A/N: A B2MEM 2015 prompt by Grey Wonderer for a story featuring: a discussion between Boromir and Faramir as Boromir prepares to leave for Rivendell for the council. Exactly 1000 words long.

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.

~The Fellowship of the Ring, The Council of Elrond

To Seek for the Sword

“You do not have to do this, Brother,” Faramir said, crossing his arms as he prepared himself for battle.

Midday light was streaming through the Citadel windows illuminating Boromir’s chambers. The Steward’s heir was standing beside his bed which was strewn with clothes of various colors. Boromir held a crimson tunic before him and was inspecting the flowers that were embroidered upon it in gold thread. Grimacing, he tossed it aside atop a pile at the foot of his bed.

“Indeed I do, if I am to have something appropriate to wear when I reach Imladris,” Boromir replied wryly as he chose another tunic from the pile. This one was dyed a dark green, the color of pine boughs, and was embroidered with brown vines at the cuffs and collar.

 “Fortunately, I will not be required to wear anything nice on the way there. Yet I must have at least one formal tunic for when I arrive. Imagine what Mother would have said if I were to meet Elves improperly attired? I spent most of my childhood dressed in something uncomfortable that would ‘suit my station’, at her insistence.”

 “That is not what I mean and you know it,” Faramir responded sharply, forfending his brother’s tactic of deliberately misunderstanding him.

Boromir sighed. “Have we not argued over this enough?” he implored, dropping the green tunic back on the bed and holding up a black one to examine in the light.

“Apparently not, as you have yet to listen to a word I say,” Faramir answered sardonically, successfully parrying Boromir’s appeal for peace.

“I like this one,” Boromir said idly, scrutinizing the black tunic embroidered with leaves in silver thread. “What do you think? Surely in all of your reading you have come across something that will aid me in my search for clothes that will impress Elves?” he asked lightly.

“And you still are not listening to me,” Faramir sighed, refusing to fall for the feint. “The dreams came to me first. I ought to be the one to go.”

“I am listening to you. Yet no matter what you say I will not permit you to go in my stead. If the Archive maps are accurate, I will be traveling nearly four hundred leagues over Wild and dangerous lands to seek a dale in the far North, which no one save Father has even heard of.” Boromir huffed in exasperation.

“This Rivendell which is purportedly ruled by a Lord Elrond whom is Half-elven. Tell me that does not sound like the tales Grandmother used to tell us before we went to bed? This venture is perilous at best, utter madness at worse, and all for naught but a dream.” Boromir shook his head in disbelief.               

“You do not trust the dream?” Faramir asked, truly surprised and momentarily disarmed.

“I do not put much hope in visons,” Boromir snorted disdainfully. “Especially when they say there will be counsels stronger than Morgul-spells. Have you ever seen or heard of such a counsel? Unless it means their strength is in their capacity to inspire boredom. That I might believe,” he added, chuckling.

“The dream also said that Doom is near at hand,” Faramir said softly, attempting to penetrate his brother’s defense.

“All the more reason for you to stay here where it is safe,” Boromir stated firmly, evading Faramir’s attack.

“In this I am decided. I am leaving on the morrow whether you approve or not. I did not go through all the trouble of ensuring you were brought up properly after Mother died only to have you perish in the wilderness, far from family and friend. You are my favorite brother and I shall not let anything happen to you if I have the strength and ability to prevent it,” Boromir said, his tone gentle as he pierced Faramir’s heart.

“I am your only brother,” Faramir pointed out wryly as he shook his head, conceding defeat.

“That does not preclude you from being my favorite,” Boromir rejoined primly, affecting a supercilious demeanor.

Faramir snorted and cast his eyes to the celling as his brother held up another tunic. This one was dyed indigo with the cuffs and collar woven of grey and silver threads. In the center of the stiff high collar was a single white stone. It was a moonstone the size of a walnut, polished to a fine sheen and set in silver. Crossing the room in several passes, Faramir put his hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

“You ought to wear that one,” he said.

“You do not think the black tunic more suitable?” Boromir asked.

“Nay, you cannot wear that. Your good fur lined cloak is black as are all your trousers. Too much of the same color does not go well together,” Faramir said authoritatively.

“I do not see why Father says I need a wife when I have you to tell me such things,” Boromir remarked dryly, then cried out in pain as Faramir punched his arm hard.

“I think I liked you better when you were small enough to sit on when you annoyed me,” he grumbled, rubbing his arm.

Faramir laughed and punched his brother again, more gently this time. Then he sobered, frowning as he gazed at the tunic Boromir was now folding.

“My heart forbids this journey, Brother.” He said softly. “Yet as I cannot dissuade you from it, I will remind you to take care.”

“You sound like Mother. She was always telling me to be more careful,” Boromir muttered.

“Perhaps because you were known for recklessness, even at a tender age. And you have yet to grow out of it,” Faramir returned dryly. “Promise me you will be safe?”

“I will not promise that which I cannot keep, Faramir. Yet whatever befalls I will endeavor to be careful, if only for your sake,” Boromir said with a twisted smile.

Faramir embraced his brother and, holding Boromir tightly as if might prevent him from leaving, he whispered. “Fare thee well, Brother.”

A/N: This was my first LOTR story. I wrote it when I was 18, back in 2008. To my surprise, it’s not completely terrible.

Mysterious Ways

The white stone walls of Minas Tirith gleam like true-sliver under the Moon and Stars. The air is alive with song and laughter from those who celebrate in sight of the White Tree: Men and Dwarves, Elves and Hobbits, male and female, Mortals and Immortals. Minstrels play, stories are told, food and drink are served, jokes are made, and many dance. The joy in their hearts washes away the bitterness of recent hardships from their faces. 

Though there is still much work to be done, all present are merry for the Dawn has finally come. The Darkness is banished, the Shadow, gone. For the evil that has assailed all that is good for two Ages of the world has, at long last, been defeated. Tonight is a party for the arrival of the Lady Arwen, soon to be wife of the King.

Off to the side, two Elves sit in high-backed chairs watching the dancers. One is tall with golden hair and blue eyes. He leans back in his chair, his gold embroidered scarlet robes slightly askew, taping a foot in time with the music.  The other, with raven hair and silver-grey eyes, sits strait-backed his indigo robes trimmed with silver. 

Smiling broadly at a handsome Man dancing with a beautiful Elven lady, the fair haired Elf asks, “Can you remember the last time you have seen Estel looking so happy?”

“Yes, Glorfindel,” his companion replied dryly. “When you and he conspired to misplace all my inkbottles—for a week!”

“Erestor, do you mean to tell me that you are still upset about that? We were merely concerned that you had been working too hard than was good for you. Besides, the question was meant to be rhetorical.”

“Rhetorical? Wherever did you learn such a sophisticated word?” the dark haired Elf asked sardonically.

“From you most likely. ‘Tis the fell influence you have on my vocabulary.” Glorfindel said airily.

His friend make an incredulous sound in his throat and turned to glare at him.

“It is utterly imposable to hold a serious conversation with you.”

“Oh? I believe you started it this time.”

“That was merely a manifestation of your fell influence on my conversation.” Erestor said primly.

Glorfindel laughed saying, “I concede! You win the conversation, my friend.”

 “’Tis well that you have the wisdom to acknowledge when you are defeated.” The Elf said sagaciously.

Glorfindel snorted and shook his head.

They were silent for a moment. The music now took on a furious pace and the dancers flew and twirled with it. A serving boy carrying a tray of goblets offered them drinks and they chose two filled with red wine. Erestor turned his gaze to a russet haired Dwarf and a green clad Elf, talking some distance away.

“Do you ever wonder about Legolas’ part in all this?”  Erestor asked his head cocked to the side.

His companions’ brow furrowed, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, history saw Isildur redeemed through his heir, Aragorn. I-”

“Raised by the High King’s herald, I know,” Glorfindel interjected. “Elendil himself could not have planed it better.”

“Indeed. Now, as I was saying before you interrupted me, I find Legolas’ part in this intriguing.”

“How so?”

“History saw not only Isildur redeemed through his heir, but Oropher as well, through Legolas. What do you make of that?” Erestor asked still looking at the Elf and Dwarf.

“I think,” Glorfindel began slowly “I think that none of the events in this past year have been a coincidence. That what should have happened an Age ago has now come to pass. While all the wrongs can not be righted, they have at least been made easier to bear.   

Glorfindel turned to his friend and smiled “However, most of all I think that Eru works in mysterious ways.”

“Mysterious ways indeed, Mellon nín.”

A/N: These dabbles were written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2016. The prompts are taken from the 2012 B2MEM bingo card AU: Who Lives and Who Dies?

