In My End Is My Beginning by Lilith

A Place to Take Root and Flower

Celeborn, Galadriel and Celebrimbor arrive at the site of Ost-in-Edhil.

Written for the B2BMeM Prompt: He was interested in roots and beginnings ...

This chapter also serves as the beginning of "Here, Where We Are."

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He was interested in roots and beginnings. Well, Celeborn supposed, as he watched his wife and her cousin standing near the confluence of the two great rivers, someone had to be. He was wise enough to recognize the irony in the statement, given that the journey the three of them and those who’d followed them over the mountains from Lindon and across the vast plains and through the forests of Middle Earth had been undertaken with the hope of a new beginning and the desire to find a place to put down roots. But neither his wife nor the cousin who followed her or whom she followed — he was never entirely sure which of the two drew the other along — had been overly interested in roots or beginnings. They had been, however, fascinated with endings, that of Morgoth and those of the Sons of Fëanor whose choices shaped the destiny of the last of that house and, with his destiny, that of Galadriel. 

Galadriel.
His wife.
Whom he loved and for whom reason he was here with a people not his own and accompanied by the son of one who’d destroyed his home.

Galadriel had first begged him not to set out further east, towards his kin among the Sindar. She’d hoped to persuade him to make a home with her among her kinsmen in Lindon. He had agreed. He knew his wife and knew she would not be entirely content among the roots and the trees, among the vines and the trailing leaves. He understood her, better than most, and he knew she needed the conversation of her kinsmen, of those who sought to shape the woods, sculpt stone and mold the land. He had known, too, whose company it was, among her kin, that she truly craved. He had recognized that inconvenient truth as soon as he’d met him, ragged and worn, lacking shoes or a cloak, holding together by force of will and with no small amount of courage, the last of those who’d followed his house. He’d led them, guided them and ensured they survived, even though he had not been long with them and even though they were seldom welcome and though they rarely had enough to eat or time to rest. 

Celeborn hadn’t liked him. He hadn’t liked Celebrimbor. They had little in common. Moreover, both the look in Celebrimbor’s eyes when he’d seen Galadriel and the ferocity with which Galadriel had embraced him had ensured it would be difficult for Celeborn to care for him as he should for one of his wife’s kin. 

But, though he had not yet grown to like him, he had grown to respect him for his courage and for his determination to face the past and not to hide. He’d grown to respect him still more (and perhaps liked him less) when he saw that Celebrimbor did not — would not — begrudge Galadriel her happiness or her marriage and had embraced Celeborn as best he could, often and frustratingly taking his side or acting as his intermediary in the frequent conflicts and misunderstandings that defined the nature of his marriage to Galadriel. 

He had wondered, sometimes, had his wife been reunited with her cousin earlier, when he’d grown from a youth to a man, or if they’d not been such close kin, if the tale would have been a different one. But she hadn’t and they remained too close to wed. Besides, he did not want to think much of it in any case. He loved his wife, and he was unsure he could have accepted the choices of her heart with the same grace her kinsman had. So he had been willing to stay in Lindon in order for her to be content, though he knew he would always miss the great trees and forests of the east and that he would not understand the need she had to be near someone whose past was so haunted and whose doom followed so very close behind, and stay he’d thought they would. So it seemed, at least until it became clear that many among those seeking refuge in Lindon had neither forgiven nor forgotten the Sons of Fëanor nor would forgive their heir the sins he’d not committed. Then she had asked him, quietly, as they lay abed if he still wished to travel to the east. He had almost asked her for whose sake they traveled and if she would have chosen to go had she not needed to protect her cousin and wished to offer him a new beginning. He did not ask. He saw no purpose in such a question, only pain. 

They’d set out then, as soon as the weather permitted and the stores they needed for the journey were made available. The High King had come to see them off, and he had not seemed surprised. He’d ceded land to them or, rather, he’d ceded it to Galadriel, noting that she now had her realm to rule. Celeborn had found it amusing. The land the High King offered was none Gil-Galad had held or settled or could. It would have to be claimed from the wilderness or from those who’d already settled it. As such, it was no subtraction from his realm, but rather an addition, a firmer foothold in the east, to it. The journey had not been easy, but it had not been as hard as it might. Its end found them here, in this narrow triangle of land between two great rivers.

“The rivers will be good for trade,” his wife said. They had come near as he’d sat and thought.

“And for defense,” her cousin observed.

“And for crops,” he added.

“Will it?” Celebrimbor asked, kneeling beside him. “I haven’t your sense for it. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Perhaps not,” Celeborn replied. He lifted a handful of rich, dark soil and let it fall gently into the other man’s outstretched hand before closing his fingers around it. “But you’ve chosen well. The soil here is rich and good. It will allow for many things, including us, to take root and to flower.”

The Old Grey Widow-Maker

Amandil and the King’s Prisoner take ship for Numenor.

This work features a female version of Sauron.
The prompt was Frank Bramley’s “A Hopeless Dawn.”
The verse recited at the beginning is from Kipling’s “Harp Song of the Dane Women.

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Text

“What is a woman that you forsake her
And the hearth fire and the home acre
to go with the old grey Widow-maker?”

Hearing those words, Amandil turned in surprise and looked at the King’s prisoner. She stood behind him at the dock, staring out at the grey sea.

“Have you not been at sea, lady?”

“Not in many years,” she answered. “I respect the sea, its power, its ever-changing nature, but I do not like it.”

“Why not?” he asked.

She smiled slightly before she answered. “I was born of fire,” she said softly. “I have no sway at sea."

Where the Story Ends

Galadriel leaves Eregion.

Written in response to this prompt: Think of something that happened to you today and write down the first thing that comes to mind. Start your fanwork with your character having a similar experience or performing a similar task.

I had to take an unexpected trip.

Read Where the Story Ends

task.

Chapter Text

As winter slowly loosed its grip upon the land, Galadriel found herself about to undertake a journey she had not anticipated, leaving behind two of those she loved most in the world.. 

“Safe travels,” her husband said. Then he kissed her forehead and her lips before returning to the city gate. Most beloved, he would not travel through the dwarven realm under the mountains.

“May the Valar guide your path,” said her cousin. Loved only a little less or only a little differently, he it was who’d dismissed her from this realm.

“I had not thought it would come to this,” she said to him.

“Nor I,” he answered, “and I am sorry for it. Are you sure you will not stay?’

“I cannot.”

“I have loved you,” he said.

“Not enough,” she answered. “Not as much as ...”

“As much,” he replied. “But I was never allowed to love you as I would have wished.”

Desire, A Doused Fire

Isildur breaks into the chambers of the King’s prisoner and is caught.

Written in response to this prompt: He thought he had come to the end of his adventure, and a terrible end, but the thought hardened him. (*The Fellowship of the Ring,* Book I, Chapter 8).

There is non-consensual touching and a few threats issued in this chapter.

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“Whore,” the impetuous fool, Amandil’s elder grandson, hisses. 

The guards have caught him trying to sneak into her private chambers. They have him pinned against the wall and have asked her if they should send for Pharazôn.

“Release him,” she commands.

“My lady,” they stammer in response but let him go.

“There is no need to involve the king for something this minor. I will address it and ensure that his grandfather disciplines him.”

When the captain voices an objection, she replies that Amandil had been beloved of the king and that this would unnecessarily grieve both the king and the Lord of Andúnië. “Young men are restless and rebellious. They so often do foolish deeds in order to prove their bravery,” she continues. “It’s best to handle these things quietly, at least the first time.”

The captain of the guard appears almost ready to question the wisdom of her order a third time. But he meets her eyes and thinks better of it. 

“We shall wait outside, my lady.”

“Of course. I am glad of it,” she replies.

They leave quietly, closing the door behind them. She is glad the wood is heavy and thick. She has no desire for them to hear what she intends to say.

“Sit,” she commands.

“I will not.”

“Listen closely, young one. This is your first lesson. Choose your battles more carefully. You can’t win all of them and some don’t matter at all.”

He stays on his feet, staring defiantly back at her.

“Don’t be difficult,” she continues. “Not about something so inconsequential. Now sit. How old are you now?”

“Five and sixty.”

“Young for the Dúnedain. Or so it used to be. Perhaps not now.”

Isildur tries to remain on his feet, but finds himself slowly and irresistibly forced into the chair. The hatred in his eyes has, if possible, become more plain.

“Good,” she continues softly. “Good.” 

He manages a half-choked sound of pain and fury, and she smiles in satisfaction. 

“Quiet, young one. Quiet.”

She moves to stand next to him, sliding her hand along his shoulder and delighting in the trembling of fear and fury moving through his body.

“Here is your second lesson. Know your enemy. Do not allow hate or anger to cloud your judgment. Allow no strong emotion to enter into your assessment of the situation. It’s natural to feel them but learn to control them. Otherwise, you’ll make a potentially lethal mistake, as you did tonight. I could have had you garroted and later claimed I did not know who the intruder was.”

She rests her hand on his shoulder, slides her fingers under his tunic and digs her nails in sharply. She feels more than she hears him suppress a yelp.

“Hatred and anger lead you to misjudge your enemy. Those miscalculations will cost you. For example, you believe I am a whore. I assume you mean that I trade some aspect of myself, most likely my body, for power from the king. Am I correct? You do not believe I might acquire power any other way.”

She grips his shoulder harder still, feels the blood run under her fingers. 

“You haven’t answered.”

“You’re a whore. A bitch and a whore.”

“And a traitor and a liar and a deceiver and a torturer and a murderer,” she continues, rich laughter winding its way through her voice. “All correct but the first. You misjudge the situation. First, the king has no desire for any but his queen. It’s a pity she doesn’t reciprocate his passion. Second, that demonstrates a lack of understanding of me. Given that you see me as your enemy, you should try to know me better.”

He turns his head, teeth clenched, and refuses to look at her. 

She smiles, “Listen closely, I’ll tell you more about myself than any person living in Arda knows. I’m no whore. I was young and so was the world when I discovered how little control women are allowed over themselves. Their labor — their very bodies — offered over to serve their lords. Even women of the Ainur, though not embodied in the same fashion, lack full control over themselves; they lack autonomy and the ability to choose for themselves. I swore then and there I would have control over myself, to give of myself to whomever I wished and to no one else; I would allow no one to decide to whom my labor, my self, my being would be given. I have worked very hard to become powerful enough to ensure this is so. I have served only where I have chosen. I have offered myself only where I willed. I have taken no lovers but those I desired. I have not traded my form for the other things I desire. Seduction, little one, need not only take that form. Men — or any other living creature — desire certain things: peace, riches, power, security, love, life everlasting and revenge to name only a few. I needn’t sell myself out to secure those. In fact, it’s better if I don’t.”

“Whore,” he forces out through clenched teeth.

“Ah, but you’re so young. You don’t see that. You think a woman’s power comes only from that which is between her legs. That is powerful, to be sure, or men’s desire to take and to have possession of women in that way is. But it isn’t our only power. Not at all,” she watches him closely. “But you are so young; perhaps it is one to which you are particularly vulnerable.”

