Rochallor to Fingolfin. This particular detail is not canon, but Maedhros did gift horses to the people of Fingolfin:

Of those horses many of the sires came from Valinor, and they were given to Fingolfin by Maedhros in atonement of his losses, for they had been carried by ship to Losgar.
-"Of Beleriand and Its Realms"

This piece consists of six hundred-word drabbles.

Read The Gift Horse

I.
He was the youngest colt brought from Aman. I had weaned him bare days before the Darkening, before my grandfather's death, before the fate of the Noldor changed irrevocably. In the days that followed, as we made slow progress in the dark back to Tirion, it seemed that his bleating for his mother had portended all of this. For otherwise, he was strong and steadfast--proud--like his master.

Long ago, his dam had been a gift to my father from Nolofinwë, something of an attempt at reconciliation that--like so many things in our family--soured and went awry.

II.
That was the New Year's festival: Nolofinwë gifted my father his favorite brood mare and my father gave his half-brother a gem that had been counted as one of his greatest before the Silmarils. Smiles enlivened their faces--genuine too, though more caused by drink than honest affection--and they'd clasped hands. Named the other brother. Not half-brother, for once.

Brother.

I waited in the days following our exile (our first exile) for Atar to return the mare to Nolofinwë. He did not. I waited too for a messenger bearing back the stone Atar had given Nolofinwë.

But none came.

III.
The colt was the first that Atar named in the tongue of the Elves we met here. Watching the colt frolic in the make-shift paddock, a rare smile upon Atar's face, he spoke in the language that was becoming almost familiar to us now, though rich and throaty where our tongue was lighter, musical. "Rochallor," he said. "He will be a good horse for a deserving rider."

Rochallor was gray--almost silver--like pale steel. A fitting horse for my father, I thought. But two days later, the Battle-under-stars began, and Atar fell.

And I won't speak of what followed.

IV.
Nolofinwë still wears the stone, I see. He wore it across the ice, and I can imagine him--when? with the light of the burning? Elenwë's death?--thrusting it over the ice-choked sea, meaning to drop it in, but his fist frozen tight around it. Trembling.

How does one atone for such loss? I give his people all I can spare. Few will humble themselves to take it. None will look into my eyes as they do.

But Nolofinwë nudges them towards me. It is a gift, comes a whisper borne on an icy breeze, for it comes from kin.

V.
But what of him? It is the first day of the New Year, and already, I have knelt and sworn my fealty to the new king. But what sort of gift does one give to such a king?

The people are mingling again--mine and his, simply the Noldor now--and gifts pass from hand to hand. The stone sparkles at Nolofinwë's throat as he approaches. He hasn't much to offer me. He apologizes, unloosens the clasp. I stay his hand.

To remember him by.

No, I say. I will remember him better with the gem right where it is.

VI.
And in the paddock behind us, Rochallor runs with a joy that we--exiled and damned--have forgotten. Nolofinwë's eyes trace his movement.

My father's beloved colt, a good horse for a deserving rider. Who is more deserving than a king? Fog has rolled off of the lake, and Rochallor might be mist congealed, slipping through the cold winter air with supple grace.

"Half my herd," I say suddenly, "I will give to your people," and Nolofinwë's eyes wheel to meet mine, and despite his collected demeanor, I detect surprise in his eyes.

And I add, "And for you, Rochallor."

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's word:

pecuniary pih-KYOO-nee-air-ee, adjective:

1. Relating to money; monetary.
2. Consisting of money.
3. Requiring payment of money.

Pecuniary comes from Latin pecuniarius, "of money, pecuniary," from pecunia, "property in cattle, hence money," from pecu, "livestock, one's flocks and herds."

A City in Light

Turgon contemplates the building of Gondolin. I have tried for an archaic, slightly overwrought style in this one because, well, today's word is archaic! It seemed fitting. Since I will soon be writing Turgon, it seemed the perfect opportunity to test his voice, which, in my mind is (you guessed it) archaic and slightly overwrought.

This piece is a quadrabble: exactly 400 words.

Read A City in Light

I will credit the skill of our craftsmen and our engineers for the city called Gondolin--nay, it does not yet exist--but the true architect of the secret city will be Memory. Memory: that omnipresent artisan, constant as the stars in the sky so unchanging that one may plot a course between worlds by them and err by not a foot. I sit upon the walls of Vinyamar, overlooking the sea. I stretch my hand to the west, toward Aman, where the sky blushes from the light of the setting Sun.

I close my eyes.

Memory does her work, and gone is the inferior light under which we now endure; gone is the bite of Winter just-arrived and fast to set his fangs into my suddenly damp cheeks. I sit now upon a different wall, as oft I did in days not so long past, and it is the Mingling. I am pretending to work. I came to Ezellohar often in those days, under the pretense of study, while in fact the pages of my book lay unturned with my palms flat upon them. I gazed across at a white city, its edges traced in light, until it was as though every rooftop, every spire had been etched inside my eyelids by stylus borne in Memory's masterful hand.

I used to stretch my fingers to trace the shape of Tirion. And she came once, laughing, to find me there, and caught my hand before I was fully aware of her presence; surprised me with a kiss to the palm, startling my eyes open. She was heavy with child, and in the Light, her hair was as spun gold. Beautiful.

That place on my palm bears still the memory. I trace the shape of Tirion, my eyes closed, seated upon a wall in Vinyamar with my city at my back--not Ezellohar, not the Trees--and wait for the kiss that does not come. My hand burns, waiting.

And then, something lands, something feather-soft and cold. My eyes spring open, and I watch the snowflake melt upon my palm.

On the horizon is a mass of clouds still gilded at the edges by the light of the departed Sun, piled in the shape of Tirion. And I know what I must do to keep my people from Elenwë's fate.

I will go to Gondolin betimes, before it is too late.

---

Chapter End Notes

betimes bih-TYMZ, adverb:

1. Early; in good time; before it is late.
2. At times; on occasion.
3. [Archaic] Soon; in a short time.

Betimes is from Middle English bitimes, from bi, "by" + time, "time."

Longing for Light

On the way to Alqualondë, Fëanor thinks on the Silmarils. It has always been my private theory that part of Fëanor's obsessive pursuit came with the association of the theft of the Silmarils with Finwë's murder, almost as though to resolve the first would also resolve the second. This drabble explores this idea.

Read Longing for Light

I awake with a start and try to open my eyes, and they are stretched and aching before I realize, they are open, but it is dark. Endlessly dark.

Nelyo lights a candle, but it is insubstantial. Weak. Not for the first time--nor the last--I think of Them. I think of his iron prison as described in our darkest tales, and I think of Them casting holy light on it from within. Lighting his hideous, hated face.

The sickness in my gut entwines with lingering grief at my father's death, until I can no longer tell them apart.

---

Chapter End Notes

desideratum dih-sid-uh-RAY-tum; -RAH-, noun;
plural desiderata:

Something desired or considered necessary.

Desideratum is from Latin desideratum, "a thing desired," from desiderare, "to desire."

Irrational

Today is Friday the 13th, and today's word deals with a phobia more irrational than most (and phobias are inherently irrational). So today's tribble--exactly 300 words--deals with what appears at first glance to be borne of paranoia and irrationality, a misgiving that leads to the creation of the Silmarils. This idea is expressed in The Silmarillion:

In that time were made those things that afterwards were most renowned of all the works of the Elves. For Fëanor, being come to his full might, was filled with a new thought, or it may be that some shadow of foreknowledge came to him of the doom that drew near; and he pondered how the light of the Trees, the glory of the Blessed Realm, might be preserved imperishable.