Prompt B-15: Denethor never dies:

 “Ever have you been a faithful counselor, my friend. I cannot see why you now stand against me,” Denethor said, drumming his fingers against his desk.

His brother-in-law stood in the center of the Citadel study, dressed in the blue surcoat of the Swan Knights.  

“Yet what if he is indeed Isildur’s heir?” Imrahil asked.

“I will never yield to this Aragorn,” Denethor replied curtly. “Not to this usurper from the North. His claims to the throne are spurious.”

“This will mean war,” Imrahil said softly. “As in the days of the Kin-strife.”

“Then let there be war!” Denethor declared.

-

Prompt I-23: Finduilas of Dol Amroth never dies:

 “I must needs leave now, Father has—,” Faramir reeled as his mother slapped him, hard.

 “I will not allow my husband’s grief to kill us all!” Finduilas hissed.

 “What of Father’s orders? He holds my oath, would you have me foresworn?” Faramir asked.

“Better foresworn than dead! Denethor will not sacrifice my remaining son in a fool’s gambit!” she cried. “’Tis folly to attempt a defense of Osgiliath. Go, my son, call for the garrisons to assemble on the Rammas Echor, it was designed to withstand Mordor’s might. Do not fear the consequences, I will deal with your father.”

-

Prompt I-26: Denethor dies a few years after his wife:

 “I also fear I shall never again see my home,” Faramir confided.

“Why not?” asked Pippin.

 “I have committed treason in coming here to Rivendell. My brother, the Steward of Gondor, forbade my quest,” Faramir sighed, his features sad.

“My brother, Boromir, is a hard man,” he explained, seeing that the Hobbit did not understand “He became Steward when he was but three and ten years of age, after our Father died. Mother had already perished some years earlier. My brother will never forgive me for deserting him as I have.”

“I’m sorry,” Pippin said.

“As am I,” Faramir replied.

A/N: This story was an experiment that I wrote when I was 20 (in 2010!) for a creative writing class. I wrote the story entirely using the third person objective perspective. I usually write from the third person subjective and I wanted to see if I could write a short story where you can only see what an outsider would see.

Temptation

The room was light and airy built of white stone. The tall candles on the small table cast long shadows on the ceiling beams, causing the carvings upon them to dance and flicker. The roaring fire and thick burgundy drapes kept the cold outside at bay, but it did little to warm the icy cloud that seemed to hover around the small figure, swathed in blankets, in the bed at the center of the room.

In form, the figure appeared to belong to a child, but, looking at his face framed by dark curls, one could tell by the mature lines of his eyes and jaw that he was an adult. He slept fitfully, if sleep is what it was. Cold sweat dewed upon his tight brow, and he murmured unintelligibly. He lay boneless, unmoving except for his right hand which was firmly clenched in a tight fist.

 Hunched over the bed, in a straight-backed wooden chair, sat an elderly man in gray mantle. The deep lines in his face were etched with worry, his brows furrowed. Now and then he mumbled something while tenderly running a damp cloth over the forehead of the person in the bed. The door opened and in strode a tall man clad in a green tunic, his long boots clicking upon the wooden floor with every step. His gray eyes shone bright against his dark hair and beard.

“I sent Sam to get some sleep short while ago." Said the old man, glancing at his new companion.

"Sam is not the only one needs rest," the man said pointedly.

"No, indeed." The old man raised an eyebrow.

“I have come to relieve you.” At the old man's silence, he continued.

"You have not left Frodo’s side since we arrived here. Wizard you may be, but I have been your friend for many long years, and I know you are not untiring. There is supper waiting for you in the kitchens.” The man stated firmly yet kind.

The old man sighed and stood. The tall man took his place in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. The old man lingered at the foot of the bed, hands smoothing the wrinkled blankets. The man in the chair crossed his arms and nodded toward the door.

“Do not worry, Gandalf. I shall remain here until you return."

“See that you do." The man replied.

The old man had his face turned toward the door so he did not see the man in the chair shake his head and set his eyes toward the heavens at his comment. Settling more comfortably into the chair, the man cast his eyes furtively around the room. Seeming pleased with his findings, he withdrew a long stemmed pipe from his cloak and, using a stick from the fire, proceeded to light it.

Many minutes and several smoke rings later the person on the bed uttered a low moan and shuttered. The man in the chair started, his hand instinctively reaching for his left hip. Then, with a great release of breath the figure on the bed opened his right hand. The world slowed; the man, with wide eyes, watched a small golden ring tumble from the hand to the floor.

Strangely, the golden ring did not fall on its side but landed, impossibly, on its thin edge. Then, inexplicably–for the floor was even, and without slope–it rolled gradually until it hit the boot of the man in the chair. The man froze. He did not move or even breathe for several long moments.

With a sudden jolt, the man exclaimed “I will not listen to you, liar in the dark!”  

Rising, he strode to the fireplace and retrieved the black wrought iron tongs from their stand. With them he then firmly grasped the golden ring and carefully deposited it back into the sleeping figure’s hand, which reflexively resume its former death grip upon the ring.

Breathing heavily, as though he had exerted himself, the man sat back into the chair. Retrieving the wet cloth from the side table, he mopped the little person’s face, eyes unfathomable.

“I fear your journey is not yet over Frodo Baggins. Indeed it is a heavy burden you carry”

 Sighing, he leaned forward over the bed, eying the tight fist warily. Speaking softly, as though to himself, he murmured to the small hand.

“Blind I may be, Power of the Enemy,but I am not yet so blind that I can not see the dark.”

A/N: This story was written for B2MEM 2017. Prompt: Gift

The Perfect Gift

3002 Year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

The beech leaves were beginning to turn. 

Traces of bright gold tinged the edges of every leaf, soon the entire canopy would be gilded in yellow and orange foliage. Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Frodo carefully picked his way down the embankment that bordered a small creek. He was a league north of Hobbiton, having left the road some time ago in favor of an overgrown game trail that led deep into the woods that formed the northern border of the Shire. The creek bed was narrow, less than a body length across, and the small stream that ran through it was scarcely wider than himself. If anyone had bothered to ask him where he was going, Frodo would have pointed to the canvas rucksack slung over his shoulder and insisted that he was going to find a brake of hazelnuts that had not yet been picked over by hungry tweens.

This was not entirely truthful.

It was his birthday in a few days and Frodo felt he needed some time to himself so he could think. He was turning 34 years old. It would be the first birthday in a long time he'd be celebrating without his uncle. A part of him did not want to have a party at all. But as the inheritor of Bilbo's estate, he was not sure he could endure the gossip he would incur by not celebrating his own birthday. He had never cared what people had said about him and Bilbo before. Yet his uncle's absence had made Frodo more sensitive to the market chattering of women and the tavern gossip of men. Ever since Bilbo had departed, he'd never felt so alone, not even when he'd lived in Brandyhall and had been often overlooked with his many cousins underfoot. 

He had never realized that he had no true friends at Bag End other than his uncle. Without his influence, Frodo had only been invited to one birthday party this year by Hamfast Gamge. Frodo had been touched by the Gaffer's gift of a rather fetching pheasant feather quill. "I thought you like it, seein' as how Mr. Bilbo was kind enough to teach my boy his letters and how you take after him with your love of learnin' and such," the old man had said. Frodo had decided to organized a small party, inviting only the Gamgee family and the Master of Buckland's son, Merry. The lad was a young cousin of his who'd taken to coming around Bag End asking questions about Bilbo's adventures and generally making a cheerful nuisance of himself.

Frodo did not know how to thank him.

He was fourteen years Merry's elder, too far apart to ever be close friends. The lad had only just entered into his tweens and Frodo was full grown. Though he had to admit that Saradoc's son had a great deal of sense for a boy his age. The new master of Bag End had rarely seen a boy so observant, even if he spent half his time causing mischief with his friend Fatty Bolger, who was around the same age. Still, whenever the loneliness seemed to be about to crush him, Frodo would find that Merry had invited himself over for lunch and to hear stories he must have heard dozens of times before. Merry had been one of many bairns to visit Bag End over the years to hear his uncle's tales and songs but he'd been one of the few that returned often so that Frodo felt he knew him fairly well.

And he was still at a loss for what to give the Brandybuck for his birthday.

The Gamgee's were easy to purchase gifts for. Their eldest child, Hamson, was appreciated to his uncle in Tightfield and would not be able to attend the party. The Gamgee's second son, Hamfast, had just come of age this year and Frodo was giving him a handsome pipe and some Longbottom leaf. To the Gamgee's youngest son, Samwise, he was gifting a pair of leather gloves and a half dozen goose feather quills. For Mrs. Gamgee and her two daughters, Frodo had bought three silver cloak clasps. They were expensive, but he wanted to thank Bell Gamgee for dropping by so often to make sure he had enough food in his pantry. The woman seemed half convinced he'd starve after his uncle left, seeing as he had no one to look after him. As for the Gaffer himself, Bilbo had always given Mr. Gamgee a firkin of the best beer from the Ivy Bush on their birthdays and Frodo had decided keep up this tradition.