She releases her grip on his shoulder and slides her hands down his chest. She leans forward, taking one earlobe in her teeth and biting gently. She carefully bends lower, touching his throat with her lips and lightly with her teeth. She can feel his body become rigid under her hands and hears his shuddering breath. She braces one hand against his throat and runs the other down to the space between his legs and cups his sex lightly through his clothes. She strokes once, firmly, and laughs when he shudders. Then she does it a second and a third time and a fourth. She feels him stifle a cry, smells the iron tang of blood where he’s bit his lip, and notices the touch of a tear as it falls onto her hand. She continues caressing him until he’s shuddering with desire and revulsion, trying both to push into her hand and pull himself away from her. Then she releases him. She turns to stand in front of him.

“Third lesson. Know your own desires.”

She watches as he shakes in shame and in hate and in fear.

“Never fear, young one. I wouldn’t use it against you. There is only one I have wanted this age and you are not he. That part of you is quite safe from me, though not, perhaps, from yourself.”

She touches one hand to his shoulder, feeling the cuts her fingernails made heal and watching the blood staining his tunic disappear.

“Break into my rooms again and I will have you killed. Most unpleasantly.”

The King’s Garden

Tar-Miriel explores the King’s Garden in Armenelos.

Written in response to the prompt showing the image of a partially-open blue door.

 

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Miriel found the gate leading from the King’s Garden to the slopes of the Meneltarma slightly ajar. She wondered at it; few people realized where the gate, which resembled more a peculiar blue door than any typical gate, might be found or knew that it was a gate at all so little used it had become in recent years. The gate had been installed many years earlier during the reign of Tar-Aldarion. He had ordered the garden built and, later, asked that the gate be installed in order for the royal household to have a direct path from the palace, nestled at the feet of the great mountain to the shrine at its peak. The gate and the path, much like the gardens themselves, had been designed for the use of Erendis in an effort on the part of her seafaring husband to create a space for her to love and in which to be content in Armenelos. In the days in which Erendis had lived in the palace, the garden, if garden it might be called for the grounds were vast, had most resembled a small farm, complete with vegetable patch and sheep and even a small house, made very like to Erendis’s White House in Emerië, perhaps in the hopes of ensuring she stayed in Armenelos.

But the garden had not made Erendis happy. She had left and it had fallen into decay. Aldarion, having chosen the sea over his wife, had paid little attention to the garden or the house. He had, Miriel thought, probably not wanted the reminder than he had not been able to compel her to stay. Her daughter, Tar-Ancalimë, had not wanted a reminder of her mother’s unhappiness and so had not maintained it. The walls had fallen into disrepair, the garden run wild and the sheep, as it happened, had run off. Only several years later, under the reign of Tar-Minastir had the garden been reclaimed. He, having seen and envied the gardens of the Eldar, had begun to reclaim the garden from the wild and rambling space it had become. The landscape grew more carefully tended, crafted into carefully rolling lawns with elegantly and intentionally planted groves of trees and then the equally-carefully tended ruins the place Erendis had been given to pretend to be what she had once was. This had been the garden Miriel had known and had loved in her youth. She had spent hours in it, wandering through the groves of trees and sitting within the ruins of the home and imagining what Númenor had been in its prime before envy and shadow had fallen upon it. 

The garden had changed again upon her father’s death, her own marriage and Pharazôn’s ascension to the throne. In his many travels with Amandil, Pharazôn had encountered a very different sort of garden, a highly and elegantly manicured form of garden, and so the garden she had known and in which she had walked had been pruned and trimmed, shaped and transformed into something quite different, into something tame. Hedges had been planted and shaped, formed and cut into mazes. Trees and bushes had been pruned and twisted into unnatural shapes. Benches had been laid out. Paths created. Fountains placed on the grounds. Flowers, in complimentary colors and artfully placed in symmetrical patterns, had been planted. Elegant birds walked the grounds. Everything perfectly in order. Everything perfectly neat. Everything perfectly designed. But it hadn’t lasted. Ar-Pharazôn, being who and how he was, had brought many of the beautiful plants and flowers that he had found on his journeys to this once free and now tame garden, and, for a time, they’d seemed very beautiful. But he had known so little of the nature of the plants, how they grew and what they needed, and he had spent so little time learning of the places in which they had been found. As a result, the plants had often grown much faster and wilder than anyone had expended and frequently pushed the older trees, flowers and plants out of their accustomed spaces and forced the gardeners into something of a battle where they attempted to force these newcomers into their allowed position and to maintain the garden in its immaculate spender despite the slow and ongoing assault of these colonizing plants from areas which Pharazôn had colonized. It had devolved, Miriel thought, from a war of attrition in which both sides expended great resources and neither advanced to one in which Pharazôn and his army of gardeners increasingly found themselves into a slow and steady retreat. No matter what the king ordered or how hard the gardeners worked, the strange and beautiful plants from these conquered areas continued to advance slowly and steadily so that once artfully pruned trees and hedges were now covered in heavy vines, where more the beds of old and favorite flowers were increasingly consumed by rapidly multiplying newcomers and where the once-beloved and familiar birds were less common and seen less frequently than the exotic and somewhat threatening creatures he had brought into his home. To an extent, Miriel found it fitting and amusing that Pharazôn had not been able to impose his will and had been defied by the things he’d brought to show his strength. But, to another degree, she wondered if there would be any remnant left of the garden he had created, much less one she had known before.

All Goes Onward

Amandil and the King’s Prisoner sail for Numenor, and he finds her looking back at the coastline of Middle Earth and contemplating life and death.

Written in response to this prompt: All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
-Walt Whitman, excerpt from "Song of Myself"

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Amandil walked towards the stern of the vessel. The prisoner, housed upon his ship and not the king’s flagship, stood quietly and looked back towards the direction where the coastline of Middle Earth might have been seen, had one had the sight of the Eldar or, perhaps, of the Maiar. 

 

“The winds are fair and the seas seem calm. The journey should not take above a month,” he said to her.

“Only a month?” she answered. 

“Not long for a voyage,” he answered. “but long enough to make a difference in Men’s lives.”

“I suppose,” she replied. “In the lives of Men, a month might make a difference. It might also make a difference in the lives of the Firstborn, depending upon the events of the month.”

“But they and, indeed, you are less likely to notice its passage in the way Men would.”

“Because we are immortal?” she asked. “I suppose that the passage of individual days is of less consequence to us. Seasons and years are more the marker of our days. Even those lose meaning with so many moments to remember.” She moved closer to the railing as if — and, perhaps, he thought her gaze was keen enough — to see the land long vanished from his view, pausing for a moment and then continuing in voice he had to strain to hear. “Love. Hate. Battles won. Wars lost. Cities aflame. But all lose their meaning in time. All of those moments become lost in time, like so many tears in the rain. In the end, what do they signify?”

“Surely love and hate and loss signify something, my lady,” he answered. “Even to you.”

“Perhaps,” she answered. “Perhaps. So little has meaning after a certain point. If you lose enough or if you know you aren’t allowed that which you desire, what does it matter when or how you lose it?”

“I should think that mattered greatly, if not to you then to the others involved,” he said, leaning on the rail and watching the wake cut by the ship ripple outward. “Wouldn’t you? Or is the meaning clearer to me due to my mortality?” 

“One might think it does, and perhaps it does to you,” she said. “But, in the end, there is only loss, some more and some less, but always loss. Mountains rise and then fall. Cities are built and collapse into ruin. Farmland becomes desert. Loved ones are lost to us, and we begin to diminish. Sometimes I wondered if we all will not end so — growing weaker with each passing year, until we have such little influence on the world around us, weary, weak and without connection to anyone and anything.”

“That sounds ... “

“Your king and your people are afraid of death? It is a strange fear from the perspective of the deathless.”

“How so?”

“For us, all goes onward and nothing collapses. Others die. But I remain. Despite the losses and the griefs and regardless of the pain and the anger, I do not die. I cannot. I must remain, so much of my very being tied to the lands I have loved and have claimed. I fade. I diminish, even as the Eldar do, but I do not die. Instead, I remain, a haggard ghost, a witch, who is never truly allowed to rest. I remain while everyone else has gone; they may move on but I must stay.”

“That seems less ideal than some might think.”

“Indeed, to die is different from what anyone supposes and luckier. There’s little need to linger in the past but much hope to be found moving forward. Sometimes I think being deathless is the curse of the Fay; you move on. We remain.”

The Boy

Galadriel remembers Celebrimbor after his death.

Prompts: death via the prompt generator. It might also be loosely read in terms of the March 8 prompt “the aftermath of a disaster” if one wants to read the fall of Eregion as such a disaster.

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Chapter Text

She had felt the moment he’d died, at the hand of the one he’d trusted and chosen over her. She had felt it, despite the distance, as she had felt the death of her brother. She felt it as a fading of the light, a loss of it and of warmth, not unlike the days following the death of the trees, the world suddenly gone cold and dark.

 

He had been one of her childhood companions. She was the youngest of her family. Her brothers were older than she and her cousins, particularly those of his family, far older still. More often than she liked to remember she spent time trundling in their wake. Findaráto was more likely than the others to stop and to wait for her, but, sometimes, even he forgot and she was left to catch up. Years later, when she’d grown tall and strong, she’d enjoyed the fact that she was able to run farther and ride faster than they. 

Tyelperinquar was only a little younger than she, only a little more than ten years. His grandfather had married and had children young and his father had done the same. She’d been expected, as the youngest and as a girl, to care for and to play with him at the rare but lengthy gatherings when Finwë’s children and their children had gathered. She had resented it. His father had adored him and had not understood why someone would not want to look after his child. His uncles, Nelyafinwë in particularly, had understood better and had intervened and taken the boy as often as they might. But, sometimes, they too were busy, Nelyo maintaining the peace among their clans, Kanafinwë often singing with Findaráto, Turcafinwë occupied with Irissë, and no one would have trusted a child to the other three, and so she often found herself trapped with a little boy following at her feet.

She was not the best choice to care for him. She was impatient and she wanted to be anywhere else and doing anything else than to have to wait for his smaller and slower legs to catch up to where she was. She tried, frequently, to escape from his notice, to leave him surreptitiously with a servant or two, but she seldom succeeded, and, somehow, he never seemed to noticed. He trusted her, completely and implicitly, his wide grey eyes, so like his grandfather’s, following her intently, his little hands, already clever, attempting to do what she did.

She’d been angry once, angry that she’d had to watch him and angry that she’d been told he was to join her lessons that day and angrier still that he, a child of not more than ten to her young woman of twenty, had been more skilled at the task — drawing her horse — than she. He’d then tried to help her with her own. Her instructor had encouraged him. At that, her frustration had flared and she’d snapped at him, told him to quit and that her day was ruined and that it was his fault. Then she’d watched in embarrassment as his grey eyes had gone wide and sad, though there were no tears, not from him, and he’d gathered the pencils carefully and put them away.

“Stop it,” she’d ordered.

“But we’re to always put our things away,” he’d said. “I’m supposed to.” 

“Leave them,” she’d said. “Just get out and leave me alone.”

He had stood quietly, leaving everything else as it was, and left. At the door, he turned and asked softly, “What did I do? To make you angry?”

She hadn’t answered.

Not long after her brother had come, Nelyafinwë and Findekano with him, and asked her why her little cousin had been found alone in the branches of one of the highest of malinornë trees.

“He could have fallen and hurt himself badly,” her brother said.

“He’s fine,” Findekano said when she’d looked surprised and horrified. “He’s not hurt.”

“He said he’d done something wrong and you’d sent him away,” Nelyafinwë said. “If he did, you might have sent for us instead. We would have addressed it and he needn’t have been left alone.”

