Off the SWG discord feed, here’s all the random drabbles I wrote (usually within two to three minutes) from today’s four word prompts. Many are slight spoilers or connected to stories that I’m working on. None are more than 100 words, some are much shorter.
- strong, borne, forest, fled
At the trill of birdsong that entered strong and bright into the clearing, the lingering lethargy of sleep fled from Beren’s limbs. His eager feet borne him from the shadows of the trees where he had slept in a soft bower of moss. Leaping into the sunlight, he sang his own wordless song of welcome and joy. Lúthien had returned to the forest, and she called to him as the songbirds did in spring, returning to the nest with love tokens to build a new life together. “You have leaves in your hair,” she teased, plucking them from his head.
…
“When we fled to the sea, it was strange, for we had shunned it for so long. Partly for love of the forests, but partly in anger. Strong anger that you -that Uncle Olu and our family- had been borne away by the island, and that I could see that remnant across the bay, like it was mocking me. We, Eglath, thought you had forgotten us.”
Elwing’s distant uncle, named in honor of her Great-grandfather same as her older brothers, embraced her. “Oh, never, my brave niece. My father never forgot either of his brothers, or any of his kin.”
- fragrant, bustle, refused, hastened
The elf bustled around the parlor room with arms full of fragrant myrtle branches, harried in expression and locomotion of her limbs. She hastened to the door, realized her false alarm before she touched the latch, and backed away from the door. She refused to succumb to panic. Laughing, her companion unfolded the gossamer thin cotton that made the robes worn by patients in the Gardens of Lorien. As the healer bustled around in anticipation of the approaching reunion, her companion snorted. “I know your concern is not that they have forgotten you, and this is naught but nerves.”
…
The bustle of the training field could not be compared in poetic terms to a beehive or whatever metaphor most pleased the departed Noldor. The fragrant scent of sweating men refused to be softened either by pretty words or breezes. The movements were repetitive and small, the tedious and unglamourous work of real soldiers, not the grand flashy movements of warriors. The recruits hastened to line up in wobbly orders, their sticks held aloft as they practiced the single step forward and thrust. An embryonic pikeline was slowly forming, one that would defeat what all the had cavalry failed to.
- Heart stroke encounter fire
“The heart of the matter is that we cannot stay by the shores of Cuiviénen, even without this great opportunity. The safety, light, bounty of a new land- all would be reasons alone to rejoice and accept this offer. Our encounter with Arâmê saved all the Speakers, and the Chieftains are fools to ignore this!” Finwë shouted, waving his arms in front of the fire.
“They don’t ignore,” Elwë corrected, “but they lose too much if they concede our truth.” He stroked the kindling and added another handful of dried sticks to the fire. “Have you spoken yet to Kwendê?”
…
Fân added one more stroke of pale green to the edge of the leaf that he was painting above the fire brazier of Bân’s living quarters. Pulling back, he inspected his work. The bright oranges and pinks of tropical flowers flashed like brassy cymbal notes in a song of interlacing greens, disguising plain stonework as the jungle foliage that Bân kept in his heart. The other elf spoke of birthplace during their first encounter as if not homesick, but Fân could see the silent yearning for a least a touch of memory. And flowers were a cure for that ache.
- rough, clash, wind, dim
He sketched rough design for the patterns of flowers and vines, adding more of the giant leaves with their curling points as directed by his friend. Bân, pressed close as they huddled in the hollow of an uprooted yew bush sheltered on the far side of the hill from the wind, offered corrections in the dim evening light. He tapped the parchment with the stick of charcoal, his sword hilt awkwardly peering over his shoulder. “The colors won’t clash.”
- Bleak snow scurry breath.
Bledda stared at the snow-covered visa before him with the bleak flat-eyed gaze of dead sea creatures, the black thoughtless look of creatures that would scurry across the sea floor. The scion of the People of Bor glanced to his commanding officer for reassurance. He knew it would be too much to pray for a denial. The commander of his Vanyar troop was adamant that they cross into the no-man’s land of the north. This would be an ordeal.