Hitching his pack up higher on his back, Frodo maneuvered around a thick stand of black alder only to find himself standing in front of a large outcrop of rock, dark grey in color and covered with greenish bracken. It protruded into the creek so unless he was willing to get his feet wet, Frodo would have top either backtrack or climb over it. After a moment’s indecision, he placed his hands and feet some in the many crevasses of the rock and pulled himself upward. The craggy surface made for an easy ascent and soon Frodo was standing on top of the outcrop that rose over a body length above the embankment. He gazed at the woods, smiling at the sea of color for he was now level with the forest canopy.

In the distance he spotted a mass of brown branches that contrasted with the yellow and green leaves surrounding him. Frodo knew it must be a tree that was either dead or dying. He glanced at the Sun and then scrabbled down the rock, not back into the creek bed but onto the bank. He headed in the direction of the dead tree though he could no longer see it now he was back on the ground. Such trees were the best places to find a wide variety of mushrooms. Since Frodo knew of no other Hobbit other than Bilbo that ever ventured so far into these woods, the tree was unlikely to have been picked over. He walked swiftly, excitement driving all thoughts of his birthday out of his mind.

Before long, he saw the bare bark of a massive beech rising above him. After making a brief detour to avoid a dense patch of flowering stinging nettles, and pushing through a brake of hazel that grew between two large oaks, Frodo emerged into a small glade with the dead tree in it's center. A little gasp of surprise escaped his lips as he realized that there was a tall, lithe figure standing against the tree, reaching up to pry something white off of its trunk. The person turned at the sound and Frodo saw that it was an Elf. Clad in a leather shirt and brown trousers with chestnut hair, he almost blended in with the tree, save for the pale skin of his arms and face. Frodo had meet those of the First Born several times in his life, mostly while wandering in the wilds of the Shire with Bilbo, though he did not recognize this ellon. 

"Mae govannen," Frodo greeted, careful to enunciate properly and gave a short bow. He had not spoken the Elvish tongue since before Bilbo had left and felt a pang of guilt, knowing his uncle would be disappointed if he knew. He hoped he would not embarrass himself.  

The Elf's expression changed from surprised to delighted and he smiled, placing a hand over his heart and bowing far more gracefully than Frodo himself had managed. "Mae govannen!" He replied with a laugh. "I did not know that the Periannath had knowledge of the Noble Tongue. I am Corudir son of Gwinor. Elen sila lumen omentielvo."

"I am Frodo son of Drogo," Frodo introduced himself. "Not many Hobbits know any of the Elvish tongues, I'm afraid. My uncle Bilbo taught me when I was a child."

"Bilbo is your uncle?"  Corudir asked, surprised.

"You know him?" a bubble of hope swelled beneath his breast at the thought.

"I know of him," the Elf corrected with an apologetic smile. "He dwells in the Last Homely House. I also call Imladris my home and have heard of the Periain that is a guest of Lord Elrond."

"Then he arrived safely," Frodo murmured.

"Indeed, and as far as I have heard he is in good health," the Elf added.

"You are far from the Hidden Valley, Corudir. Or any Elvish land," Frodo commented, striving to keep his disappointment out of his voice and expression.

"I remember when this was all Elvish land," Corudir said with a half shrug. "Until the end of the last Age, all the lands west of the Branduin belonged to Lindon. We often go wandering this time of year to gather in the wild what we do not grow ourselves and to seek out that which does not grow in the east." He gestured to the large basket beside him that was full what appeared to be of various herbs, roots, bark and lichen.

Frodo nodded. That explained why he had most often met Elves during autumn. 

"I just retrieved this when you surprised me. An impressive feat for a Mortal," the Elf said with a rueful smile, holding out his left hand so that Frodo could see that it held a lump of hedgehog mushroom.

"You are fortunate!" he said. Hedgehog mushroom were rare—Frodo had only had them twice in his life—and even if one was found they often grew high up on the trunks of dying beeches, far out of the reach of a Hobbit. They didn’t look like most mushrooms. They had no cap and stem but were cushion-like with white, pendulous spines that made them resemble their namesake. They were considered a delicacy in the Shire and the most sought after mushroom.

Corudir laughed. "Indeed! It is strange that a mushroom would taste like lobster or scallops."

Frodo frowned. He did not recognize those words. “I am afraid I don’t what those are,” he said. "What are they called in the Common Tongue?"

"I do not know. Perhaps they have none for I know no Mortals that dwell by the Sea." Corudir gave another graceful but insouciant shrug.

"They are Sea creatures?"

Corudir nodded. "Scallops are much like the freshwater mussels you find in streams, only their shells are white instead of black. Lobsters are shelled creatures whose meat is much sought after. They look somewhat like woodlice only much larger, about the size of a rat, and with claws."

Frodo grimaced, wondering why anyone would try to eat anything that resembled woodlice. He had eaten some once on a dare as a lad and they had tasted much the way stale urine smelled. 

"I have never seen a Periain in these woods before," Corudir commented. Frodo couldn't help but shift under the Elf's intense gaze.

"No many of us enjoy hiking in the woods," he explained.

"Yet you do?" Corudir asked, head cocked inquisitively.

"It helps me think," Frodo answered, somewhat defensively. He'd been criticized to no end once it was clear he intended to keep up Bilbo's habit of trekking about the Shire.

"Indeed it does!" the Elf laughed. "You are a queer Periain, master Frodo."

"So everyone insists on telling me," Frodo muttered. Corudir made the words sound like a compliment but he had heard them often enough this last year, mostly in a chastising tone.

The Elf frowned at him for a moment before he picked up his basket, glancing up at the Sun, probably to check the hour. "I have tarried here too long and must depart. I am pleased to have met you. Perhaps we shall encounter each other again someday."

"May I ask a favor? Will you tell Bilbo that I am doing well?"

"Are you?" the Elf asked, features inscrutable.

"What?"

"Are you doing well?" Corudir sounded doubtful. Frodo hesitated, wondering how much the Elf had discerned about his life from their short conversation.

"I'm doing as well as could be expected," he said firmly. And to his surprise, he meant it.

Corudir smiled. "Then I shall relay your message! But only if you take this." He proffered the hedgehog mushroom.

"You don't want it?" Frodo asked, taken aback.

Corudir shrugged. "I have not the means to fry anything nor any butter to go with it. I intended to dry it for Lord Elrond, as the mushroom has medicinal uses, but that seems a sorry fate for such a delicacy. I would rather you take it and enjoy it."

The Elf placed the mushroom into Frodo's hand. He lifted it up to inspect. It was very moist, slightly larger than his fist and appeared to be quite delicate, but it was quite solid and heavy for its size.

"Thank you!" 

Corudir smiled. "Farewell, Frodo son of Drogo." Silently, he slipped into the woods and in a moment was gone.

Glancing back down at the mushroom, Frodo felt himself smile. He had found the perfect gift for Merry! 

Glossary 
Ellon (Sindarin): '(male) Elf'.
Mae govannen (Sindarin): ‘well met’.
Periannath (Sindarin): ‘Hobbits’.
Elen Sila Lumen Omentielvo (Quenya): ‘A star shines on the hour of our meeting’.
Periain (Sindarin): ‘Hobbit’.

Written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2018. Prompt: Sea Creatures

Land Under Wave

The Sea roiled.

The gentle rolling of the Belegaer that lapped again the shores of south Beleriand and Eriador had changed. Schools of slivery fish spun around in massive funnels and the water was murky with disturbed kelp and plankton. The dolphins, whales and seals had fled to deeper waters by a commanded from Ulmo, leaving only the lesser creatures caught up in the massive sucking undertow. The waters had drawn far back from the shores and were now gathering into a great, towering wave, grey-green and crowned with foam, larger than any ever before seen in Arda.

Salmar savored the cool caress of the water as he swam in the heart of the great wave, graceful as a dolphin and swifter than a swordfish. His excitement spilled over into his fana and he could not keep from smiling. That was the most irritating thing about adopting a physical body, worse than even the muffling of ósanwe. They never had the same control as ëalar did in their natural state. Emotional states easily bled into bodily reactions unless one was very mindful. Salmar had never managed the impassive façade that others of his kind affected when embodied.

He caught a glimpse of Uinen as she passed before him, propelling herself with a tail like that of whales only coated in scintillating aquamarine scales. She had always preferred a fana thatappeared as some uncanny offspring of a Sea mammal and an Elda. Salmar himself was clothed in the fana he most favored when he was required to take on a corporeal form. The body was similar to that of the Eldar, as was custom with most Ainur. He had chosen his silver hair for its semblance to nacre; and his eyes, the lightest of blues, were like the ice of the Helcaraxë.

