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Elfling Insights Written for the "50 Passages" challenge on LiveJournal. Rating: G In the cool shade of a graceful beech tree, a diminutive figure sat hunched over an array of miniature toy soldiers. All had been carefully carved from wood, and one was in the rather grubby hands of the small figure, who was meticulously painting it with all the concentrated care of a dedicated elfling. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as a remarkably steady hand lowered a pointed sable brush to mark the iris of his very own Turgon, which bore a very close likeliness to the real figure of legend since it was carved by one who had served under him. Suddenly, the hurried treading of swift Elven feet could be heard in the distance. The elfling paid it no heed, instead turning the figure around to search for any missed spots. After a few heartbeats, the footsteps flew back the way they came, followed by several pairs of equally swift and nearly noiseless feet. When Elrohir happily placed his completed Turgon amidst Ecthelion and Wee Glorfindel (he called him thus so as not to confuse it with the much bigger model), there was what sounded like a full-fledged ruckus taking place in the usually tranquil Last Homely House. Elrohir debated whether or not to inquire as to what all the commotion was about, and finally decided against it, since Elemmakil was still missing his hair. But enlightenment nonetheless came, in the form of one of the innumerable scribes employed by his father speeding over the garden trail a few paces from Elrohir’s Little Gondolin shouting, “Master Erestor will have our hides! And that is nothing compared to when Lord Elrond finds out! We shall search the valley from head to foot and peer under every pebble…” the last could have been ‘petal’, as the scribe was a considerable distance down the slope by then and seemed determined to carry out his words. It took no great amount of genius to work out that his twin was ‘playing’ with the scribes again. Usually Elrohir left him to what seemed to be his favourite past-time, but today he really wanted to finish Little Gondolin so that he could play with Glorfindel later. And his ada had promised to get him a Little Menegroth when he finished Gondolin. So he wiped his hands and ambled down the garden trail. Strangely enough, he now could not find any of those scribes, and the reason came into view a second later, as Erestor came out of the main section of the House. “Good morn, little one,” the chief counsellor greeted Elrohir. Seeing the paint on his arms, he added, “I see you have been painting your figures again. It is certainly a fine day to be outside in. Were you looking for someone?” “I am not, but your scribes are,” the elfling answered honestly. “They were running around earlier looking for Elladan.” Erestor frowned. “They have lost your brother?” “I think Elladan lost them. It is a game he plays.” Realising that he did not want either his brother or the scribes to get into trouble, he added, “He doesn’t mean any harm by it, and the scribes are doing their best.” Erestor sighed, and affectionately smoothed back Elrohir’s hair. “I know, little one, but it is quite vexing to have to go look for your brother, when I have so many important things to do.” He smiled. “I daresay you have the makings of a fine diplomat, however.” Elrohir smiled shyly. “Well, if you do not wish to look for him, he is that way.” The elfling pointed down to a lower level of the valley. “I think he is hiding in that grove of trees near the smithy.” The councelor’s eyebrows rose, and he looked towards where Elrohir was pointing. Then he smiled. “My thanks, little one, for the information.” A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “I daresay my scribes need a little exercise, if they cannot keep an eye on one elfling. I think I shall leave them to look for him, though I will send a message to the smiths so that they can keep an eye on him.” Elrohir nodded, and returned to his work. He didn’t know why everyone always made such a big fuss over where his twin was. After all, they only needed to ask him.