…
“The flower crown looks…bleak and unfinished,” Beril said as she forcefully shoved another sprig of snow-white maiden’s breath into gaps between the braided flowers, “and don’t scurry away and say this is Wise Women’s Secrets, Sister-mine.”
Andreth sighed.
- star, martyr, box, sunset
“Oh, sad martyr. You shall starve – but proclaim your brave sacrifice for all to hear and lament in heart-wrenchingly lovely song, for your king has forsaken you. The stars shine upon your noble torment.”
“Father…are you addressing your cat?” Ingwion entered the monastery with a box of tax receipts bound in a wide array of colors, blues and teals for Valmar and sunset oranges for the farmlands to the south, with white ribbons around the scrolls for schools and other royal properties allotted to public works.
Guiltily, the High King of All Elves looked up from the floor.
- binomial chocolate world tree
The book was an accounting ledger, one of many nearly identical volumes shelved in the room adjacent to the steward’s offices. In this utilitarian wing of Nargothrond, no beech trees carven into stone decorated the walls. This was the orderly world of the bookkeepers and inventory talliers. The unadorned leather was a rich chocolate brown, and on the pages were neat binomial pairs of numbers and lists, for Edrahil believed in redundancies and indexes. The blank space at the bottom of the tooth-white page accused them. How dare you think yourselves worthy to replace Tacholdir, the abandoned open book snarled.
- river, book, scar, hollow
It was a hollow feeling, to stand on the riverbank right before the river flowed through the gateway of the walls around Alqualondë. The wall had not always been so tall as to hide the scars of the city. Once it had been just an ornamental embellishment. Now chains bridged the current. To book passage down the river to the docks of the bay was no longer the seamless journey that it had once been. Nowadays the locks of the canals were watched and guarded. The city’s innocence was long destroyed, like a spiderweb against the might of a storm.
…
The last wound would scar, if the king did not allow his healers to attend to him soon. But King Thingol’s healers were on the other side of the River Aros, far from the carnage that ringed the Amon Ereb. That was what the book would call this place, the Lonely Hill, location of Denethor’s last breaths. Hollow promises of aid and eternal friendship, mockery made of the bond of kings delighted as co-rulers of Beleriand. No matter the multitude that he sent to the Halls of the Judge, no death would miraculously bring Denethor back to him. Thingol wept.
Tag: flash ficlet
More Instadrabbles
- seedling, last, rekindle, shadow
The Kin-strife cast a shadow over all of Gondor, but after ten years into Eldacar’s Restoration, peace has time to take root. People’s livelihoods were rekindled. For instance, in Ithilien the seedlings of new trees were beginning to bear fruit, replacing the vast orchards burnt during the war. At last, Lalaith hoisted the travel pack on her shoulder, setting off for Minas Arnor. Somewhere in that city were the survivors of the Garden Watchers, the secret agents of the kings. Túrin and the others awaited her. Stubbornly, she knew she could find them. Hope was like the serotiny of seedlings.
- binomial, chocolate, world, tree
“If I write the binomial out, I can compare the slopes and find where to add the next gate – the sluice mechanics in the Thirty-Fifth Wing might be small enough to retrofit into the space. Construction cannot continue until I solve this problem, or we face a world of complications and setbacks.” Durin chewed at the end of his stylus.
Daeron doodled a tree in the margins of his own notes, writing mathematical equations above each branch for the angles, perfectly accurate for all he seemed to eyeball. “Remember when your mathematics were simply dividing chocolates? Alas, maturity suits you.”
- star, martyr, box, sunset
“Milady, if you want me to play-act as a love martyr, I have moved past extremes of emotion. A comfort of death, to no longer be boxed in by one’s heart.” Daeron huffed, then softened, “I have grown accustomed to a feeling of contentment in your company, surprised though I be by the feeling, but there are no stars in my eyes when I gaze upon you. Or your work space. I beseech you – let me craft you a better loom than the one you currently use. It insults me. It should be like a sunset – swiftly ended.”