“Did he?” asked her brother, it was clear from his tone that he knew the boy hadn’t.

“No,” she said, “he didn’t. I didn’t want to watch him and I was angry that he was to be in my lessons. Then he drew better than I did and I ...”

“Sent him away.” The disappointment in her brother’s voice was only too clear.

“I suppose it wasn’t fair to expect you to care for him so often, Artanis,” Nelyafinwë said. “We won’t ask it of you again.”

“Where is he now?” she asked.

“Asleep,” his uncle said. “With Kanafinwë. As I said, he’s fine.”

“Tomorrow, when he wakes, you’ll apologize,” her brother said. “If you don’t, I’ll tell our father and grandfather about this.”

She had apologized, awkwardly, but she’d known she was in the wrong. He listened gravely, his small face serious and his eyes fixed upon her own.

He had nodded once she was done and said that he was fine. But, as she stood at the door, he said, his child’s voice quavering slightly, “I am sorry that I made you angry. I didn’t mean to. I knew you didn’t want me there and were angry. It was my fault because I had asked if I could stay with you today, instead of with my other cousins, because I like you the most. I knew it was my fault that you were mad, so I was trying to draw the best I could to make something to give you, to try to make it up to you and make you happy.”

She had not been asked to watch him again, but she had watched, from the distance her misbehavior required, as he grew older, the serious little boy becoming a serious young man. He sought her out sometimes, at the same gatherings, a gift of some kind in his hand. Never a drawing, but a rare stone he’d found, flowers sometimes, and, later, when he’d been allowed into the forges with his father and his grandfather, other beautiful things he’d made with his hands, a brooch shaped like a malinornë leaf, a delicately-made circlet of flowers, a spindle for her thread, a knife for hunting. Each gift had been offered hesitantly, as if in recompense. 

He had never stopped, she supposed. Later, after they had been reunited in Beleriand, he it was who had made the things her household needed, working quietly and feverishly to see it done. When she’d left and he’d heard she’d married, another gift, this one a necklace made of golden and silver leaves intertwined had been offered. Even after their last quarrel and last estrangement, even at the end, he had sent a gift to her, a ring of mithril with a white stone in the center, with a note in it telling her that he was sorry and that it was his fault and to use it to make the realm of which she’d dreamed. She hadn’t answered because this time, this one time, it had been his fault and he should be sorry. But, now, when she would speak to him, when she would thank him and tell him that he had not been the only one to make a mistake, to be fooled, she could not. There was no one to answer or to come bearing another gift. This time the boy she’d known was truly gone.

Tol Galen

Beren and Lúthien in Tol Galen.

Written in response to this prompt:   "They had begun to forget: forget their own beginnings and legends, forget what little they had known about the greatness of the world.” (Unfinished Tales, Part Three, III, The Quest of Erebor) 

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The seasons were beginning to turn again, the old woman thought. She settled her hand upon the loom and stopped her weaving for the night. She rose, slowly, without the grace that had long been hers, and walked carefully towards the door. Her husband stood near the edge of the enclosure: several fowl, some goats, a mule to carry the crops in during the harvest and a very old war horse might be found in their individual paddocks. He was stooped now, as she was, no longer as tall or as strong as he once had been, though he remained fair still in her eyes. He turned his head as she approached and smiled.

“Is it what you imagined, Tinúviel? All of those years ago? A life such as this?”

“No,” she replied, leaning against him. “I think it might be better.”

Mithrim

Written in response to the following prompt: Photo prompt: Milky Way and person next to a lake (https://pixabay.com/photos/milky-way-human-lake-dreams-4500469/)

Summary: Galadriel speaks with her cousin on the shores of Lake Mithrim after the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

Read Mithrim

Artanis lay upon a tall flat rock, the top edge of which, for the lower portions had been worn away by the water below them, extended from the rocky beach over water’s edge, and looked at the stars above. In the darkness of Middle Earth, they seemed bright, brighter by far than they had in Valinor, except, perhaps, in the immediate aftermath of the Trees’ destruction. They flowed above her head and through the sky almost like a river, a pathway in and through the dark. As she thought that, she stretched her arms above her head and reached through her toes, and, almost immediately, wished she hadn’t. Neither her hands nor her feet had recovered from the crossing of the Ice. Her hands remained reddened with raw and rough places where the chill had passed through her clothes, even her heavy gloves, and bitten — she could think of no better word — into her skin. Her feet, if anything, were worse, and yet she had been determined to slip away from the rest, willing to endure the discomfort of the walk and grateful for the peace she’d found.

She’d slipped away from a council meeting. Nolofinwë and the others were debating their next course of action and considering the news they’d had from a messenger from the Sons of Fëanor, from the second to the eldest son. She was certain, though she’d not been admitted to the meeting, that the news was far from good, the simple fact that it was Kanafinwë who had sent the messenger was evidence enough. 

The sound of rocks scattering caught her attention and she sat upright, pulling her knife from her belt.

“If you are an orc or other fell beast, move closer at your own peril,” she said.

“And if I’m not? Do I still move at my own peril?” her cousin, Fëanáro’s grandson, asked.

“Perhaps,” she answered.

“I or any of us would likely deserve it,” he replied. “after forcing you to cross the Ice.”

She made no answer.

“I see we are not in disagreement about that,” he continued. “Despite that, may I come up? Though I am no fell beast, I did see the knife in your hand and would prefer not to encounter the pointier end.”

She managed to laugh. “Come,” she said.

He ascended it carefully and so quietly that she realized he’d deliberately caused the rocks to scatter to catch her attention. Once he’d arrived at the top, she looked closely at him. He looked in not much better shape than she was. His clothes were worn, his leggings patched and the cloak he wore in little better shape. He was also thin, thinner than he’d been since he’d passed through adolescence and more obviously. His shoulders, broadened from his work in his grandfather’s forges, stood in a sharp contrast to the thinness of his waist and of his hips. His face was also thin, too much so, the bones of it, so terribly similar to his grandfather’s, seeming sharper in the darkness.

“How are you?” he asked. “Even though it is a foolish and presumptuous question, I would know. I have worried.”

Anger flared within her, but she found herself biting back her fury that he, he whose family had slain the Teleri, stolen the ships and fled, dared to ask her how she was. He did look as if he’d worried, as if he’d been affected; his eyes were shadowed and his face, still young, still unlined, showed the traces of great grief and concern.

“Well enough,” she replied. “Alive. And you.”

“Alive,” he said, though his voice seemed very strained. “Well enough.”

“Your father?”

“Well.”

“I heard of your grandfather,” she said. “I am sorry.”

“No,” he said, “you aren’t. I’m not sure I can blame you for that, though.”

“I am sorry for you — for the grief you must feel.” And she was. He’d been the son of the favored child, so like to his grandfather in looks and, she’d thought, talent, and his grandfather had doted upon him, brought him gifts, taught him at his lessons, brought him to the forge.

He shrugged. “I ... I don’t think we understood how ... how close he’d come to madness. I ... I don’t know how to feel after ... after what was done. I loved him. I miss him. I wonder, though, if I should.”

She did not have an answer for him. It was simpler, she supposed, for her.

“I did not come to talk of him, however,” he said, trying to sound firm and determined and succeeding at only sounding rather younger than he was. “I came to bring you something.”

“This isn’t really a time for gifts.”

“It’s not really,” he replied. “Or it is, but it’s useful and I’m sure you need it.”

She looked at him, and he ducked his head, an odd sight, given how much he resembled his grandfather, to see that face, that proud head, dipped in embarrassment, but he scrabbled in the small pack he’d carried and pulled out a large and heavy stone jar with a delicate scoop made, she thought, of horn attached to its side and then a stack of clean cloths.

“What is it?” she asked. 

“May I see your hand?”

She looked peculiarly at him. 

“Or your foot?” he said. “It doesn’t really matter. Which hurts worse?”

She extended one of her hands to him. He carefully opened the jar and, with the scoop, removed what appeared to be an ointment from it. He placed some of it on her hand and spread it carefully; a cool and soothing feeling began to move over the tender skin. He then wrapped one of the cloths — bandages, she realized — over her hand. He carefully treated her other hand and then looked at her feet.

“It might be better to wait until you return,” he said. “There’s enough for you and probably your brothers too. I’ll try to bring more tomorrow. We haven’t much ourselves, and will have to make more.”

“Thank you,” she said, watching as he placed the jar, scoop and bandages into the pack and handed it to her. 

“There are a few other things that might be useful. Some dried herbs and a few tools, nothing much, but what I thought might help and wouldn’t be too heavy to carry. As I said, I’ll try to bring more when I can.” He moved quickly to his feet and seemed ready to leave.

“Why?” she asked.

“What we did was wrong,” he replied.

“But why for me?”

He turned his head and looked closely at her. “I ... I wanted to ... you know why ... I know you don’t feel ... but I would help you and protect you if I could, even in the smallest way,” he said and then quickly leapt from the rock to the shore and was on his way.

A Poisoned World, the Poisoned Trees

Summary: Changes in the season from summer to fall and fall to winter cause Celebrimbor to remember his childhood in Valinor.

Prompt: Very loose use of the song prompt: “The Dreaming Tree” by Dave Matthews Band (Use the title, lyrics, song, or a combination as inspiration for your fanwork: https://genius.com/Dave-matthews-band-the-dreaming-tree-lyrics): 

Remembered Mother's words
There beneath the tree
"No matter what the world
You'll always be my baby"

Read A Poisoned World, the Poisoned Trees

As the summer slid towards fall, Mairen had begun to notice changes in Tyelperinquar’s mood. They were busy, busy with the aqueduct and other projects designed to benefit the city, and so she had noticed, but had not thought much of it, for some time. But, when it continued, she began to grow concerned, wondering, at first, if he’d grown suspicious of her but, later, thinking only of the differences in him. He had steadily begun to work longer hours. He’d gone without food more often. He would come with her to eat if she asked him to come, but, if she didn’t, if she herself became occupied in what she did, he’d forget. He came to see her less and then not at all. He neglected his duties on the council, prompting her to offer to attend in his place, a offer that had won her an unexpected laugh. She expected he was imagining his cousin’s face.

“No, I’ll go,” he’d said. “I would prefer ...”

“I know, but ...”

“I have only a little more.”

“You need the break. Let your mind come back to the problem after some time from it.”

He’d attended the meeting. He’d been about to leave as he was, but she’d stopped him. She’d made him sit and then she had carefully undone his braid, combed it and plaited it again into a more elaborate style. She’d handed him the fresh tunic and trousers she’d brought from his home and said nothing when he looked at her, embarrassed and struggling to determine what he ought to say.

“I become preoccupied,” he’d finally said, and he’d pulled her close to him, the clean clothes crumpled between them and his head resting in the space between her neck and shoulder.

“I see,” she’d answered and held him a little longer and closer than she perhaps ought to have.

“It’s the time of year, the change in the seasons and the loss of light,” he began. “I can’t help but be restless. Working helps, as much as anything can. I’m sorry. I know I’ve been difficult.” He’d kissed her lightly on the forehead, then, in apology as much as anything else.

Her own plan, not her larger plan, but her plan to address his restlessness had been formed shortly after. She’d told herself that she needed to ingratiate herself further. She’d said she needed to win more of his trust and gain further confidences. She’d almost believed it, except a cold voice, greatly resembling that of Melkor’s, noted that she seemed more focused upon his distress than any gain she might receive from it. She’d ignored it. For the time, she might both ease his heart and acquire new leverage to use against him. For the time. For now. 

