- yep, it’s an Elf
- a lot of page time given to this character
- for a time was High King of his people
- the oldest of several brothers
- the next eldest brother had to take over leadership when said elf was unwillingly separated from his people
- very very tall (was known for it)
- very good-looking
- with a rare hair color btw
- attention is called in-text to the fey light of his eyes
- has a temper but can sometimes control it
- did have a scene where he naively believed in good intentions/did not see betrayal
- has an on-screen personality; it has flaws and nuances
- acknowledges his mistakes and repents
- throws shade, makes dismissive comments, he’s sassy
- Don’t need the Valar, thanks but no thanks
- left Valinor, lives rest of his life in Beleriand
- feared and hated by Morgoth
- fights against Morgoth’s armies sent personally to destroy him or his family
- Neither Morgoth nor any of the Dark Lord’s forces ever kill him
- allied with the dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost and fought a large battle against Morgoth together
- gifts were exchanged with the dwarves
- Also allied with other elves
- Finrod visits him
- maintains a rather large network of political allies
- including a deep personal friendship with another elven king
- Said king dies in that large battle, was too late to come to his friend’s rescue
- so instead he slaughters hundreds of orcs in revenge and then has to flee to safety
- Also allies with humans
- but doesn’t have as close a relationship with them as some other Noldor princes and their Edain
- one human male will go live with him and be treated with love and honor
- quasi-adopted mortal son
- makes a terrible Oath involving the recovery of a Silmaril
- eventually does gain possession of a Silmaril
- this leads to his death
- tragic
- his brother survives him and spends the rest of his life next to a seashore
I’m describing Elu Thingol, btw. Not Maedhros
Tag: reblog
Release from Bondage- Chapter 2
Next chapter, where the link to Beren’s Band of the Red Hand become very apparent. ~flashbacks~
The later half of the First Age from the perspective of two elves trapped in Angband, loosely inspired by A Dance of Dragons. The childhood companion of Finduilas Faelivrin must take the princess’s identity to survive in the enemy’s hands. Another prisoner, regretting he did not join Beren’s quest, tries his best to save her.
“Where was I? I should have died with him.”
He should have died with Aglar in the dungeons.
Faron had trained himself not to think of his regrets as he curled in the cells of Angband, useless an endeavour as it could hope to be. Angband was coal and iron and regrets. Thoughts that were not centered on present pain and misery only spiraled back to regretting the path that led to it. In Angband sleep came without rest or relief. It rarely came anyway. His bed was stone and his companions wargs, so what little sleep the elven thrall could snatch was huddled against the flanks of the oldest beast, the jaws of the warg resting atop his ankles as its red eyes watched him under heavy lids. The wargs barely tolerated him in their pen; if he thrashed in his sleep or cried too loud the beasts would savage him. Their sleep was no more placid than his.
The memories came when Faron slept, flooding his thoughts with more variety than the day-to-day banality of physical pain and fear allotted to thralls of Angband. Futilely his mind chased after the void as poisons of anxiety, pain, and self-recrimination accumulated in the marrow of his bones. An arrogant boy he had been, desperate to avenge his friends and prove his prowess to anyone that knew his name, desperate for glory to make his name widely known so that his accomplishments would earn something besides scorn from his father, to overshadow his martyred brothers and balance the guilt of betraying those friends he had loved more than any brother. That arrogant boy had laughed when he rode into battle. Faron tried to recall his old laughter, and could only hear the examples of orcs. He almost wanted to hate that boy, that fool that believed in victory and glory. Faron had been a boy that thought himself a man, who thought his duty was to avenge the companions he had not died beside. Eager for death he had been, in the manner of young warriors who thought death was something they bequeathed and never received, whose thoughts lingered on loved ones that had gone to the Halls of Mandos and not of what their own passage would cost. He feared not a life underground because he knew only the caves of Nargothrond, coddled by the freedom to seek the sun if the echoes began to overpower him. As a thrall of Angband, he has not seen the sun since the disastrous battle. No day ever came again. Eager to ride north and challenge the darkness he had been, that boy named Faron wanted nothing as strongly as to see Angband and win glory before its iron gates. He had known nothing of true darkness. Angband was the cruel fossilization of soul, entombing a body in the miserable all-encompassing darkness of its iron mines, slowly eating away flesh and bone, and filling the cavity with a broken slinking creature that cowered in desperation.