Read Irrational

It happened more and more these days: He awakened, a cry choked in his throat parched as though filled with sand, his heart dashing itself too fast against his ribcage

the Light save the Light!

and the bedclothes screwed up in his fists. Beside him, Nerdanel shifted and

madness

called softly, "Fëanáro? Are you well?" her brow creased in that way of hers usually reserved for when the boys scraped their knees or bruised one another in anger. He nodded. Of course. Of course he was well. This recurring

fear
darkness

nightmare was but another relic of an overdriven mind too busy lately with eccentric thoughts. To capture light--well, more precisely, Light, as in the Light of the Trees--was nothing new; he and Nelyo had been debating it for years. But it would be a feat extraordinary

in which his heart shall rest

and would require great effort, and in the languor of years as a husband and father, watching his sons grow and content to sleep late with his wife wrapped in his arms, he'd never hastened to achieve it. But now, something shifted, something deep in the

dark

unknown realms of the world, and as animals become strange in the charged air before a coming

apocalypse

storm, so Fëanáro was suddenly crazed with the idea of it, of capturing and preserving

saving

the Light of the Trees in something tangible and he could almost feel them in his fist, his hand closed tight upon them, and his mind began to click busily despite the indecent hour, and he answered Nerdanel in as normal a voice as possible, "I am

gone mad

well; no worries," so that she would drop back to sleep, so that he could begin as soon as possible

before it was too late.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

triskaidekaphobia tris-ky-dek-uh-FOH-bee-uh, noun:

A morbid fear of the number 13 or the date Friday the 13th.

Triskaidekaphobia is from Greek treiskaideka, triskaideka, thirteen (treis, three + kai, and + deka, ten) + phobos, fear.

But a Stone

Fëanor, it seems, has taken over the daily drabble. Today's tribble again features him, but when the Word of the Day means "fruitful and productive," then who else but Fëanor comes to mind?

I've always believed that Fëanor was a difficult, demanding father but nonetheless adoring of his children. In fact, I spent an entire novel developing this idea. Today's piece looks at the same in the more reasonable length of 300 hundred words.

Read But a Stone

It was one of our most fruitful times, with many discoveries and skills perfected beyond expectation, when the craftsfolk of the Noldor turned out ornaments and gems and jewelry in dazzling profusion.

I am called proud but I am only being honest when I say that I was at the hub of it. This day, I was working to perfect a green gemstone more splendid than an emerald. At its center quavered something of mystery, even to me--its artificer--that turned and folded upon itself and sent darts of light in the absence of facets until the stone seemed to possess life of its own. Maybe, it did.

But it was a delicate thing, and I was striving desperately to preserve it, to harden the stone before that flickering entity within dissipated like a flame without kindling, gone to smoke and ash. Behind me in the laboratory came shouts, but this was nothing new; another discovery, perhaps, or disaster caused by excitement and haste. But no, the timbre was different, and something touched my leg then; something warm and soft, and I had the choice to flinch away and save my stone. Or acknowledge this other entity that I also didn't entirely understand.

His face was upturned to mine: my Nelyo, my beautiful son with his mother's hair and my eyes and both our curiosity. "What have you made, Atar?" he asked, and my assistant swept in then to take him away, but I stayed him with a flick of my hand.

The stone clattered to the tabletop and there, I suppose, it "died," though I did not bother to look. This thing of my hands suddenly mattered little.

" 'Tis but a stone, Nelyo," I said, and I lifted my son and kissed his face. "Nothing of importance."

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

fructuous FRUHK-choo-uhs, adjective:

Fruitful; productive.

Fructuous comes from Latin fructuosus, from fructus, "enjoyment, product, fruit," from the past participle of frui, "to enjoy."

Housecleaning

Today's word is a funny one, so I've made an attempt at a humor piece. Celegorm cleans his room, in 200 words.

Read Housecleaning

His mother's words rang in his ears. Before you play, you must clean your room.

Must, Tyelkormo! No exceptions!

He grumbled and looked around. Outside, the day was warm and bright--the first such day after a week of rain--but in here … well, in here, it was wont to be called a mess or a wreck or, his mother's favorite, a travesty. Even his father--and Fëanáro was not tidy by any stretch of the most fertile imagination--claimed that Tyelkormo's bedroom could lend proof to the theory of entropy.

But the day outside … it beckoned!

Tyelkormo got busy.

His feet made fast work of finding a home for his dress boots, a dog bone, a broken green-fletched arrow, and an encrusted soup tureen beneath his bed. The Atlas of Aman he was supposed to be studying sailed into his closet. He rolled discarded quills and parchment, three rings, a pile of rocks, and a screwdriver into his rug and shoved it in after.

To finish the job, he grabbed a tunic from a hanger, swabbed the dust from the furniture, then dashed it into the hamper.

And he called, "Mother! I'm off! I've cleaned my room!"

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

gallimaufry gal-uh-MAW-free, noun:

A medley; a hodgepodge.

Gallimaufry, originally meaning "a hash of various kinds of meats," comes from French galimafrée, from Old French, from galer, "to rejoice, to make merry" (source of English gala) + mafrer, "to eat much," from Medieval Dutch maffelen, "to open one's mouth wide."

Love in Pearls (a.k.a. "Wet Elves")

Today's tribble (300 words) is dual-purposed. For one, it is inspired by the Word of the Day, bibelot. For another, it is dedicated with fondest wishes to Cheryl, who asked for a birthday drabble called "Wet Elves." Well, it's only one wet Elf and I've chosen a different title, but I hope that it suffices. Happy birthday, my dear!

Eärwen watches her soon-to-be husband construct a special gift for her on the beach of Alqualondë.

Read Love in Pearls (a.k.a. "Wet Elves")

He didn't know that she watched and she did her best to hide, ducking behind the drapes in her bedroom overlooking the sea. He was young, just come of age, having only recently lost the awkward boniness of youth. Nay, he was awkward no longer, she thought, watching as he glanced furtively about him. A tiny smile tightened the corner of his mouth and she imagined mischief in his eyes, sparkling like evening light upon the water.

Convinced that no one watched, he let his robes slide away. With a gasp, she ducked out of sight behind the curtain, hiding her eyes. I should not look! … but she did, creeping out by degrees to watch him ease into the warm seawater.

She did not know why he had come to the shores of Eldamar without informing her of his intentions, as he had done--with delight--so many times before. At the last, there had been wine, heady conversation. I always thought, she confided, laughing, in the space between private thought and spoken word, that the man I married would spell his intentions upon the sand of the beach in pearls, where I might see from the highest tower--

He was not long in the sea, for the pearls were plentiful, and as Laurelin began to brighten towards noontide, he emerged, dripping, with golden light sculpting the planes of his body, no longer the familiar form of her childhood friend but someone different. Beloved.

Kneeling naked on the sand, he set to task, returning again and again to the sea for more pearls, until there was a shimmering rainbow upon the beach spelling--what? She eased full from behind the curtain. She knew not. For it was the Elf--not trinkets recovered for her delight--that so captivated her.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

bibelot BEE-buh-loh, noun:

A small decorative object without practical utility; a trinket.

Bibelot is from French, from Old French beubelot, beubelet, "a small jewel, a trinket," from a reduplication of bel, "beautiful," from Latin bellus, "pretty, handsome." It is related to bauble.

This Place

It is said that Amandil set sail in a small ship at night, and steered first eastward, and then went about and passed into the west. And he took with him three servants, dear to his heart, and never again were they heard of by word or sign in this world, nor is there any tale or guess of their fate.
--Akallabêth

The fate of Amandil …

Read This Place

We must be nearing Aman. We must.

The seas have grown tortuous in a way that defies what I know of water. No longer are there tides but paths carved upon the water, and try as we might to escape, the ship twists and cants upon them, and cold mist writhes into our throats.

What is this place?

There is a shadow on the horizon. Land? It stretches, fills our sights, and we press to the rails and stare. Nay, it is the sky. The black sky, indistinguishable from the sea.

But--panic touches my heart--where are the stars?

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

tortuous TOR-choo-us, adjective:

1. Marked by repeated turns and bends; as, "a tortuous road up the mountain."
2. Not straightforward; devious; as, "his tortuous reasoning."
3. Highly involved or intricate; as, "tortuous legal procedures."

Tortuous is from Latin tortuosus, from tortus, "a twisting," from the past participle of torquere, "to twist."

Blindness

Fëanor and Finwë argue about the Valar. I've intended something of a chaotic feel to this piece; Finwë is only reluctantly coming to the realization that something is afoot. This will culminate, of course, with Fëanor's exile from Tirion and the Valar taking Finwë's right to make the decision concerning the fate of his son and subject.