Míriel smiled.
- dim, clash, rough, wind
It was a truth tacitly accepted by those with any degree of familiarity with all the children of Fingolfin that the second son was the friendliest by far of his siblings, without the haughtiness and standoffishness that caused clashes and dim expectations of their capabilities as independent rulers, the only one to eschew rough manners for grace and courtesy. Turgon was amiable with everyone, for he genuinely loved company instead of shunning the populace for solitary pursuits or the exclusive companionship of the other royals. The sigh of sorrow at his disappearance passed like a dark wind through the North.
Insta-drabbles
Off the SWG discord feed, here’s all the random drabbles I wrote (usually within two to three minutes) from today’s four word prompts. Many are slight spoilers or connected to stories that I’m working on. None are more than 100 words, some are much shorter.
- strong, borne, forest, fled
At the trill of birdsong that entered strong and bright into the clearing, the lingering lethargy of sleep fled from Beren’s limbs. His eager feet borne him from the shadows of the trees where he had slept in a soft bower of moss. Leaping into the sunlight, he sang his own wordless song of welcome and joy. Lúthien had returned to the forest, and she called to him as the songbirds did in spring, returning to the nest with love tokens to build a new life together. “You have leaves in your hair,” she teased, plucking them from his head.
…
“When we fled to the sea, it was strange, for we had shunned it for so long. Partly for love of the forests, but partly in anger. Strong anger that you -that Uncle Olu and our family- had been borne away by the island, and that I could see that remnant across the bay, like it was mocking me. We, Eglath, thought you had forgotten us.”
Elwing’s distant uncle, named in honor of her Great-grandfather same as her older brothers, embraced her. “Oh, never, my brave niece. My father never forgot either of his brothers, or any of his kin.”
- fragrant, bustle, refused, hastened
The elf bustled around the parlor room with arms full of fragrant myrtle branches, harried in expression and locomotion of her limbs. She hastened to the door, realized her false alarm before she touched the latch, and backed away from the door. She refused to succumb to panic. Laughing, her companion unfolded the gossamer thin cotton that made the robes worn by patients in the Gardens of Lorien. As the healer bustled around in anticipation of the approaching reunion, her companion snorted. “I know your concern is not that they have forgotten you, and this is naught but nerves.”
…
The bustle of the training field could not be compared in poetic terms to a beehive or whatever metaphor most pleased the departed Noldor. The fragrant scent of sweating men refused to be softened either by pretty words or breezes. The movements were repetitive and small, the tedious and unglamourous work of real soldiers, not the grand flashy movements of warriors. The recruits hastened to line up in wobbly orders, their sticks held aloft as they practiced the single step forward and thrust. An embryonic pikeline was slowly forming, one that would defeat what all the had cavalry failed to.
- Heart stroke encounter fire
“The heart of the matter is that we cannot stay by the shores of Cuiviénen, even without this great opportunity. The safety, light, bounty of a new land- all would be reasons alone to rejoice and accept this offer. Our encounter with Arâmê saved all the Speakers, and the Chieftains are fools to ignore this!” Finwë shouted, waving his arms in front of the fire.
“They don’t ignore,” Elwë corrected, “but they lose too much if they concede our truth.” He stroked the kindling and added another handful of dried sticks to the fire. “Have you spoken yet to Kwendê?”
…
Fân added one more stroke of pale green to the edge of the leaf that he was painting above the fire brazier of Bân’s living quarters. Pulling back, he inspected his work. The bright oranges and pinks of tropical flowers flashed like brassy cymbal notes in a song of interlacing greens, disguising plain stonework as the jungle foliage that Bân kept in his heart. The other elf spoke of birthplace during their first encounter as if not homesick, but Fân could see the silent yearning for a least a touch of memory. And flowers were a cure for that ache.