She’d waited a week and then another, and, when his mood hadn’t shifted, when he still did not come to her, and when she had noticed how haggard and worn his face seemed, she began to act. She sent a message to Kemmótar inquiring about the state of the aqueduct and asking if assistance might be needed. She’d wondered when the response came quickly, about a day faster from the site than she’d expected, and said that it progressed well but that it would be a nice time to check the progress and compare notes and that it would be fine time to be away from the city if she and Tyelperinquar wished to come. In fact, he advised it and advised she neither come alone nor send him alone. 

She arranged for the horses and ordered the provisions. She spoke with his household staff and had the things he’d need packed. She’d ventured to the house of the lord and the lady, and knowing the value of choosing her battles carefully, she’d asked Celeborn for permission to visit the aqueduct and to take Tyelperinquar with her. 

“You know what it is,” he’d said. “It is kind of you to try and speaks well of your affection for him, but it may not help. We — Galadriel and I — used to try the same approach, thought it did not help, and it may not be different this time. It is ... it is something that those of us who care for him have learned to be patient with and to wait; it passes in its own time. Do not be angry with him or with yourself because it doesn’t pass as you’d wish. Still you may go if you wish.”

She had debated, afterwards, whether she should worry that he’d known almost immediately what she’d intended. 

Having secured permission, she’d waited, until he’d reached a stage in his current project in which he would need to wait, when he couldn’t argue that she wanted to leave at a critical time, and then she’d said that their presence at the site of the aqueduct had been requested. There were questions, she’d said, Kemmótar had that he needed them to answer.

“I doubt that,” he’d answered, “and this isn’t a good time for me to leave. I’m in the middle ...”

“You aren’t. That needs time to settle, and you need time away.”

“I need to continue to work.”

“No, you’re becoming inefficient. You need to rest.”

“Inefficiency?” he’d sounded annoyed. “Of course, that would offend you. Forgive me and leave me be if that disturbs you, Mairen.”

“Please,” she’d said. “Please, come with me.”

“It isn’t likely to matter.”

“Please. You need to rest.”

“And your suggestion from me to rest is to embark upon a trip into the foothills?”

“It seems as wise as anything you’ve done lately,” she’d answered. She’d watched the anger flare in his face and then the shame follow. 

“I’m sorry,” he’d said.

“Come with me,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “Please.”

Eventually, after another two days of arguments that weren’t really arguments, he had. He’d smiled, a little bitterly and a little ruefully, when he’d realized she had the venture planned.

They left early the next morning. Celeborn had met them at the gate, his face calm and his wife absent. “Safe journey,” he’d said, simply. “I look forward to the report upon your return.”

The journey was three days to the site and then another three to four in return. She’d planned for a more leisurely journey back. He’d spoken a little the first day, told stories of his, Galadriel and Celeborn’s journey to Ost-in-Edhil and the establishment of the city. She’d laughed a little at the image of Galadriel, in her mind’s eye, white-clad as always, living in a tent for more than a year while temporary and then more permanent structures were built, but then she’d conceded that the woman was tougher than she liked to admit. He’d asked questions of her as well, about the East, about her own youth, about her family, if she had one, if her kind had families. She’d found those more difficult than she had expected. Not the answers, for those she had planned carefully and had strayed a little as possible from the truth of her life, but the simple fact that she found herself enjoying the conversation and wanting, wanting very badly, to tell him more. The journey had become a little more challenging and she hadn’t minded that it limited their conversation some or she had minded but she knew that it was probably wise. They’d stopped an hour or two before sundown and made camp.

She’d brought out the provisions she’d gathered for the trip and watched as he’d smiled and tried not to laugh.

“Some of this is not precisely practical,” he’d said, lifting the bread and hard cheese from bag and then pulling the dried oranges and apricots she’d carefully stowed along with it.

“One can’t live on lembas alone and one shouldn’t. There’s a stream. Should I catch some fish?”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps, if it’s nearby,” he replied. “You were right. I am tired.”

They’d eaten, making a meal of bread, cheese, dried fruit and dried meat, and she’d sung to him. He hadn’t asked, but she knew he enjoyed it, so she’d sung, carefully choosing songs of the Silvan people or some she’d learned from the Men of Numenor or of the Eastern lands. She’d sung no songs of Doriath and none of the Teleri. She’d sung no great epics and no ballads from Valinor. As the night passed, she’d begun to weave a magic into her song, one of ease and of rest and of peace, the melody unfamiliar and the notes strange to her, but she had found them and their sound was true. 

As she sang, he’d lain down, with his head in her lap and her hands caught in one of his, and listened to her. Before more than an hour or two of darkness passed, she had looked down at him and found him asleep. She had remained awake and continued to sing though the night so that he would hear her song should he wake. She hadn’t sung that long or in that way since before the stars were made and the lamps had illuminated Arda. 

The journey had been still more difficult the next morning. They’d dismounted and led the horses on foot. He hadn’t spoken much and she had been tired herself, so the journey had been passed mostly in silence. Again, a few hours before sunset, they’d made their camp. While he unpacked the few things they’d brought, she began to explore and noticed the same small stream. Its water was clear and cool, and it contained a number of fish.

“The stream is still nearby,” she’d said when she returned. “I thought I might bathe and see if I might catch a fish or two.”

“I’ll stay with the horses and then go after you.”

She’d bathed quickly, finding some soap root to run through her hair, and, not long after, using the net she’d brought, she’d caught a pair of decently-sized trout, their scales glittering gold and silver and blue in the light. By the time she’d returned, having first cleaned the fish and then washed her hands, he had kindled a small fire and crafted a small rack on which the fish might rest while they roasted over the fire. He smiled when he saw her return and helped her place the first where they might begin to cook.

“I won’t be long,” he’d said, kissing her cheek quickly. She’d caught his arm and then his hand. He smiled, both gently and apologetically at her, and then he’d left. They ate not long after he returned, again speaking quietly of the business of the guild. After he’d sat behind her and began neatly braiding her still damp hair, and he asked her how she’d known she was called to the work of Aulë. 

“I always had,” she replied. “There was never any question, at least not in the beginning about it.”

“And later?” He’d finished the braid and carefully tied the end of it with a leather tie. 

“I question everything,” she said and smiled. He laughed.

“In my family,” he began, turning so that she might begin to plait his hair, “one might think that there was little question but that we would be instructed in my grandfather’s path, but that was not so.”

“Truly?”

“We had the opportunity to study it if we wished, and some did. My father, Carnistir, and the twins all were students of my grandfather’s. Macalaure’s gift was apparent early. If you were to believe my grandmother, even his newborn wails were pleasing to the ear; whether or not that is true, my grandfather believed in nurturing talent where it lay. Part of his willingness to allow a different path may have been because Nelyo had little interest in his craft. Instead, he preferred to follow his grandfather around and pretend to review papers and to sit in counsel, even if the counsel was only the family at breakfast.”

“He had much time with his grandfather?”

“Finwë insisted upon it. He invited my grandfather to visit often, once he married my grandmother and established his own household, but my grandfather did not want to come. He resented his father’s second marriage and avoided Indis, as if refusing to see her might allow his mother to return, but Finwë refused to be avoided. He traveled to see my grandfather, brought the court, but not his wife and her children, to the estate and stayed. I can only imagine how much resentment that brought on the part of my great-uncles.”

“Perhaps less than you believe.”

“Perhaps.” But it was clear from his face that he did not truly concede. 

“And it was on these visits that your uncle grew to love the business of government?”

He smiled, “Apparently, though with Nelyo, it may have simply been a need to be useful and to keep the peace between grandfather and his father. If grandfather was distant, then, at least, great-grandfather had Nelyo and, for Nelyo, at least great-grandfather’s attention was more consistent. Grandfather was often engrossed in his work ...”

“Hard to imagine.”

“Are you suggesting something, Mai?”

“Suggesting, no. Stating, albeit obliquely, yes,” she answered but he laughed. She tied his hair and slipped her arms around his waist, pulling him close against her and resting her head upon his shoulder. He covered her hands with his and leaned his head against her own. “Your grandfather was focused on his projects and ...”

“And he’d forget everyone and everything, even grandmother, until he’d finished or lost interest. But, during those times when he’d lost interest, his attention, the attention that kept him focused upon a project for days upon end, was now focused on us. That might be a bit overwhelming. With great-grandfather, as much as I remember, it was less intense, by far, and divided between his children and their children, but he was more attentive, at least more often.”

“That makes sense,” she said and leaned against him. 

“They weren’t always easy days, certainly not between my grandfather and his father or between him and his half-brothers, but they were, more often than not, good. I had, thought — and he — my grandfather — had said — and my grandmother too — that they would always be so, that we would always be their children and always with them and together.”

“And then it changed,” she said and wound her fingers in his.

“And then Melkor came,” he said, gripping her fingers tight, “and deceived us. He poisoned our world, long before he and the spider poisoned the trees.”

 

The Rocket

Prompt: Whistler’s Nocturne in Black and Gold

Bilbo and Arwen watch the celebrations in Rivendell after the destruction of the Ring.

 

Read The Rocket

Bilbo watched as the small rocket lifted and then exploded into the night sky. Brilliant golden sparks descended past the balconies of Rivendell down to the the river below. These had hardly fallen before another blossomed into the sky and began its slow, lazy fall to the earth. These were not as elaborate as those Gandalf had brought to his infamous birthday party; they had, of course, been made in a very impromptu manner from the ordinance, both based upon designs from the Elven Smiths of Hollin and, perhaps Bilbo thought, with advice from a renegade Maia come to lend aid and take everything in return.

“You should be happy, lady,” he said softly to his companion, tall and more beautiful than the fireworks in the night sky. He thought he saw but did not want to draw attention to the tear that might be falling down her face.

“I am,” Arwen said. “I am. It is that for which I have hoped and dreamed despite the growing dark. But I cannot help but grieve, if only for a little while, for all the beauty that must pass too

The Song

B2MeM Prompt: March 15: Begin your story in the middle of an important scene and watch how it unfolds from there! For non-story responses, choose a book from your shelf, open it to the middle, and choose a sentence from the middle of the page; create a fanwork starting from that point and see what develops.

Format: ficlet
Genre: alternate universe: gender swap
Rating: General
Warnings: n/a
Characters: Mairen (Lady!Sauron), Finrod, Draugluin
Pairings: n/a

Mairen faces Finrod in song.

Read The Song

 

“Bravely done,” Mairen said lazily, clapping slowly. “A song the bards will remember.”

She carefully kept her tone cool and light, allowing the words to fall from her lips like water from an icy spring. She shifted from where she’d sat lounging in her seat, that not quite throne the elves had left, and sat a little more upright. Draugluin had roused himself when the elf had begun to sing and sat upright at her side, growling faintly. Now, once she’d spoken, he settled and rested his head on her knee. She stroked his ears and laughed as he took her wrist in his jaw, shook it slightly and then released it. 

She was more shaken than she dared to show. The boy — she supposed that he was hardly a boy, given how he’s sung, but all of them seemed to be boys to her, whether they were Elves or Men, so young and naive they were —- had indeed sung bravely and powerfully. The room seemed to know him. The stones of the tower had shaken, the casements had rattled, the foundations trembled, but they had not fallen and had not been weakened, simply moved.