Salmar twirled, angling upward, flying through the turbulent waters until he broached the spume capped head of the wave. From the great height, the mountains of the Ered Luin seemed to be at an equal elevation and he could see for many leagues. The area around the southern Baranduin was mainly saltmarsh and coastal plains devoid of trees. South Ossiriand was covered in a dense forest of broad-leafed trees, and in the distance, a silver line that he knew to be the river Gelion, flowed into the Sea. Abruptly, Salmar felt the light touch of his lord upon his mind, calling all his servants to readiness. 

Then the Sea stilled. The intense currents ceased and, for one long moment, all was silent.

Then the world seemed to pitch forward as the tidal wave surged forward with a great roar that was echoed by the cries of the Maia within its depths. The wave smashed into the mountains. Each one trembled under its power and with a tumultuous rumble, crumbled and was crushed beneath the might of the Sea. The wave did not stop, powered as it was by the Lord of Waters, but continued northwards, faster than a marlin or even a falcon. It battered into the land, cracking the bedrock that even Salmar could feel was imbued with the shadowy, malignant threads of Melkor’s power.

From his vantage atop the swift moving mountain of water, Salmar could see ahead across the wide flat lands of copses and pasture just east of the Ered Luin. There the land was dotted with the thatched roofs of Edain villages that emitted wisps of smoke into the clear midmorning air. And in the northern most settlement, a desperate battle was waging. It was hard to work out exactly what was going on. Yet it seemed that a large company of Men under wolf’s-head banners were routing another, far smaller, force comprised of Men and Elves under a banner depicting an eight rayed silver star.

Overhead, black clouds that must have boiled forth from Thangorodrim cast a strange, dreary pall over the battle.

Salmar saw the moment when the Children realized what was soon to be bearing down upon them. The battle abruptly ceased, Melkor’s Men fleeing to the north, from whence they must have come. The Edain and their Elven allies scurried westward, seeking refuge in foothills of the Ered Luin where, Salmar had been informed, the women, children and elderly of their people had been told in dreams sent by lord Irmo to evacuate. Just before the wave was about to swallow those stragglers and injured that had not made it to the higher ground, Salmar dove beneath the water until he was hovering above the newly made Sea bed.

Salmar saw the water envelop a Man with a blood drenched leg as he covered his head with his arms in what must have been as instinctual gesture of protection. Swooping in, he grabbed the Man from behind and, wrapping his arms around the Mortal’s chest, hoisted him upwards. The Man thrashed, his hands clawing at the Maia’s arms. Salmar frowned and tightened his grip. It was taking most of his concentration to weave a song of Power through the surrounding water. Elsewise the Man’s fragile hröa would be battered by stones and other debris the wave had picked up on its northward journey. 

Salmar might have been annoyed by the Mortal’s continuing struggles, if his open mind had not been broadcasting intense terror.

After a long moment, their heads breeched the surface in a shower of droplets. The Man gasped raggedly, limply hanging in the Maia’s arms. Salmar was glad one of Estë’s servants had been responsible for preventing all the Children under the water from inhaling. He was not certain he would have been able to prevent even one Mortal from drawing breath without suffocating them, let alone dozens of them. Keeping the Man’s head above water, Salmar made his way west to where the surf lapped tempestuously against what had recently been a fair sized hill.

Gazing north, he could see the wave had dissipated into new shoreline yet not before it had devoured Melkor’s retreating company of Men. A trembling hand griped his arm. Salmar glanced down at the Mortal. His leather helm had fallen off, reviling dripping brown hair. His choppy, storm tossed thoughts made little sense to the Maia. He reached out, touching the Man’s mind and found distress, confusion and pain. Salmar slowed his pace, realizing his haste was hurting his charge’s injuries. Unexpectedly, the Mortal cried out, shutting his mind tightly.

The Man uttered a rough, quavering word. Salmar frowned. He did not know the Mortal’s tongue and could not perceive it’s meaning from his closed mind. They were only several body lengths from the shore. The upland was covered by an open forest of beech, spruce, silver birch, and rowan. The ground was carpeted with wood sedge and little herbaceous plants, the names of which Salmar did not know. His feet found the ground beneath them and he rearranged his hold on the Man, who protested weakly. Bending over, Salmar gently deposited the Mortal on dry land before retreating into the water.

And now the mountains that had comprised the southern half of the Ered Luin ended abruptly in the Sea, and what had been South Ossiriand was lost beneath deep and turbulent waters.

Glossary

Fana (Quenya): The “raiment” in which the Valar and Maiar self-incarnate. The word ‘fana’ is related to the word for ‘veil’ or ‘cloud’ as fana are not real in the same way the bodies of true incarnates (i.e. Men and Elves) are.

Ósanwe (Quenya): ‘interchange of thought’. Essentially telepathy. Tolkien said that all of the Children of Eru have the ability to perceive other minds to some degree. Ósanwe is the Valar and Maiar natural form of communication; when embodied, even their ability to "speak" mind-to-mind is diminished in force and precision.

Ëalar (Quenya): ‘beings’. The spirits of those not designed to dwell in a body, namely, the Ainur.

Hröa (Quenya): ‘body’. Refers to incarnates (i.e. Men, Elves, Dwarves etc.)

Written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2019. Prompt: Horror Crossover (H.P. Lovecraft) & Slavery

At the Mountain of Madness

“But of those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor?” ~ The Silmarillion

The Elf huddled against the cold floor of the cave. It was a huge, dark chamber made of black stone. It should have been impossible to see anything but there was a queer, flickering light coming from above. He looked up into the ceiling and saw—something. It was a terrible, indescribable thing. Huge and writhing, faintly self-luminous, shapeless congeries of flesh and iridescent black slime with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming. Terror pulsed through him. His mind struggled to understand what he was seeing, to make sense of its twisting shapes.

Something deep and visceral in his soul rebelled at the sight of the writhing, shifting horror above him. The thing reached out for him with tendrils of lightning and flesh. His skin burned and crawled under their touch. The tendrils lifted him up, surrounded him, pulling at his body, his flesh warping and shifting under their touch. He screamed in agony and horror. He felt his mind shifting too, twisting, the being’s power flooding it. He could not stop screaming, could not fight the horror of what was happening to him.

When his wits left him, leaving only madness, it was a mercy.

Note: some of the descriptions in this fic are taken from the novella At the Mountains of Madness by H. P. Lovecraft.

Written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2019. Prompt(s): Animal Companions & Chains, Prisons and Torture

Flight

It was cold.

The chill of the iron collar around her neck seemed to sink through the skin and into her bones. The cave was always cold. The mountain where she had been born in lands far from here had never possessed the pervasive heart-numbing chill of this small cavern. How long ago had it been since she had lain on the scree at the foot of the mountain, basking in the heat of the sun? She could almost remember the scent of the warm stones. She wondered how many moons had passed since the cruel-creatures had captured her.

She missed the soft gleam of the moon, yet even more, she longed for the warm fire of the sun. The only light she now saw came from the burning sticks the cruel-creatures held when they brought her food and water. Sometimes she thought she heard cries that sounded like they belonged to one of her brothers. Perhaps she was imagining things. She lived in silence broken only by the clinking of her chain and, occasionally, the echoes of a cruel-creatures' heavy footsteps beyond the thick slab of wood that barred the cave entrance.

It seemed long ago that she had been drinking from the river that flowed from the mountain when, looking up, she had found herself surrounded by the cruel-creatures. She had tried to fly but they set upon her too swiftly, casting nets about her. She had thrashed, her cries drowning out their harsh, guttural yells. When, panting from exertion, she had collapsed, they bound her with chains. She had been forced upon a strange contraption that was made of wood and pulled by beasts with hoofs that were the size of an elk. After several days passed, her brothers and sister were also captured and bound beside her.

Then began long days of sleeping during daylight and traveling under stars. They had been given little water and even less food. The constant jolting of the wooden contraption had made her very bones ache. It did not take many days before she and her siblings had been too weak to even consider attempting to escape. She did not know how much time had passed when her sister died. The land they had been in was arid and treeless; the very air had seemed to suck moisture from her skin. The cruel-creatures had stopped briefly to throw her sisters' body onto the desiccated earth. 

Then they had moved on. 

Her keening lament had been cut short by a number of sharp kicks to her head. After a few more days they had reached a range of mountains. Their company had continued west, parallel to the mountains until, after many days, they came to another series of mountains. These they had ascended, traveling along narrow passages until they emerged into a mist shrouded valley that stank of rotting flesh. There cruel-creatures had forced her to the ground and removed all the chains save for the one attached to the collar about her neck. Then they had driven her into a cave with thrusts of sharp-tipped staves.

