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Genre: Horror
Rating: r
Warning: gruesome battle/defeat
Summary: The Battle of Sudden Flames, in Aegnor’s point of view.
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The dragon roared. People scattered like leaves in the wind, trying to avoid it. Many were not lucky. Caught between the Worm’s deadly breath and the molten lava pouring forth from Thangorodrim, they had nowhere to flee. Their screams were swallowed by the cacophony, and their bodies shrivelled in the searing and devouring heat. The plains were aglow with fell light.
Aegnor watched as his brother Angrod and his troops were overwhelmed first, two leagues away, and then it was his and his men’s turn.
He did not scream. He laughed and cried in bitter irony instead. Fell Fire, indeed.
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Note: Aikanáro (Aegnor’s Quenya name) means Fell Fire.
Genres: Drama, Family
Rating: G
Notes: This piece takes place in Dorthonion before the Battle of Sudden Flames. Morwen was six years old, while Rían was four. I did not find the names of their mothers in The Silmarillion, so I made up one according to the need of this piece. Taliska was their language, so I thought it would not be right to make the children say “Ada” and “Nana”; it is Sindarin.
Summary: a squirrel and a pair of young cousins with differing personalities… Chaos ensues.
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“Mama! Morwen stole my squirrel!” Rían shrieked.
“It needs to go back to the wilds!” Morwen countered hotly. “Papa and Uncle Belegund said so.”
Rían wept and howled. “She can’t live alone!” she pleaded, while trying to seize the contested squirrel from her older cousin’s arms, which was chattering angrily, showing its displeasure at the noises and the jostling. The skin of Morwen’s arms was streaked red from its claws and the front of her dress was similarly torn.
Mellenel sighed with tired exasperation and put down the laundry basket she had been carrying. Time for some damage control, again.
Genres: Friendship, General
Rating: G
Summary: The Lord of Dogs found his match in the Heiress of Doriath… Who would win the contest?
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“Why did you obey him?” Luthien raged. “You know how blockheaded he can be!” She glared at Huan. “Do not look at me like that. You are not gaining my compassion by looking piteous.”
Huan whined and licked her hand. She shoved his muzzle away. “Stop that!” But she was trying to stifle a smile at the same time. “Fine. You let him go while I told you otherwise. So now you ought to bear me to him. You would not disobey him too, then.”
Huan huffed and grinned. Luthien gave him a last glare, packed, then mounted his back.
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Notes: The “he” Luthien talked about was of course Beren. This was when Beren had left them in Doriath to go to Angband alone. This piece is an homage to Philosopher at Large’s marvelous screenplay-script rendering of the Lay of Leithian.
Genre: General
Rating: G
Notes: A double drabble. A companion piece to my story Brother Mine. Ereinion (Erin) was ten years old and Erestor (Eros) was one hundred years old. The story takes place in Hithlum, in Fingolfin’s fortress inherited by Fingon.
Summary: Little Ereinion could be obstinate about things. How did people go about melting his resolve? Erestor was new to this, but it did not mean that he was not up to the task…
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“But those are just plants, Eros,” Ereinion protested. The argument had been as old as his previous tutor’s trying to teach him about plants and their aspects. Surely Master Galadel had told his successor that?
But Erestor just stared at him blankly, then, when the argument registered in his mind, exasperatedly. Why had he agreed to Lord Fingon to teach his son? He had been just a messenger from Lord Turgon, and he could have refused the request. Well, there was no use crying over spilled milk.
He brought Ereinion out to the garden. There he showed the child some athelas, bade him to smell the leaves, crushed some in his hand and asked Ereinion to do it again. Then they visited the kitchens for a small basin and heated water. He dumped the crushed leaves into the steaming container, and a unique fragrance went up.
Ereinion’s eyes lit up. “Can we bring it to the study, Eros?” he pleaded. “Perhaps we can have it every time too?”
“Could, Erin, could,” Erestor admonished, but he was smiling. “So now you would learn some more about it and its brethren?”
The child nodded eagerly. Erestor smirked to himself. One problem solved.
Genre: Horror
Rating: R
Warnings: gruesome talk, gruesome idea… What do you expect from orcs? Please proceed with caution!
Summary: Radog and Otol, two (from many) orcs stationed about the Echoriath after Húrin had revealed the location of Gondolin, were fighting over a fresh kill. Who won?
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Radog snarled. “It’s mine,” he barked. The Elven scouting team had been beaten back, leaving only one dead in the battlefield. But the orcs had been all killed except the quarrelling two.
Otol sneered. “I killed it, you sneak.” He pointed at his naked scimitar in emphasis, then gestured at the Firstborn’s body some yards away with it. Fresh red blood dripped from the rustic blade. “Your fault you didn’t kill any. Those cowards’ve fled back to their hole, eh? No time to grab one, now?” He croaked with laughter, like a vulture in sight of prey.
Growling like an enraged warg, Radog swung his scimitar at the other orc. Ranks were forgotten now that there was a promise of fresh Elven flesh and there were only the two of them on site. “I’ll chop you small, maggot, and eat you with the treat.”
“I’ll feed you to the mangy beasts and tell them to report to the Great One that I won the battle alone. Then he’ll award me.” Otol snorted. He met Radog’s sword with his with wicked enthusiasm.
In the ensuing fight, their quarrelled object, not half as dead as they had thought, crept away to safety.
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Notes: “The mangy beasts” were of course the wargs. Heh, now who was the cleverer between the two?
Genres: Friendship, General
Rating: G
List of terms used:
Notes: A gapfiller to my one-shot (not yet posted) Stay With Me. Seeing how the Unbegotten are yet quite young in mind in this stage of their life, the tone of this piece is rather childish. I also use the version of the telling that says Elwë (Elu Thingol) has two brothers: Olwë and Elmo. And here Nowë (Círdan) is the chieftain of their people, not Elwë. (Yes, I am mangling some legends stated in canon here, and also several fanon interpretations.)
Summary: How was swimming invented?