Read Blindness

I have progressed to the point where I no longer hear his words, just the sound of them. They are like keen knife edges, slicing illogic and hope in a single resounding tack against the brutal bone of what he calls "common sense." It is common sense, Father, he says, if you would just listen.

I have been listening, Fëanáro, for the whole of your life, don't you know?

But behind your rhetoric lies a haze of memory that you would not recall. Not recall, Fëanáro, because you were not born yet. I had no intentions toward fatherhood at all, actually. That always silences him, to consider my life without him, without a center. Wobbling off course, perhaps, he imagines, for even as I followed Oromë over soil and sea, I know that he--my precious Fëanáro--would have stayed, savage in his beauty, with light in his eyes that need not come from the Trees, and there would maybe have been more Avari than Eldar.

But I followed, and he was not there to behold Light for the first time. You have not lived forever, Fëanáro, I remind him, and for all your genius, the memories of those times will always elude you. And no, your books do not do it justice, even the words of Rúmil. No, you were born into Light; you do not understand what it was to come from darkness into Light and to think that those who gave such a gift, freely and willingly, would never intend to harm us.

But they do, they do. The passion in his voice is torn by another emotion. Grief, perhaps? Grief at my blindness, they way that staring unblinking into a light makes the rest of the world disappear, and soon, one can see nothing at all.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

trenchant TREN-chunt, adjective:

1. Characterized by or full of force and vigor; as, "a trenchant analysis."
2. Caustic; biting; severe; as, "trenchant criticism."
3. Distinct; clear-cut; clearly or sharply defined.

Trenchant comes from Old French, from the present participle of trenchier, "to cut." It is related to trench.

*None Need Know

Maedhros on the plasticity of memory following Angband. Please note: This double drabble contains violence, not quite enough to warrant an adult rating but enough that I ask readers to tread with care.

Read *None Need Know

None need know the truth about my time in Angband. My brothers tell brave stories to our people and our uncle's people of my courage. How I took out one of Morgoth's lieutenants with my hands bound, using just my teeth. About my numerous attempts at escape storied in the scars--memories of punishment--that cross my body.

My back was carved with whipmarks like the grids my brothers used to use for playing games. Jump this piece over that piece … CAPTURED! "Morgoth whipped him and wouldn't stop till he screamed," I hear Maglor say. "But he didn't scream … so he didn't stop."

None need know. Right?

I begin to believe it myself. My knees never knocked, my voice never shook. My hands were firm and my gaze unwavering as I fearlessly met the eyes of the Dark Lord. I never wet myself. Vomited. My eyes stayed dry and my heart stayed strong and steady. I never begged for my life. For death.

I don't have nightmares.

Waking with a scream I never uttered in Angband at the back of my throat, my first thought: I don't have nightmares.

I don't!

And if I did? None need know.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

confabulation kon-FAB-yuh-lay-shuhn, noun:

1. Familiar talk; easy, unrestrained, unceremonious conversation.
2. (Psychology) A plausible but imagined memory that fills in gaps in what is remembered.

Confabulation comes from Late Latin confabulatio, from the past participle of Latin confabulari, "to talk together," from con-, "together, with" + fabulari, "to talk." It is related to fable, "a fiction, a tale," and to fabulous, "so incredible or astonishing as to resemble or suggest a fable."

Perspective

Fëanor replies to Finwë from Monday's double drabble Blindness about his growing mistrust of the Valar.

Read Perspective

There is something to be said, Father, for distance and perspective, the way you sometimes have to stand away from an object to see its flaws. You fault me for not having awakened beside Cuiviénen. But neither have you lived forever. Neither have the Valar. Even Manwë. Even Melkor. So back and back we go through time, till we reach Eru … and maybe something preceded Eru too. And we are all unwise, before the end.

I see by your eyes that you fear what I have just said. "Shaken the earth beneath your feet," we say, "to the very foundations."

And that is why we require perspective. If I cannot live forever and bear the wisdom of all the ages of existence, then let me retain wisdom enough to back away and trust my heart and senses to know when I am being made a fool. And strength enough to fight that, no matter how great the enemy I face.

Enemy? Yes, I say it, and you know of whom I speak. For they have betrayed the Elves before; they have denied protection to those far less dangerous than me, and their folly shall be both of our undoings.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

riposte rih-POST, noun:

1. A quick thrust given after parrying an opponent's lunge in fencing.
2. A quick and effective reply by word or act.

intransitive verb:

1. To make a riposte.

The Calm Before

Maedhros on the day that Celegorm and Curufin arrive in Himring after being banished from Nargothrond. A double drabble.

Read The Calm Before

It is as good a day as we have in Himring. No news comes from the front. The weather is as fair as can be expected; I spit and it does not freeze before hitting the earth. Even the forsaken winds have subsided a bit so the streets remain clear of snow and I don't have to listen to the bellyaching of the gardeners appointed to that task.

The sky is a pale, flawless blue-gray, without a single cloud.

I am sitting in my study, enjoying it. Just one day,> I'd asked. And I've received.

There is a cup of herbal tea sitting on the corner of my desk. For once, I have time to let it properly cool and do not have to drink it down so fast that I scald my mouth. Or chance that it will sit until as cold as the numbing floorboards beneath my feet while I discuss battle plans and provisions and how we will survive another winter.

I lift the teacup and sip. Delicious.

And then comes the knock. The page bows low, hiding unease in his eyes. "My Lord Maedhros, I announce the arrival of Lords Celegorm and Curufin. Most unexpected--"

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

stasis STAY-sis; STAS-is, noun; plural stases STAY-seez; STAS-eez:

1. A state of balance, equilibrium, or stagnation.
2. Stoppage of the normal flow of a bodily fluid or semifluid.

Stasis comes from Greek stasis, "a standing still," from histasthai, "to stand."

Words to Tell

Finwë, upon returning to his people from Valinor, ponders the difficulty of putting into words what he has seen. I've gone for a slightly surreal feel here in hopes of maybe conveying what it was like for the early Elves, dwelling in a world where so many things are new to them and there is much still to understand. This is a tribble, 300 words.

Read Words to Tell

We pause before reaching Cuiviénen, standing in the shadows--for once without fear--watching our people. Fire we found shortly before departing, and upon the dark lake, it sparkles like a scattering of rubies and topaz.

Ruby. Topaz. I taste the new words upon my tongue, recall colors seen for the first time, in Light, sifted through the broad hands of the one called Aulë.

I feel the others recalling it too. And unease. They are--we are--uneasy. For how to express to our people the splendor of this place we have been? How to convey Light to those who have known only darkness; color to those whose world is painted only in washes of gray? Language is new to us, and there are still so many things for which there are no words. We turn our hands a certain way, let expressions writhe upon our faces, convey it with a touch, a kiss. The words for these things take longer to come, murmured and sighed on a sudden, into the darkness between us.

But there are no words for this. Not yet. How will we--wayworn from our journey--describe what we've seen? Yet unless we persuade our people to come, the words will never be; so many possibilities will be doomed into silence, never to be whispered into the dark spaces between us.

We watch a bit longer. They are celebrating, for it is Darkest Night, and it is almost over. The fires leap high, and the people whirl faster, dancing, and lift their voices in song.

These things they know: joy and hope. Despite the darkness and the gloom, these were among the first words we crafted.

And so maybe there is a chance of understanding? Ingwë steps forward. Elwë and I follow.

We must try.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

wayworn WAY-worn, adjective:

Wearied by traveling.

Wayworn is way (from Old English weg) + worn (from Old English werian).

*Persuasion in Three Drops

Morgoth attempts to persuade Maedhros into encouraging his brothers' surrender. Please be forewarned that this piece contains torture and violence, nothing graphic, but possibly bothersome to some readers.

This piece is a drabunculus. As far as I know, I invented the drabunculus form; at the very least, I invented the name drabunculus. Drabunculus is like homunculus: It is a single drabble with drabbles inside of it. In this particular piece, each number of the count (One, Two, Three) marks the start of a new drabble, a new introspection from Nelyo. The "container" of these three drabbles is also a drabble, bringing the word count for the piece to exactly 400 words.

It's not a particularly easy form to write, and I always swear that each drabunculus will be my last. But the form seemed well suited for this particular piece, so I brought it out again.