That had been the last time she had seen the stars.

She inhaled deeply. The cave was suffused with the smell of the damp stone of the walls and the musty scent of the straw that covered the floor. Yet those could not cover the pervasive stench of the corner in which she relived herself. The accumulated dung had only been removed once by two small cruel-creatures in all the time she had been here. She strained once again against the collar, ignoring the pain as the metal bit deeply into the raw flesh of her neck. The chain groaned but held fast to the wall, anchored as it was by thick bolts.

She ceased pulling and froze as soft, muffled sounds came from beyond the door.

Scrabbling over the thick carpet of straw, she backed away as swiftly as she could, until she was pressed against the back wall of the cave. She knew what was coming. If she were any less stubborn, she would not have bit back the whimpers that threatened to escape. The Dread-shadow was coming. The very thought made her tremble. She longed for the light of the sun which she felt certain would make the evil being easier to bear. It never brought any fire so she has never seen it. She did not need to. Not to be certain that it had as much substance as a shadow and no scent she could discern. 

The Dread-shadow had never hurt her body, not like the cruel-creatures whom never went near her without their whips. It did not need to. The horrible fear the Dread-shadow could induce by merely being was enough. Worse than the terror was that the Dread-shadow could intrude it's thoughts into her very mind. Only with great will could she stop it. She knew that the Dread-shadow wanted to break her. For what purpose she did not know, only that it would continue to return until it completed this task. 

The door was thrown open and there stood a strange creature. It was tall, made even taller by the cone of blue cloth on its head. Its face was obscured by grey hair that trailed down its torso. They stared at each other, the room illuminated by the staff in the creature’s hand, the tip of which emitted silvery-white light. She sniffed the air cautiously, the being did not reek of offal as the cruel-creatures did. It smelled like dirt, sweat and musk. She shifted her weight uneasily, wondering what new torments were to come.

She bared her teeth and growled as she felt the creature stroking the borders of her mind. It was not like the Dread-shadow foe for it held no coercion. He, for his spirit was certainly male, called to her with gentleness. She opened her mind with deliberate, guarded caution half expecting a trick of some sort. Yet his intentions shone clearly in his bright mind: weariness and fear over a deep kindness and determination. A series of memories played across his thoughts. They were confusing and she understood little other than he was being pursued and his desperate desire to escape to the west.

She answered with he own longing for freedom and the terror that the Dread-shadow would one day break her to its will. He stepped toward her and placed a hand on her beak. Low sounds emerged from his mouth, Power thrumming through them. She leaped forward in alarm, claws scrabbling on the stone, and the chain binding her to the wall snapped. Momentum caused her to lurch forward and she ended up sprawled awkwardly, chest first on the straw. Her new acquaintance knelt down and ran a hand soothingly down her neck, his thoughts promising lack of harm.

A tendril of a suggestion broached her mind. Using her wings, she propped herself up slightly, keeping herself low so the male could swing his legs around the lowest part of her neck. She walked out of the cave and into the fresh air. Sending a brief thought to her passenger to hang on, she launched herself into the sky, shrieking with joy. There were shouts and cries below but she ignored them. Instead she focused on the wind rushing beneath her beating wings as she climbed higher and higher. When she was out of range of their arrows, she turned westward and flew off into the star-strewn night.

Notes: In his letters, Tolkien acknowledged that the Fell Beasts resembles a pterosaur, which look like this. He never mentions if they were intelligent but, since giant spiders can talk in Tolkien’s world, I stand by my belief in sentient flying dinosaurs with thirty foot wingspans. Gandalf shares my belief in saving theses poor creatures from Sauron and his undead minion’s corruption! 

Written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2019. Prompt(s): Living Quarters & Windows, Mirrors and Statures

Fractured

Celebrían could not remember how long had it been since she had last seen her quarters.

The suite of rooms she shared with her husband and daughter was in the southwest corner of the second floor. The sitting room, where the family spent most of their time, was brightly decorated. The stone walls were plastered and painted cerulean. The floor was covered with brightly dyed rugs. The settee was in the Noldorin style, high-backed with arms and legs of verdigrised bronze, piled with cushions. The sitting chairs were in Sindarin fashion, pale grey wicker with broad arms. Dried bundles of yellow flowered bedstraw hung in from the ceiling, infusing the room with the aroma of fresh cut hay.

After so many weeks spent in Elrond’s healing hall, the room almost seemed foreign to her, as if it belonged to another.

She walked to the casements lining the south wall, overlooking the river. On the center window sill someone had placed a narrow stone bowl. It was filled with smooth river pebbles and held succulent rosettes of houseleek and clusters of rose-pink blossoms of starflower. Raising her head, Celebrían gazed at the diamond panes in camework between armatures of wrought iron. Her reflection stared back at her, twisted and despoiled. Silver hair crudely hacked to a finger’s length, the long scar running from her right temple to her mouth. And worst of all, the misshapen lumps of flesh where her ears used to be.

A fist smashed through the panes, sending glass tinkling to the floor along with drops of crimson blood.

Written for Back to Middle Earth Month 2018. Prompt: Suicide

Shattered

Maedhros cradled his left hand against his chest. 

The sun was nearing the horizon. They had been shuffling northwards for five or perhaps six leagues. Maedhros had lost count. He tripped over the rough ground and only Maglor's hand on his shoulder kept him from falling. It was hard going. The waves had scoured away the plants and topsoil leaving behind a desolate landscape of dark basalt. The further they traveled, the worse it became, the bedrock broken by steaming rents. It was like a tapestry unraveling, and Morgoth's Power was the threads.

Maedhros was aware of nothing but the wild crashing of the Sea, his own stumbling footsteps and the ceaseless pain. 

Much of the skin of his palm and fingertips were blackened while the rest was left blistered and weeping. They had no bandages or even reasonably clean cloth so his hand remained unbound, curled into a claw of agony. The pain seemed to have settled into his very bones, radiating through his arm to the rest of his body. It had even reached into his stomach in the form of gut-clenching nausea that made even sipping mouthfuls of water difficult. His limbs ached with exhaustion yet he did not stop their wearisome journey.

Without warning, Maglor paused, causing Maedhros to bump into him. Looking up, he saw why: before them was impassable fissure, its depths fiery with the molten blood of the earth. Maedhros all but collapsed to the ground, his strength spent. His brother followed suit, more gracefully, face liberally streaked with soot and flecks of dried blood. The waterskin was proffered silently but he shook his head. Maglor's open mind revealed nothing but concern and love, his features contorted into a mask of caution and worry. 

It was the same expression that he had worn as he cut the Silmaril free from Maedhros' charred hand. 

"I do not think any have followed us. We will rest here for the night. Tomorrow we can heat southeast to more clement lands."

Maedhros did not answer. He knew, perhaps had always known, that his father's hallowed gems would not abide his touch. He had grasped one anyway. Maedhros knew he would never stand in the Ring of Doom to face the judgement of the Valar. But he could find some atonement from the Power blessed jewel. His vision went white as he forced his damaged fingers to slip into the leather bag at his brother's belt. Once more he held the Silmaril and, as the fire of it coursed through his sinews, he wondered if this was what justice felt like.

"What are you doing?" his last remaining brother demanded as Maedhros shakily rose.

His faithful Maglor, who followed him into Doriath and the Havens despite his vehement protests. His gentle brother, the only artist among them, whose talents in shaping song was the only reason they had survived until now. Tenderhearted Makalaurë, who ensured that two half-elven children had the best childhood as was possible among a harried and bereft people. Maedhros' favorite brother, a feared warrior among Men, Eldar and the servants Enemy alike, yet who had hated learning swordplay even before any had fallen to their blades.

The pain was not enough. It would never be enough. 

"Something I ought to have done years ago," he replied quietly. Then he leaped into chasm and the river of fire below, welcoming the penance of the Everlasting Darkness.

A/N: This was written to celebrate my 18^th birthday, years ago, which makes it one of my first LOTR stories.

Happy Birthday

 Cool autumn winds swept through the Elven realm of Imladris. Trees rustled, bushes swayed, and the grass around The Last Homely House rippled as a stone thrown in a pond. The grounds were strewn with leaves: bright yellow, sunset orange, rust red and the dry brown ones that crackled when stepped upon.  On the porch stood two short figures, their hair dancing about their face and shoulders. At a glance one might mistake them for children, as their heads only just reached the top of decoratively carved banister that surrounded the porch. Upon a closer inspection, one would discover that they were, in fact, Hobbits.  