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“What’re you doing, Nowë?” Elmo hopped to the Chiftain’s side. It was several star-turnings after the Awakening and their gathering by the lakeshore, but still they found new things and concepts. And Nowë produced some creepy – unlooked-for, unthought-for – contributions.
In answer, Nowë pointed at the span of gently-moving liquid before them, grinning.
“Bad, bad thing. It nearly swallowed Elwë,” Elmo grumbled, frowning darkly in recollection. But then he conceded, “I think it just doesn’t like people plunking into it and stirring its deep ends. Though it’s actually Finwë’s fault.” He glared at a short finger of liquid lapping at the small rocky prominence on which they crouched. That Dark One had nearly made his eldest brother swallowed by the water, and he was unpleasantly reminded of the Black Hunter taking some stray Quendi from their midst. They had been playing too near to the shore, or so Elwë had reluctantly confessed, and Finwë had accidentally jostled Elwë when they were racing to the Brights’ camp.
“Oh no,” Nowë insisted. “It told me how to stay on the surface. Elwë just didn’t know. I can teach you, and you can teach people, so nobody will be swallowed again.” He flapped his hands by his ears for emphasis, then did it in the water – spraying them with droplets in the process.
Elmo stared at Nowë for a long moment. The Fair People loved Nowë dearly, but they agreed that their chieftain’s excessive interest in water was rather weird. Nowë spent most of his time contemplating it on the spot he was now occupying, and doing some daring or just outright quirky experiments with it. He could not deny that the knowledge and skills Nowë discovered helped the Quendy very much, but that did not make Nowë less unnerving most of the times.
Genres: Friendship, Supernatural
Rating: G
Notes: A sort of gapfiller to my universe, and companion piece to my story Brother Mine. In my universe, Elros and Elrond are twins, and Elros is the older. This piece takes place when they are ten years old. They are taken from the Havens of Sirion at the age of five by Maedhros and Maglor, and brought to live in Himring; and a year later Erestor follows, to watch over them. (By the way, “Eros” in this triple drabbles equals Erestor.)
Summary: Morgoth’s hands are long and cruel. Elrond and Elros learn it the hard way, through an innocent gesture.
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“Eros! Teach us! Teach us!”
Two children burst into the garden, where Maglor had said the ellon could be found.
Erestor looked up from contemplating the sturdy rose bush before him. “Elros, Elrond, what did I say about yelling?”
“Sorry, Eros,” Elros offered hastily, his expression a little less excited. “But we wanted—“
“—Hoped,” Elrond piped in, correcting his elder twin sternly—
“—Hoped, that you would teach us,” Elros resumed without missing a beat, while thrusting a colourful kite made of some unused parchment in their caretaker’s direction. Erestor frowned at it, then looked at the similar one in Elrond’s hands.
He shook his head. The children deflated visibly. “Maglor didn’t want to teach us too,” Elros complained. “And he told us to stay inside, even. But it’s summer!”
But Elrond’s look was pensive, and after a moment he said, uncertainly, “He mentioned something about bad weather. But what does it have to do with kiting?”
Erestor shook his head yet again. “Everything to do with it, children,” he said firmly. He took each of the children’s hands in his own and guided them to a less-sheltered part of the yard, farther away from the fortress.
A chill blast of wind blew from the north, making them shiver. It seemed that it had been blowing that way for some time, seeing how the sturdy, stunted trees decorating the cold region had lost most of their leaves – which were strewn southward.
“The North is active again, children,” he murmured sadly, bitterly.
Elros gaped uncomprehendingly, but Elrond gasped. “Morgoth,” he whispered in awe and fear.
Erestor flinched. “Do not say his name, Elrond, and you too, Elros. He dwells so near to us, and his fingers are reaching out again…”
Their kites forgotten, the children pressed close to him.
Genres: Family, Humor
Rating: G
List of names used: (all mother-names, in Quenya and Sindarin)
Notes: Rather fluffy. The piece takes place at the time when the sons of Fëanor are staking out lands for themselves. I thought they would both consult Maedhros as the wisest of them and ask his permission as the head of their family before doing anything about it.
Summary: There are certain norms about twins, from traits to hobbies. Amrod and Amras are not exempt from them, and they do not mind it, at all. Maedhros is just being unlucky, caught in one of such moments.
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Maitimo clutched at his temples. “Ambarussa, would you please stop that?” But there was no hope in his thin plea.
The twins grinned unrepentantly.
“What did you say, brother?” one said.
“We asked something to you, you know,” the other resumed.
“Should we—“
“—Take residence—“
“—Like Makalaurë and Carnistir—“
“—And Tyelcormo and Atarinkë?”
“Because we do not wish so,” they finished together, then winked playfully at their eldest brother, who groaned and raised his hands in surrender.
“Anything you like.” Maitimo relented. “As long as you do not do it again.”
They only smirked.
Genres: Adventure, Friendship
Rating: G
Notes: I do not know when Thranduil was born, but I guess some time before the rising of the Sun and Moon. In this piece, he is just above his majority.
Credit: The Mauri tribe in
Summary: Bungy-jumping has occurred since a very, very, very long time ago, apparently, and for the same purpose as in the semi-modern use of it. But how if the hapless warrior-to-be is afraid of heights?
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“You wanted to be a warrior. You have to go through this, then. Or would you rather back down?”
“—No.”
“Cousin… Do you not trust the tree?”
“But—“
“You never shirked from any adventure before.”
Thranduil looked down. Meekly he confessed, “I fear heights…”
“Oh,” Celeborn murmured, understanding.
“But it is tradition, cousin. You cannot serve Uncle Elu and Aunt Melian as a warrior if you cannot pass this,” Galathil coaxed. “See? They are waiting for you to pass this, and they are so eager to have you.” He motioned to the ranks of warriors waiting by the big tree growing on the precipice of a green ravine. The royal family stood on the very front, and presently they were watching the three with mounting concern.
Thranduil held up his hands and looked imploringly at his cousins, hoping for a solution.