- rough, clash, wind, dim
He sketched rough design for the patterns of flowers and vines, adding more of the giant leaves with their curling points as directed by his friend. Bân, pressed close as they huddled in the hollow of an uprooted yew bush sheltered on the far side of the hill from the wind, offered corrections in the dim evening light. He tapped the parchment with the stick of charcoal, his sword hilt awkwardly peering over his shoulder. “The colors won’t clash.”
- Bleak snow scurry breath.
Bledda stared at the snow-covered visa before him with the bleak flat-eyed gaze of dead sea creatures, the black thoughtless look of creatures that would scurry across the sea floor. The scion of the People of Bor glanced to his commanding officer for reassurance. He knew it would be too much to pray for a denial. The commander of his Vanyar troop was adamant that they cross into the no-man’s land of the north. This would be an ordeal.
…
“The flower crown looks…bleak and unfinished,” Beril said as she forcefully shoved another sprig of snow-white maiden’s breath into gaps between the braided flowers, “and don’t scurry away and say this is Wise Women’s Secrets, Sister-mine.”
Andreth sighed.
- star, martyr, box, sunset
“Oh, sad martyr. You shall starve – but proclaim your brave sacrifice for all to hear and lament in heart-wrenchingly lovely song, for your king has forsaken you. The stars shine upon your noble torment.”
“Father…are you addressing your cat?” Ingwion entered the monastery with a box of tax receipts bound in a wide array of colors, blues and teals for Valmar and sunset oranges for the farmlands to the south, with white ribbons around the scrolls for schools and other royal properties allotted to public works.
Guiltily, the High King of All Elves looked up from the floor.
- binomial chocolate world tree
The book was an accounting ledger, one of many nearly identical volumes shelved in the room adjacent to the steward’s offices. In this utilitarian wing of Nargothrond, no beech trees carven into stone decorated the walls. This was the orderly world of the bookkeepers and inventory talliers. The unadorned leather was a rich chocolate brown, and on the pages were neat binomial pairs of numbers and lists, for Edrahil believed in redundancies and indexes. The blank space at the bottom of the tooth-white page accused them. How dare you think yourselves worthy to replace Tacholdir, the abandoned open book snarled.
- river, book, scar, hollow
It was a hollow feeling, to stand on the riverbank right before the river flowed through the gateway of the walls around Alqualondë. The wall had not always been so tall as to hide the scars of the city. Once it had been just an ornamental embellishment. Now chains bridged the current. To book passage down the river to the docks of the bay was no longer the seamless journey that it had once been. Nowadays the locks of the canals were watched and guarded. The city’s innocence was long destroyed, like a spiderweb against the might of a storm.
…
The last wound would scar, if the king did not allow his healers to attend to him soon. But King Thingol’s healers were on the other side of the River Aros, far from the carnage that ringed the Amon Ereb. That was what the book would call this place, the Lonely Hill, location of Denethor’s last breaths. Hollow promises of aid and eternal friendship, mockery made of the bond of kings delighted as co-rulers of Beleriand. No matter the multitude that he sent to the Halls of the Judge, no death would miraculously bring Denethor back to him. Thingol wept.
Tacholdir brought the slip of embossed parchment over to his lover in shaking hands, his face caught between the warring emotions of elation and disbelief. “Taltyo, read this for me.”
Stretched out on his stomach like a sun-basking lizard, the other man in the room felt too comfortable to move from the couch. Instead he lifted a languid arm. “It is the publisher’s notice about the book’s profits, isn’t it? I already checked in with the store when I went to buy bread. The last copy sold yesterday, and the scribes are panicking about the demand.”