He stood, breathing heavily, the strain of his song showing upon him. She watched him appraisingly. Had he enough left to challenge her? She supposed they would learn and quickly too.

She smiled at him, slowly, and watched as he gathered himself as best he was able. She stroked Draugluin’s ears and whispered, “Stay here, friend. Stay here.” Then she rose and began to walk down the steps of the dais towards her challenger.

“Well,” she said, “shall we begin?” and raised her own voice in song.

Lights Without Beginning, Middle or End

B2MeM Prompt Generator: Creation

Format: Ficlet
Genre: gen, alternate universe
Rating: gen
Warnings: a female Sauron?
Characters: Mairen (Lady!Sauron), Celebrimbor, Original Character

Pairings: that peculiar friendship between Sauron and Celebrimbor

Creator’s Notes: The room Mairen created was inspired by one of Kusama’s infinity rooms. The title refers to Kusama’s descriptions of her own work which plays tricks with perception through repetition of an image. The apprentice was borrowed, with apologies, from Pandemonium’s “The Apprentice.” This verse is ever and always offered in gratitude to those whose work has moved me.

Summary: Mairen has an unusual surprise for Celebrimbor’s begetting day.

Read Lights Without Beginning, Middle or End

 

“Should I go?” Tyelperinquar asked. The party celebrating his begetting day had ended. The remainder of the party had left although Mairen was able to hear them winding their slow way to their homes. Their voices were clear and audible in the still night air. Tyelperinquar, of course, remained. He almost always remained, even when Galadriel, as she did tonight, pointedly offered to walk him to his home. Tonight he had begun to help her and Lalaith, the well-named silvan woman who tends her home, tidy. Lalaith had been busy teasing and ordering him around the kitchen, amused that the too-serious master of the Mirdain meekly followed her instructions. She herself said little but she watched him. She watched closely as his clever hands gathered far too many dishes and glasses, and she watched as he carried the wavering stack, pausing once or twice to steady it, to where they would be washed, more than likely on the morrow.

“Should I go?” he asked a second time. “I should, shouldn’t I?

“Yes,” she answered and smiled at the surprise upon his face. She has never encouraged him to go. “But you must wait for me. I have one more surprise for you.”

“Even now?”

“Even so. It wasn’t for the others to see.” She walked closer to him.

“Is this what you’ve been trying to hide for the last several weeks?” He leaned on the counter and looked at her, eyebrows raised.

“Months. It took two for you to notice.”

“I was busy. We both were.” His smile slowly turned embarrassed.

“I know,” she said, laughing, in return. “I did try to hide it.”

Lalaith tutted her opinion. “Go on,” she said. “There’s not much left to do. I’ll have breakfast ready for when you return.”

They wrapped themselves in cloaks and walked quietly and quickly to the halls of the Miretanor. They entered silently. She took his hand and guided him through the halls, down the stairs and into the storage rooms. After they had passed one and then two and then three rooms, she stopped him. “Do you trust me?” she asked.

“Always,” he answered.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed.

“Why? What is it?” His tone held only curiosity.

“I thought you trusted me?”

He laughed and then took her face in his hands, looking at her.

“Wait. Wait, there will be time,” she said, though she laughed and pulled him close, leaning her cheek against his. “I want to show you this.” 

“Very well. I will wait.” She felt his smile against her cheek and heard the curiosity in his voice. She unwound the woven girdle she has worn around her hips and carefully wrapped it around his head, covering his eyes.

“Ah,” he said. “So it is you who does not trust me.”

“Not with this,” she replied. She took his hands carefully in hers and guided him carefully through the remainder of the storage rooms. She told him where to step up and where he needed to step down. She maneuvered him around chests and the many different piles of goods in their way until they reached a small door at the very end of the last hall. She touched her hand to the door and murmured a phrase in her mother tongue. The sound of it, glittering and harsh, caused him to become more alert as he recognized a word of power. The lock clicked open. The door began to move, and she saw another smile upon his face. 

“Eyes closed,” she reminded him.

“You’ve covered them,” he replied.

“Still. I want this to be a surprise.”

She murmured another word. The room suddenly blazed with light. Able to see their surroundings, she guided him past several long and shallow basins of water arranged to all of the floor but the narrow pathway onto which she steered him, pausing only when they had reached the center of the small room. 

“Sit,” she commanded.

“How?” he asked. “And where?”

“Like this,” she replied. She eased him to a seat in a long, thin space between the basins of water. She sat before him. 

“Are your eyes still closed?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, curiosity and amusement plain in his voice.

“Keep them closed until I tell you to open them.”

“As you wish,” he replied. She spoke another soft word of command. The lights were extinguished. Then she carefully reached behind him and untied the knot fastening her girdle into place. She began to unwind it and to uncover his eyes. He sat very still and quiet as she did so. His eyes were closed and his arms relaxed against his sides. The same small, contented smile played about his lips. 

“Open your eyes,” she said.

He did. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, she whispered a fourth word of command. 

“What is it?”

“Wait,” she said. “You’ll see.” The lights in the room had begun to shine, though softly. 

She watched as he slowly examined the room around him. Long strands of glowing lights, miniature versions of the lamps which his grandfather had invented, upon which he had improved and upon which her apprentice had further improved, hung from the ceiling and rose from the floor. They were arranged in a variety of different configurations, some clustered together and others spaced more widely apart. They are reflected both in the mirrors she had commissioned to line the walls and the ceiling and in the long basins of water stretched out along the floor. The reflections played and built upon one another so that the room itself had become a vast, infinite field of tiny, dazzling lights.

“It’s a field of stars,” he said softly. “It’s as if we sit among the stars.”

“Yes,” she replied. “You said you missed the view of the sky in Valinor, boundless and infinite. I wanted …”

“To recreate the stars? To let us stand among the stars? Ambitious.” Despite the comment, the tone of his voice was tender.

“Once,” she said, “long ago, before the stars were made, we stood in the middle of the darkness and looked at Arda, and it was perfect. I wish I could show you what that was like. This is only a pale imitation of that feeling.”

“This is extraordinary,” he said. “And I have been with you as we created something new. I do not know but I can imagine what that must have been like — to have had every possibility open to you — nothing closed — yet.”

“The lights aren’t my creation,” she said, for he’d come too close to the truth of things.

“I know. Does he know what you’ve done with them?” he said, referring to her apprentice.

“He knows that I commissioned many for a project for you. He helped put them into place. He thought I was very sentimental, but he was very happy when I offered to let him bring his lady here,” she answered. 

“He should be. She will be. They’re a good match, I think,” he answered. Slowly he slid his cloak from his shoulders. He folded it into a small rectangle and set it upon the ground. Then he extended his hand for hers. She removed it from her shoulders. He did not fold it but, instead, spread it into the small pathway between the basins of water. Having finished, he caught her hand in his and pulled her against him. 

“What?” she said, laughing.

“Come,” he said. ‘Come here. With me.” 

He carefully lay down, head pillowed on his cloak and then pulled her down with him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she settled against him, her head resting against his chest. 

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

He took her hand in his, brought her fingers to his lips and then rested it where she could feel the beat of his heart. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I hadn’t imagined something like this could be.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Good,” she replied and stayed with him, watching the play of the light around the room and feeling the weight of his arm across her shoulders, the rhythm of his breath, and the steady beat of his heart under her hand.

An Adventure

March 24th Prompt: He sat down on the bank at the side of the road and looked away east into the haze, beyond which lay the River, and the end of the Shire in which he had spent all his life. (The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter 3)

Format: ficlet
Genre: gen.
Rating: General
Warnings: n/a
Characters: Sam Gamgee
Pairings: n/a

Read An Adventure

He was not, Sam knew, a hobbit possessed of much imagination or given to the desire for adventure.  He loved stories, that was true. He’d loved the stories old Master Bilbo had told him. He’d sat at his feet and listened to stories of Elves and Dwarves and of strange and peculiar Men. He’d scooted closer to the hobbit’s chair and listened to tales told of a cruel and crafty dragon and, sometimes, thought he heard the slow and low drawl of Smaug’s voice in the comfortable space of a hobbit hole. But he was not the hobbit who thirsted for those adventures. He wasn’t like Master Frodo or Masters Merry and Pippin who’d play at swords, swinging a walking stick at one another and occasionally — and very much their own fault too for such foolishness, his gaffer would say — hitting one another and not on purpose. He wasn’t like them dreaming of adventure, of setting out from the Shire and into the Wild and encountering all manner of strange and wonderful things.  

Those were adventures for other people, not for Sam. They were for the Tooks and the Brandybucks. They were even for the Bagginses, if you were Master Bilbo or Master Frodo, and it wasn’t simply because the Tooks and the Brandybucks and those Bagginses were not quite as respectable as they might be. But it was also because they could go. They weren’t needed at home, in the garden and in the house. They had family, as Sam did, but they could leave their family and their house and be sure someone who care for them. Sam knew that. He understood that. He was that someone. He was the one who took care of the house and of the garden and of Master Bilbo and Master Frodo; if one left or both, Sam would still be there, ensuring the home and garden were exactly or almost exactly as they’d been when they left. The only way Sam would go adventuring, not that he thought of it, really, mind, would be if he had to go in order to take care of one of them.

The Downfallen

March 13: “…your kingdom is gone. If it is to be restored, which I doubt, it must be from small beginnings.” (Unfinished Tales, Part Three, III, The Quest of Erebor)

Elendil and Mairen, separately, life after the drowning of Númenor.

Read The Downfallen

Elendil paused for a moment, adjusting the oxen’s yoke.  They’d made room for two pair on each of the ships, along with the horses and mules they knew they’d need to move the supplies from the ships.   He didn’t intend to move many goods from the ships tonight.  There was time for that later.  There was time.  But he understood that his people needed a place to rest on the cool and stable ground.

 

 

 

It was not what he would have chosen, he knew.  He would have chosen Númenor, always.  He would have chosen Númenor, but she was gone beneath the sea, and he and they were left with Middle Earth -- this strange and new world from which he and his sons would need to carve their realm.

 

 

 

*****

 

 

 

She pulled herself from the water and spat, hissing as she saw the blood mixed with foam.  She’d not expected that.  She’d not expected the fire and the wave.  She’d not expected Numenor to sink below the sea.   But then she cursed herself for a fool.   The Valar had been content to allow Beleriand to sink below the seas if it meant Melkor were defeated and their revenge had.   The loss of land and of homes and of people meant little to them with their endless view of time and their unbending sense of righteousness.    

 

 

 

Why would the Valar object if innocents were sunk beneath the sea?  If women and children who’d hated Pharazôn passed along with those who supported him?   

 

 

 

And this — this — when she herself had survived, when she dragged herself, ribs broken, skin burnt, but alive from the cold sea. — was far more than she could tolerate.   

 

 

 

If they’d chosen to rid Númenor of her or to have buried Pharazôn and his armada beneath the waves of the sea, that she’d have understood — that, indeed, was that she’d anticipated the response to be if there were to be one.   

 

 

 

She wasn’t even sure if she’d have minded.  

 

 

 

Oblivion had its appeal; it could be little different than the long days and longer nights alone.   

 

 

 

But she lived and the people of Númenor, good, evil and between, lay sunk below the sea, gone farther than her friend, the one she'd loved, who’d died at her own hand and whose absence burned more fiercely than the salt upon her broken skin.   