But they did not have it, and giving up with fatalistic resignation, he marched with them to the aforementioned tree. Galathil and Celeborn prepared the ropes while Thranduil hunkered down on a lower branch, trembling.
Galathil bade him to climb up to the platform on the crown of the tree when the ropes were ready. Celeborn followed him and fascened one end of the rope system to his ankles before he could change his mind. Then they climbed back down to their posts, leaving Thranduil on the platform.
The royal family climbed the tree through the ladder provided for them. The Queen blessed Thranduil by putting a hand on his head. Elu recited a short speech of valour and harmony with nature, two traits valued in Sindarin warriors. And the Heiress shoved Thranduil over the platform, rather energetically.
Thranduil shrieked while he plummeted down, but no one laughed. He got a lengthy explotion of warm applause instead.
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The Sindar of Doriath are understandingly outraged with the Dwarves, with their king killed by them. But what about the Dwarves themselves? What do they think or say about it?
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Nogrod was in uproar. The children of Mahal had set out to the Enchanted Cave-lands, seeking revenge upon the insolent Elf-king. But few had come back – And such who had, spoke about it with mingled fear and fury beyond measure.
And the land itself… It was shifting even now, just some time after the fruitless attack to the Enchanted Cave-lands. It was as if the Elves could do that to the sacred earth!
Kía half-heartedly worked on her loom. Thoughts of her slain father haunted her still, and it would likely stay until she joined her ancestors in the Hall of Waiting. It was so tempting, taking arms and avenging her father and brethren, but…
Oh, how she wished she were a male! The other races had never truly known the extent of importance of Dwarven females in their own society. The axis of their culture. The life of their daily breaths. – Because Mahal did have a spouse, whose love was that of nurturing and nurrishment, of management.
And that meant, females could not go to battle. Females were highly guarded in wartime; although, other than their cultural and vital functions, they were quite like their male counterparts in skills, temper–
– Desires…
Her hand tightened on the warp. Her jawline was set. She was all that. But she was also her father’s only child, and her mother had espoused another male after his death. Someone should take up the responsibility of avenging her father, and that could just as well be she. (He had no other family left.)
And if she should seek to slay those who had slain her father, it was not clothing of wool and cotton that she should weave, but that of chains and plates of metal. And she must also forge a weapon or three…
Genres: Horror, Tragedy
Rating: R
Warnings: desperation, hopeless death
Summary: There is no song sung about the Grinding Ice. There is a reason why.
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A few thousand steps. They always halted and made camp after a few thousand excruciating steps. There was shelter of furs and bodies, then, and meagre rations of food and water, and such light that they brought with them in the form of stone-lamps.
But the ice always pursued them, growling and snapping. It never rested.
It took some of their number, sometimes, when they rested. No care of distinction. No care of age.
But it nearly took the last children and their parents, when they were walking, so near to the end of the journey.
They rested no more.
Genre: Horror
Rating: R
Warnings: homicidal madness, twisted reasoning
Note: Set around the Fall of Gondolin.
Summary: What does Maeglin see in Idril?
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She is so beautiful. She is worth everything. – She is mine.
She is mine. The Dread King has promised me so. She is mine. The city is a ransom fit for such a beauty. In hindsight, I am glad the Exhaulted One caught me, when I was mining the mountains. He practically hands me she whom I seek to possess.
And when the city falls, those hateful, cynical people are down with it. – I am truly blessed! I shall serve him with my property by my side, serving me in turn… She is going to make a good, pretty servant.
Genre: Adventure
Rating: G
Summary: The youngest sons of Curufinwë Fëanáro thought of something never desired before against their father…
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Ambarussa stared daringly at each other, identical faces scrunched up in consternation.
They did not want to follow their father to Formenos, to exile. (Such a horrid word!) Ammë was not going with them.
They could not stay with Ammë, said she, for fear of incurring Atto’s wrath. But they could stay with the Foamriders in Alqualondë. (She once told them that Anammë Míriel was a Foamrider herself, and bade them not to tell anyone.)
Nighttime. A perfect chance to slip out, not going with Atto. They could visit Ammë if they stayed with the Foamriders.
Ambarussa, sons of Nerdanel.
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Translation:
Notes: Ambarussa is initially the name of both youngest sons of Fëanor and Nerdanel: Amras and Amrod. The last line was inspired by the Shibboleth of Fëanor, in which he claimed to be “the son of Míriel Þerindë, not the son of Finwë” (loosely quoted).
Genre: Tragedy
Rating: PG
Summary: What happened to Melian after Elu, the last of her incarnate family, was dead?
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Melian jerked as if punched. There had been surprise, betrayal, rage, and then… nothing. She felt nothing through her bond. There was only emptiness. A black void.
Elu was dead. Her spouse, to whom she had dedicated her life and love in the recent star-turnings, had past west to Lord Námo’s keeping; reembodied only later (and it was even just a possibility) by the grace of Lord Námo and the mercy of Eru.
A chill, which had little to do with the slaughter happening in the treasury below, swept through her whole being like a tide of choking malice. She would scream, except that her throat could no longer work properly.
Her body became translucent, then transparent, following the command of her subconscious will. – Forsake this wreckage, like she had Almaren. Follow her spouse westward…
She returned to her natural form, and for a moment she was gripped by disorientation. Everything was so much different in the perception of a born spirit in natural form. No incarnate senses to ground her, literally and metaphysically… And no ties to anchor her to this war-torn land also. Luthien was dead. Elu was dead.
She fled. The burden was too much to bear.
Genre: Action
Rating: PG-13
Warning: related to war and thoughts of vengeance
Summary: Curufinwë Jr. ruminated before the Union of Maedhros struck forth.
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Curufinwë stood ahead of his troops, scowling darkly. Before him spread the charred wasteland which had once been called ‘green’. Today, the forces of Fëanáro’s sons would rout out Moringotto’s, and they would reclaim their inheritance: the silmarili.
They would not be sneered and spat by those puny, thankless Moriquendi again. He would make sure they paid just as heavily as Moringotto. The glory of this battle would be the first slap to them, followed by many more. Yes, there would be more… He would make sure of that. No slight hurled at the sons of Fëanáro would go unanswered.