When a Peredhel Falls Written for the "50 Passages" LJ community. Rating: G The Sun dipped and vanished, and as if at the shuttering of a lamp, black night fell. At least, it fell on Estel, in the rather abrupt form of a Half-Elf twin. Which, in retrospect, was only slightly better than having both twins land on him. When the Elrond’s fosterling came to, said Half-Elf was gently patting his face with a concerned expression. Estel dimly wondered if he would suffer a concussion, and thought it likely if he, a limber yet still growing 15-year-old human, was used as a cushion by a fully-grown Peredhel. He belatedly realised that his brother was saying something to him, and managed to tune his ears in just as Elrohir was saying, “…but the shower this morning left the bark of the tree rather wet and slippery, and I was trying to keep my robes from getting wet- you know how ada is about us appearing at dinner presentable- and my hand lost its grip on the branch-“ “Peace, brother,” interjected Estel before the effort of keeping up with his brother’s words gave his concussion a concussion as well. He took a calming breath. He loved his foster family, and was honoured that the sons of Elrond treated him as a real brother, but along that came the inconvenience of them forgetting that he was a mere human. Most of the time this was due to his own deliberations, for he ever pushed himself to be their equal in all things, and scowled at any reminders of the deficiencies in physical ability that came with his mortal state, but at the end of the day he was still only human, and not as hardy as his brothers. Well, his body may be more prone to injury, but that did not mean his mind was any less keen. “Now that you’ve explained how you came off the tree,” Estel said, “would you care to indulge why you were up there in the first place?” “Would you believe me if I said it was because I wanted to examine the health of this fine specimen of beech here?” “In your formal robes? I think not.” The Half-Elf chuckled. “Very well, I was endeavouring to escape the attentions of that horde of ellyth that Lorien has just shipped to us. The Valar know where my twin is hiding, though I daresay he finds one or two of those maidens pleasing to the eye.” He pulled Estel to his feet, and brushed off some fallen leaves that had attached themselves to the young Man’s clothes. “Come, if you are with me perhaps I can feign taking my injured brother to the healers.” “I am not injured!” Estel protested, though his head gave a throb of protest. “That, my brother, can be easily remedied.” Elrohir laughed when Estel tried to give him a playful punch on the shoulder, which he easily evaded. “And I am quite certain you have a concussion, at least.” Estel waved a hand dismissively. “Since when have you gone to a healer for a simple concussion?” “Why do you think ada insisted for all of us to learn the healing arts? I can no longer recall how many times I evaded the healers only to face the ministrations of my twin!” The two laughed merrily as they strolled through Elrond’s twisting garden paths, the last tendrils of light disappearing from the darkening sky above. After several minutes of walking in a companionable silence, the heaviness in Estel’s head abated somewhat, and he suddenly said, “Elrohir, may I ask you a personal question?” “Of course, little one.” “Why have you never married?” Elrohir grinned. “Is this a round-about way of asking me to introduce you to some of those ellyth?” “Tôr!” Laughing, Elrohir dodged another attempt to punch him. Seeing that Estel was determined to get an answer, however, he sobered. “I simply have had no desire to, little one. Perhaps I have not yet found the one for whom I am destined for.” “Naneth says that it is not always a case of destiny. Her sister has married twice, when her first husband died young, but she loves them both.” “Ah, but who is to say that she was not destined for both?” Elrohir reached out and ruffled Estel’s already unruly mane of hair. “But Gilraen is wise, for love can just as easily grow from strong friendship and a mutual regard between two people. Yet it is the way of the Peredhil, little brother, to love only one and only once in their lifetimes. Ada says that this is why his brother chose the Doom of Men. Ada was hurt that his brother would choose to sunder them until the world is re-made, but eventually understood when he himself met Naneth.” “It sounds perilous, this condition of yours,” Estel commented. Elrohir chuckled. “Love is always perilous, little one. And what do you mean ‘this condition of ours’? You are of our kin, too, remember?” The young Man frowned. “I appreciate how much you’ve come to see me as your family, Elrohir, but your kindness cannot change my blood.” For the shortest moment, Elrohir’s face flitted from confusion to a careful impassiveness. Then he broke into a smile once more. “But you know that Gilraen is of the Dunedain, and the house of Elrond is ever tied to the exiles of Numenor. So you are kin, little one.” Estel nodded. “I suppose so.” In the distance, the bell signalled that dinner in the House was to start in ten minutes. “Do I look presentable enough for dinner?” “Have you taken a bath this week?” “Tôr!” “Yes, you do!” Elrohir managed to get out in the midst of his laughter. “Just wipe your boots before you go in. I, on the other hand, must change my robes, so I shall see you at the table.” Estel nodded and sped down the path towards the Last Homely House. Elrohir watched him go, the amusement on his face morphing into an expression of relief once the young Man had disappeared through the door. “Close one,” he muttered under his breath, and followed.