“I didn’t think that anyone would care,” Tacholdir whispered, “it’s just a word list of Taliska, everything I knew and some input from the prince. And a few short anecdotes. Not even entertaining ones, just which mortal I heard the particular word from, or one of the visitors to the city. The longest story is about that one Bëorian lass’s horrible handwriting. Prince Finrod is writing a more comprehensive treatise, and he has the authority and name. I thought only my friends would buy it as a support gesture. There’s no analysis. Tal,” his fiancee wailed, ”they write that the Lambeñgolmor had purchased a copy and wish to commission a special edition. Rúmil himself has read and praised it. That cannot be so! Tal, what am I to do?”
Taltyo valiantly tried to control his mouth before he laughed in his fiancee’s face. “Hand me the missive, Tacholdir. I will read it myself and tell you I see the same words that you do.”
“The lore-masters. Those loremasters, Taltyo. You don’t know them- to care about a first-time author’s book from a nobody.”
“You are a hero and companion of the eldest son of the Noldor King. You are not nobody, Tacholdir,” Taltyo soothed.
His fiancee, pacing now around the room, ignored him. “I can’t believe it! …those judgmental, prescriptivist nobles! That pack of snobs!”
“Ah yes,” Taltyo said, “I heard about this. These were the same lore-masters that demanded that there was only their way to speak a language. Purer because princes spoke it. Better because it was older, and then mocked the shepherds because of their Quendya, which if ever one heard the King’s Mother speak, her words are shaped like the poor farmers and shepherds and not the wealthy of Valmar or Tirion. You doubt because you think they would discount you as merely Tancildo the pin-maker’s son, someone of no importance. Your readers do not care. They want to know about the Second-born. You write truth, and even your tiny stories, the ones you think so boring about the mortal commoners, they are rare gems. They have never met these People of Bëor. The man who describes his sheep with that funny word because its wool was so coarse? My cousins see themselves in this Second-born whom they shall never encounter. The girl who tells you the name of all the fruits that they grew. Their words for animals and dance? Words for tools I do not recognize. Your audience hungers for these, Tachildor. And have not you noticed how popular the ballads and tales of the mortal heroes are?”
“But those are the great deeds,” Tachildor pressed. “This is a but a small glossary of no great scholarship.”
“Only to you, my foolish love. Your humility is endearing, but cease your pacing. Now let us see the sum you have earned us….Tachildor. Tachildor? Is there a mistake on the brushstroke here?”
His fiancee squealed. “See! See!”
“Tachildor, what are we to do with all that money?”
“And they want a second order!”
I wish you would write a fic with Círdan and/or Elwing and/or Eärendil…
The Fëanorians had torched Elwing and Eärendil’s house. Círdan tried not to feel surprised at that, watching the black charred remains of what had been rafters, beams, and furniture slowly smolder and collapse in the harsh shore breeze. All the embers had cooled by now, and he knew he could approach the ruins of what had been the house of his dear friends (adopted niece and nephew, yet another war orphan he had taken in as his own). He feared approaching, worried that it will be more than burned wood he would find in the wreckage. His men, searching the other buildings, had already found bodies. Elven and mortal, male and female, old and young, every sort imaginable. Círdan did not wish confirmation of which he would find in this house. The Fëanorians had burned the docks. That he was not surprised at, for they had no more use for ships, or at least still had the self-awareness that no boat upon these waves would tolerate them. Still, Círdan knew one ship was not present, and thus one body he shall not find.
And, staring at the charred ruins of the home of Elwing and her young children, for the first and only time, Círdan fervently prayed that Vingilot had foundered upon the waves. The Shipwright wished this betrayal of his craft. Let not the lad return to this, he prayed. Better he dies, drowns in a storm, not seeing the destruction of his home, the death of his people. Never have asked this of you, Lord Ossë, oh, how Círdan wept, but never allow him to return to this shore, when this sorrow is all that awaits him.
“Before the beginning,” and/or “the end” ?