Genres: Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Family, Spiritual
Rating: PG
Warning: related to war and past torture of prisoner
Term used:
Notes: Companion piece to my larger ficlet, “Toy Soldiers.” Story-gift for Fiondil, Ellie (Ellfine), KyMahalei, Larner, Dawn Felagund, and Kaylee Arafinwiel. Alternate title: “Hope.”
Summary: Eönwë went forth to battle not without fear.
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7
People trickle into the ships like sand in an hour-glass. But mayhaps our lives are now measured so; even us Spirits. Not even Lord Námo knows about the outcome of the battle soon to be waged against our fallen brethren.
6
Fionwë is staring at me knowingly from his position near the prow of the ship. I hope he comes back intact, even if I do not. I cannot bear the thought of informing my family that the Traitor has done to him what he once did to our youngest brother Lúnwë.
5
My heart thuds rapidly in my chest, and blood rushes all around my fana; it only heightens my discomfort. But soon, I might lose the ability to clothe myself in earthly raiment anyway, as the Traitor might capture me and sap away my life-force like the Black Beast did the escence of the Two Trees…
4
Fionwë encases me in a mental embrace. I can barely hold back a start.
`Trust Father, brother mine. Everything shall be all right in the end, and that is the best that we can ask.`
The reckless, impetuous one, who now is giving comfort instead to his elder brother. – The thought somehow steadies me from the panicked state, until, at last, I manage to embrace him back in the same manner.
3
Ilmarë joins us likewise, bringing Lúnwë with her. The time is nearly up. The gangplank is being lifted. Soon the mooring shall join it on the deck.
2
A ghust of wind feeling like a kiss – a kiss farewell. A last squeezing hug.
1
Fionwë gives me a last knowing stare. A faint smile curls up the edges of his lips.
0
Fionwë blows on the horn settled before him. I rig up the banner. We are fairing forth. Home is behind, battle is ahead.
The flagship I am aboard on lurches onward.
To hope, with faith.
Genres: Character Study, Stream-of-Consciousness
Rating: G
Summary: Little Itarildë, later renamed Idril, had a rather strong opinion about the feast of reuniting her grandfather held.
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Beleg and Mablung were my new friends. They were huge! As tall as my people, and twice as big as some. I spent as much time as possible with them, for their laughter were rich and carefree; and their eyes, dim as they were without the reflection of the Two Trees, sparkled with the appreciation of life that had instead been gone from my people’s.
Atto could not understand why I tended to avoid him in this celebration, meant to unite all Firstborn. I could not explain it to him, too. How not? His mere gaze, burning as bright as fëar during the Darkening and the Crossing, directed at our half-kin, frightened me terribly. I did not want to have it directed at me.
But he was not the only one here. As merry as the festivity was, we were divided into two sections still; and to me, the safest was with the neutral party: Beleg and Mablung, representatives of the native clans.
I did not know what this event really pertained to, but it did not seem to get right. My family dubbed this matter “grown-up case.” But given all the tension and hatred around here, I would rather never be a grown-up.
Genres: Family, Humor
Rating: G
Reference: “ … Húrin was by three years the elder, but he was shorter in stature than other men of his kin. … Huor his brother was tall, the tallest of all the Edain save his own son Tuor only, and a swift runner; but if the race were long and hard Húrin would be the first home, for he ran as strongly at the end of the course as at the beginning.” (The Silmarillion, Chapter 21: The Tale of the Children of Húrin.)
Warning: mixed point-of-views
Notes: Set in Brethil, before the battle with orcs that later brought the two brothers to Gondolin. Húrin was 16 years old and Huor was 13.
Summary: Huor was late, again. Consequently, Húrin got the consequences. But was it truly Huor’s fault?
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Haldir stood at the head of the dinner table, frowning. He repeated counting the members of his household present for the meal, and outright scowled. Before he could order for a search party, however, a knock on the open door of the dining hall caught his attention.
And there stood Húrin, alone, all sweaty and dirty. Before he could say anything, though, the youth blurted, rather defensively, “We were racing through the woods, Uncle. Huor is going to be here soon, I suppose. I was only several yards ahead of him.”
Haldir’s scowl did not soften. “Racing through the woods?” he repeated dangerously.
Húrin stepped back in dismay. “We did not go too far, Uncle. And the scouts did say that the orcs are two days away still,” he said a little desperately, trying to defend himself. (He did not want to be kicked out from the rank of warriors prepared to challenge the oncoming orcs on the grounds of irresponsibility, after all.)
And just then, Huor came skidding in, standing beside his elder brother, huffing and puffing and even more dirty than Húrin was. “Sorry, Uncle!” he squeaked, breathless and worried by their uncle’s forbidding countenance. (And now Húrin also frowned at him, displeased and disgruntled.)
Well, no more races, then, Huor thought, at least until their uncle were not so worried about orcs ambushing them out of nowhere. But if Húrin was so displeased of bearing the brunt of the chiftain’s wrath, why had that brother of his not set up a race he might have more chance of winning?
Húrin glared sulkily at him. Huor could barely stifle a vindictive grin.
And when their vexed aunt Glóredhel shooed them to the bathing house, he took the chance and took off on his best speed. Time for vengeance…
Genres: Parody, Satire Rating: PG Summary: Surely nobody would dare an attempt to defeat the greatest and most powerful of the Powers with tricks? Melkor thought so, at least. He certainly did not think so of Melian’s sheltered, spoiled brat. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Finally, finally, she came within his range… Melkor laughed gleefully. Melian’s unnatural get would be his soon, and through her he would take revenge upon her mother. – Both had dared to disturb his peace! The little brat, insolently clothing herself in the raiment of a vampire, looked frail and afraid for once. (As well it should be!) Posing most forbiddingly, he bade her come down from the ceiling. – And she obeyed, and actually bargained to him her service in exchange for her life. He just did not expect her to then sneakily weave a spell of slumber all over Utumno.
