Story Notes:
Annatar is, of course, Sauron. But we are not provided with the name of his Nazgûl, only that one of them was once called Khamûl. So I made this one up.

Author’s Notes:
I do not know if the timeline is right. Please tell me if I did it wrong. And here is my attempt to write something based on something I do (not) have an interest in. I hope you will enjoy it all the same; and pardon the twisted answer to the theme.
Sincerely,
Rey

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The smile was sweet and honest in seeming. Tohren hesitated. He was quite tempted by what Annatar offered him.

Immortality! Who in the race of Men did not wish for immortality? The Elves mocked them all by the prattle about death as Eru’s gift to Men. It was so easy for them – they were immortals! But few Men would pursue this ambitious goal.

Could he acquire himself a place among the said few people? Would he?

He was one of the chieftains trusted to rule their overseas holdings by the King of Númenor himself. He had a beautiful and charming wife and delightful, intelligent children, as well as privileged authority and a great wealth. Would he sacrifice them all for this one chance?

Annatar smiled encouragingly, hopefully, at him from his seat across the low table of his parlour. The beautiful diamond ring, glittering with the reflection of the lamp hanging above them, still sat invitingly on the centre of the table, and Tohren could not help laying a covetous look on it once in a while. The ring was his key to immortality and more power and wealth than what he had now, Annatar had said, and this was but a one-stand offer.

Tohren could not stand the thought of the ring passing to another man, just because he was too cowardly to take it for himself. He would not be able to suffer dying knowing that someone else had the immortality he so desired.

With a smile torn between sadness, glee and determination, he leant forward slightly on his seat and picked up the ring. He fitted it to his middle finger, and admired the look of it on his hand for a moment.

He was immortal now.

Title: “No, Thank You.”

Author: Eärillë

Rating: G

Warnings: First Draft, Sensitive Topics

Summary:
Elrond refused to be the next high king of the Ñoldor for a very, very valid reason, and it was not all for reasons of disinterest or honour.

Genres: Character Study, Dark Humor, Satire, Vignette

Place and Timeline: Eriador, Middle Second Age

Characters: Elrond, Ñoldorin Elves

Words (in MS Word): 335

Point of View: Third Person Limited, Past Tense

Challenge: Day 22: Erebor:
Refugee issues are our issues; their plight is our plight. Write a story or poem or create artwork that illustrates the situation of some displaced group in Middle-earth.

Story Notes:
Companion piece to my story “Veils.” And like the main story, this ficlet sort of pokes fun at the Ñoldor. Not that I as the author despise them, though…

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Elrond bit his lower lip, trying to contain his exasperation and anger. He had only spent several days in the company of the refugees from lost Eregion, but already he wished he were drowned in the Great Sea – or better, dead together with many other people in the Havens of Sirion. Ñoldor—! Well, he was a quarter Ñoldo himself, but he fancied himself not as rowdy and prideful as these people.

And now, the ellon who had been yammering orders at him as if he were the ellon’s servant, who had just gotten the idea that he should get a tent of his own, shouted at him again… and about the same thing.

Elrond halted his steps and closed his eyes, swallowing a trickle of blood flowing from his hard-bitten lip. – `Belain – help me!` – Could he escape somewhere? But no, Ereinion had entrusted this task to him most faithfully. And besides, there were some refugees that were not so unbearable as Narpilindo.

Well, not so unbearable, but still with their own attitude problems…

“Hey, half-breed, do you have any lunch for us? It is noon already!”

– `Belain!` – “I apologise, Miss. Our rations are running low.” – `And I am a healer, not a cook!`

And still, he had to face his patience, who also only had complaints when they were awake and not moaning their pain, especially an ill-raised youth they said was named Cúmelen. That boy had even annoyed the usually-calm Erestor, and worked his captain Fimlin into fits of colourful ranting – without trying!

But working with them bore him a silver lining also: Now he could firmly say no to Ereinion if the High King again wheedled him into becoming his heir – not merely his regent. Something like this was quite enough for his long lifetime, thank you very much.

– “Hey, where are you going, Sinda? Look after my daughter, will you?”

And here he thought he would just finish his duties in the healing tent and retire briefly to his own bedroll…