New Challenge: Potluck Bingo
Sit down to a delicious selection of prompts served on bingo boards, created by the SWG community.
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.
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."
Today's word:
pecuniary pih-KYOO-nee-air-ee, adjective:
Pecuniary comes from Latin pecuniarius, "of money, pecuniary," from pecunia, "property in cattle, hence money," from pecu, "livestock, one's flocks and herds."