A Fateful Acquaintance Written for the "There and Back Again" workshop (Exercise #1). Rating: G “And who is this likely young Man with you, my old friend?” Said young Man could only stare wide-eyed at the magnificent creature addressing him. None could have guess at that moment that he was a ship captain of his own right, with a great ship and two galleons to his name. And his expression would have better suited a youth, not a Man who was already as tall as his sire and still showed promise of sprouting up even further. His father sighed, and placed a gentle fatherly hand on his son’s shoulder. “Gil-Galad, this is my son, Elendil.”
Title: A Wizard's Wish 'Indeed, of all the Istari, only one remained faithful, and he was the last-comer.' Of five, only one returns. The white-clad figure moved not a muscle, continuing his rapt contemplation of the slender shape growing once again in the Court of the White Tree in Minas Tirith. “So it seems,” he commented after a long moment, a ring of smoke rolling out from between his slightly parted lips. Though he had the ability to converse with the unseen speaker purely through thought, he preferred to abide by the limitations of his mannish body, and- as a certain Took once told him- had grown fond of the sound of his own voice. He sighed in affection and melancholy, for this was yet another sign that his time in the mortal world was drawing to an end. How? “Unless I am granted wings, I daresay I will be returning by ship.” A sullen silence was the response to his somewwhat mischievous statement. Then a strong breeze picked up his cloak and sent it flapping about him, and the sudden wind carried to his ears the sound of thunder rumbling over a distant Mountain. Chuckling, he said softly, “I have learned now that there is nothing more perilous than love. Curumo fell to his love of self, and of power over those he perceives as lesser beings. Aiwendil has come to love Yavanna’s bounties. Alatar and Pallando ventured East and came never back; perhaps they found something there that they loved greater than even the hunts of Oromë.” You remain as incorrigible as of old. The Wizard smiled at hearing the note of fond resignation. Strange are the turnings of fate, that it is the last-comer who prevails at the end. Many doubted your fitness for the task, and your roguish ways hardly dissuaded them of their views. You were always too stubborn, and too much of a wanderer. "Then why did you call for me, at the council?" Your memories return to you? Then you must remember that you declared yourself too weak for the task. I saw your humility of spirit, and knew without doubt that you would be the best suited of the five. And lo! You have done well beyond all hope, and deserve a fit reward for your long labours. What is your dearest wish, my old friend? I would fulfil it, if it is within my power. In truth, he had not, thinking himself content with the destruction of Sauron and all his evil works and seeing the nobility of the race of Men renewed, but at that moment he knew without doubt what it would be, as if a shaft of light had landed suddenly upon a hidden treasure that had been long sought-after. It was fortunate that, aside from the ceremonial guards- who knew better than to meddle in the affairs of Wizards, especially in the early hours of twilight- the Courtyard was devoid of people, for Gandalf the Grey suddenly let loose a hail of laughter that rivalled the tinkling Fountain in its freedom and sweetness of sound. “There is one thing I would ask for,” he managed to say at last, wiping tears from his eyes. “When I leave these shores, I wish to take a Hobbit with me.” He sobered a little, for his wish had solemn reasons behind it as well. “Perhaps two.” He thought of Frodo’s slow waning, imperceptible yet to the eyes of his hopeful friends. Time could still heal him, but Gandalf thought not. Who else was more worthy of the gift of passage? A Hobbit? But why? He was chuckling to himself as he took a last draught of his pipe. “Because, as I once told a Took, all Wizards should have a Hobbit or two in their care," he murmured lightly, and bowed to the White Tree before departing. Gandalf laughed. 'A most unquenchable hobbit! All Wizards should have a hobbit or two in their care – to teach them the meaning of the word, and to correct them. I beg your pardon. |
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