Genres: Character Study, Family Rating: G Summary: There are many kinds of gem, some inanimate, some living… Elu Thingol mused on the birth of his daughter. Was he satisfied? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ He had thought that his bride was his brightest jewel. But now… She lay there on the bed of moss and leaves and grass he had made for her, exhausted but happy and contented. And in her arms was a bundle of the softest and cleanest cloth, now proffered to him as her eyes twinkled with deep mirth. He reached out his hands and cradled the bundle close to his chest, fighting back tears. He did not need to see what was inside to confirm that he had found his brightest gem yet. But when he did look, any last hesitation about it was swept away. Luthien. His daughter; half-other, but he did not care about her ambiguous race, not now and not ever. Her eyes, twin pools of starlit dark-blue depths, shining with sheer joy of being and lit with the same divine touch that was present in his bride’s own orbs, gazed up at him with loving wonderment. And her tiny cherubic face, glowing with the same inner light as her mother, was decorated with a small soft smile that completely took his heart away and did not give it back. He did not mind it, at all. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ End Notes: … And I am not proud of this piece, at all. But say what you wish. (It is one of the reasons I did not put this little note up there.) Sometimes the author is mistaken, and I hope, faintly, that this is one of such instances – that I have misjudged the worth of this piece.
Genres: Character Study, Stream-of-Consciousness Rating: G Reference: “And when the building of Menegroth was achieved, … the Naugrim yet came ever and anon over the mountains and went in traffic about the lands; but they went seldom to the Falas, for they hated the sound of the sea and feared to look upon it.…” (The Silmarillion, Chapter 10: Of the Sindar.) Summary: Sometimes, it pays to heed the warnings of one’s parent… Aza the Dwarf-lad finds it so, at least. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Mother told me not to go, but I told her I am a strong lad and would not be deterred. Now I rue it bitterly, finding my feet quaking in my sturdy boots apt for working in a forge – but not for a place like this. The waves run towards me as if hungry fingers about to take me into the unknown depths of that huge, huge expanse of dark-greyish-blue saltwater whence they came. The sea roars mightily from a distance, as if a beast about to swallow me hole. And I would not be able to fight back, helpless in that ever-moving, ever-changing, ever-powerful grasp… I turn around and flee.
Genres: Horror, Stream-of-Consciousness, Tragedy Rating: R Warnings: Battle-field Descriptions, Character Death Summary: Sometimes one cannot win a race, but one must still try. A Foamrider of Alqualondë attests to this. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ There is fire in the horizon. I choke. What is happening? Surely a festival bonfire is not this big? There is no festival scheduled in the near future anyway… I turn my skiff homewards and unfurl the lone sail attached to it. I must be home as soon as I can. Whatever is happening, I feel uneasy about it. – Oh please, please Lords Ulmo and Manwë, let me be home quickly… I drive the double oar into the water with a fast dip, my heart thumping painfully, hoping to propel the skiff home faster. I navigate through the rock arch of the harbour, Then freeze on my seat, clutching the long handle of the oar in a numbing grip. – Blood. Blood is everywhere, on the quays and the walls and even in the water. The breeze is tainted with its smell, and I want to vomit. What travesty is this? Who perpetrated this? Eldar are fighting each other, killing each other, tainting the harbour with bodies and weapons and blood. And fire is everywhere, burning the houses— My family! The oar swings again, harder this time, faster. Where is Atto? Emmë? Elwen? The prow of the skiff bumps the blood-slick quay, hard, and I use the impact to leap onto land. Slipping and stumbling, I run and dodge and duck, unheeding of the madness going on around me, hoping I am not too late to save my family. Tears blur my vision, but I keep going. I must be faster than the fire. I must be faster than the fighters. — My house is aflame, and I can faintly hear screams from inside of it. I leap through the burning doorframe, surging in. And the roof caves in on top of me, trapping me in an inferno. I know no more.
Genres: Action, Horror Rating: R Warnings: Battle-field Descriptions, Madness Summary: Everyone was just in the way. Carnistir had to get rid of them to readh his goals. Author’s Notes: For a reviewer of this collection, CrackinAndProudOfIt, who requested a scene in Second or Third Kinslaying in the point of view of a son of Fëanor. Hope you like it! – And this is also to say that I’ll accept requests from other readers, if they fit the criteria of this challenge, of which the most important is something set in the First Age or before that. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chaos was everywhere. Blood and bodies were everywhere; and yelling, and screams. But Carnistir only thought of his brothers vanishing in the flurry of weapons – and the Jewel; yes, the Jewel… He had to find it and retain glory to his House. It would be nice if he was hailed as the son of Fëanáro who managed to do that, too, remedying his status of the least famous, least likeable nér of the lot. The thought brought new strength to his limbs. He streaked like a gust of strong wind, hewing down anyone blocking his path. To glory; for glory…
Genres: Fluff, Vignette Rating: G Summary: Being the last child has its ups and downs; but Arakáno chooses to take advantage of the ups very, very, very well. His elder siblings just have to bear with him. Author’s Notes: For FireFly07, who is currently in love with this particular minor character. Hopefully it makes up for the two birthday gifts I have missed also… And one advance warning: Any pairing that you readers might draw conclusion from this story is solely your responsibility. I am writing it merely for the fluff, deriving idea from the hints that these people are best chums with each other, respectively, in Canon Silm. (Published Silmarillion, anyway…) Terms and Names Used: ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “—Arakáno!” He grinned up innocently at his eldest brother Findekáno, who had been chatting amiably with their eldest cousin Maitimo on the front porch of their house, and was now glaring down at him. Unheeding of the glare, he did not budge, wedged in between the two older néri, and he was even now leaning comfortably against them. Who knew if they would bring him hunting again?
* “—Arakáno!” Turukáno tried to pry him loose from his leg, but to no avail. Findaráto, who had been proposing a trip to the sea to Turukáno, laughed his delightful tinkling laugh. Arakáno smiled hugely up at that golden-haired cousin of theirs, conveying his contentment of his position: hugging Turukáno’s left leg and Findaráto’s right one to himself. He wanted to go with them! And cousin Findaráto was quite fun to be around most of the times.