I’m at a stalled period on my projects- have more than one in a holding pattern- but let’s go with Of Ingwë :
The intentions of the unfathomable Eru Ilúvatar are inscrutable even to the godly powers that served His purpose in forming this world, giving shape and substance to this planet upon which Eru now focuses, His omnipotent attention concentrating on a finite point, a seemingly inconsequential location. It is the shoreline of a vast saline lake, one whose dimensions and water volume would qualify it for the moniker of inland sea. Eru Ilúvatar sings music into the repetitive sounds of the lapping waves against that muddy shoreline. In that gentle wash, silt is eroded away, and the lake water begins to pull away – as tides will eventually do, when the moon is created.
Slowly, the new creations are revealed.
Six long inert shapes lie in the mud. There is no moon to illuminate their features, only dim starlight. Bodies they are, the First Children of Eru Ilúvatar, and the Creator of Everything breathes out, and the sound of this exhale awakens the elves.
Just so y’all know, there is a resolution to the Dreadful Wind. It’s a rather short story – Mahtamë, the Mother of King and Queen, dignified matron of the elves, chooses to stay in Beleriand until the end of the War. She has a quest, and will not leave, no matter how much this disrupts anyone’s plans or distresses her family. Mahtamë is going hunting, and it has been a long time since she hunted for herself.
Mahtamë marches along the borders of Valar-controlled territory, hunting for her husband. She will lure this spirit of Morgoth back to her. Everyone is aghast and terrified for her- then mildly terrified of her.
Mahtamë’s plan is simple. She sings. Old songs, her songs, their songs. Hunting songs, running songs. Love songs. Bawdy descriptive songs of love-making with her husband from in those early days when the elves were first figuring that out. (Mortified, Ingwion realizes where that trait came from. Then he has the songs transcribed and sent back to Valmar, petty revenge) Songs about the pure joy of running beside someone.
The elves know how powerful song can be to reunite lovers and defeat the power of Morgoth.
A few months later, vocal chords a little raspy from the strain, a supremely self-satisfied expression on her face, Queen Mother Mahtamë boards a ship and sails back to Valinor.
Tears
As an apology for the last angst fic, here’s the written out proper version of this headcanon.
…
Still wiping away tears from his eyes, Námo calls to the other side of the enveloping darkness that formed the outermost ring of the Circles of the World, hoping to reach the ear of Ilúvatar or one of his brethren that did not journey into Arda. He knows there is a counterpart of his that must be the one to hold and handle the mortal souls that leave his Halls and enter Beyond (he hopes, in the way the Children have described and defined hope). Finally, someone answers. At first it is hard to separate the tones from the reverb of his call, and there is a terribly annoying static to the vibrations on the upper places of thought. Manwe never has these issues, he thinks, and never has to wait this long. It is a vaguely familiar voice, but one he has not heard in so long he has forgotten the name that their father assigned them. Something that started with a Ha or He sound, he thinks. Or was it Nef?
“Námo!” the voice calls. “You were not supposed to contact us unless it is of great need. What is this request you ask for?” There are undercurrents of peevishness and stress to the voice, a sense that they are distracted and cannot give him their full attention. It could be merely the distortion of communicating across barriers of existence. Námo tries not the feel any personal offense.
“A great boon,” the Judge says, pitching his tones to those of resolve and determination, and as succinctly as possible describes the situation with Melian’s daughter and her mortal lover. “They wish to remain together, and thus Lúthien is willing to join Beren to his mortal fate, to leave the confines of Arda.”
A great sigh echoes through the Outer Void. “Look, Námo, I know you have all your First Children to deal with and they can be a tad unruly, but we are swamped. Do you realize how exponentially greater the number of the Second Children are, and how swiftly it increases? And how fractious they are? I would trade you positions for some peace and quiet, even if it meant having to share a universe with Melkor. And you want to dump an extra soul on my overworked shoulders? Truly?”
