The scribbling sound of pencils was audible in the library. On the left sat Elladan, his eyes bound to the book in his hands. On the right sat Elrohir who was copying information from a scroll. Little Arwen sat in the middle, her attention fully focussed on the paper in front of her, pencils clutched in her hands.

'What are you drawing Ar?' Elrohir asked after a while and leaned over to have a look. 'But that is Jay of Lasgalen!'

Arwen said nothing and gave Elrohir the drawing before she left the room; her face graced with a smile.

o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

This drabble was written for Jay of Lasgalen who wished a drabble for her birthday with the twins, Legolas, if possible with the number 45. I had my mind set on writing Elrond's elflings.

Dior meets Nimloth. A drabble present for Leaward.

She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. Her steps are light and she carries herself with grace.

Lúthien Tinúviel.

But she is nothing like my mother. She is different. Her hair so dark, her skin so fair. It almost seems that this beautiful creature of the dusk, never has seen the sunlight.

Like a white blossom: shying away from the sun.

But who am I? Dior, peredhel, born from a marriage of love and sacrifice. The jewel would become her. I know what I must do, proudly I move myself forward and speak her name: Nimloth of Doriath.

'I am incredibly late in returning these scrolls.' Boromir’s face showed me worry about a fine. 'And I even did not borrow them.' He added, like if he felt ashamed of being caught with them.

I reached out my hand and with a charming smile, I signal him to give me the scrolls. He transfers the scrolls and a weight drops of his shoulders. I weigh them for a moment and he hesitates. ‘This is all; you can go. Have a nice day!’ I cheerfully add and with a smile, he leaves me behind in this room filled with knowledge.

Written for OSA Drabble Challenge #10: Creativity

Maglor's observation before they ride to war in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (Battle of Unnumbered Tears).

It is Midsummer Day, the day my brother and Fingon agreed upon to attack our enemy. I just want to wait a little longer before I fasten my helm and join my men. The wind plays with the red plume of my helm, small dust clouds sweep over the plains of Anfauglith. I watch how Celegorm and Curufin gather their men, Amrod and Amrad theirs. Caranthir joins me and together we await the signal coming from Fingon. My eyes fall on Uldor, who is behaving suspiciously. Then our banner rises, Maedhros follows suit. The beacon remains unlit: the enemy approaches.

Author notes:

Regarding Maglor’s helm and red plume:

“And Fëanor made a secret forge, of which not even Melkor was aware; and there he tempered fell swords for himself and for his sons, and made tall helms with plumes of red. Bitterly did Mahtan rue the day when he taught to the husband of Nerdanel all the lore of metalwork that he had learned of Aulë.”
(The Silmalrillion, Chapter 7, Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor)

Written for the OSA Drabble Challenge #24: The Silence Before the Storm

Mightiest singer of all. Right. And on what are they basing that? What reach does the voice of this Sindar minstrel have? Can he reach out over lands and sea? Can he keep his tone steady, firm, and encouraging when singing to strengthen your men during battle? Did he ever touch arms at all? What might granted him to sing at the Valar's court? Suddenly, my heart shrinks and I remember. For a moment, I cannot breathe, think, or stand straight. The punishment and bereavement of all that I once held strikes true and leaves me both bitter and alone.

~*~

Written for the Open Scrolls Archive Drabble Challenge #38 Common Ground.

Written for the OSA Drabble Challenge #39: Rulers

This ficlet is written for Trekqueen who asked me to drabble Maeglin for her. MEFA 2006 1st Place Races: Elves: First Age Elves

The perfect image of her started to haunt my dreams once I realised that the lady my mother always so fondly spoke off in her memories, was as beautiful as Varda's stars. The first day I saw her and watched her graceful moves, I noticed the light in her eyes and became enchanted of her melodic voice ever since. My muse through words and tales, my passion once I was close to her. Her scent, her long silken hair, her soft hands that caressed my cheek on the day my father poisoned my mother.