* “—Arakáno!” Irissë looked ready to throttle her youngest brother. But Arakáno knew she would not do it. (She would get into so much trouble with Atto and Ammë if she did, anyway.) Glued by Arakáno flush against her, Tyelkormo laughed uproariously, nearly dislodging him from his perch in the process… He had happened upon them in the garden of Anatar Finwë’s palace, whispering to each other as if plotting the next prank against their uncle Arafinwë. (Last time, they had put a frog into the back of their uncle’s robes during the New Year festival, and Atto and Ammë had been quite mad at Irissë for quite a while.) He had wanted to know, though, so he had climbed up Irissë and was now hanging between the two of them, his arms on their shoulders. It would be fun, too, if he was included in their prank-planning. He could keep a secret!
Genres: Family, Hurt/Comfort Rating: G Reference: “…For I was one of those that he sent, being young in years among the Eldar. I was born here in Middle-earth in the land of Nevrast. My mother was of the Grey-elves of the Falas, and akin to Círdan himself - there was much mingling of the peoples in Nevrast in the first days of Turgon's kingship - and I have the sea-heart of my mother's people.…” (Voronwë’s speech to Tuor. The Silmarillion, Chapter 23: Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin.) Story Notes: This scene is between Nowë (Círdan) and his brother Ráwë (my OMC). The place is Ráwë’s abode in the Falas, and the timeline is the exodus of Turgon’s people from Nevrast to Gondolin. Summary: It was yet another separation… But it did not feel the easier for that, or so Ráwë felt; and his brother knew. Author’s Notes: Here is to celebrate the quarter mark of my completing the challenge… Kind of odd that the story is in a grim note; but I couldn’t help it, given the fickleness of my muse. And actually there is a background story for this, but it is not yet ready; so I am sorry if you are made confused by this, and I shall endeavour to explain things to you should you ask me via PM/E-mail/review. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “You never drew.” Nowë sits by me on the bench, waving a hand at the parchment and charcoal lying on my lap. I just toss a glance at the direction of my abode beyond the garden. And he knows. He gives me an understanding look, at any rate. “They have departed to that secret place, then?” he asks, still. I nod jerkily. Yes, my daughter, her foreign husband, and their little son are gone; all despite my pleading and reasoning for them to stay. All that is left is only a picture upon plain parchment… He smiles sadly. We know.
Genres: Action, Horror Rating: R Warnings: Death, Twisted Reasoning Summary: In the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, someone rejoiced, playing around with shiny things… ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ My mistake has been long forgotten by my master, if not forgiven, and now he is giving me a chance to redeem myself. I have never thought that it would be this enjoyable and exciting. If I did, I would not have hastened out of my dwelling behind my master’s walls when I was young. I gambol into the stream of fire and roar my jubilation to the darkened sky. Allies and enemies alike cower at my coming, bowing to the fires of my master and my own. Arrows and spears try to penetrate my hide, but they fail, glancing away from my armour – far thicker than their own pitiful clothes, shiny though they are. I am not the frail little thing that I was! But those who try to slay me must be punished. I crunch many under my iron claws, but it is not enough; I am not satisfied. Thus I open my mouth again and blow out fire from the depths of my being, watching scores and scores of my opponents being engulfed by dancing, beautiful gold. – Burning, melting… Ashes mix with the liquid metal, and I play around for a moment in those little puddles. Shiny…
Genres: Fluf, Humor, Romance Rating: G Summary: It was so, so, so fun teasing his beloved cousin about his first love, in Turukáno’s opinion. Notes: In my universe, Elenwë and Amarië are cousins, and for this drabble’s sake, let us say that Elenwë found her boy first. :) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Turukáno hid behind a tree, stifling giggles with all his might. In the clearing before him, Findaráto was awkwardly sitting with the no-less abashed Amarië.
* “What are you carving that for, cousin?” Turukáno asked Findaráto the next week, as the latter was carving a set of delicate roses from pink marble. When Findaráto refused to answer for a handful of moments already, he scrutinised the roses further, and a smile bloomed on his mischievous countenance. “I amend that,” he said. “Who are they for?” His cousin blushed as prettily as the pink roses he was carving, in Turukáno’s opinion.
Genres: Horror, Tragedy Rating: PG Warning: Implied Character Death Summary: What did Voronwë of Gondolin think upon the wrecking of the ship that had borne him? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The tempest had come upon them so suddenly, and now it was wrecking them all with the strength and will of a wounded boar… And then he was alone, brought upon a mighty waves just as abruptly, to be deposited upon a rock formation. Dazed, he looked out over the stretch of sea. Where was he? Why was he spared? His left hand, shaking with shock and grief and fear, crept up towards the pouch on his belt. It was still there, the waybread, whole and sealed. He was safe from death of starvation then, at least for a while.
Genre: Humor Rating: G Summary: Ulmo had only one term for that golden-haired Adan: “My beloved, exasperating, faithful, annoying boy…” Story Notes: References taken from the chapter Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin from The Silmarillion. There are also dialogues taken verbatim from the aforementioned chapter, done in italics. And this “storylet” was also inspired by one of Fiondil’s many stories, while also being a gift for him. Author’s Notes: I just had to write this! This particular chapter in The Silmarillion was both so grim and so humorous… Each stage of Tuor’s journey would fill a section here, as many as the limited length would allow, focusing on what (and how) Ulmo thought of him or his actions. (I giggled madly when writing most of these sections.) Beware of sarcasm aplenty! Well, because of the limited length and the nature of the idea, the form of narration is also fragmented. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ If incarnated, Ulmo would be fidgeting now. Tuor was tarrying in Dor-Lómin. And the fool! – That lad was singing and playing his harp where all could hear and see… What was in that rock he called head?