By the likeness of their cheek bones and chins one is tempted to assume, and would be correct in doing so, that they are related. Both are dressed warmly against the weather, in brown trousers and thick grey cloaks—except for their bare, and rather hairy, feet. One of the Hobbits is elderly, with snowy hair, dressed in a white shirt with a red vest embroidered with yellow leaves. The other Hobbit is younger, although how much so is impossible to tell, with brown curly locks. He is dressed in a green tunic embroidered at the cuffs and collar with brown vines. The tunic is too long for him, falling to his knees with sleeves that cover his hands.

The elderly Hobbit spoke over the wind. “I must say, that even under the circumstances, I am glad you are here, Frodo.”

“As am I, Uncle. I have missed you greatly over the years.” His companion replied softly.

“As have I, my lad. It has been my wish ever since I left the Shire—Nay! ‘Twas even before that—I have always wished that you would one day accompany me in Rivendell. I knew you would enjoy this places as much as I.”

“It is beautiful,” The younger Hobbit said with great emotion.

“That it is, my lad, that it is. Peaceful too. ‘Tis hard to imagine that any evil exists whilst living here. That is part of why I wished to come here again, even if one must forgo living in a proper house.”

The younger hobbit frowned slightly. His right hand drifted to his chest, unconsciously it seemed, he fiddled with the fabric of his tunic as though feeling something underneath. They were both silent for a moment peering between the slats in the balustrade, watching the wind toy with the fallen leaves.

“I feel like I should thank you for celebrating my birthday all these years, my lad. Though I am not certain you should have bothered to go through all the trouble,” Bilbo added wryly.

The elderly Hobbit started a bit when his nephew placed an arm around his shoulders.

“There is something I have been wanting to say to you for a long time, Bilbo.”

“Oh?” the elderly Hobbit asked, eyebrows raised.

The younger Hobbit turned to look through the railing once more. He smiled and said affectionately,

“Happy birthday, Uncle.”

Written for the Silmarillion Writers' Guild ‘Solve a Problem’ challenge.

Hope in the Hills

The afternoon air was redolent with fragrant horse chestnut flowers. The damp canopy above was full of minivets calling to each other with their melodic "Twee, twee, twee!”. The males' black and scarlet plumage stood boldly against the females' yellow and grey. It had been long since Nerdanel had ventured into the foothills of the Pelóri. The humidity was far higher than she was used to. Tirion, located on the Plain of Valinor, was drier and cooled by the Sea breeze that whistled through the Calacirya.

She and Fëanáro had often roamed theses hills in the early years of their marriage, before her sons had been born. She could still remember his voice announcing the name and properties of each plant and animal they came across. There were thorny kher trees with dark, peeling bark and crooked rosewoods with long, leathery leaves. The game path she was hiking was surrounded by shrubby nettle-leaved hydrangeas, their mauve blossoms contrasting against their serrated leaves. 

Closer to the ground were the rhododendrons, their tubular flowers pink as a vivid sunset. The forest floor was hidden by sprawling mats of mountain thimbleweed, distinguishable by its deeply lobed leaves even though it would be some weeks before it flowered. The soil next to the little stream beside the trail was choked with yellow kingcups and the blue and white river anemone. Nerdanel paused, looking out at the lowlands below, tapestried with Vanyar farms, situated among the waving grasses of the Plain. 

Setting her pack more comfortably on her back, Nerdanel continued up the steep slope. 

She was nearing the summit of the hill, several hours later, panting with exertion and sticky with sweat. It had been too long since she had attempted any strenuous exercise. Her husband would have sneered, if he could see her in such a state. No… that was what he would have done after his anger and bitterness had marred their happiness, tainting even the good memories. Before then, he would have laughed and teased her, yet ensured they spent more time exercising together.

"What are you doing here, Child?"

Nerdanel stumbled back, crying out in surprise. Before her a Maia had manifested, two palms taller than her, with green eyes and long copper tresses fluttering in the slight breeze. He was clad in all white, his tabard emblazoned with a waterfall embroidered in silver thread. She knew that sigil was worn by the servants of the LadyNienna. Yet her halls were very far from here. Few Elves saw any Ainur outside of festivals and Nerdanel had never seen any who served Lady Nienna outside of Valmar. 

She shifted her weight nervously; she had never had much dealings with Maiar. 

"I am Sérener, servant of Nienna." He must have sensed her unease because his stance opened and he gave a gentle smile.

"Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan. Well met, Sérener.” She gave a low bow, her pack rendering it less graceful than intended.

“Well met, Child,” the Maia replied with a bow of his own.

“I was only exploring," she explained, hastily. "I did not know this place was forbidden."

"No place in Valinor is forbidden to the Eldar,” Sérener replied, shaking his head. “My Lady and her brothers have… an interest in this area.”

Nerdanel bit her lip to prevent herself from scoffing and idly wondered if the Ainur were inscrutable on purpose or if the differences between them and Mirröanwi made communication difficult. It seemed the Maia discerned this thought for he frowned, turned around, and bid her follow. A frustrated sight escaped her lips as she trudged after him, hastening to keep up with his long strides. She was about to ask him to slow down when the trail opened into a clearing in the forest.

There, set into the red sandstone the slope, was the mouth of a cave and around it were several dozen Elves. They were shorter than the average Elf, dark haired like Noldor, with eyes the color of chestnuts. All were dressed in naught but fringed leather loincloths embellished with beads and paint, though several wore fur capes. Nerdanel thought they appeared rather savage with colorful feathers braided into their hair and necklaces crafted of raw stones and carved wood.

They stared at her, pausing their labor in various tasks: skinning hides, weaving baskets, binding stone points to spears and roasting meat over a fire. A half-grown child attempted to run toward her but was stopped by a woman, presumably his mother, grabbing his arm. Nerdanel turned to Sérener, he must have been known to these Elves as they lacked any interest in him. An Elf with a tiger skin cape approached her, smiling. To Nerdanel’s surprise, he greeted her in perfect Quenya.

Soon she found herself siting on a log, eating roasted thar meat off of a stick, peppered with questions by the strange Elves. She gleaned that all, save the children, had been re-embodied, having died in Endórë. They had lived here since they had been released from Mandos, calling themselves Estelië. They had never seen any Elven city or settlement or even any Amanelda until her. Most surprising was that they had no knowledge of metal working or of the crafting of cloth.

It was nearly dusk by the time the inquiries of the Estelië waned and they returned to their tasks and began preparing for the evening meal. Nerdanel rose and sought out Sérener, standing on the outskirts of the clearing where he had remained since his arrival. She deliberately opened her mind to him, keeping her desire to speak privately at the forefront. The Maia inclined his head and headed down the trail they had come from, Nerdanel following, until they were far enough away so as to not be overheard.

“Why are these Elves here?” she asked. She had dozens of questions but this was most pertinent. Those whom had died and been reborn were placed with family, once released from Mandos. Even if the Estelië were of the Avari, no Amaneldi would refuse to take in kin, no matter how distantly related. Perhaps these were those whom had no desire to live among Amaneldi. Yet if so, why had they been settled in these wild, uninhabited hills, unsuitable for growing grain or pasturing beasts?  

“It was considered the best place for them. It is a day’s travel to Tirion, yet remote enough that they need not interact with any other Elves if they do not desire it,” Sérener answered, placidly.

Nerdanel huffed, wondering if he was deliberately misunderstanding her. “And you are here to prevent them from leaving?”

The Maia evinced surprise. “Nay, Child. They are free to leave whenever they wish, though they have thus far refrained from doing so. I have been commanded to watch over them and ensure they are not molested. ”

“The Valar believe they might come to harm,” she stated, incredulous.

Sérener gazed at her thoughtfully, his mind brushing at the edges of her own. She raised her head defiantly, keeping her mind open. The light had taken on a reddish hue as the Sun began its descent below the horizon. Hidden in the forest, a nightjar called out a series of cheeps that sounded like a stone skipping across ice. Suddenly, the Maia smiled and the weight pressing against her mind ceased. Nerdanel had the feeling she had been measured, weighed and judged as worthy.

“Are you aware that Moringotto created Orcor from Elves?” he asked.

She blinked, baffled by this non sequitur. Those who returned from the War had seldom spoken of the legions of these creatures of Moringotto for they were less fierce and frightening than his other servants: the Trolls, Dragons, houseless Sprits and Balrogs. Still, she had never heard of any whom entertained such an idea. Nerdanel knew that most Amaneldi would consider the very notion repulsive. It was fortunate this was not common knowledge among them.

“Since they were Mirröanwi, they reproduced after the same fashion,” Sérener said. “And when they die, their spirits come into the care of Lord Námo.”

Nerdanel stared at the Maia in horror, imagining the tens of thousands of twisted wretches that must dwell in Mandos.