 

 

 

She looked at her hands.   The rings remained.  The One, plain and beautiful, sat upon her left hand while the other, the ring he’d made with her and for her, sat upon her right hand, a reminder, as much as the sunken land and lost lives and the burnt and damaged skin of her hand, of what she’d chosen, what she’d lost and how little she gained.

A Vain Pursuit

Prompt: “A vain pursuit from its beginning, maybe, which no choice of mine can mar or mend.” (The Two Towers, Book III, Chapter 1)

Follows the events seen in chapter 10, Mairen considers how she may have become caught in her own trap.

 

Read A Vain Pursuit

 

Seated before the fire, Mairen watched as the dawn approached warming the grey half-light of the earliest morning hours into the warmer and richer shades brought by the rising sun. She turned and looked at Tyelperinquar where he slept still. He lay on his side, as was his habit, his head pillowed by his cloak and one arm resting where she had lain beside him. In sleep, his face seemed — not younger, not that — less reserved and less guarded with more ease upon it. In sleep — in true sleep, perhaps, he had been able to set aside some of his burdens, put away his guilt, and allow his ambition to rest, at least for a little time. She wondered, watching his steady, shallow breath, what he might have been had his father not asked him to come to Beleriand and had he not followed. Less troubled, perhaps. Less guarded, maybe. But, perhaps, less driven too. She was not entirely sure, given his father’s nature and his father’s father’s, but she knew it mattered little. He had come, and here he lay before her. 

She turned back to the fire and slowly began to move, turning her head from one side to the other and then tilting it in order to stretch her neck. Sleeping on the ground, she thought, even fairly soft ground, padded by a bedroll and blankets, did tell in sore and stiff muscles and slow, awkward movements. She rose slowly to her feet. Moving carefully in order not to disturb him, she pulled the blanket from around her shoulders, shivering a little as the cool morning air touched her skin, and, folding it, set it against her pack. Then she pulled a fresh tunic from her pack, slipped it over her head and walked in the direction of the stream. 

She slipped the tunic off and placed it on the branch of a nearby tree, the roots of which descended bent, knobbled and twisted into the water. Kneeling, she rinsed her face quickly in the running water and allowed the cool water, sourced far higher in the mountains still ahead, to bring her fully awake. Then, as she knelt and as the ripples her hands had made began to still, she looked at her own reflection in the clear stream. Her face remained the same serene mask she’d shaped not long before journeying first to Lindon and then to Eregion. Her skin was pale and clear, her features perfectly symmetrical and the lines of her bones elegant. Only her eyes, wary and watchful as a hunting cat’s, revealed the unease she felt. She remained still, feeling that uncertainty, noticing it, and accepting it, and then watched as the guarded look began to fade from her eyes. She stood and, still moving slowly and carefully, began to wade slowly into the water. The water seemed to grow colder, almost certainly grew colder as she ventured from the bank towards the center with its swifter current and deeper channel. She felt the press of the moving water against her body and the softness of the silt of the bed beneath her feet. She closed her eyes, steadying herself against both and against the memory, far more treacherous than the current of this mountain stream, of warmth in the night, hands gentle where he’d touched her, and a presence gentle and bright with her. After a few moments, she opened her eyes, looked towards the mountains and saw their snow-capped peaks stained orange and pink by the rising sun. The mountains, she knew, marked the boundary of this realm and the beginning of the long road to the East, to lands she loved and in which she had spent many years. 

There were times, Mairen thought and this was one, when she wished that things were not as they were, when she wished that she had not come to Eregion with her desires and her plans. It was not often, but still, from time to time, the feeling came upon her, powerful and unbidden, and she wished it. She wished that she and he might forget their beginnings and the legends surrounding them. She wished that they might pretend that they knew nothing of the greatness of the world. Thinking this, she laughed softly as she stood in the clear water in the cold morning light. She knew it was impossible. Neither she nor he would be content with the ordinary. They both wished to reshape the world, albeit quite differently, and, together, they had the ability to do it. This journey was proof of it; its destination was, after all, the first of the many projects they’d planned to reshape life in Ost-in-Edhil. But her awareness of this did not prevent her from wishing as she had before, as she did now and as she would, no doubt, again that it might be different, that she might persuade him to go with her away from Eregion, across the mountains, further to the East, to lands where their histories were not well known and where they might start anew, as she’d once counseled the witch-girl, Melyanna’s daughter, about her own lover. 

But she was no more likely to take her own advice than the witch-girl, but, sometimes, like the witch-girl, she wished she had for she found herself, even as Lúthien had prophesied, caught in a trap of her own making. 

For a trap to work, she’d once told one of the Men allied to her cause as he had shivered in terror of the image of Eilinel she’d created to trap Gorlim, it had to seem so real its creator could believe in it. Deception, of necessity, had to have an element of truth to it in order for it to be believable and thus succeed. Of course, the most careful balance had to be struck; the element of truth must not outweigh the illusion, and the creator, of course, needed to maintain the necessary detachment to know and feel the difference. Her greatest feats, her most clever stratagems, her own survival in the service of Morgoth, even, had depended upon this practice and she had, without fail, executed it flawlessly, not once falling prey to the illusion she’d cast or the trap she’d laid.

Until, now, she thought drily, slowly beginning to turn and to move across the current towards the water’s edge. Until Eregion. Here, too, it had seemed simple. Arrive in the guise of one of the Aulënossë, use her skill and her knowledge to gain their trust. Provide them with the tangible benefits of what collaborating with her might achieve. Make use of the ambition of the Mírëtanor and the guilt of its leader.

And, of course, she thought, climbing out of the stream and drawing the tunic over her head as she settled on the bank, this was precisely where she had begun to fall into her own trap. In order for the trap to succeed and for her to achieve the ends she sought, she had needed to know the one who led the Mírëtanor well. She had needed to know him better than any other. It had been necessary, and, for a time she’d thought, if she happened to enjoy it, if his company was desirable to her, then that was an unexpected, although temporary, benefit.

As she ran her fingers through her hair, teasing the tangles from it and then, slowly, beginning to plait it, she considered how quickly she had come to know him. In some ways, it was hardly surprising. She had made him her study. It had been essential. She remembered how he had challenged her and, in so doing, how he had made a challenge of himself, questioning both her intentions and her abilities within moments of their meeting. She had not been surprised to have her purpose challenged. After the disastrous encounter at Lindon, she had expected it and was prepared. But she had not expected him to challenge her skill. Gil-Galad had not nor had his herald, despite the witch-girl’s blood flowing in his veins. Only one of their council had, a quaint and cantankerous fellow named Erestor, but she gathered from the response to his inquiry that he challenged and questioned everyone. But then no one in Lindon was of the House of Fëanor and none had the skill of its last descendant. Still she had bridled at his questioning, angry that he, no matter who his father or his grandfather had been, dared to question her talent and her wisdom when she had been the most celebrated of the Maiar of Aulë and the most feared of the servants of Melkor.

But that, of course, was immaterial and the line of questioning sensible for he was not to know who she was and who she remained, and so she had schooled her features into careful compliance and had drawn upon the desire she had, central to her plans and to her being, to bring order and progress to Middle Earth. It had resonated and he had agreed to allow her a trial to determine whether she might remain. She had expected that to be easy. She had been certain her strength and ability would persuade him quickly, but it had not. He hadn’t relented and she found, in this strange peculiar frontier outpost of a third-rate elven king, herself facing one of the most challenging tests of her aptitude and her being. Melkor had not bothered to challenge in this way; he had seen her talent and had sought her for it. Aulë, too, had known her abilities and sought to push them. Tyelperinquar demanded that she prove herself. He had questioned her. He had demanded she demonstrate her understanding and mastery of each matter she claimed to grasp and each technique she claimed to know. He demanded she prove the basis of each theory she put forward and show the foundations of the curwë she claimed to possess. He had continued to push her and to challenge her day after day and then week after week until, finally, both of them worn to the point of exhaustion, he had bowed his head in acquiescence and offered her the position of master in his guild. He had then asked her, with more humility than she’d expected from this proud man, if she would continue to teach him, even as she worked with him to shape the future of their guild. She had been surprised by the degree to which she had savored that offer. She had told herself that it was because she had fooled him and passed the first and most critical test. But she had lived long and self-deception was a danger to her plans, and so she had admitted that she had grown to respect him, however grudgingly, for his determination and his proficiency and for the passion and the drive he possessed. 

Once he had accepted her, she had expected to occupy the role of teacher and of guide, and so, for the most part, she had. Tyelperinquar had quickly set to learn what she would teach him, and he had insisted that his fellow smiths learn from her as well. If any of them had harbored doubts about her, he had silenced them quietly and effectively. It had been what she had hoped to have and then it became more. Despite having known his family by reputation and by deeds of war, she had neither expected the speed with which he had absorbed her instruction nor had she anticipated the ability he had to ascertain the implications of her thought and to develop their applications. Despite her intention and against her expectations, he had moved very swiftly from student to partner in her work. If he remained junior in stature to her, then it was as it should be. But she had discovered that there were areas in which he would eventually outstrip her own skill. It had bothered her. She’d had no rival for ages. But he had seemed to little in advancing himself at her expense and had seemed only excited when an innovation of his own had pushed her to continue to learn and to grow that she accepted, again grudgingly, the partnership between them. Not only did she accept it, but, equally grudgingly, she came to value it. She was better for working with him, far better than she had been before. 

When she had first come, they had spent little time apart. He had offered her space within his home to live. It was a kind offer to a newcomer, but it also served to allow him more opportunities to observe her and to ascertain her character. She hadn’t minded. It suited her purpose too. It allowed her access to his materials and to his household. It allowed her to grow familiar with him quickly. This was necessary for her designs to succeed. It was also, though she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, enjoyable to be near someone whose conversation she enjoyed and whose company, even when he was busy and quiet, she found pleasant. That enjoyment combined with the growing awareness that the lord and lady of Ost-in-Edhil disapproved of this unconventional household almost as much as they disapproved of her own presence had led her to establish her own household. She’d understood the danger in growing too close to him as she had also understood the danger in permitting certain assumptions about the nature of her relationship to him. It would be far too easy to dismiss her skill or to deny her talent if she were believed to be the lover of a man they knew to be great. The awareness of those dangers ensured that she maintained a careful distance. That, along with the knowledge that his suspicions, so carefully allayed, were likely to be rekindled were she to act upon the attraction she believed they both felt and invite him to her bed. 

And yet, though she’d sought distance, they continued to grow closer. It was true, she thought, finishing her braid, that their own habits ensured a little distance, some necessary space. He preferred to rise earlier than she. He also chose to begin working shortly after he’d arrived at the Mírëtanor whereas she preferred to review the previous day’s work and resolve any lingering concerns or questions. Still they arranged time so that they might discuss their findings and to work in the smithies together. They also spent time outside the forge together. They often chose to eat with one another, finding it easy to seek a meal from one of the vendors in the sizable market located near to the guild or at a tavern on their way to their respective homes. She’d noticed and she suspected that he had as well how easily conversation flowed around their shared meals. 