This is going to be the last, though. ;)

Read *Persuasion in Three Drops

Yanked up by his hair, Nelyo tries to draw a desperate breath but only gags.

Water plinks from the stalactite.

One.

It remains a possibility, bringing his brothers to the gates of Angband. Not to save him, of course, but what he could impart--in secret, naturally--might spell Morgoth's undoing. He sees them coming as he had done, ready to fall on knees. Eyes lowered. Submissive. Swords sheathed at the back, out of sight.

It could be Morgoth's undoing.

And where he was naïve, they are now wiser. He has been here for ten years by the marks inside his cell. Ten years of starvation, whipping. Face submerged in this brackish pool until he was sure he would die.

"You know the routine," comes a cold voice behind him.

A drop quavers from the stalactite.

Two.

Not even possible, he thinks. Advisable.

The water is webbed with spit and snot, for he is never resigned to drowning, even when forced underwater, hands bound, by Morgoth's strongest captain.

He imagines the white flag against the star-studded sky. Macalaurë's damp eyes, lowered in shame, and Morgoth's captain--this wretched beast that holds Nelyo now, counting drops from the stalactite, three until he is submerged again--with a dagger slipped inside his ribcage, piercing his wizened heart.

A battle cry drowning for once the tormented screams within Angband.

Yes, he thinks, the final droplet awaiting its fall. Advisable.

"This could end."

Nelyo sees in the periphery of his vision a parchment, awaiting his signature. Bringing his brothers to surrender.

Three.

But there is another thing, a vision unbidden that dampens hope. He sees his brothers inside the fortress. He has "escaped" enough times to know that enchantments confound its labyrinthine hallways. He hears their hopeless cries swallowed by the hungry black rock.

And Macalaurë, his brother, made to watch, to agree to some other indignity else another blade will be placed in his brother's body. Which one? Telvo, probably, Macalaurë's favorite. Nelyo is dead. Telvo's death will be slow, Morgoth promises. Like Nelyo's. Trailing an icy blade along the trembling inside of Telvo's thigh, a cold voice reminding Macalaurë,

"Only you can end it. Only the king."

There is water his lungs yet. He chokes upon the words he wishes to say.

The parchment, too large in the edge of his sight, awaiting signature.

"No."

The roar of water fills his ears.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

brackish BRAK-ish, adjective:

1. Somewhat salty.
2. Distasteful; unpalatable.

Brackish derives from Dutch brak, "salty." It is especially used to describe a mixture of seawater and fresh water.

The House of Unexpected Light

This is one of those double-purpose series again. It is first--like all of the ficlets and series here so far--inspired in part by the word of the day. It is also a birthday gift for Anglachel in response to her request on HASA for a story about a building.

I've chosen Fëanor's house in Formenos. I will make a quick note on canon interpretation before offering the story. In the Felakverse that I use for my stories, Formenos did exist before Fëanor used it as a fortress for hiding his treasures. It began as a mining town that developed a reputation for serving as a safe haven for craftsmen with extraordinary talent and eccentric tendencies. Hence Fëanor's attraction to it. He spent summers here for many years before his exile from Tirion; hence his decision to live and store his treasures there during his banishment.

The note that Formenos was built after Fëanor's exile was made my Christopher Tolkien, and I don't consider it canon as I have never found writings from J.R.R. Tolkien backing it up. The word Formenos does mean "northern fortress," and that is the only--and rather flimsy, in my opinion--evidence behind CT's addition to the index that I have found.

So here are three drabbles and three double-drabbles about Fëanor's house in Formenos. Happy birthday, Anglachel!

Read The House of Unexpected Light

I.

I began as earth and rock, and these remember the days before the Elves came. These remember the hooves of Nahar striking sparks upon them as Oromë chased his quarry. These remember the heavy boots of Aulë as he raised the hills, and these remember the tender hands of Yavanna making the wild things grow in a great green snarl, fed by Light.

These remember the first Elves and the houses they built of strong, black stone from my land. Formenos, the Noldor called it, a name that carried a shiver of unease they hadn't left behind, over the sea.

II.

When he came, he came alone but for his wife, who was red-haired and laughed a lot and held her swollen belly with two hands. He spread his arms wide and turned in the middle of me. "I will build us a home here, away from Tiron, away from the pressure and politics, away from--" She caught him and silenced his next words with a kiss.

They had to hasten back to Tirion, so imminent was she, but first he lifted great pieces of stone and marked the bounds of what I would become. He came not with architectural drawings, nor the tools for surveyance that his predecessors had brought. He measured with footlengths and placed his rocks on instinct alone. Hand in hand, he and his wife walked through me, and he named the rooms bound so far only in air and imagination.

"This is the parlor; here, the kitchen. This"--a kiss--"is Nelyafinwë's room."

He knew not--and she did not notice--how he'd cut his hands on the rocks that he'd placed. But I noticed. Throughout my confines, each path in my labyrinthine corridors was traced in his blood, soaked quickly--hungrily--into my earth.

III.

He brought his most trusted lords, and they built me with bare hands and crude tools alone, speaking little as they worked but sitting inside my walls at night--the sky their ceiling--drinking spirits stronger than wine that made their merriment lift as high as the heavens.

So from the first, I was filled with laughter.

He was long in building a roof. He lay at night with his wife and their year-old son between them, gazing at stars needle-sharp and brighter than those in Tirion.

"I would live like this forever," he said, "but for the coming rains."

IV.

The architects of Tirion scorned me. They liked not the illogical, winding hallways that might lead to nothing but a blank wall or stairs that dove out of sight into secret passages accessed by touching the correct stone or rooms tucked within rooms like hidden treasure. They liked not that I was built of the stone native to that land, that I hunched amid the hills, black like shadow congealed. They liked not the turrets that stabbed the sky with little regard for logic or beauty.

"All of those things are true," said Fëanáro to his father once. "But can they not see the beauty when, ascending the path and seeing the house like a blight in the valley beneath them, Nerdanel or maybe Nelyo open a curtain, and suddenly, light comes most unexpectedly from deepest darkness?"

From the beginning, I was a house of secrets, a house of unrestrained laughter, a house strong enough to bear even the temper of the notorious Fëanáro, a house of obsession with the blood of my creator beneath my foundation and pressed beneath my stones, a house with the audacity to have scarred his perfect hands.

I was a house of unexpected light.

V.

There is a Noldorin proverb that a house shall have a memory for each stone. Perhaps that is why Fëanáro--with the birth of each son--added to me. To make room for more memories.

Nelyo had his first kiss, Tyelkormo left to ride with Oromë, Macalaurë presented a ring to Vingarië here, in the courtyard. Curufinwë and his wife conceived their son. Carnistir met a girl called Taryindë. Ambarussa became enamored of the briar-tangled wilderness of my grounds.

But even scores of stones are finite. The end did come for me, for us.

My final memory: Finwë died here.

VI.

The tangle of my hallways might have saved him had he been less brave. Foolish. Many are my secrets, and the sons of Fëanáro had grown adept through the years at exploiting my hiding places. Would they have thought Finwë less courageous had he hidden beneath the stairs where Macalaurë fled his father's wrath over poor marks in mathematics? Or in the narrow space between rooms where Carnistir hid sweets?

Finwë tried to bar the Dark One from Fëanáro's door, and when he failed, the tumult of their battle laid my walls to ruin. In the labyrinth of hallways, he ran and the Dark One pursued. Their screams of rage and pain ran deep, to all my secret places. I quavered with each blow. The Dark One fell five times … but Finwë fell six.

The sparks from their swords were the only light in the darkness.

When the Dark One tore his sword from the barely-living body of the King, I was crumbling, and the sky was the ceiling once more. Only the stars were occluded behind the filth of Ungoliant. Darkness reigned.

And no one would want to live forever in the confines of what I have become.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

quixotic kwik-SOT-ik, adjective:

1. Caught up in the romance of noble deeds and the pursuit of unreachable goals; foolishly impractical especially in the pursuit of ideals.
2. Capricious; impulsive; unpredictable.

Quixotic refers to the eccentric, generous idealism of Don Quixote, the hero of a satiric romance by Miguel de Cervantes.