The moratorium on the coldness of his heart has ceased; his sympathies can no longer be manipulated. Námo steels himself and replies, “My brethren and I wish to grant them some years together here on Arda, then allow them to leave together. I will give you time to prepare, and I am only asking you accept one soul. Not even our most intractable. But I swear by the name of our Father and Creator, I will not suffer a second permanent resident of my Halls declaring to never leave my couch and spend all of eternity bemoaning their lost mortal beloved. I have one already, and Vairë is exhausted already listening to him weep and pout and get accidentally tangled in her skeins as he searches for fresh handkerchiefs and frozen dairy sweets. Aegnor is bad enough. I won’t have twice the misery.”
The humming sound that signaled that the Ainur on the other end was only humoring Námo’s rant without giving it consideration screeched to a halt and the line of communication intensified with sudden loudness and clarity. “What was that name?”
“Melian’s daughter that wishes to have a fate of one of the Second Children?”
“No, no, the other. The one already moping in your personal wing of your Halls. The one that was in love with a mortal- it was mutual, wasn’t it? The name, please!”
“Aegnor,” Námo says slowly. “Ambaráto Aikanáro Arafinwion. And the woman he cries over was of the House of Bëor named-”
“AEGNOR!” the counterpart howls with the chords of extreme vexation that he thought only Melkor’s disharmony could inspire. “OH YES, HIM. We are sick of hearing that name. We know the woman of the Third Song, Andreth Saelind. There is not a soul here that does not, to our sorrow. For more than ten of your years, we have had to listen to her complaints, of her list of grievances of the inequalities and ill-planning of Eru’s Songs, critiques of your jobs and ours and philosophical bitching. Of which we always hear from the newly arrived, mistake me not – but this one! Brother, she has gone to Ilúvatar himself and has not shut up. Your Lúthien at least could sing with incomparable beauty and skill. We got her. If I never have to hear another word about her beautiful block-headed Aegnor, I would take all the First Children into my keeping.”
Námo is aghast at what to possibly respond with.
“Look, I’ll talk to Father but I can guarantee he’ll agree. We’ll swap you Lúthien for Andreth. And it’ll take a while for any of us to interrupt her diatribe to inform her of the deal, which should give your Lúthien and Beren a grace period for a second chance at life together. Oh, Most Joyous of Songs! Peace and Quiet at Last! We can be rid of Saelind! I was almost tempted to pull a Tulukhastaz to get away from her. I have never cried before. What are these things on my face?”
“Tears of joy,” Námo explains dryly.
Andreth steps outside the door of her nephew’s house, the grand building that had once been home of her brother and her father and their father before them, so lovingly crafted and worn smooth by time and care. Her fingers wish to linger on the door-latch for a moment, but she does not hesitate to walk further into the light. She does not hear the door close behind her, or any sounds from inside the house. It is dawn, and the reddish orange of the sky looks so warm and comforting. She does not understand how it can, because the fiery glow engulfs the entire skyline and casts its hue over everything she sees, and she should be frightened, should be thinking of the flames that destroyed her world only a few days ago, but she doesn’t. She has forgotten the northern fires.
Andreth walks out from the shadow of the eaves, hugging her green cloak around her shoulders, staring out at the field stretched out before the house. From this angle she cannot see the other houses of the village nor the smithy, mill, or any of the barns, not even the fence-lines. Only a field of green grain, waist-high with summer promise, and a figure standing in the field with his back to her. The dawn silhouettes him, and Andreth knows the lines of his shoulders. He is leaning over to run a hand over the barley, and as a breeze lifts at her unbound hair, Andreth begins to smile in recognition and joy. He is not wearing armor, only a soft woven tunic of the very sort of plaid woolen cloth that has come from her looms, and there is no sword or quiver belted at his waist. He is free of tension, at peace, and that alone would make Andreth weep. Sunlight turns the curls of his hair into pure gold. It is still silent. Andreth walks out into the field, the dew soaking through the thin leather of her shoes and collecting on the hem of her green cloak. The man in the field straightens and turns to face her over his shoulder, smiling.