“You begin to understand, Child,” he said softly. “Very few of them desire to return to life, even those whom are healed in full. Even so, there are some.”

Realization dawned. “Those Elves, they were once Orcor?”

“Indeed,” he said. “They are understandably wary of other Elves. It is hoped that in time they will be able to integrate with the Amaneldi.”

That would not be happening anytime soon. It was wise of the Valar to post a guard here for if it was known that re-embodied Orcor dwelt so close to Eldamar… there might be another kinslaying.

 “May I return? To visit them?” she asked.

Sérener smiled broadly. “I would be very much pleased if you did.”

Glossary

Ainur (Quenya): ‘Holy Ones’. The Valar and Maiar, also, in context ‘spiritual being’ as opposed to the Mirroanwi. 

Mirröanwi (Quenya): ‘Incarnates’ (i.e. Elves, Men and Dwarves). Literally, ‘those (spirits) put into flesh’.

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-earth’ (i.e. the continent).

Amanelda (Quenya): ‘An Elf of Aman’. An attested word. Plural: ‘Amaneldi’.

Estelië (Quenya): ‘the people of hope’. A word of my own invention(cf. Eldalië: ‘the Elven-folk’).

Orcor (Quenya): ‘Orcs’.

Moringotto (Quenya): ‘Black Foe’. Cognate of the Sindarin: ‘Morgoth’.

Eldamar (Quenya): ‘land of the Elves in Aman’. Literally, ‘Elvenhome’.

This AU was written for the Silmarillion Writers' Guild ‘Block Party’ wish list. This is for Grundy, who wished for a nice moment with Caranthir/Haleth, which happens to be my favorite non-canon pairing.

Under the Birch Leaves

"Does the Elf king know you are here?" Haleth asked, rather pointedly.

Caranthir bristled. "Thingol is no king of mine. I come and go as I please and need not his leave."

They sat a bow shot away from the River Taeglin under the open canopy of birch leaves in which a tree pipit chirped. The woodlands were a colorful tapestry this time of year. Cerulean bluebells and flaxen primroses, hidden purple violets and the snowy blossoms of wood sorrel and anemone. The two of them were concealed from the several dozen Haladin warriors that guarded the Crossings behind a large flowering bilberry bush. His horse and packhorse stood nearby, unsaddled, grazing on the sweet grasses.

"That is why you are here alone and unheralded?" she rejoined dryly.

"I am in need of no entourage whenever I wander," he declared, glancing meaningfully at Haleth's bodyguard of spear wielding women standing not four paces away. He had no fear of them listening in for, like most of the Haladin, their Sindarin was poor. 

"Indeed? Then you have not deigned to visit us unescorted for the first time because the king has forbidden you to bring your warriors into these lands?" She challenged, hazel eyes undaunted. Unlike her people, Haleth had never been intimidated by him nor cowed by his customary harshness and candor. 

Caranthir hesitated. Better she think him afraid of the king of Doriath's ire than know the true reason he was here by himself. After his last visit to the forest of Brethil, he had become angered when he had overheard his own people disdaining Haleth. Unlovely and stunted as a Dwarf, they had called her. True, she stood only breast-high, short as all her kin. And her features were quite unlike the Eldar; her face lined by hardship and privation with acorn brown hair interspersed with strands of grey.

She was no great beauty but then, neither was he, the least fair of all his brothers.

Haleth laughed, a harsh sound like the cried of a rook. "Have no fear! I will not tell the king’s wardens you are here again. They misdoubt you enough as it is."

"And you do not?" he challenged.

She had been suspicious of him ever since he had first visited the Haladin when they briefly dwelt in Talath Dirnen after departing his lands. Haleth had believed he sought to force her people to return and be placed under his vassalage. In truth, Caranthir had wanted her back in Thargelion, preferably near his own dwelling by lake Helevorn. Yet what he wanted even more was to get to know this strange Mortal whom he found more like unto himself than any person he had ever met. 

"Do I trust the Elf lord who keeps returning to bestow great gifts upon us with no thought of recompense?" she replied with her usual wryness, gesturing at the leather bag he had given her containing knives, spear points and ax heads.

He shrugged. "My people do not account such mundanities as valuable as you seem to. And it benefits all to have our allies well-armed."

When they first met, she had told him in broken, accented Sindarin, that what she desired for herself and her kin was peace and freedom. He could not give her or anyone else such intangible things. Yet he well knew that the Haladin lacked knowledge of metalworking, crafting their tools from stone like the Laegrim. So he brought her gifts of steel and iron, knowing she would prefer this to a dwarf's horde of gold and gems. She was as practical as he and would have scorned any finery offered.

"Even so, you heap obligation upon us that we cannot repay." Haleth's tone was mild but Caranthir could discern in her thoughts unease and bitterness that belied it.

"If it burns your heart to be so indebted, perhaps we might come to an arrangement," he offered.

There was a flash of fear in the woman’s mind and he frowned; conversations with Haleth never seemed to go as he intended.

"I wish to learn your speech," he hastened to explain. "I know the tongue of those Men that dwell in Dorthonion but yours seems completely unrelated."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Whatever for? I already know the Elven tongue."

Caranthir felt a surge of anger at Finrod who was to blame for Haleth's fluency in Sindarin.

"My father was greatly interested in the study of tongues and dynamics of speech. I would continue his work, if you are willing." This was not quite a lie. He had merely never before had any interest in tongues beyond the needs of communication.

"I am willing enough, though it seems to me an unfair bargain on your part," she said.

"I shall have to visit you more often and stay longer," he said, smiling at the notion. 

"I shall have my folk pitch you a tent, my lord," she replied solemnly, eyes bright with amusement.

Caranthir laughed. "Then we have an accord, my Lady."

Written for the Silmarillion Writers' Guild 2020 ‘Block Party’ challenge combining the prompts 'Textual Ghosts' and 'Use a Legendarium Ladies April prompt'. I have chosen the Legendarium Ladies April 2020 prompt: Wishes Fulfilled and the textual ghost is the mother of Hador. This is also a wish list fic for Himring, who requested a story featuring First Age Edain and also passing the Bechdel test. 

Wishes Fulfilled

440^th Year of the First Age:

Sunlight filtered through the clouds, a spider web of filmy midday light that washed the world in vivid color. A pleasant change after long weeks of grey monotony that was Autumn in Dor-lómin. Crispness in the air lingered from the morning rainfall as three women walked from the stone hall of the Lord of the Folk of Marach to the banks of Nen Lalaith, arms laden with baskets. Along the stream, river plants grew thickly forming a kind of hedge of willow herb, fleabane and hemp agrimony. They sat down on boulders shrouded in moss, placing the baskets at their feet, withdrawing spindles and bundles of flax. Wetting their fingers in the damp grass, they began spinning the fibers into yarn.

“Are you still tired? Gildis inquired of her son’s wife.

Hareth had been feeling fatigued the last few weeks. She was dressed in a woolen gown the same sparrow’s-wing color as her eyes. Her hair was dark, like all Haladin, bound in a single plait and crowned with a circlet of elaborately braided silver wire; a wedding gift from the High King of the Noldor. Gildis was wearing a similar circlet of gold wire that had likewise been a marriage gift from King Fingolfin, her unbound tresses now more grey than golden. The first frost was likely less than a week away and it was cold enough that they all wore capes as a shield against the wind. Even so, they kept their hoods down, seeking to enjoy what was likely to be the last sunny day before Winter arrived.

“It is not so bad now. The mornings are the worst.”

“How fares your sister? Gildis asked.

A messenger from Brethil had arrived four days ago bearing news from Ephel Brandir.

“She is with child. The babe shall likely come after Winter solstice,” Hareth replied with a wistful smile.

“That is auspicious!” declared Hador’s mother in the tongue of their people for she knew that Hareth’s sister, Hiril, had wed in early Spring.

Gildis shot Himina a glare for while Hareth spoke Sindarin well, she knew little of their tongue. Hador might have decreed that only Elvish would be spoken in his household yet he was not so foolish as to attempt to stop his mother from speaking in whatever tongue she wished. The old woman worn a grey gown a shade darker than her hair and was mostly toothless, her deeply wrinkled checks caved in, giving her face the appearance of a dried plum. Yet perhaps it was well Hareth could not understand. Among the people of Marach, it was believed that good fortune would follow a couple who had their first child ere they were married a year.

It had been over four years since the double marriage between her daughter and the lord of the Haladin and her son and Hareth.

In that time no children had been born to either women, leaving Hador’s House heirless. Hareth had miscarried two babes, while Gildis’ daughter, Glóredhel, had conceived not at all, much to their distress This lack of fertility had led to speculation among her people that Hador’s children were cursed with bareness. That perhaps the long years of his service to the Elf King had damaged his seed with their uncanniness. None were so foolish as to repeat such rumors in her presence. Gildis had found out about them in the most humiliating way imaginable, when the Lord Fingon, had asked her about conversations he had overheard during the Midsummer festival.