Ah, how I wished for your lips to touch. And how I craved to taste your sweetness, to make you mine by the bond of marriage and love. And yet, that Adan stole you away from me. From me! The righteous heir of your father's throne. Have I not fought bitter battles on behalf of your father's Kingdom? Have I not always stood by his side with council? Haven't I been your champion? All these memories are engraved in my mind and even now, my beautiful Idril, you are the only thing I can think of while the wind cannot bear my weight and the cold air encompasses my body. Death will be imminent soon, my life is laid in ruin, and yet all I want is you.

Looking Back, Looking Forward
Summary: The thoughts on friendship between Celegorm and Aredhel when both leave Valinor behind on their journey into exile.
Beta: Trekqueen
Notes: written for the OSA Drabble Challenge #60: "Weather"

The watery wind chilled him to the bone while the sea calmed down and snowflakes danced on the wind and in front of his eyes. Winter at sea, why did he never consider that before? Gone were the green forest and slopes of what was once his home. Would she return home or remember him? For a moment, Celegorm tried to imagine how Aredhel Ar-Feiniel would lift her silver-white robes off the muddy ground to leave the madness behind her.

And there he remained standing while the storm increased around him, blocking his view of the evanescing shores of Valinor.

Never before had she felt a wind this cold, and yet she marched on knowing that her people would draw strength from her courage. However, she could not believe what he had done. Friends since their childhood, her hunting friend now had an unfair advantage on her. Aredhel knew he would stay true to his heated words, that on the hither shores they would explore it together, like they did in the past years. The fell blizzard brought her back to the present and she drew comfort out of the knowledge wherever he might roam, she would feel home too.

---
Author notes: three quotes of inspiration formed the base of this small drabble series.

“There she [Aredhel] was often in the company of the sons of Fëanor, her kin; but to none was her heart's love given. Ar-Feiniel she was called, the White Lady of the Noldor, for she was pale though her hair was dark, and she was never arrayed but in silver and white.”
The Silmarillion, Chapter five, Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië

“But Aredhel had evidently told Curufin (and later Celegorm of whom she was most fond) enough of herself…”
History of Middle Earth, War of the Jewels, III Maeglin

At that time they [Celegorm & Curufin] were from home, riding with Caranthir east in Thargelion; but the people of Celegorm welcomed her and bade her stay among them with honour until their lord's return. There for a while she was content, and had great Joy in wandering free in the woodlands...
The Silmarillion, Chapter sixteen, Of Maeglin

How many more could fit into Mister Bilbo’s home? Gaffer Gamgee stood there in wonder when just five Dwarves, or so he estimated, had entered Bag End. The surprise on his master’s face made him worry for a bit. But now Gandalf and four more of them trotted the neatly kept path to the front door. There was something he had to say, but what, who was he to question his master’s visitors.

As if Gandalf read his mind, the wizard turned to face him: “There is no need to worry over your master Hamfast. He will not end up in trouble, unless he seeks it.” The last words were followed by a wink.

“Even so,” one of the Dwarves with a sky-blue hat and silver tassel responded, “maybe your master can be of use for us.”

“Let us not be impolite,” a big Dwarf with a booming, but pleasant voice, continued. “My name if Bombur, this is Bifur, Bofur and this high Dwarf is named Thorin.”

Straightening his back, Gaffer Gamgee brushed of his filthy hands to his pants and offered a hand. After shaking all of them, he felt more assured about the presence of Master Bilbo’s company so far.

“If you do not mind, Hamfast.” Gandalf broke the silence, “we cannot let Bilbo wait too long.”

“No no, of course not, Mister Gandalf, forgive me my impoliteness.” Stepping backwards quickly, he let the visitor’s continue on the path. But the big Dwarf leaned in and whispered, “Do not worry so, Mister Gamgee, I will make sure no harm will come to your Master. You can take my word on this.”

“Thank you mister Bombur.” Gamgee whispered back in surprise, “and I will take care of his garden the best way I can.”

“Agreed!” Both spoke in unison.