* "So my hope has cheated me! The sign in the hills has led me only to dark end in the midst of the land of my enemies." – What?! How dare he–? But Ulmo himself must not lose his own purpose. And so, with a quiet whisper to the two passing Elves, he nudged them into the lad’s direction. He felt an inexplicable pleasure though, when Tuor heeded the instructions of the two Elves and went without fear into the river-tunnel, sleeping peacefully by the water-vein, believing that the power of the water would safeguard him.
* The lad was singing and playing his harp – again. Would he just please go on without tarrying needlessly like this? His voice was sweet though, and his harping was skilful, and he was praising the leaping and churning water before him… Well, but the ravine would be flooded came morning. As pleasurable as it was to hear him sing, Ulmo must warn him— "It is a fay-voice," the lad mused aloud on hearing the sound of the seagulls. And then, "Nay, it is a small beast that is wailing in the waste"; and then"Surely, it is the cry of some nightfaring bird that I know not." — Good… Keep guessing and spend the night doing so, just in time to be swallowed by the tide…
* "Here now comes another sign that I have tarried too long!" — Ah, lad!… But at least he went again, crossing Nevrast to the sea, following those swans.
*
And finally! – The lad was there, bowing to his incarnate form, and Ulmo at last got the chance to greet him directly… Silly Tuor, he did not have to prostrate himself like that, though. Why did the lad fear him now, while he had not before? Oh well; he could interrogate the Adan later.
Genre: Action, Character Study Rating: PG Summary: Before his ship neared Middle-earth, Ingwion thought of baulking from crossing the line… Story Notes: For Ellfine (Ellie), another peek at the War of Wrath. Author’s Notes: I’m sorry that the background story is not yet finished being prove-read. But yes, there is some references to it here. And like before, I shall endeavour to explain it to you should you be confused about it. Apologies in advance! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was just within the range of a speeding arrow now… Ingwion stood on the prow of the flagship, watching across the span of waves to the deserted harbour. Soon they would have to do battle, as Ulmo had warned them of the investation of Melkor’s spawns in the once beautiful seaside settlement. Were they ready, though? It was as if there was just a thin line, a thin barrier, separating them from their very first enemies; yet it was the hardest to traverse, as he was finding now. He had never killed, never had to, since his childhood and adolescent time in Cuiviénen, and during the Great Journey to Aman. Was he ready to do so again, now? But his childhood idol had been taken by Melkor… Was there a chance he would be fighting her now? It might be just a twisted husk bearing some resemblance to her former self, but… – It was just a stone’s throw away now. Coarse yells and hideous laughter wafted towards them, accompanied by the stench of filth and decay. The enemies had spotted them. There was no more time to ponder about anything, and Ingwion was somehow glad of it. As soon as the ship came within leaping distance to the cracked quay, he leapt onto land, shouting an old Cuiviénen battle-cry. – For Lindariel, for his birthland, for the people that still lived there… Behind him, other warriors poured forth from the ship, following his lead. They had crossed the line, and it was only Eru that could save them now.
Genre: Character Study Rating: G Summary: Not all gold are heaped beneath the earth. Some do live, scattered upon it. Awaiting to ambush the ambushers, Beren appreciates one such instance. Notes: Inspired by Philosopher at Large’s interpretation on the story of Beren and Luthien. And I just found that what I have written for this theme could actually be fitted to an earlier prompt… oh well. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Red-gold hung from the branches, swaying in the chill breeze; some fell swirling, but many did not. Winter was approaching fast, but many trees yet retained their old coats. Perched in one such tree, Beren observed his surroundings in a wistful manner. Afar, he could hear the tramping and coarse noises of orcs and wargs going through the woods. They had staked out his other haunts, and winter would see him truly homeless in his own homeland. But he would like to witness this beauty one last time; something the Lord of Fetters had never managed to despoil despite everything.
Genre: Family Rating: G Summary: Eärwen was painting something strange – again. But anyhow, her father could not say that he did not enjoy it, although he could never say of what nature her paintings were… Reference: “and he had also from his Telerin mother a love of the sea and dreams of far lands that he had never seen.” (The Silmarillion, The Shibboleth of Fëanor.) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ “The view is… unique, daughter. Where is it?” Halting, Eärwen looked up, meeting her father’s gaze. Giving him an amused smile, she said, “Somewhere out there. At least I think so.” Olwë shook his head, but he could not resist the temptation of a vacant stool set beside his daughter’s own work-bench. Saying nothing more, he scrutinised her latest project as she returned to giving the painting some last touches. It was that of a field of foreign flowers, with a distant blueish mountain as background, lit up by some light that was like yet unlike the rays of Laurellin.
Genre: Family Rating: G Summary: How to tame the raging flame of a certain Finwiel? Only Findaráto knew, it seemed… ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The five siblings gathered around in their favourite clearing, doing what each of them liked. And as per usual, a topic circulated among them as they lazed around or worked. This time, it was goals. Artanis started it, grumbling about the overlooked Finwion daughters, exploding into a full tirade when her older brothers teased her about it. In the end, Findaráto pounced upon her rigidly-sitting frame, still laughing, and hugged her fiercely. “Well, li’l sis, for starters, don’t you agree that we ought to hold dominion over ourselves first?” And hidden among the trees, Arafinwë their father smiled with agreement.