Despite the long friendship between Hador and Fingon’s father, the Elf managed to remain curiously naïve of the beliefs and ways of Men.

“That is a welcome coincidence for my daughter has said that her courses are late again, and she believes she is also with child,” Gildis said.

Hareth glanced at her, giving a shy smile. “My courses are also late for the second time.”

Gildis laughed delightedly.

“Praised be!” she cried, leaning forward to embrace her son’s wife.

This news had brought her a measure of hope that perhaps her greatest wish had been fulfilled and that her and Hador’s line would not fail all together and they would know the joy of grandchildren.

Written for the Silmarillion Writers' Guild ‘Block Party’ wish list. This is for Isilloth who wished for a fic about elves from the Silmarillion, after their re-embodiment in Valinor and how they cope with the way they died, and also for Grundy who wished for something sweet with Fingolfin/Anairë—although it ended up more angsty than planned, I’m better at bittersweet.

Embodiment of Valor 

Anairë could not find her husband.

Most of the population of Tirion and the outlying regions were gathered in the Great Square for the festival Arafinwë had thrown in honor of his brother’s re-embodiment. Even her granddaughter’s son, Eärendil, Silmaril shining on his brow, had come with his wife from their home on the coast. The breeze from the Calacirya was rich with the lingering scent of roasted meat and the heady aroma of the great bronze vats of wine strewn about the greensward for the enjoyment of the revelers. The night was full of music as hundreds of songs were played on a dozen different instruments while thousands lifted their voices in accompanying joy.

Nolofinwë was not sitting in the portico of Finwë’s House with Arafinwë, Findis and the other prestigious guests and family. Anairë looked through both the public gardens and private royal garden to see if her husband had perhaps desired to speak with someone in relative privacy, but he was not there. Nor was he in the kitchens or hall and bedchambers of Finwë’s House. She spent the next several hours searching though the throngs of merrymakers under the slivery light of the Mindon Eldaliéva to no avail. There was no need to worry, she told herself. What ill could possibly befall Nolofinwë here in Aman, amid tens of thousands who rejoiced at his return?

Still, she could not fathom why he would flee his own homecoming party.

In defeat, she returned to the front portico of the House of Finwë where Eärwen came and embraced her, speaking softly in her ear that she had seen Nolofinwë slip into the audience chamber. Relived, she thanked her friend and sister-by-marriage and, entering through the kitchens, passed though the living quarters of the House until she opened the door in the west end of the room. From the doorway, Anairë could see the backs of the golden thrones upon the dais in the center of the room, glittering in the dim light of the high-set windows. Across the hall were the great golden doors of the main entrance, flanked on either side by tiers of marble benches.

Siting hunched against the southern wall, on the lowest bench, was her husband.

She went to him and as she drew closer, she could see that he had been weeping. Dark wisps of hair had worked their way out of his braids and his golden circlet was slightly askew. He must have been running fingers through his hair. Nolofinwë had always done that whenever he was feeling distressed. His splendid indigo tunic, broidered with silver and studded with diamonds, was rumpled at the hem where he was wringing it. She reached out to him, both with her hand and with her mind and was hurt to find his thoughts shuttered against her as if she were a stranger or passing acquaintance rather than his wife. It was enough to almost bring her to tears.

He had never closed his mind to her before the Exile.

In the six weeks since Nolofinwë had returned from Mandos, Anairë had done her best to understand the Elf she had spent yéni married to and yet now kept his inner most thoughts hidden. Findaráto had counseled her, speaking of how it had not been safe to keep one’s mind unguarded in Endórë and that he needed time to adjust to embodiment. Thus, she buried her hurt for she dearly loved her husband. When he had died, the rending of her fëa had been so terrible she had wanted nothing more than to die also. Arafinwë and Eärwen would not let her. They had sent her to Lórien where Irmo’s servants sang hope into her until she recovered the will to live.

“I have been looking for you,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.

“I do not deserve this,” he said softly, not looking at her.

Anairë knew Nolofinwë had not wanted his brother to hold a festival but in truth there was little choice; either a formal celebration was held, or spontaneous ones would be breaking out all over the city.

“If you speak of the performance of lay of the Fall of Fingolfin, I am inclined to agree. It is too sorrowful a tale to sing at a celebration,” she replied, aiming for lightness and falling somewhat short.

“I mean I do not deserve any of this!” he gestured angrily, lifting blazing eyes.

Anairë flinched at his tone and his shoulders slumped.

“Forgive me, melda. I do not deserve you, either.”

She sank down on the bench beside him, slipping her hand into his.

“Perhaps it is good you are not getting what you believe you deserve.” 

He gave a startled laugh. “You know Lord Námo said something similar. I do not recall most of my time in his halls, yet I remember him telling me it is truly fortunate we do not all get what we deserve.”

They sat in silence for a long moment before he spoke again.

“I thought I could endure this,” he whispered. “But when I met Eärendil…”

“He is rather strange,” she reluctantly admitted, unease twisting in her gut. “It is only to be expected with his Mortal heritage. Yet I shall swear that, whatever he said, no offence was meant. There is no unkindness in him.”

Nolofinwë smiled, chuckling. “He gave no offence. I quite liked him and hope to get to know him better.”

“Then why are you—,” she stopped midsentence, not wanting to accuse her husband of hiding, even if it was true.

“Have I told you that Eärendil’s grandfather’s grandfather was the first Man I ever befriended?”

“You have never mentioned any Men,” she said mildly, feeling relived. She had wondered if perhaps Nolofinwë had been one of those who scorned Mortals and worried what that might mean for their granddaughter’s son and his wife.

“His name was Hador. He was my vassal and I granted him and his folk lands within my own domain. Even more, he was my friend. I had not thought any deep affection could possibly grow with one whose years are so brief. How wrong I was! Eärendil looks so much like him, they could be brothers.” 

Then he frowned, closing his eyes.

“I am responsible for Hador’s death. He had only seen sixty-five years and his people accounted him old,” he said bitterly.

“How did he die?” Anairë asked.

“It was during what they call the Battle of Sudden Flame. Hador and his people commanded the rearguard and covered our retreat. He was slain along with his youngest son.”

She squeezed his hand. “It seems to me that Moringotto was responsible for the Man’s death, not you.”

He continued speaking as if had not heard her. “That battle was the beginning of the end for us. We lost thousands, Men and Elves both, as well as two of Arafinwë’s sons. I smelled the stench of burning flesh for weeks afterwards. That was when I realized we had no hope of ever defeating Morgoth. How arrogant we were, seeking to bring war against one of the Valar.”

“Yet you alone of all those in Endórë had the courage to attempt to best him,” she protested.

Nolofinwë bowed his head, covering his face with the hand she was not holding. 

“It was not courage nor anger at our losses that drove me to challenge the Enemy. It was despair. My thoughts were ensnared in darkness until I could see no way out save death. I could not bear to watch all my people slaughtered in an inexorable defeat. I sought my own death at his hands, believing it more honorable than perishing from grief. I never truly thought I might manage to slay Morgoth.”

He lifted his head to look at her, eyes full of anguish.

“That is why I do not deserve their adulation. They call me brave and wise when I was truly craven and foolish. When our people needed me most, I failed them as their king. I gave up hope and abandoned them while convinced of my own virtue.”

“You are not the only one to ever be convinced of your own virtue,” Anairë told him. “I was so angry at you for forsaking Aman, defying the Valar and abandoning me, all for the brother who hated you. I was so very righteous.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. 

“I came to miss you as much as I resented you,” she said. “I regret it, you know. Not coming with you.” 

“I am very much glad you did not!” he said vehemently. “I could not have borne losing you. Many nights I consoled myself with the knowledge that you, at least, were safe.”  

Nolofinwë lifted a hand to cup her face.

“Arafinwë told me you almost did not survive my death. You were so much stronger and braver than I. In Mandos, I learned that it can take more courage to live than to die.”

Anairë embraced him, tangling a hand in his braids.

“Never leave me like that again,” she demanded, tears burning in her eyes.

“Never again,melda” he agreed, ducking forward to kiss her.

Glossary

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-Earth’. Cognate of the Sindarin: ‘Endor’.

Fëa (Quenya): the spirit or soul of an incarnate, normally housed in a body.

Melda (Quenya): ‘beloved’.

Moringotto (Quenya): ‘Black Foe’. Cognate of the Sindarin: ‘Morgoth’.

Quenya Name Translations:

Arafinwë: Finarfin   

Nolofinwë: Fingolfin                                                                                                                         

Findaráto: Finrod