--

For the community Drabble Madness I received the following assignments: Lord of the Rings- write a drabble about Funny Character Names. You can make it a single (100 word), double (200 word), or triple (300 word)drabble. Alassante gave me this: Rhapsody - Any Sackville-Baggins or the Gaffer. I added a couple of Dwarves to the mix and another guest as well.

Blind pain

Anger, fury, pain: nature roared. Celeborn heard the mallorns scream out their anguish and he scolded himself for not noticing this earlier. The sickening sound of a sword meeting wood made his legs refuse to continue, but the tormented fëa screamed for help. Once his feet brought him there, Celeborn gasped at the carnage inflicted by steel. Did he not know that there was no blame for what happened to Celebrían? Nearing him with caution, he barely avoided the sharp blade.

“Enough Elrohir.” Celeborn hissed and stayed his sword arm. One exchange, no words, and Celeborn knew Elrohir came undone.

Inner pain

I have failed, invaluable. I killed every Orc in my path … Where did I go wrong?

Lunging once more with his sword, Elrohir kept hitting the target in blind fury. Splinters tickled his skin as he blocked all sounds coming from it. The fluid of his target coated his fingers, but he did not care anymore. The thought of his mother leaving him for Valinor made him feel angry and torn. Sensing someone near, he recognised him.

"Enough Elrohir."

Two words spoken quenched the fury and with a silent cry, he fell on his knees: hoping to be forgiven.

Author notes:
I originally wrote it from two perspectives: first from Elrohir’s, but I thought that Celeborn’s perspective should go first. This work is drabbled for the OSA drabble challenge #25: Good Guys Doing Bad Things. This version is re-edited, all mistakes in this edition are mine. I owe many thanks to Isil Elensar for finding the right words and her help with the first version!

Ah, the pure essence of fire: it kindles our hearts, fuels our desire, and forms the basis of my craft. Fire burnt through my body when I made love to my wife, the fire in our words marked our last goodbye. Fire lit the courtyard in the dark where father spoke words so true and proclaimed the Oath that we must fulfil. Fire is the source of creativity driving me to forge weapons so crafty, but also lends itself as the perfect weapon of destruction. Now the fire burns the white ships, which gives me closure and determines our path.

The theme of this drabble are Curufin's thoughts at Losgar and was issued for the OSA drabble challenge #77, Inner Monologue. Thanks to Trekqueen for the quick lookover!

The ever-changing tide refused to return what belonged to him. In his dreams, he heard it whisper: in his nightmares it lashed out to him repeatedly. Yet, the sea called to him, beckoning for surrender and to return home for his judgement. The Bard could not and remained where it once hit the waters, recalling exactly where it drifted shortly on the wild waves before it sank into Ossë’s sheltering arms. This was his eternal vigil, Oath keeper to the end of Arda, remaining assured that none would delve into the dark expanse, daring to claim it as their own.

This is Maglor on the shores of Middle Earth while still remaining true to the Oath. And yet this is another exploration of his reasons to linger on the shores while the jewel dwells in the ocean. Written for the OSA drabble challenge #59 "Swimming"

My sword sings it own song as I follow through my motions as a graceful dance. Never before had I thought to use this weapon thusly as it cuts through the flesh of my so-called kin. Even though we are not bound by blood, it now mingles in an unforgivable manner for a cause of great importance. Us, the sons of Fëanor, now driven by our promise to stand by our father in this treacherous hour. Haughtiness may be their pardon; sadness strikes my heart to know that we will never extend our hand and skill in fond friendship again.

Author afterword and thanks:

Personally I can't say which Feänorian is speaking here. It might be Maedhros, or Maglor or Caranthir or Celegorm or... I leave it up to the reader to decide.

This drabble was inspired by the following citation coming from The letters of Tolkien: 131 To Milton Waldman

The sons of Feanor take a terrible and blasphemous oath of enmity and vengeance against all or any, even of the gods, who dares to claim any part or right in the Silmarilli. They pervert the greater pan of their kindred, who rebel against the gods, and depart from paradise, and go to make hopeless war upon the Enemy. The first fruit of their fall is war in Paradise, the slaying of Elves by Elves, and this and their evil oath dogs all their later heroism, generating treacheries and undoing all victories.