How Carnistir Fixed the Towel Rack

A silly little ficlet in 700 words. Celegorm gets stuck in a window, and Caranthir helps him out. Featuring hedgehogs, neglected laundry duty, and a bit of bathroom humor … literally. You've been warned.

Read How Carnistir Fixed the Towel Rack

Tyelkormo has gotten himself stuck in the window of the lavatory between our bedrooms. Sleepy still but with a bladder full to bursting, I encounter him early in the morning, with one arm stuck inside the window and one out, a disheveled head, and legs (I imagine) dangling fruitlessly on the other side.

I have to rub my eyes to believe it. There is an unusual quantity of grit in them. I squint at it on my fingers.

"Well don't just stand there studying your eye-bogeys!" he hisses. "Help me!"

I don't appreciate his tone. I narrow my eyes at him. "I have to piss."

"You can do that after you help me."

"No. I can't. I have to piss, now, or you'll be getting a mop." I go over to the toilet and raise the lid. Behind me, I hear my name through gritted teeth. "Carnistir …"

He is not so small anymore, my brother Tyelkormo. He doesn't realize his size when he kidney-punches me for splashing water on him during a rainstorm. Or when sitting on my head until I blacked out for telling Atar that he'd copied his lessons. Or, apparently, when choosing windows through which to sneak back home after an illicit dalliance with one of his girl-friends.

I take a good long time relieving myself, squeezing out every last drop. I'm sure to shake myself completely dry. I watch the water spin in the bowl until it's completely gone. I even wipe up the few drops that I have gotten on the rim--Amil would be pleased--before turning back to him.

"Help me," he says again. There is a note of desperation in his voice. Atar will be about soon, and this is his favorite lavatory to use since the twins decided to put a cactus garden in his basin.

I sigh and grab Tyelkormo's arm, the one on the inside of the house. I pull. Nothing happens. However, I do notice an unusual reddish tinge to his mouth that confirms my earlier theory about illicit trysts.

"Have you been painting your lips, Turko?" I ask, letting his arm go slack. He despises the name Turko, and oh, do I know this. His body shimmies forward a little as (I imagine) he frantically pedals his legs on the other side of the wall, trying to get at me. But he's still stuck.

And Atar is about.

"Cursed cur of Oromë--" Atar must have found the hedgehog that the twins put in his boot. They claim it's the only place it will sleep. "Manwë's holy flatulence--"

Tyelkormo's face has gone white. "Moryo!" he squeaks. "Do something!"

But what to do when one's largish brother is protruding from the window? I scratch my head and find a cocklebur that the comb must have missed. Annoying, that. But it doesn't solve my problem--or rather, Tyelkormo's problem. There is only one thing--

I fling a none-too-clean, mildew-smelling bath towel over his head. Tyelkormo and I have been in a standoff over whose turn it is to wash the towels since last New Year.

Atar stumps into the lavatory, hedgehog in hand and boots untied. "Carnistir," he grumbles in greeting. He puts the hedgehog in Tyelkormo's water glass and sets about washing his face.

"Atar," I reply. I watch as he washes his teeth with Tyelkormo's toothbrush and gives his hair a few perfunctory swipes with Tyelkormo's hairbrush. He dries his hands on the towel hanging by the window, apparently oblivious to its offensive odor or head-shaped holder.

"I see you've fixed the towel rack," he says. Ah yes, the towel rack that was knocked off the wall with my head when Tyelkormo pushed me into it. I'd forgotten about that. He fetches the hedgehog from Tyelkormo's glass and claps me on the shoulder. "Good work, son."

And he's gone.

I whisk the towel from Tyelkormo's head. He's gone a bit blue from holding his breath. "My sweet Valar it reeks under there," comes his rush of words.

"Well," I say, taking a hold of his arm and giving it a good strong tug, "I certainly think this means it's your turn to do the laundry."

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

levity LEV-uh-tee, noun:

1. Lightness of manner or speech, especially when inappropriate or excessive; frivolity.
2. Lack of steadiness or constancy; changeableness.

Levity is from Latin levitas, from levis, "light."

Nonsense

Just after Fëanor's birth, before Míriel's condition is revealed, Finwë is tormented by unease. A perfect hundred-word drabble.

Read Nonsense

Behind diaphanous curtains drawn across the bed they sleep: my wife and my son in her arms. Night is deep outside the window, yet I am wakeful. Why? Sitting and turning a gilded letter-opener in my hand, letting it lie in my palm like a weapon, as though there is something dark beyond the palace against which I must guard them.

Nonsense.

Behind diaphanous curtains, my wife and son sleep. I should join them. Yet I cannot dispel this feeling, this foolish hysteria, weighing heavily upon my restless heart.

That I will part the curtains, and they will be gone.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

diaphanous dy-AF-uh-nuhs, adjective:

1. Of such fine texture as to allow light to pass through; translucent or transparent.
2. Vague; insubstantial.

Diaphanous ultimately derives from Greek diaphanes, "showing through," from diaphainein, "to show through, to be transparent," from dia-, "though" + phainein, "to show, to appear." It is related to phantom.

The Orphan

The dispute between Fëanor and Fingolfin, from the perspective of Fëanor, in 100 words.

Read The Orphan

They call me the aggressor but they do not know: He was the thief, and I defended what was mine. All that I had left. Is that not lawful?

He has father and mother, you see. I have but one. And before our father, I heard his words, his attempt to steal Finwë's love and loyalty from me when he thought my back turned. A thief without the courage even to ply his trade in open light.

What I have done, how does it compare? How does it compare to rendering an orphan he who has already lost so much?

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

aggress uh-GRES, intransitive verb:

To commit the first act of hostility or offense; to make an attack.

Aggress is from French agresser, from Latin aggredi, aggress-, "to approach, to approach aggressively, to attack," from ad-, "to" + gradi, "to step, to walk."

Personal Failings

Maglor gives his brothers the news of Maedhros's capture, in 100 words.

Read Personal Failings

We used to laugh at him, our nebbish brother apt to trip on his feet or wear a gob of sauce unheeded on his face. Poor Macalaurë, cloddish Macalaurë, whose stage mishaps were dismissed as eccentricities when we knew them to be lack of grace--or maybe intelligence. Personal failings.

But the brother that stands before us now doesn't look the sort to fall prone to wily treeroots and cracks in the street. His eyes are red-rimmed but his shoulders are squared, his face graven.

Hands holding the message don't tremble as he says, "I have news … about Nelyo."

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

nebbish NEB-ish, noun:

A weak-willed, timid, or ineffectual person.

Nebbish is from Yiddish nebekh, "poor, unfortunate," of Slavic origin.

*The Burden of Sight

For Gadira, three double drabbles about Númenor. Tar-Palantir is troubled by visions of his daughter Míriel, her future, and her fate. Warning for implications of canon incest and non-consensual marriage. It's nothing particularly explicit, but readers sensitive to these subjects should tread with care.

Read *The Burden of Sight

I. Míriel
I called her Míriel as they laid her in my arms. A strange name, they said, not only for the tongue in which it was spoken but for the meaning of it. Even now, in an age of disillusionment with our friends to the west, we learn the legend of Míriel Serindë, if only on moonless nights when tales of horror slither from a brother's lips and into the darkness silent but for frightened, frantic hearts.

But why is it strange, the name I have bestowed upon her? Indeed, she had been a long-looked-for gift; gladly I became her caregiver to spare her wearied mother, waving away the nursemaids to sit upon the balcony, looking on Meneltarma, blankets tight around her but my own shoulders bare and shuddering in the icy winds from west. I waited for visions to descend as a victim of long torment waits for the arrival of pain: cringing, willing it at the same time as hoping to prolong my comfort, knowing that no matter my wishes, it will come nonetheless.

But one need not be far-sighted to know that Míriel would share the fate of her namesake, as do we all.

We all die here.

