Author’s Note: This is based on one version of a tale of the sons of Eärendil, in which, fleeing from the Fëanorians' sack of Sirion, they are discovered: one playing in the waterfall, and the other inside the cave. Thereafter they are given the names Elros ("Elf of the Spray") and Elrond ("Elf of the Cave").

The Cup

The only thing they had taken away from the ruins of their home was this: a cup, wooden, unadorned and empty. It was the one the younger had drunk of that morning, when their breakfast was interrupted by shouts from the city beyond. Their mother had sent them away too quickly for the boy to remember to put the cup down; he had clutched it in his hand as they fled, forgotten until this moment.

The elder child held it in his hand, considering. He had not said a word, though the younger had wept on the long, cold journey through the rain, deep into the wood. Wise beyond his years and pragmatic, he spoke now only: “Are you hungry?”

The younger, disregarded into silence, sniffled away the last of his tears; nodded uncertainly. His brother held up the cup. “Fill this with water, and drink.”

He could not disobey; amme told him he must be good. So he went, dabbling his feet in the cold pool, watching the waterfall splash into the cup.

He was not afraid when the two strange Elves came, one with red hair and one with black; he went with them willingly, and led them to the cave when one asked him in oddly-accented Sindarin for his brother.

The elder child rose to his feet, alarmed, when the three entered the cave; but by then it was too late.

Author’s Note: The inspiration for this one is owed to two sources: the song “Evening Falls” by Roma Ryan, and the picture “Finrod dreaming by the waters of Sirion” by Jenny Dolfen. Ingoldo is an older name for Finrod, and Turukáno is of course cousin Turgon.

Dreaming

With his eyes closed, Ingoldo half-dared to dream that the placid water-sounds were not mere echoes of Lórien’s dream-pools but the pools themselves; that the drowsy light bathing his supine form was not that of wistful Rána but that of the White Tree; that the light breathing close beside him came not from his cousin but from his Amarië.

It was all so clear, as he saw it with his dream-eyes: a golden-haired youth dreaming in Irmo’s gardens, one hand tucked beneath his head, the other resting peacefully on his chest; a golden-haired maiden sitting beside him, weaving a garland of white dream-flowers. Entranced, he opened his real-eyes; she turned at once and smiled at him.

“Amarië.” He whispered the one word, and all fell into reality. Scarcely daring to breathe for fear of waking again, he stretched a hand toward her, brushing her smooth fingers with his, trembling with the fear of touching her again.

“Heart, did you think I would not wait?” she murmured, her voice gentle and sweet as he thought he remembered, taking his hand softly.

He could not move, could not think, could think of no more words to say but - “Amarië.”

“Your place is not here,” she told him, sadly, quietly. “Not yet.” Turning his palm up in her own, she closed his fingers around the blossoms, even as grey mist surrounded her. “Sleep now, and dream no more, and return to me when your journey is over.” She released his hand.

“Amarië!” But she was gone, a shadow of a dream; the Moon shone down timidly; and Turukáno stirred beside him, caught in a restless dream; and the Sirion flowed, unrelenting; and the flowers caught in his fist soon wilted and died.

Author’s Note: The prompt was "windows," and here is a moment between Eol and Aredhel in Nan Elmoth.

Walls

She stares up, down, away, anywhere. She, fragile bloom, wilts in the ever-dusk. He, Dark Elf, needs, covets her light; she shall not fade away!

"I could build you one."

Her glance darts toward him, uncomprehending, still flickering the residual brightness of her spirit. He presses on, desperately. "A window. You could see the sun. If you wish."

She looks at him then, almost-smiles for the first time, cautious; he leans into her light, basking in unaccustomed warmth. Only for a moment: she turns away too quickly, stares at the wall again, dreams of the sun.

He builds the window.

Author’s Note: The prompt was "Putting on these clothes," and my personal interpretation involves Glorfindel's reincarnation.

Living

Coordination is more difficult than he imagined it must be: arm is here, leg there; ten fingers, two eyes, one tongue; an extra bit of blood and flesh and bone to reconfigure just where he is unaccustomed to such solidity. Now he must think again in terms of the beating heart and the cyclic breath; those simple elements of life which he has forgotten, being dead.

He experiments: pulls himself up with unsteady arms onto tottering legs; takes an infant's first step and falls just as quickly. Tries again; falls, again; repeats, again, again...

It was easier, he thinks, dying.