Thank you all who reviewed and those who left such encouraging reviews during the MEFA 2006. I am deeply honoured with the two awards I received for this work: the 1st place in First Age and Prior, Fixed-length Ficlet and the author award for the 3rd place in First Age and Prior, Fixed-length Ficlet. Thank you reviewers: you are amazing.

Many thanks to Minuialeth, Robinka, Alassante, Aearwen, Isil Elensar, Dawn Felagund, Trekqueen and Ghettoelleth (and perhaps many more) for the endless support and friendship. My love and thanks goes out to my husband and son, for giving me the wings to fly and let me dream.

There it was again, the lament carried on the wind, coming from overseas and determined to reach her. Of all that she bequeathed him, this was something he developed on his own. Over the years, his voice mirrored his mood. But she knew him, her very own Makalaurë, left behind on the shores on the other side of Arda. This time, she could no longer withstand it. Climbing out of her bed, and descending the stairs quickly, she ran to the sea facing east. Ignoring the cold water that surrounded her legs, Nerdanel started to sing her wish to him.

~~~~

Author's afterwords:

This was written for the OSA Drabble Challenge #32: Left Behind

Makalaurë: Maglor’s mother name, gifted by Nerdanel
Source: History of Middle Earth book twelve: Peoples of Middle Earth, Late writings, XI. The Shibboleth of Feanor.

About Maglor’s singing skills:
The seven sons of Fëanor were […]; Maglor the mighty singer, whose voice was heard far over land and sea…
Source: the Silmarillion: Chapter Five – Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië

Maglor’s fate:

And it is told of Maglor that he could not endure the pain with which the Silmaril tormented him; and he cast it at last into the Sea, and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret beside the waves. For Maglor was mighty among the singers of old, named only after Daeron of Doriath; but he came never back among the people of the Elves. And thus it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters.
Source: the Silmarillion: Chapter Twenty-Foure – Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath

About Nerdanel’s refusal to go with Fëanor:

Later, as Fëanor became more and more fell and violent, and rebelled against the Valar, Nerdanel, after long endeavouring to change his mood, became estranged. (Her kin were devoted to Aule, who counselled her father to take no part in the rebellion. 'It will in the end only lead Fëanor and all your children to death.') She retired to her father's house; but when it became clear that Fëanor and his sons would leave Valinor for ever, she came to him before the host started on its northward march, and begged that Fëanor should leave her the two youngest, the twins, or one at least of them. He replied: 'Were you a true wife, as you had been till cozened by Aule, you would keep all of them, for you would come with us. If you desert me, you desert also all of our children. For they are determined to go with their father.' Then Nerdanel was angry and she answered: 'You will not keep all of them. One at least will never set foot on Middle-earth.' 'Take your evil omens to the Valar who will delight in them,' said Fëanor. 'I defy them'. So they parted.
Source: History of Middle Earth book twelve: Peoples of Middle Earth, Late writings, XI. The Shibboleth of Fëanor.

“Bring the horses, we will pass the hills near Eithel Sirion and intercept them.” I know they will regard me as a dissident opposing my father. Knowledge of our enemy is scarce under these starlit skies and I cannot ignore the voices of those birds that speak of evil approaching.

They must think I am mad in my adamant refusal to waste time on a discussion with Atar and will undoubtly see me as an instigator in this divided house. I rather leave now and face a rebuke in the morrow in order to rescue us from a sudden death.

There the armies of Morgoth that had passed south into the Vale of Sirion and beleaguered Círdan in the Havens of the Falas came up to their aid, and were caught in their ruin. For Celegorm, Fëanor's son, having news of them, waylaid them with a part of the Elven-host, and coming down upon them out of the hills near Eithel Sirion drove them into the Fen of Serech.
From The Silmarillion: Chapter 13, The return of the Noldor

This scene has always intrigued me what Celegorm decide if the knowledge of this army would reach him. Why did he gather his own army to waylay and drive these Orcs into the Fen of Serech without his other brothers or his father?

This was drabbled for the Word of the Day-drabble project of the Silmarillion Writers Guild where we attempt at writing a drabble or other short fiction every day, based on the Dictionary.com Word of the Day.

The word on the 27th of June 2007:

factious FAK-shuhs, adjective:

1. Given to faction; addicted to form parties and raise dissensions, in opposition to government or the common good; turbulent; seditious; prone to clamor against public measures or men; -- said of persons.

2. Pertaining to faction; proceeding from faction; indicating, or characterized by, faction; -- said of acts or expressions; as, factious quarrels.

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

It was simply amazing: a small child this delicate and complete. Amras tried to look up to the doting parents but could not break away his gaze from this little creature who slept contentedly in his arms, completely unaware of the rest of the world. Amras knew that long ago many gazed down on him in the same manner as they imparted words of wisdom despite the fact that he was the seventh son of Fëanor. Yet, he knew that his brother was new to this, the excitement in his voice followed by the realisation that he would be responsible for this baby’s future.

What would await this little one? Would his fate be different than theirs? If they wouldrestore the honour of this House, this small baby would have a blissful life. Their lives suddenly became so different after their grandfather was brutally murdered.

We simply must, Amras thought to himself once he handed the child to his brother. If we manage to achieve this, peace would return in their hearts and loves would be rekindled. Then all could start anew with regained energy and love. At least for this little one’s future, he was willing to try.

This double drabble is written for Isil Elensar ánd for Seven in '07 project for the Silmarillion Writers Guild.

Injustice is relatively easy to bear; it is justice that hurts.
~H.L. Mencken

Oh, how he hated this. The sling limited his movements, leaving him wondering if he ever could pull the bowstring taut after his arm would heal. How did it come to this: a wounded army scattered and humiliated as the unexpectedly trustworthy Naugrim held their rearguard. The sour defeat; the not knowing and fleeing, even though all knew there had been no other option.

Celegorm shifted uneasily and watched how his younger brothers huddled around the campfire bandaged and sore. None had spoken much once the sun sank, tired as they all were, but not as restless as he was.

“Thusly we wander as leaves before the wind,” Maglor said once they released the men from duty, eager as they were to see what was left of their homes. Now here they sat, the seven mighty sons of Fëanor, once glorious scions of a mighty house passing through the green woods of the Laiquendi who refused to be lead. Something needed to be done. Maedhros’ eyes glared at him once he rose to his feet, knowing that a warning should follow suit. None came.

“Will you even refuse to lead us, brother?” Celegorm whispered and knew his time had come.

Maglor’s line comes from The Silmarillion, Chapter 20 Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad where professor Tolkien writes: The realm of Fingon was no more; and the sons of Fëanor wandered as leaves before the wind.

This is the full quote:

The realm of Fingon was no more; and the sons of Fëanor wandered as leaves before the wind. Their arms were scattered, and their league broken; and they took to a wild and woodland life beneath the feet of Ered Lindon, mingling with the Green-elves of Ossiriand, bereft of their power and glory of old.

This double drabble is written for Seven in '07 project for the Silmarillion Writers Guild. Fabulous beta for this piece: Trekqueen

Duty, Honor, Country: Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, and what you will be.

-- Gen. Douglas MacArthur, speech to the USMA cadets, 1962

Duty

It is my plight, being his son, to follow him wherever he would lead us. Duty lay heavily on me and his gaze - unrelenting, steadfast, and determined – there would not discharge from it. This is what I was ought to be, leaving all doubts behind me. Duty defines us: it is in our blood, the tears we shed as we sought our way out of here, forever seeking the light that he stole from us, demanding nothing more than the truth. None shall understand me; I know this, and many shall place us in darkness with the evil we fought.

Honour

I embraced the highest moral law in all I have done and still will do: fighting for what is right, sacrificing all I ever wanted for the noblest cause thinkable. For honour, I faced death in battle and danger, often wondering or questioning the restraints placed upon us in his design. All have called upon me, and I gave all accordingly, forever praying for peace each time I pick up my bow and draw my sword to fight the darkest foe. None shall understand me; the sufferings I faced and tried to bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.