II. Meneltarma
Once, upon the slopes of Meneltarma, a strange thing happened.

Míriel walked ahead of me, eager as always for what secrets might hide under the next rock, her voice bright like bells in the still summer air. I glanced up at the mountain, where it became precipitous and nigh impossible to climb, rocks so sharp they would slice your hands, and--

with a gasp like the time in the sea so cold with Gimilkhâd disappearing suddenly beneath the thrashing waves and my voice alone beneath the sky, calling for him and fearing he had drowned, tears upon my face that tasted of the sea, then a cold hand upon my ankle and a roar as water filled my ears, my mouth still wide from calling for him and the air wrenched already from my lungs for the strength of my cries, now filling with water that tasted of brine, of things rotted, and my useless pounding blood and I was drowning, drowning until he emerged

--laughing, "Father, what is wrong?" and her forehead creasing suddenly with understanding, a whisper--What do you see?--that I heard not.

For the roar of water. Of wind. It stole her from me.

III. Pharazôn
I didn't like him from first sight, the golden, laughing son of my brother, who was bold and brazen and loved like his father. Why, then, couldn't I love him? Pharazôn, my brother-son? I did not know. Inside, there was a feeling at the sight of him like insects on my skin: such small things yet they set my whole body to shuddering, scratching to be rid of them.

When he neared Míriel, I snatched her wrist and yanked her away hard enough that she cried out. My brother wore an expression of bemused superiority. The crazy Inziladûn at it again with his so-called "visions." Maybe he could see for me a bottle of wine and a pot of gold?

Forced by decorum to release my grip on Míriel, to dry her tears and pat her back to encourage her to play with her cousin Pharazôn.

The wooden toy he proffered in his hand, in his palm, a palm that I saw clapped over her mouth, his laughing mouth making a joke to entice her to play, now bent over her face defiant and wrenched from his, grinning teeth that bit her ear, slippery tongue tasting her blood, hissing

Mine.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

plenipotentiary plen-uh-puh-TEN-shee-air-ee; -shuh-ree, adjective:
1. Containing or conferring full power; invested with full power; as, "plenipotentiary license; plenipotentiary ministers

noun:
1. A person invested with full power to transact any business; especially, an ambassador or diplomatic agent with full power to negotiate a treaty or to transact other business.

Plenipotentiary derives from Latin plenus, "full" + potens, "powerful."

The Conscript

A conscript of Maedhros fleetingly meets his lord on the night before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. This is a fairly long piece--four double-drabbles and a tribble--but it begged to be written, so I obliged.

Notes on obscure canon follow in the endnotes.

Read The Conscript

I. The Messengers
I am just returned from sowing the fields when I see the two horses tethered in front of the house. Drawing nearer, the design on the headstall stops me so suddenly that I nearly topple to my knees: an eight-pointed star wrapped in flame. The device of Nelyafinwë Maitimo--legend, hero, kinslayer--now Maedhros, the Dispossessed King, the lord of Himring.

The door is shut--odd, for it is spring and even if the wind remains chill, it sweeps away winter's staleness and that is reason enough to keep the door open. My sister and brother crouch at threshold, tears on their faces, though my sister is old enough to make an attempt at hiding hers, at appearing brave.

I gather them in my arms. "What is it, huh?" but I am already catching snatches of conversation, of my mother's voice bubbling with tears--

too young his father's heir just of age last moon needed for the harvest come autumn

--but the door explodes open, for the messengers of Maedhros have far yet to ride and cannot delay. "If you kept him," one calls, "you'd stand to lose him and the rest. Think on that."

And they are gone.

II. The Book
I have a book written by Nelyafinwë Maitimo in Aman. It is about the classification of flowers.

It passed to me, as best we can figure, from Turukáno--once a student at Lambengolmor--to Findaráto his friend to Angaráto his brother to my father, who kept the meager gardens in Dorthonion, and then to me, who has little interest in flowers but savors the slow, twisting dance of Tengwar across a page.

That the lost Prince Maitimo understood beauty and indulgence as perhaps we never will again is evident in the luxuriance of detail about so trite a topic, and the book was useless even to my father in Dorthonion. But at the corner of one page is a smudge, a thumbprint that--had it been discovered--would have been declared a blight, the page begun anew. Over the course of my life, upon arriving at that page, I fit my thumb to the imprint of his. Even now, mine is much smaller, and if I squint closely, I can see the whorls that make it uniquely his.

Some of the Moriquendi see our fates in the lines upon our hands. I wonder--studying his--what fate they would see?

III. The Message
The document left by the messengers was not written by Maedhros--instead by a scribe--but the signature at the bottom is his. His name is different now--denoting ugliness, utility--and his left-handed script is more economic than that once wrought with his right, but I know that flourish beneath the vala, and it is his.

The message is plain: I am being conscripted.

"Each household under the lordship of Maedhros Fëanorion is to send one male into the military service of their lord, to defend the realm against Morgoth."

My father was made lame in the Dagor Bragollach and so--heart thudding violently inside my chest--I realize that will be me. The bookish son of a farmer without even the courage to present a silver ring to the maiden down the lane … it would be laughable, if I was not so terrified.

The messengers left also a sword.

"He shall report to the gates at Himring within three moons' time. He should bring his weapon."

The sword is brutal in its simplicity. The Noldor, it seems, forewent concern for beauty in arms when they lost the will to feign empathy in their summons to the same.

IV. Himring
Even in the summer, Himring is cold; I am grateful for the fur-lined cloak that my mother insisted I take. My father called Himring ugly--having seen it once--but it is not so ugly as dull. Utilitarian.

Not that I have much time to look in my first days there. I am numbered with vegetable dye upon my tunic and sent from place to place, to ride horses and spar and shoot arrows, until a not entirely unkind swordmaster gives me a slip of paper with a house upon it and tells me to await further orders.

There, a busy housemother shoves a bowl of stew before me, chattering all the while, but I am too exhausted to listen. Others near me in age and stature shuffle to the table, eat, and shuffle away again. Their eyes are bleary with disbelief and fear. I imagine I must look the same.

We are each permitted two personal effects. I brought a letter from my father and the book about flowers. I read it after dark, the moon my light. Surely the man who named roses and the man who plots war against an unassailable foe--they are not the same?

V. Fire
I see him once in my time here, the night before we are to leave for Mithrim. Restless with worry, I hear the curfew tattoo and don't bother to find my street home. The moon is full and high amid the stars.

Then there is a man on the path before me, high-ranking by his elegant raiment, and even in the meager moonlight, I can see that the unrestrained hair spilling over his shoulders is blood red. His face--painted in moonlight and shadow--is beautiful.

He leaves his company and comes down the street toward me. I wonder what I will see in his eyes? The man who took me from my parents, my home, with a stab of his signature, or the man with whimsy enough to name flowers? I imagine the stories I will tell my children and grandchildren, should I survive tomorrow's ordeal, about my single sight of the lord and hero Maedhros Fëanorion. How small I feel in his approaching shadow, how young and helpless and inconsequential, beside one with the courage to challenge Morgoth.

I lift my eyes to meet his. He has brothers, nieces and nephews; he had students once, in Aman. I wait to see sign of that, of regret for what his decisions will do to the sons and brothers of others. Awareness of what we will sacrifice for him.

I want him to see me.

But he does not.

I stumble back with what I see instead: a single-mindedness driven by an impetus he cannot control, something larger and more powerful even than he. Fire, I realize. There is fire in his eyes: once ablaze, set on a course that it is driven to finish, no matter the cost, until all is ash beneath it.

All is ash, even him.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

tattoo ta-TOO, noun:

1. A rapid, rhythmic drumming or rapping.
2. A beat of a drum, or sound of a trumpet or bugle, giving notice to soldiers to go to their quarters at night.
3. A display of military exercises given as evening entertainment.

Tattoo is an alteration of earlier taptoo, from Dutch taptoe, "a tap(house)-shut," from tap, "faucet" + toe, "shut" -- meaning, essentially, that the tavern is about to shut.

Notes on Obscure Canon:
Lambengolmor occurs in HoMe 11 in the essay "Quendi and Eldar" where it is said,

Though Fëanor after the days of his first youth took no more active part in linguistic lore and enquiry, he is credited by tradition with the foundation of a school of Lambengolmor or 'Loremasters of Tongues' to carry on this work….Of the school, the most eminent member after the founder was, or still is, Pengolodh….

Pengolodh (who went on to be a lord in Gondolin) is the reason that I made the connection to Turgon and onward to Finrod, Angrod, and the father of my OMC.