Given their shared work and her designs, she continued to know him better, and, as she did, the desire she felt between them grew, bolstered, as it was, by the hours spent together and the affection beginning to develop between them. They had remained very careful, though. They had been slow to act upon it, though his hand often lingered upon her and though she felt the echo of his touch long after he’d moved away. She had, nonetheless, continued to be drawn closer and had learned still more. She had discovered that neither of his hands was dominant but that he was comfortable using both equally. She had learned the rhythm of his step. She had discovered what had given him the long, thin scar that ran along his left forearm as well as the shorter but thicker one that cut across his ribs. She was able to identify the crooked smile he offered when she praised his work and he was both pleased and embarrassed that he was pleased. She knew too when he had worked too long and with too little true sleep because his right eyelid began to droop more than his left. She understood that a single cease between his eyebrows signaled concentration as well as frustration was also signaled by his hand pressing at a temple. She had learned that he retreated quickly into formality when emotion, whether joy or sorrow, anger or grief, began to threaten him. She knew all of these aspects of him and more. But so too could anyone, mortal or otherwise, had they chosen to study him. She had her reasons. She had her plans. 

She had continued to delve more into the study of him. She had learned that he shared her own tendency to become deeply engrossed in his work so that he neglected the business of the city and avoided the social gatherings someone of his stature was expected to attend. She’d worked to correct those tendencies. She had carefully begun to encourage him to attend each and every council meeting and had coaxed him to attend the many concerts and gatherings within the city although she knew he would prefer to remain in the halls of the Mírëtanor. She had pushed him to take a more direct role in the city’s governance where he had previously ceded that responsibility to the lord and lady of the city. She’d done it at first because he needed to know the city and its hinterland well, and he was, of course, the easiest conduit for such knowledge. She had continued, even after she’d made the necessary connections, because he had proven better at this role than she had hoped and because she had enjoyed his success more than she cared to admit. 

Over time, as they’d worked more closely with one another and as their plans had become more ambitious, she found that the respect she felt for him had grown steadily and the attraction had remained steady and constant too; both had allowed for the the growth of very great affection, quietly, slowly and utterly unlooked for. She had found that she had begun to look forward to each workday and every shared tasked. She waited, patiently, at the end of each day for each shared meal, beginning to invite him into her home to share them there. She had begun to tell him stories he’d enjoy and searched for clever tales to make him laugh. She’d done it, she had told herself, to cultivate his interest further still. But, then, she had, one day or another, watched him, smiling and laughing over some foolish tale she’d told. She realized that there was more ease in his face than she had seen since she had arrived and she felt, unbidden and unexpected, a similar ease within herself. She wondered at it because she had made no great advancement in her plans. She had gained no new skill and acquired no unfamiliar knowledge. Why then did she feel this way? She had dismissed the feeling, but when it returned a second time and then a third and a fourth, she was no longer able to ignore the feeling of ease and of comfort she felt. Digging deeper, she understood that it was this, this shared time and companionship, from which it derived. She observed herself very carefully for another few days and then admitted that the knowledge of him, essential to a task designed to make use of him and no more, had become much more than that. She had continued to learn him so thoroughly because he had come to matter to her simply for himself and not for the his value to her plan. Considering this, turning it over in her head and in her heart, she grew deeply uneasy, perceiving too late that the trap she had laid for another had begun to close around her too.

 

Of craft and creation

Making things in Eregion.

Read Of craft and creation

“The eye altering alters all.”

 

— Blake

 

Mairen stepped to the side as Tyelperinquar checked the crucible containing their latest project. She had been showing him some of the newer techniques with which she has been working, amalgamations of the lore and curwë of Valinor and the innovations she acquired with painstaking care from the Eastern realms she hoped to bring back under her sway. He had intended this day’s instruction as a test. He had intended each day’s instruction from the time she’d arrived to be a test. But, slowly or, rather given the short time she’d been there, gradually, his suspicion moved towards curiosity and his curiosity slipped towards acceptance, as she taught him more and as he learned that she did indeed have mastery of the techniques she’d claimed to know.

 

Recently, they have been working carefully with the idea of enhancing objects, of drawing from their innate qualities to making them stronger. The thought had occurred to her or to him or, perhaps most accurately, to them — she isn’t sure if it had occurred first to him or to her or if had not occurred to both of them together. Of course, that developing facet of this negotiation was something to be considered, something she would have to revisit later and ponder, though, for now, it served, thought it certainly discomfited her. But they had been discussing and debating the merits of different alloys. She had brought different technologies for the creation of steel from the East, a variety of different techniques that permitted the formation of a stronger and more durable alloy. They had begun to experiment with this process. She explained to him that the first step was to heat the iron in a crucible in the presence of living matter in order to remove the slag. Then they might begin to shape the metal. 

 

“How do we know it’s ready?” he asked.

 

“On one level, it’s quite simple. You know the heat of the furnace, you know the heat of the crucible itself, and you know the length of time it needs to melt iron and the length of time it takes to cool and solidify into the alloy.”

 

He turned to look at her, eyebrow raised, waiting. When she did not answer immediately, he prompted her and said, “Yes, and, normally, given your precision and your reliance upon a tested and proven regimen, I would assume that would be our course of action. But I wonder how long I will have to wait before I hear what the other level is.”

 

“Look,” she said in response.

 

“It’s sealed,” he replied, a little impatiently. “If I look, I’ll ruin the process.”

 

“Not with your eyes,” she answered.

 

“With what, then?” he inquired.

 

“Your consciousness,” she said and waited.

 

She watched him struggle, understanding what it was she asked of him but not comprehending how he was to do it. She noticed how very frustrated he was that something eluded his abilities, even temporarily.

 

“Your cousin, I believe,” she continued, “does this with living things. Melyanna would have taught her.”

 

“But they are alive,” he responded. “This ...”

 

“Is it not of Arda?”

 

“Yes, but ...”

 

“And thus part of creation?”

 

“Well, but ...”

 

“If it is part of creation, then it is part of the music and thus its song may be heard.”

 

He looked blankly at her.

 

“Gurthang was not the only sword to speak,” she continued, “though perhaps it was the only one to use an elven tongue.”

 

“I don’t ...”

 

“Smiths always speak of the metal they work singing,” she continued, enjoying his frustration and his desire to know what it was she meant. He’d pushed and challenged her and refused to relent for days. It was enjoyable to have the positions reversed for a moment. “But they never bothered to consider that it does in truth. Your grandfather understood this. It is how he created as he did.”

 

“He didn’t speak of song,” he replied. “I’d have remembered.”

 

“Did he speak of how the metal felt or of feeling for shifts ...”

 

“Of feeling for the vibrations within it as you worked,” he finished, looking at her, half-wondering and half-certain.

 

“Then feel for them,” she replied. “You needn’t only do it with your hands. You may do it with your mind. You were — he was — almost certainly doing so. Feeling and listening.”

 

“I haven’t ...” he began.

 

“Perhaps not consciously,” she answered. “But have any of your works, your greatest works, taken place in a way that seemed effortless ... natural.”

 

“I’m not ...” he started and then reconsidered. “Yes, but rarely.”

 

“Then we work to harness that feeling,” she replied and, watching him closely, carefully, checking to see if he understood.

 

“I don’t,” he responded.

 

“Come with me,” she said and, for the first time in their collaboration, reached for his mind — no, more than his mind, his very self — with her own. Their minds, their consciousness — their spirits, the other Ainur would prefer her to say — had touched before. She knew the feel of his, bright like silver and keen.

It was very different to her own. Where hers burned like the fires at the heart of Arda, he felt of starlight, bright and yet cool and keen, not unlike the carefully-honed edge of a blade. It was distinctive, even in Ost-in-Edhil, a city that thrummed with life and that vibrated with the energies of its inhabitants’ beings in a way that reminded her of the music the Aulënossë had made at their work. It was so distinctive, in fact, that she had been able to find it immediately the first time she had looked for him, for who else might it have been. She knew as well that she would be able to find him anywhere in the city and had begun to wonder if that reach might extend farther out into the world so distinct he was and so carefully had she marked the qualities of his being. But, though their minds had touched and though she knew the feel of his presence, she had not opened her mind to him nor invited him to open his to her. Not yet. 

 

She had hesitated. She had hesitated though she had ventured into the minds of the Children before. She had told herself that she had been slow to venture into his mind because such an intimate step was premature and was thus likely to create suspicion in his still-unquiet mind. She believed that to be true. She knew it was. But, still, that other side of her — that careful, calculating side that measured and weighed each situation carefully murmured softly in her mind that there was more to her hesitation than the fear that it was too early, that her timing was off. That part of her mind would not allow her to pretend for very long, and it observed that she feared that, whatever she learned of him in such a connection, he might perceive as much, if not more, of her. 

 

But, despite her fears and her caution, she was not able to find a way around it and yet teach him these skills, and so she opened her mind, as much of it as she dared, shuttering the darker places and closeting them away, and reached for him.

 

“I am with you,” he said, and he was, far more vividly than she had expected. The minds of the Children, as she had experienced them before, were muted, the most simple notes of a melody, the colors she associated with the sound muted and dim, an impression of thought and feeling rather than one fully articulated. But this was not he. The silver brightness she had felt before was keen, sharp as steel and yet fair as mithril. It was clear, too; his words as precise as if he’d spoken them aloud, and the feelings behind, the emotion as strong. She had sense of curiosity and of excitement and of determination. There was a certain thrum of expectation, the feel of metal vibrating under the stroke of a hammer, the echo of a harp string pluck or the sound of a voice raised in song within his being. She felt the echo of it within herself, soft at first and surprised, for it had been more than an age since someone had communicated with her so vividly, but there.

 

“Then come.” 

 

“Lead on, then. I am waiting,” he replied. 

 

She focused carefully upon the heated and malleable metal within the crucible. She allowed him to notice first the heat, the white-hot feel of it, and then she descended deeper into the combination of iron ore and of what had once been living matter. She drew attention to the vibrations within the changing ore and directed his mind to the places where the impurities had begun to burn away, noticing and allowing him to notice with her how it shifted the song of the alloy being formed. Then she asked him to feel and to listen again as the pitch changed as the plant matter burned and then the elements of it left combined with the iron. 

 

“It’s like water,” he said, the excitement in his thought palpable, touching and then rippling through her consciousness. 

 

“What is?” Mairen asked

 

“The way the living matter falls within the iron — it reminds me of tossing a stone — or pebbles, rather — into water and watching the ripples travel through the surface. Even the way its song shifts and expands.”

 

“Yes,” she answered. “Exactly so.” 

 

He did not reply, at least not in words, but she felt him respond to her praise, the contentment in his being not unlike the touch of water, cool and refreshing. It surprised her, and she laughed for the joy of his understanding, not felt in so many years, and for his pleasure in the discovery. She was surprised to feel a moment of hesitation from him at her laugh, but then she felt him relax and another wave of contentment reach her, and she laughed again, sending a wave of her own warmth, of the fire she was at the center of her being, towards him. She felt him move away in surprise and with some wariness, at first and then, once again, soften and lean towards the feeling, not laughing but smiling perhaps and welcoming.

 

“I am sorry,” he said to her. “This is new to me.”

 

“And no longer familiar to me,” she replied. “It has been some years since I met someone who understood as quickly as you. I ought not to have been surprised, I suppose, but it has been some time and I am glad.”

 

Later, when they both sensed that it was time, they removed the molten alloy from the crucible. She stood aside and watched as he began to work with it, shaping it into the form they desired. To her eye, he seemed more deliberate in his movements than usual, testing the strength, placement and frequency of each hammer stroke before falling into an easy rhythm. His concentration remained steady and flavored with that familiar and essential determination and desire for knowledge and for mastery over the medium with which he worked. She smiled inwardly knowing she had perceived those elements of his being clearly and imagining that all they might do ... all she might achieve working in tandem with him. 