Country

These green lands and long beaches, this is what I inherited: an inevitable end after all that has passed. I cannot return to whence I came, the shadow always remained serving as a warning to remain vigilant for his return. Yet, old memories haunt me: those of glorious victories and profound loss as those who I had sworn to protect fell away. Sometimes I still hear the crashing of sword upon armour, the roaring sounds of creatures and dangerous fires scorching my neck. Always defending, never yielding. None will understand how three words defined my life: Duty, Honour, and Country.

When Elrond entered the library and observed the cosy scene before him, he smiled to himself. Luxuriating in front of the fireplace would always be his small friend's favourite activity. These days his companion no longer struggled to survive; his tasks were just to entertain: snuggling in laps or allowing many just to pet him. As Elrond walked to his favourite chair –worn by his little friend’s frequent visits – he merely brushed away some of the hair and loose threads. The little champion had noticed his entrance and stretched out languorously on the rug before the hearth. Knowing his friend long enough to accept this invitation, he knelt down to pick the feline up from the floor. Once both settled in the chair, Elrond remembered the day that he brought his little friend with his impressive ancestry here.

Long ago, a messenger handed him a tiny ball of fur that had grown into the sleek creature now purring on his lap. There was not much time, and a hastily written note was exchanged: Eregion had fallen and with his own stronghold besieged; the times were dark and dire. Even if he might have considered declining to foster this feline, Elrond could not help to think how once someone took pity upon him when he and his brother had been left alone in the world. Who was he to deny such a humble request? Celebrimbor clearly had loved this kitten, that much was obvious. The famous elf had stated in his note that this little one was the last thing that reminded him of Aman and its bliss. Could Elrond please make sure that his beloved creature would be treated in a humble and yet kind manner?

Such a request was never needed since the cat never showed any sign of haughtiness. Miuro simply became his own spokesperson. He treated everyone with kindness and as an equal, making those who welcomed such attention them feel special. Some envied those who had garnered the cat’s companionship: that much influence did his friend have over the good people of Rivendell.

From the first day the cat left the safe hiding place under Elrond's coat and placed his furry paws on Rivendell ground, Miuro won over many hearts including Elrond’s. It gave Elrond the opportunity to return the generosity and kindness he craved for so long ago and received it with so much love.

Story Notes: Written for the LOTR-gen fic community challenge July 2009 - Some like it hot. My element: 399 words. My wonderful beta is Pandemonium, thank you so much!

After having found his shelter on the isle of Balar, a messenger delivers a memory from the past.

For long he had wished never to see it again. When asked, none could tell him who delivered this errand; only that messenger had worn a dark cloak and that a hood obscured its face. It mattered not: what lay on the cloth in front of him told more than enough. So it did happen: his mighty father perished in forsaken battle. 

His fingers traced the engraved runes which were entwined by his grandfather’s sigil: he remembered the day that his father had crafted the then forbidden weapon. Surely its craftsmanship was the best, yet he wondered how many were slain by it, wielded by his father? 

With care he turned the blade around, still remembering how he would sit quietly in the corner of the forge counting how often the steel was folded over and over again until his father believed that it was adequate. Then there was the scabbard: one of the few things left to him that reminded him of his mother. Her smile, the look of love in her eyes as she gifted it to him. For long the evidence of their love had given him hope that his father would not stoop so low. They had parted with high hope in their hearts, would she await him there?

Celebrimbor sighed deeply: he had renounced him. Firmly and steadfast he had looked his father in the eye. Their love, could he turn back on that? Their only son and heir? Where was the hope? Quietly he slid the sword into the scabbard and then buckled the belt around his waist: the future was his to claim.

Written, although I missed the deadline ahem, for the MPTT July 2013 Fixed-Length-Ficlet Challenge: Time in a Bottle. My assigned word count: 270 words.

A heartfelt thanks to the members of the Lizard Council who went over this little tale.