Author’s Note:  The prompt is "Most is said when nothing is spoken," the action is the Shipburning at Losgar, the character is Maedhros, and the drabble is a titch AU.

His Tragedy

It was the smell of smoke that first awakened the Prince; still unaccustomed to that scent, he hurried out in uncomprehending dread. It was the ships, Findekáno, his brothers, his dreams -- burning, burning -- !

He stared at the white ships burning all to red and, more slowly, to black; stared until his eyes bled hot tears, which his pride choked upon and the wind soon whisked dry.

In silence he watched his father turning dreams to ash; in silence turned away. And it was this silence which shamed him most, all the years of his long exhausted life.

Author’s Note: On the prompt “…because there the trees were loved.” Written in honor of Celeborn, Ents and Earth Day.

After

Imagine that at last the Ents are gone; a tall silver-haired figure stands cloaked in grey, catching the dusty sunbeams with weary-widening gaze.

For ages uncounted they passed through this wood, pausing years, decades, centuries; each time he hoped they would stay; each time he knew that the time must come for them to leave again.

Standing there in the shadows of the great silver-skinned trees, feeling the forest wither, he asks the question: why here?

The answer comes as a sigh, a rustle in the aspen-leaves, the dry wind in the ash: because here the trees were loved.

Author's Note: The prompt was "quietness"; my personal theme was loneliness and fear, and Fëanor.

Out

The silence was the first thing he noticed, that first time he stepped outside the world's walls. After a life filled with sound -- crackling flame, quiet well-pleased singing, angry shouts, dark hoarse whispers, the melody of hammer on anvil, the snap of the bow-string, joyful laughter -- a lonely voice weeping in pain, a heart slowly breaking -- this quietness was unfamiliar, uncomfortable, strange.

He babbled to himself, at first, trying to fill up the empty space -- but his voice was pulled from him into that deep nothingness.

He was alone: for the first time, Fëanáro was frightened.

Author's Note: This prompt, to describe a character from the point of view of a character of a different race as though seeing them for the first time, called out to me in the voice of James Earl Jones to write of Gondolin.

Perspective

Young was the word that came to mind, when first he saw this child; alive followed close behind. He had the scent of freshness, newness, originality. He was a novelty, here amongst the mass of warriors with old weary eyes.

And the way he walked through the streets of his city: the wondrous dreaming expression on his face; this child made the King proud again of what he had wrought. This child, he thought, could have been one of the Noldor; creator and builder, curious and wise.

The King knew, then, why he would keep this child and his brother.

Author’s Note: Whose was the first betrayal, after all? Daeron watches Lúthien for the prompt “a piece of the puzzle.”

Secret

A heart can break and mend in the space of a glance, the musician has learned. His fingers caress the strings softly now, drawing a whisper of yearning from the harp which his own voice cannot give.

In the old days, her eyes flickered three ways: to the earth, to the sky, to the harper. Now she looks only into the wood, to the dark trees huddled like women round the tale-fire. Something else - someone - has caught her interest tonight.

The musician plays on, his heart healing, harder than before. He will learn her secret soon, he vows.

Author's Note: This drabble was written in response to a prompt about "moonlight welling through the marble walls"; the image makes me think of book!Arwen, and thus this small tribute to Gondor's Queen-in-waiting.

Absolutes

Her fingers dancing: the only motion in the room, white against the sable that drapes her lap. White and black encompass her world; moonlight and marble, midnight and velvet and uncertainty.

And as she sews, sometimes she dreams; her dreams now are made of solemn things, life and love and death; sometimes her hands fall idle to her lap. Sometimes her slow tears stain the banner a darker black, shadow upon shadow; more often her fingers, faltering only a moment, recover and sew on a little faster.

For she knows, this woman, that the most important dream is that of love.

Author’s Note: This was inspired by a prompt inviting writers to become the Anduin, the Great River.

Great is the Fall

I am the River,
enemy, lover:
I am called Great -
and I wait.

There is a Man,
stumbling, alone,
proud, unbending,
to me wending:

Him I love,
tested and proved;
no wish to drown him!-
I will crown him.

Him I wait for,
warrior, traveller,
known and unknown,
to carry him home.

Him I yearn for,
hider, revealer,
conqueror, king:
my all things.

Him I feel,
phantasm and real,
shiver and salt,
never grow old.

Him I sense,
battling and tense;
gone now -
not long now -

I am the River,
enemy, lover:
I am called Great -
so I wait.