Rating: PG-13/K+

Warnings: gloomy, dark matters of war

Place&Time: Aman, First Age

Word Count (in MS Word): 751

Author’s Blabbering:

Akh! Inspired by the gloomy, desperate last days of NaNoWriMo. Blame my sulking, violated muse. I thought to give this piece formerly *cough cough* as a birthday present for someone, or to celebrate something… but it turned out too moody for any good celebration, and it did not seem fit to be a belated gift for Halloween either. Oh well. Just for… enjoyment… then.

On hindsight, someone did request the idea for her Thanksgiving gift when I asked her what she wanted. Well, then. Happy early Thanksgiving, Ellie! This is for Fiondil, KiMahalei and Larner too, and for you all out there who celebrate the day. (I do not, but I would like to give you a present, still.)

Umm. Back on track. As you could probably guess by the title, I was inspired by the song “Toy Soldiers” (by whom, I forget – sorry) along the way. Later, I might do more pieces in this manner. This one does not really qualify as a song fiction, though. Tell me what you think about the story? :puppy eyes:

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Like Toy Soldiers

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“I half-wished you would accompany me to the battle, Sister. I… I am going to need all the steady support I could get… and you can defend yourself very well – better than I. Fionwë is sometimes too flighty even for himself.”

“Do not speak thus of your brother, little eagle star. And you know how I always avoid bloodshed and hurting anyone whenever I can.”

“It is true nonetheless.”

The warrior, usually of proud bearing and mannerism, was reduced into a languid stretch of fair body in the lap and arms of his older sibling, not unlike a small disconsolate child. Distress was written plainly on his countenance, but there was a glimmer of warmth in his mellowed eyes as he reclined there, in what his triplet brothers and himself had dubbed as a living, breathing safe haven. They were seated on a bench in the deserted banquet hall, stalling from the last preparations for war.

But eventually the time rushed to meet them, and they reluctantly parted.

Two figures stood in the sidelines, watching warriors and some scores of healers from both Elven and Maiarin origins boarded the ships under the shadow of night. Many of the Elves would return through the way of death, and it was not impossible that some unfortunate Maiar would be severely maimed; it would be a war in nearly-Ainurin scale, after all.

Ilmarë tightened her arm winding around her remaining brother’s shoulder. Together, she and Lúnwë watched the bustles on the quays from a low cliff jutting out of the water nearby. From there, she could still feel the somberness and solemnity weighing the tangy night air down, emanating from those who were leaving their fortified homeland to a distant war and those who were left behind.

A trumpet blared from the far side of the harbour, replied by others in various intervals of pauses and hesitation. A large banner was thrust to the clear starry sky, mounted on a rigging meant for that very purpose. The period of preparation had ended. One by one, the swan-headed ships glided forwards on the gentle waves, propelled by a steady wind behind their large, magnificent sails.

She had glimpsed a pair of bright, excited eyes and an eager mouth blowing into the first trumpet afar, attached to the same face she knew so well, which was nearly a duplicate of that of the little brother standing within the shelter of her comfort. She had also glimpsed a pair of shaking hands tugging almost petulantly at the rigging so that the large banner climbed up to its final perch on the peak of the main mast somewhere behind the trumpetter.

She knew him very well too. Apparently, confessing to her and spending a long moment just being a spoiled little brother for once had not alleviated some weight from his burdened soul.

They were going away, two of her three little brothers, the souls trusted into her love, care and safekeeping by their Father. Would they come back unharmed? The reserved, rather stilted but actually soft-hearted Eönwë; the bold, cheery, impetuous Fionwë…

“When will they come back, do you think?” Lúnwë’s quiet, uncertain murmur penetrated the silence long after the fleet’s departure. The underlying meaning did not miss Ilmarë.

She could not answer. She would not. The stark reality of what a violent war and its exploits could bring was standing beside her now; his soul leant heavily into her touch, just like his body did. It was too near to her heart; the pain, the anger, the burning thirst of vengeance… but, above everything, a sense of loss and taint and vulnerability. Her youngest brother, the baby in the little family of siblings, had been captured by the Enemy and tortured brutally to the point beyond repair. Would a similar fate befall her other brothers now, Lúnwë’s elder triplets?

The quays were empty, even from the occasional Teleri who wished to add something to their boats or simply enjoy the night sky and its reflection on the lapping waves beyond the reach of the lanterns’ light. The two siblings were alone physically, mentally and spiritually. The sea breeze suddenly no longer felt pleasant and warm in that desolate patch of land.

As one, their gazes swivvled towards a point far off in the east. Then, with the last heavy farewell whispered to the unwitting passangers in the sailing fleet, they disappeared from the cliff’s edge, leaving the harbour of lamp-lit Alqualondë bare from any living being.

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End Notes:

To hopefully clear some possible confusion:

Lúnwë is my original male character, whose name was suggested by Fiondil. Fionwë is my half-original character, as his name is actually Eönwë’s before Tolkien changed it.

The eldest of the triplets is Eönwë. That leaves Fionwë as the middle brother, and it is already told that Lúnwë is the youngest. Ilmarë is their sister; a much-far older sister both in age, wisdom, personality and power. As we are not told much about the Maiar, Eönwë and Ilmarë in particular, I pieced together what I could get from the brief appearances of Eönwë in Silmarillion… and practically gave a whole character to Ilmarë since it is only said that she is Eönwë’s sister and handmaid of Varda. I also took some liberty in assuming that the Ainur, among themselves and especially their own family, behave ‘humanely’ just like Elves, Men and Dwarves.

In case you were still confused: The exact timeline of the story is just before the War of Wrath; we were glimpsing the mental preparation of one of its Maiarin components.