Aegnor speaks to her, and at first Andreth doesn’t understand. Something about a ring, and she looks down at her hand, where a silver band wraps around her finger. An elven proposal of marriage custom, she remembers it being explained to her, silver for intention to wed, but does not recall if it was Finrod or Aegnor himself who had told her, and it does not make sense. He had never proposed to her, no matter how she had dreamed he had. But he is looking at her with such certainty and love, framed by the orange dawn. Andreth stares at the cold circle of silver, and suddenly the light has cooled and she feels cold. She remembers the texture of ash and dirt in her hands, digging through the aftermath of a battlefield. She remembers burials, and wakes.
Andreth is in her ancestral home, but her bed is cold. The fire in the hearth is gone, and as she stretches out her hand, she can feel the piece of metal from her dream. It is a piece of chain-mail from a shattered and burnt suit of elven mail, one of the larger rings that she had dug out from the pile of charred bones. She runs a finger over the metal and wishes she was back in her dream.
i am nothing if not predictable and this is the JL trailer Clois scene because OTPs are meant to be combined.
Prompted by @cycas: Fingolfin and Hador
…
Hador is drinking from a goblet Fingolfin remembers gifting the Edain ruler for his last birthday, and when Fingolfin plops into the chair besides Hador and stretches out his long legs under the table, the mortal man smiles and gestures to the full pitcher on the table. Exhausted but content, Fingolfin reaches for the pitcher and an empty cup. He recalls the fiascos with mortal alcohol, that there had been unanticipated differences between mortal liquor and what an elf considered mildly intoxicating mead or wine, and eyes the liquid with suspicion. It is pure opaque white; he does not immediately recognize it. “Forgive me, Hador. From your enthusiasm this is a refreshing drink, but what is it?”
“Milk,” Hador answers.
“Milk?” Fingolfin frowns. “Milk of what?”
“From a cow,” Hador says, and laughs.
Fingolfin halts his face from displaying any aghast reaction – he hopes. “Directly from the animal? You do not ferment it, or let it cure?”
Hador makes the disgusted face Fingolfin stopped himself from making. “Elves drink soured milk? You are stranger than we thought.”
“No,” Fingolfin explains. “As my nephew explained, we kept and farmed cattle as well, even if we did not bring the animals with us when we came to Beleriand to war against Morgoth. It was not the prevue of the Noldor; most herds were tended by my mother’s kin, the Vanyar. They were raised for more than just meat – cheeses and yougurts we had aplenty. My wife’s family worked closely with Vanyar; I am familiar with their dishes. But the pure milk from the animal? I do not understand. One makes cheese from the milk, once it has set into whey and curds, as one makes bread and pottage from flour. But you would not eat unground grains or straight flour.”
Hador laughs harder at this. “We eat cheese, too. But the milk alone is also very good to drink, if it is fresh, and especially if it has been chilled.”
Hesitantly Fingolfin calculates how insulted his friend would be if he does not attempt a glass, but is saved by the fortunous arrival of his son. Fingon makes a face to see his father sitting slouched next to the mortal, but Fingolfin calls him over. “Fingon! Come join us and try this new mortal drink!”
Fingon fidgets and mutters that he is not his cousin Finrod. Fingolfin knows his son doesn’t understand the fuss and appeal of the mortals and is uncomfortable around them.
“A dare!” Hador says, smiling, and Fingolfin beams and would almost dare to kiss the mortal, if he was completely certain the mortal would not misunderstand for some strange cultural taboo or something. The two people were still learning of another. But Fingon’s competitive and bold nature meant a dare to his courage was the surest way to compel him.
Grinning broadly, Fingon pours the white liquid into a cup and gulps it down in one swift movement.
Fingolfin scrutinizes his son’s expression after he lowered the empty cup.
“Verdict?”
Fingon shrugs.
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