 

“Come on, then,” he murmured softly, sensing her distraction from the task at hand. His thoughts lightly touched hers and nudged her awareness back towards the metal with which he worked, and so she sharpened her focus upon him and slipped deeper into his consciousness. She noticed that his focus had changed. In comparison to the focus they’d both directed earlier to the innermost qualities of the alloy, the distinct and disparate elements that had been in the processes of joining, he directed his awareness primarily upon the feel of the metal under his hands and the manner in which it responded to his efforts to shape it. She watched as he noticed the effects of each stroke of the hammer and adjusted its placement and force in order to achieve the desired result. She waited and while his focus did not changed, she grew impatient with it, wanting him to look below the surface.

 

“Had you not thought of observing the inner qualities of the alloy?” she asked, her voice sharp in his mind.

 

“Perhaps later,” he replied mildly and continued working, and she grew still more impatient that he failed to respond to her direction.

 

“Why not now?” She softened her tone, made it neutral, almost conciliatory.

 

“I’ve not worked it before, and it feels very different to me. I would prefer to observe the process of shaping the material before I attempt to investigate further.”

 

“But do you not want to know why?”

 

“Yes, but I’d like to gather as much information as I can so that I do not make assumptions that might prove unfounded.”

 

She was frustrated by this, needing to learn as much as quickly as possible, but quelled her irritation and only asked, “Where do the differences lie? What feels unusual to you?”

 

“I should ask you to wait until we do this a second time,” he said, his voice both amused and mild. “Are you ready to take over?”

 

“For you?”

 

“Yes, you wanted to know what the difference in feel was; I think the best way is for you to experience it. Have you your tools? Or would it be easier simply to use mine?”

 

“I haven’t ...”

 

“Do get your gloves,” he said. “Then we’ll have to switch quickly. There’s a brittleness to this metal that I fear would tell if we do not keep the same rhythm and force.”

 

She collected her tools and then moved to stand beside him, placing her own tongs on the material and watching as he released his hold of it but continued to work until she felt the rhythm and saw the pattern of the hammer strokes, at which point she took over from him. He eased out of her way, his hip and shoulder brushing softly against hers as he moved to the side. His mind remained linked to her own.

 

“It is a fine technique and a strong alloy,” he said. “I believe it will hold an edge well and not break, but it requires a certain ...”

 

“Steadiness in the handling of it,” she finished.

 

“From whence did the ore come?” he asked. “When you originally saw it made.”

 

“Rhûn,” she replied. “But far to the south, near seas.”

 

“Is this ore the same?”

 

“No,” she said as she continued to work. “That is an unusual story and how I came to use plant material to craft the alloy. The discovery came because the mine from which they had sourced their ore had begun to fail and it became necessary, sooner rather than later, to discover what made the ore unique in order that they might continue to provide the ingots that had made their fortune. We experimented on some they had left and identified the element left and to discover how to replace it and in what quantity.”

 

“How did you experiment?”

 

“Trial and error?”

 

“No such internal investigation?”

 

“Of course,” she said, “but we needed to learn both ways and so we did. Their trade was saved for the time being because I doubt I’ll be the only person to recall this secret or to use it again.” 

 

He nodded.

 

“There are ways of using those techniques to create still stronger steel.”

 

“I’ve no doubt,” he replied. “But I required the understanding of this first.”

 

She finished fashioning the implement, a specialized knife for the use of the healers, one that needed to hold a hard, sharp edge as long as, if not longer than, a knife. Once finished, they began a second time, and this time he watched as she delved further into the material, listening to it and feeling the way it vibrated with its unique song. She began to harmonize with it softly and then a little more loudly, using the strength of her own voice and will to adjust the qualities of the allow still further to reinforce the even distribution of the plant matter and thus create a still stronger and finer blade. As she separated one strand of matter from another, she nudged him. 

 

“Try it.”

 

“I see what it is you do, but I do not know now how,” he replied.

 

“Pay closer attention,” she answered and felt the mild irritation rise.

 

“I am,” he said. “It seems as if you are willing it move.”

 

“Yes,” she answered, “but how?”

 

“With song,” he said. “But I ...”

 

“Think of your cousin singing to the crops and to the trees. Does her voice change based upon where she is and to what she sings.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Try that here. Match the pitch in your mind first.”

 

“I’m not ...”

 

“This is a deeper song to the noises your vocal cords make, though perhaps there too if you would cease to judge yourself against those with considerably more practice,” she paused. He winced. She continued, “This song is within you; you’ve already sung it when you’ve crafted other pieces. I am making you aware of it so you may learn.”

 

She felt him listen to and feel the vibrations within the metal and then echo that sound within his own being. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it. Now — how does the sound change as it strengthens.”

 

“Deepens,” he said. “It becomes richer and fuller.”

 

“Yes,” she replied. “Does the pitch change and the melody?”

 

“Yes,” he answered. “But why?"

"Think on it."

"It seems to vary as you work to make the patterns in it senses and more refined.”

 

“Precisely,” she said. “Depending on the material used and the shape I wish it to take, it varies, sometimes higher, sometimes lower. The melody also changes depending upon the materials and the purpose for which I am using them. Allow that to guide you. Feel the pitch made by the materials as they begin to form the allow and notice what happens as you harmonize with it. Notice what strengthens it. Notice what refines it. Adjust accordingly. Then, as you consider the purposes to which you’d put the material, imagine the form it would need to take and the qualities you want it to have. Then craft your harmony in order to help the alloy achieve that state.”

 

“It would seem to involve considerable trial and error,” he said.

 

“Or very careful observation,” she answered. 

 

She felt him begin to deepen and strengthen the tone of his own song and she wound hers with his in order to let it be richer. She sent the image of the alloy becoming stronger and more flexible and she saw him reach for and build upon the image. As he worked and as she felt the alloy respond to him, she began to withdraw her own influence and to let him finish. He sang and shaped the materials as she worked so that when she’d finished a most remarkable blade lay on the anvil before them.

 

“Well done,” she said.

 

“Perhaps,” he said. “I’d not have managed if you hadn’t shown me first.”

 

“How else do we learn?”

 

“True,” he replied. “I am curious to see how it goes without your help.”

 

“As am I,” she replied.

 

***

 

Later, though not much later, only a few weeks past Midwinter, at the time of year in which the rivers had begun to fill and flow more rapidly as the mountain rice and snow began to melt, she noticed him watching her very closely as she shaped the same alloy into fine tools for their healers. 

 

She was surprised then not to hear his voice within her own consciousness. He was not normally shy about asking questions or seeking information.

 

“What is it?” she asked, sending her thought to him.

 

He did not immediately answer and, though he tried to suppress it, she felt concern and turmoil within him. 

 

“There is something,” she said. “What is it?”

 

“Remind me to ask you later,” he replied. “This is not the time.”

 

She half-expected him to leave before she had finished, but he did not. Instead, he returned to his own task and then began to tidy the areas around his workspace and then hers as she finished. Once she had completed her tasks, he helped her arranged her tools as she preferred and then walked with her to the bathhouse reserved for the artisans guilds. 

 

“What was it?” she asked.

 

“It was nothing,” he said.

 

“Hardly,” she replied.

 

“It was nothing that need trouble you,” he answered. “Simply something with which I did not want to distract you and something I am not comfortable asking where any might hear us.” 

 

She took his hand, feeling his fingers slide between her own, and guided him to one of the smaller courtyards within the district where she directed him to sit.

 

“What is it?”

 

“How did you first learn to craft objects?”

 

“Ah,” she said. “Not unlike you, I suppose.”

 

“With fire, hammer and anvil?” he asked, keeping his voice low. 

 

She looked at him carefully, not entirely sure of what he meant.

 

“Perhaps I spoke poorly,” he said. “When I was young I first learned to shape things with my hands, with the same tools my father and his father and my grandmother’s father had used before me. When you learned to shape matter into a different form, did you use tools, even if they were different to these, or did you use your mind and the power of your Song to do so?”

 

“Song,” she said. “We are creatures of spirit, not matter. It would be difficult for me to hold a hammer in such a form, but, though song, I could shape very elements themselves, particles of being so small that you cannot see them with your eyes but so essential they form the foundation of all creation. They themselves are part of the Music and through Song can be made and shaped. We did not craft tools but we raised mountains and shape the land to form the seas.”

 

“This must seem crude to you then,” he said, a certain sadness in his voice, “to use a hammer and tongs when you needed none and trivial to make a knife when you once shaped the very land.”

 

“Perhaps,” she said, “some might think so, but it had its limits in its own way. I would find it hard to work with you were I only spirit. You might find me a bit offputting.” She paused, at the man seater near her. “I can live and work with you and with others in this form. We can accomplish much together. There is much to teach. Much to learn. Besides, it seems little different to me whether I sing only in my spirit or through my being and through tools.”

 

“That is because you are still shaping in much the same way,” he said. “You are a fine craftsperson with your hands, but you rely very much on the power of your mind and Song. I cannot fault that; you can accomplish so much of which I cannot dream. But I wonder if you might connect the two so that you feel the Song in your very form as well as in your spirit.”

 

“And you think it might be beneficial somehow?”

 

“To be more connected to that which you would craft?” he replied. “It would seem a benefit — to feel it more deeply might help to understand the impact of the work and to shape it more thoroughly.” 

 

She bridled at that and tried to hide it, but he’d caught the flash of irritation in her eyes. “I only meant to suggest that it would add another layer to your own abilities.”

 

“Or weaken them,” she said, “as Melyanna grew weaker. The more we become tied to our forms the more our strength dissipates into the land and to that which surrounds us. It is the price we pay for choosing to be among you. Sometimes I wonder if we shall not disappear among you entirely, leaving little sign that we were ever different."

 

“Does that mean you become weaker or simply more connected?” he countered. “Was it a weakness if it aided more than Melyanna herself?”

 

“That might depend upon the situation,” she replied. “At any rate, it took trust.”

 

“I trust you,” he answered.

 

“But all do not,” she replied. “How would I accomplish such a thing anyway?”

 

“By continuing to work here, with us.”

 

“With you, you mean,” she said for he was always hungry for more knowledge and new skills.

 

“Of course,” he replied.

 

She said. "Though I might lose who and what I was with little to gain from it?"

 

"There is much to gain — a home, connections, a feel for what it is to be part of what you create rather than standing outside it. You might have more power alone but to what end and for what purpose?"

 

“Perhaps," she said. "I am not certain I understand."

 

"Perhaps it is I who do not," he replied. "I can show you what it is to be part of your creation rather than standing apart from it and how, by being part of your creation, you might shape it more thoroughly and effectively because it is not separate from you but rather connected to you. But I do not understand what it is to be you, so I do not know what you would relinquish. Will you show me — truly show me, not through a tool or through my own hands — how you created in the time before with Song and not tools?”

 

“I do not know,” she began.

 

“I would like to see and to know,” he said, “what it must have been like for you in the time before. Even if it may be beyond my own abilities.”

 

She turned her gaze away from him and looked to the stars and to the darkest spaces between them. She did not know if she still could; she had changed and altered living things but had not attempted to create anew in more years than she was able to remember. She was not sure she could; she was not sure she wished to know. “I will try,” she said.