Genres: Friendship, Humor Rating: G Summary: It is really, really not fun at all when your friends are ganging up on you… Notes: In Silm, it was said that Daeron’s serth lettering was quite unpopular during the peacetime in Beleriand, when Melkor was imprisoned in Valinor. Here is my take on that. And in my universe, the three Ellyn were among the Unbegotten Elves. (I don’t know if Menegroth was there or not during this story; but it wasn’t yet built, as far as I remember.) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sounds of footsteps got louder in the silent hall outside. Daeron quickly hid what he had been writing under the table. Mablung appeared on the door just as he was straightening up, towing Beleg behind him. “Greetings, Squiggles,” they said in unison, each giving the scowling Daeron a wide smile. And then Beleg piped up, “What is that, under your table?” Red-faced, Daeron bit back defensively, “Nothing for you to care about. And would you just stop calling me that? I am not a worm!” Mablung grinned cheekily. Striding into the bedroom, he gave Daeron a bear-hug; meanwhile, Beleg darted to under the table. And during all that, Daeron struggled futilely in Mablung’s embrace. The three of them ended up sitting side by side on Daeron’s bed beside the table, while Beleg scrutinised the pile of parchments bound together neatly that he had seized from its hiding place. “What is this?” he asked, baffled. Trying to seize the bound volume from Beleg’s hand, Daeron growled, “What it appears.” “Well, there are squiggles inside, so what would you name it, Squiggles?” Mablung smiled. “Mableg,” Daeron grumbled under his breath. And hearing that, Beleg thumped him on the head using the sheaf of parchment. Mablung seized the volume next and looked over each sheet of the parchment carefully. “T, Æ, L – You are recording our time in the Lake?” Daeron ceased trying to grab the item, freezing in place like a cornered deer. Mablung and Beleg raised their eyebrows in sync. Then Beleg said, slowly as if thinking aloud, “I suppose we can hand such recording to someone, who will give it to another that wishes to know, without the messenger having to know about the subject in the first place.” Daeron perked up, happy and hopeful. But then Mablung piped up, “Still, there is the question of if the receiver has known of dear Daeron’s squiggles here beforehand…” The playful scuffle that ensued was heard even outside the small house. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Additional Note: “The Lake” is essentially Cuiviénen. In my universe (again), the Quendi built their first ever community around a big lake, abandoning their respective places of awakening.
Genre: Action Rating: G Summary: Well, how hard is it to catch a weak, cornered mortal? A confident someone wants to find out… ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Melkor the Almighty had given him a special task. He would accomplish it! After all, how hard it was to capture a lone mortal, weakened by pursuit and starvation? He planned to toy with the prey first. He gathered his best troop of wargs and werewolves, then set out with a great fanfare out of his new stronghold when night fell. His trackers managed to scent his prey not long after. The mortal ran away. But wargs were faster. The mortal hid in a stand of beech trees. He approached confidently. The weakling was cornered! Now it was time to show that pathetic prey who was lord here, and who owned the world… He growled, and leapt into the clump of odorous wood— And something painful that jabbed into his left shoulder told him that nothing was as he had planned. He fell down hard on the grass – smelly, smelly grass – and whimpered. Acurst mortal! As if the mere victory against the Lieutenant of Melkor was not enough, the mortal dared sing – sing! – with voice that got further and further… He wanted to snarl “Catch him!” at his troop, but found his tongue tied. Beren the Single Outlaw daunted him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Author’s Notes: Then, who is the warg? :)
Genres: Sci-Fi, Spiritual Rating: G Summary: The void that used to be the centre of Arda was no more. At last, the special, special solar system was complete with its own star… Notes: Inspired by Fiondil’s story, “The Wars of the Valar.” And here is also my interpretation on how the sun was actually formed, free of the burdens of flowery poets and zealous scribes. :) Fiondil and I happen to share quite a similar concept. Go read his work on Stories of Arda if you would find more about how the Valar form stars and all! I don’t even have a clue of how he managed to combine Silm and sci-fi so flawlessly. *grin* ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The special star formed swiftly in its orbit, powered by the last fruit of Laurellin, worked on with love and apprehention in equal measures by Lady Varda and Lord Aulë. It expanded and blazed forth, reflected in different hues by all the planets that circled around it. Arien took her place with solemn joy, forsaking her earthly raiment and letting her aura burn bright, adding to the strong rays of the life-giving protector. The blue orb of Arda shone nearly as brightly with the reflection, and a part of it received its first sunrise. Valinor rejoiced. The Exiled Ñoldor cheered.
Genre: Action Rating: G Summary: A Maia of Ulmo mourns the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The mix of various peoples congregated beneath me, ill intent in their minds. The peaks in the distance were ready to vomit their fumes to battle me, like they had in the previous fight. It was so sad that history must repeat itself in this way… I watched helplessly as the fight began, and blood was spilt onto the tortured earth. It went for six turns of Arda’s rotation. And the longer I watched, the more unbearable it became to continue so. I could no longer contain myself when the fight ended at last. Melkor won. I fled, letting my fragile body disperse into rain.
Genres: Horror, Stream-of-Consciousness Rating: R Warnings: vivid thoughts of flesh-eating Summary: They feast in sunlight and moonlight. But when it is dark, it is our time to feast – at last. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Yellow Eye is sinking lower on the sky. I perk up with excitement. It is nearly time. The smelly, hurtful-eyed two-leggeds are still feasting in the clearing before me and my troop. Good, then. They have their younglings too… Reports say that the little ones’ flesh is a sweet and rare delicacy. The Yellow Eye is retreating behind the clouds, colouring them with vivid red. I lick my teeth and lips. The savour of Elven blood… An upstart slinks forward slightly in eagerness. I glare balefully at him. The gloom is settling down. We howl our own feasting song.
Genre: Family Rating: G Summary: She could not travel back to where she had been born and reared, not now: that handsome, twilit land. But her foster father had provided her this sign of hope… Notes: The storylet is told in the style of “Stay With Me.” And in my universe, Ossë is the foster father of Eärwen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Nothing and nobody was in sight, save the ever-present, ever-moving sea and the rows of beautiful “ships,” gifted to her people for their transport from the Lonely Isle to the mainland by the People of the Sea. But something had guided Eärwen’s feet from the construction site of what to be her family’s home to a secluded beach some distance from where the ships were harboured. And there, moored to an honest, sturdy post-wood standing on a small pier, another ship lay cradled by the gentle waves, embraced by the small sandy bay, alone and peerless in its smallness. She would have denied that it was at all related to her, except for the fact that the three small sails the ship owned glittered just like her hair under starlight. Her foster father had asked for a chunk of her hair before they had departed the Lonely Isle. He had not explained what the tresses would be used for… A concentration of energy solidified around her, embracing her, and a rough-but-beautiful male voice laughed. `Someday,` he promised. `Someday,` she promised to herself. Someday this tiny vessel would bring her back to her birthland. It was a token. It was enough. |
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