The mention "I know that flourish beneath the vala, and it is his" is in reference to the Tengwa that serves as the letter m in Sindarin. My knowledge of the Sindarin forms of writing in the Tengwar are lacking, but I believe that Maedhros's name would be written as:

Only his handwriting would be much prettier. :)

Thralls

Finarfin considers his choice, that of the majority of his people, and the illusion of freedom. A tribble.

Fëanor's words come from The Silmarillion, "Of the Flight of the Noldor."

Read Thralls

Fire-laced dreams awaken him and he goes to the balcony to gaze upon the darkened city. He aches for light, as though it might erase the nightmares, the memories. The truth.

Why, O people of the Noldor, should we longer serve the jealous Valar?

And have ye not all lost your King?

His head drops to his folded arms.

Let the cowards keep this city!

As slaves, Fëanáro likened them, and Arafinwë was momentarily convinced. A tidy coat of paint will hide a blemish, and Fëanáro's words were bright upon endless night, offering hope. Yet with time, all deceptions are revealed.

Night remains.

The eyes of the Noldor looked different that night. At first, he blamed the leaping torchlight that ignited their dark depths, but later, he realized that they looked more like one slapped awake, blinking as they shift from dreamscapes to ponder that which is tangible. Undeniable.

They looked like slaves upon realization that the master has left off the shackles for the first time. That they are free to go.

But upon the road, that changed. Many voices and many ideas no longer rose in a cacophony of debate. No, the Noldor were a single voice again, and all words seemed to circle endlessly, nauseatingly, to the same source.

They had been again enslaved.

But this time to what? Arafinwë ponders it. To power, perhaps. To vengeance, certainly.

Eärwen named him courageous for turning back when he did. She had not seen the eyes of their gentle eldest, still with fire in their depths, and the angry shapes his mouth made. Made with such conviction.

"We are all held thrall to something," Arafinwë often says, but Eärwen claims not to believe that.

In the dark of night, despondent and wearied, Arafinwë wonders, Where does my chain lead?

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

manumit man-yuh-MIT, transitive verb:

To free from slavery or servitude.

Manumit comes from Latin manumittere, "to emancipate a slave," from manu mittere, "to release from control," from manus, "hand" (hence "power of control") + mittere, "to let go; to send." The noun form is manumission.

The Defiant Heart

Aulë considers Fëanáro, in 300 words.

Read The Defiant Heart

Locked in my forge, away from Yavanna's attempts at comfort, I smite my hand with my fist. I could dissolve now into a nebulous entity, a drifting spiral of the Father's thought coalesced to energy, but it feels good to have a body, to strive against other objects.

Because what I want is no longer obtainable, no matter how hard I strive.

I circle the room, flinging open the covers to lamps. Light! I need Light! The darkness closes upon me, and my hands ache from being squeezed into fists. With all of the lamps blazing--all of his lamps blazing--I let forth a bellow, not a flicker of thought to pervade the minds of my brethren, but one that leaves my voice hoarse and raw and the air ringing with the force of it.

"Fëanáro!"

His name, so often uttered in love, now as a curse. "The nerve of him," I whisper. The frantic patter of my voice is comforting. "To defy us so brazenly! To betray me, his friend; to hold me in league with Melkor."

There are tears on my hands, physical signs of agony that need not torment a body.

But I want to feel it.

For I know that the reason he defied us is also the reason I loved him. My prized student with his jaw set, defiant fire in his eyes, arguing before me, one of the Powers, about the nature of the world. Uncowed, though his voice still cracked with youth. My tears turn to laughter. That passion, that comradeship--and the wisdom that he brought me--has been dearly bought, I see.

Yet I realize, blinking as tears cast each of his lamps with a pale halo of Light, I would not trade those times.

I would not change him.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

effrontery ih-FRUN-tuh-ree, noun:

Insulting presumptuousness; shameless boldness; insolence.

Effrontery is from French effronterie, ultimately from Late Latin effrons, effront-, "shameless," literally "without forehead" (to blush with), from Latin ex-, "out of" + frons, front- , "forehead."

Worries

One of Finarfin's children considers in retrospect his seeming frivolity in the face of political and familial upheaval. A drabble.

This, of course, hinges on the Felakverse notion that Finarfin tended to project an air of flightiness that was carefully contrived to preserve the delicate political and familial relationship between his brothers.

As for which of his children is speaking here? I have my own ideas, but you're welcome to picture whomever fits best for you.

Read Worries

I never understood my father.

Once, Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were fighting and it seemed that our world was about to topple into the abyss. And my father worried incessantly over a party menu.

"Fëanáro wants a Telerin dish but Nolofinwë adores that wine from Taniquetil, but I can't serve red wine with fish--"

While I sat in secret confidences with my brothers, wondering whom we would follow, come the inevitable.

Because, surely, Atar would go nowhere.

Now, at Araman, staring into the red-stained east, I think I know what Atar was trying to do.

But it is too late.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

pukka PUHK-uh, adjective:

1. Authentic; genuine.
2. Good of its kind; first-class.

Pukka comes from Hindi pakka, "cooked, ripe," from Sanskrit pakva-, from pacati, "he cooks."

A Hand Held by Stars

For Sara, who asked for a story about Maedhros in love for her birthday, a quibble (500 words) about superstition, logic, and love. Happy birthday, my dear!

Read A Hand Held by Stars

He waited for a clear night, when the winds blew the smoke from the forges away from the meadow and the stars lay bare and bright. Lying upon his back in the tall grass, he gazed upon them, summoning his courage, his breath coming fast and shallow with anticipation.

So the old legends said that fate was woven amid the stars, and long ago, the first Elves at Cuiviénen had learned to speak the secret tongues of the heavens in voices akin to the primordial groans of the earth yielding up mountains. This was an age before reason came to prevail over the ache of instinct in the marrow of one's bones; this was an age when meaning was strung between correlates in the same way as astronomers sketched constellations in the spaces between stars, yet then, it was not superstition but magic that gave meaning to seemingly senseless constructions.

As part of his education, Maitimo had translated from Primitive Quendian the old superstitions (magic) as they'd been remembered by his grandfather and others of the Unbegotten. And one in particular he recalled with a keen almost-pain near where lay his heart:

He that stretches his fingers against a star-strewn sky and finds his hand held by stars shall be lucky in love.

Fëanáro had wished to debate the finer points of the translation: "hand held by stars," he said, had been the subject of dispute among loremasters, who felt that the word should be enveloped or crusted rather than held. "Hideous," said Fëanáro with a sneer, who felt not the magic but understood nonetheless the need for speech to be beautiful.

But Maitimo had been unable to concern himself with such linguistic minutia in light of the meaning of those words: that one need not wander in ignorance and fear but might know, in a single moment, with a single glance, his fate.

And so, lying upon his back in the meadow, Maitimo stretched his arm to the heavens and splayed his fingers wide, his eyes pinched shut, wanting to look but frightened to know, to see the whole of his existence shrunk into a single moment and described in the stars. For there was one whom he loved with such fervor that he was ill with it, mad with it, and he wished to know if he should dare to hope for reciprocation.

He sensed Fëanáro before his father sat beside him: the whisper of boots in the damp grass, the familiar smell of forge-smoke and hard work. "Nelyo," said Fëanáro in a voice that should mock yet did not. "You should not be here with a hand full of stars but in Tirion, with a hand full of pebbles to pitch at her window." Gently, he laughed; gently, his hand stroked the hair of his eldest, foolish son.

"I should," said Nelyo, and in that moment, found the courage to wrest open his eyes and considered his hand held by stars, the palm empty, full of possibility.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

supernal soo-PUR-nuhl, adjective:

1. Being in or coming from the heavens or a higher place or region.
2. Relating or belonging to things above; celestial; heavenly.
3. Lofty; of surpassing excellence.

Supernal derives from Latin supernus, "above, upper, top, hence celestial," from super, "over, above."

Gratitude

Maedhros thinks on Fingon and how to repay his cousin for his heroic deed. A double drabble.

Read Gratitude

Horses and supplies I gave to his father--to his people--yet the one whom I need most to thank is the one whom I cannot. For what to offer for my life? For escape from torment? Trinkets and words seem meaningless, in light of what he has done.

He leans upon elbows on the balcony outside my bedroom, watching as our people mingle nervously below. There is a tiny smile on his lips; joy poignant in his blue eyes. I think of his deeds, and mine. I think of an impossible journey undertaken, as far as the peaks of Thangorodrim, to save a friend forsaken to death, and his return without fanfare to quietly inspire the renewal of friendship between our people.

And I think, not for the first time, of Losgar and one who'd prided himself for his rhetoric, his words, who could not dissuade the madness of Fëanáro. I should have had Findekáno's heroism. I should have held Fëanáro back by force, if needed, and taken those ships myself to return with our kin. But I did not.

I am flawed, I realize: unfit to rule.

And then, I know what I will give to recompense him.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

propitiate pro-PISH-ee-ayt, transitive verb:

To render favorably inclined; to appease; to conciliate (one offended).

Propitiate derives from Latin propitius, "favorable."

The Song

I have fallen woefully behind in the daily drabble, though the reason behind this is not entirely bad: instead of drabbling, I am working on full-length stories. Nonetheless, I am attempting to catch up with some past Words of the Day that I found particularly inspiring.

This one is for Unsung Heroine and is a (very belated) birthday gift. She asked for a surprise, which I knew to mean "Caranthir/Haleth, preferably with some angst" (and which UH quickly verified!) The following six drabbles, I hope, accomplish just that. In these drabbles, I have incorporated her AU unconventional view of canon with my AU unconventional view of canon: Caranthir and Haleth were romantically involved, and Caranthir was unusually prescient and perceptive to the hidden thoughts and emotions of others. So it's safe to assume that this piece is AU unconventional.

Read The Song

I.

"Nothing should ever hope to stop you," Haldad used to tease his obstinate daughter, and he'd died in proving himself right.

But Haleth is stopped now, frozen in place with her hand resting against the canvas tent flap; even her breath has stopped, and if not for the frantic lobbing of her heart, she might believe herself paralyzed. Yet it is not an enemy's sword or voiceless, fathomless grief that seizes her so; it is none of the multitude of obstacles that have sought to waylay her--indeed, end her--in the past.

It is a song.

Just a song.

II.

"I wish to give you a gift."

Caranthir was always serious, his gray eyes intent as she struggled to keep impassive. We are political allies. To both peoples, they were not even friends. But he stared, like beneath her rigid countenance, something moved that no one else could sense, something that fascinated him. He could not look away.

Nonsense.

Yet her request was akin to a lovestruck adolescent, not a fearless chieftain. "A song then," she said, and heat rose in her face.

"No," he said, and at her stricken expression, elaborated, "You are deserving. But I do not sing."

III.

Rebuked, she never named a request, and he never asked again.

It is a full moon, and they always meet on the night of the full moon. He leaves his fortress to hunt and she goes to him, and only the jewel-bright stars mark their indiscretions.

Not tonight.

Tonight, she tells him that she is leaving.

In their nights of love, his inflections never shift; his countenance never changes. But yet she senses something stirring deep within him and it makes her ache inside, like the joy and grief it contains might stop her heart, if she felt it fully.

IV.

He does not sing. Trying to feel surprised at that. I thought all Elves sang.

But Caranthir is not like all Elves--or even much like his brothers, possessing none of their self-important bluster. He'd approached her after routing the Orcs with the same flat expression as he wore while he read accounting documents.

Even when he tells me he loves me--

And he cares little for Elven finery, preferring soot-gray, too-large tunics and crude farm implements, the latter used without mercy on the weeds plaguing the roses he grows between the corn and the zucchini in his kitchen garden.

V.

"Why don't you sing?" They'd had too much wine, and in the intimacy of his embrace, she felt she could ask him anything.

"Because my voice is awful." All was simple to Caranthir, never spoken with the overwrought profusion of his kinsmen. "Fëanáro made us sing at festivals, but I pretended, and he never knew. Like this."

His mouth writhed in the shape of silent songs in Quenya, and Haleth laughed and kissed him, where the words sang against her lips, then in her throat, then wreathed her heart, and she saw how wrong he was.

His voice was beautiful.

VI.

Stopped outside his tent, she hears that voice again, deep inside where she imagines their union lies, forged of love and indestructible, no matter how far she strays.

It is the song she once requested of him, and it was written in joy by one in love. In it lie one thousand touches and kisses, and full-moon nights that neither wants to end.

But it is not sung that way.

He knows.

The song has changed to one of grief: its theme, joy; its counterpoint, loss, which--tears bright upon her face in the moonlight--she steps forward to deliver.

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

maudlin MAWD-lin, adjective:

Tearfully or excessively sentimental.

Maudlin is an alteration of (Mary) Magdalene, who in paintings was often represented with eyes red and swollen from weeping.

Indiscretions

This one is for Elleth, for her birthday (for which I am on time for once … by my time anyway), who asked for "something starring Feanor, Nerdanel and some fluff, with a dash (ok, a bit more) of melancholy thrown in, but sans the kidlets." Happy birthday, Elleth!

In exactly 600 words, Nerdanel and Fëanor spend their first night together. Sounds provocative, eh? Let me know at the end. ;)

Read Indiscretions

It had been a hard day of work in her father's workshops, and the warm comfort of her bed enticed Nerdanel. Just two days left, she thought. Two days left of sweeping away metal scraps, hauling fuel, working the bellows--grueling work fit for a forge assistant … or a disobedient daughter.

But it was not the thought of an end to her toils that made her smile. Just two days left … and I can see him again.

Her heart fluttered at the thought. Though she knew her exhaustion would drop her into sleep like thick, black tar, she nonetheless hoped to dream of him. Even if I awaken tired on the morrow. I miss him. The true punishment--and surely my father knows this--has not been the labor but the denial of him. Of Fëanáro.

For Nerdanel, in her youthful, lovestruck foolishness, had left her chores one day to idle instead in the meadow with Fëanáro. There, they'd been found by her red-faced, silent father, who had said little of her irresponsibility and less of the indiscretions in which he'd found them engaging. Her punishment had expressed his distress as words could not, for Nerdanel, in her forty years as the youngest daughter of Mahtan, had never before been punished.

She slept, and she dreamt of him. She saw him in the sprawling palace with his father, wearing finery and drinking wine that made his lips very red (and sweet to taste, she imagined). She would never tire of hearing his voice. But the King … Finwë was letting handfuls of gravel drop over and over again to the glass tabletop. She was having trouble hearing Fëanáro's words, and as the rattling increased, her image of him began to fade as well.

No!

She jerked awake at the sound of stones on glass. It was not a dream.

It was coming from her window.

She flew to the window as another handful of pebbles clattered against it. There he stood below, bold in the Treelight, wearing a plain tunic open at the throat and dusty breeches, barefoot, with his eyes bright in the near dark. Beautiful.

She opened the sash and gestured for him to be quiet. Her parents slept in the room next door, oblivious. Already, he was fitting his bare feet to the stones that made up the side of the house, climbing with the steady, fearless ease of a chameleon scampering up the patio wall. When his fingers curled over the sill, she made to scold him for his impertinence, for risking another week's punishment, but he did not allow her the chance. He kissed her open mouth, and she responded with such fervor that they both nearly toppled from the window.

"I have thought of nothing but you," he said. "Nothing. I cannot bear a moment more away from you."

By the dark skin beneath his eyes, she saw that he had not slept; by the dirt on his tunic, she saw that he had not washed. He swung his legs over the windowsill. "Just a moment, and I will leave again. I needed to see you. Just for a moment."

But he was swaying on his feet, bleary eyes unfocused, and he did not resist when she led him to her bed. What we did in the meadow, this is ten times worse, she thought. Yet she smiled at the thought as she pulled her quilt to his chin. A handsome prince in my bed with thoughts only for me, and what do I tell him to do?

Whispering, "Sleep, my love."

---

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

commination kom-uh-NAY-shuhn, noun:

1. A denunciation.
2. A threat of punishment.

Commination is derived from Latin comminatio, commination-, from comminari, "to threaten," from com-, intensive prefix + minari, "to threaten."