He should have died beside Aglar, together as prisoners in a different dungeon.
Release from Bondage – Chapter 1
So I’m posting the chapters finally to the blog, as they were the only one that didn’t have a full version here. Plus, I’m greedy and I want this fic to have as many readers as it can.
The later half of the First Age from the perspective of two elves trapped in Angband, loosely inspired by A Dance of Dragons.
The childhood companion of Finduilas Faelivrin must take the princess’s identity to survive in the enemy’s hands. Another prisoner, regretting he did not join Beren’s quest, tries his best to save her.
“The eyes of the bride were brown, big and brown and full of fear.“
The princess’s eyes were light and bright as the source of the River Narog, the fair pools of Ivrin for which Lord Gwindor had named her, the green-blue of leaves reflected in clear water. But the eyes of this maiden were brown, dark and deep with fear.
”Is this her?” the orc overseer snarled in the foul language Faron had learned to understand, jabbing at the emaciated elf’s scarred back with the butt of a iron spear. The blow crumpled the last strength in Faron’s knees, and the thrall went from prostrated bow to lying flat on the wet stones of the cavern. Had Angband any poetry, the broken elf would have described himself as a squashed spider. More coal dust flew into his nose and mouth, and after a long pause because he had no energy to breathe or cough out the dirt from his mouth, Faron spat and slid his hands back under his body to push himself from the ground. It was a slow process. The open sores from the missing fingers had started to bleed again, but the pain from his back, from his stomach, from the despair in his heart, overpowered the sensation. He needed to answer the overseer before the orc struck again, before the next finger was taken. The elven thrall, one of the unfortunate thousands in the bowels of Angband, glanced up at the newest arrival.
Faron was not so broken as to misunderstand why he had been dragged forth. Perhaps it would have been kinder if he did not, but kindness was as foreign to Angband as poetry.
Self-Indulgent Writing, More Mermaid Side-Story
More long post WIP original story, directly continuing off of this post. Stopped at a point so the post would be shorter than the first snippet (five pages is not a snippet, I know).
…
“I enter the dry hall of the king, my shell dress still dripping wet, which is a faux pas, and I could not describe to you my hair. All my journey I fret that I must make a good impression, and here is how I arrive. The dry hall is wood, semi-open to the elements, unlike other portions of the palace complex which are of coral and stone. Had I been escorted to one of those rooms, my anxiety would have overpowered me. But I was tired from swimming and determined to have this position at court, to learn under Queen Gara, so the magnitude of what surrounds me is deadened. So dark is it, I cannot not see the details of wealth around me. There are curtains of sea-wool, like gold made into mist, hanging from the ceiling. Just enough of that cloth to make a pair of lady’s gloves is worth a lord’s ransom in your land. Metal objects, which are more rare and precious in the islands, decorate the room, and the hinges and furnishings on the doors are made of brass. The first time I saw one of your temples with doors of solid bronze, every carving cast in metal and not carved, I sat on the steps and just stared for hours in sheer wonder. But the palace of Iro was the first wonderful and wealthy place that I came to. What else can I say to describe it that morning? Flowers are grown around the outer walls to provide a sweet scent to combat the scent of salt. The winds bring it in through the open panels. I have found only a few perfumes that come close to matching those flowers. And how strongly a smell is, or its qualities, is highly dependent on my current form. Scent memory is therefore strange for me. Alas, it would have been nice to stand there for while and dry, but I am immediately shuffled onward.
“The king himself, not any master of servants, is the one to collect me from the guard escort. He wears no crown; King Isore rarely did, but he did not need to, for how recognizable he is.” Amabel paused. “The man that Great Lady Manon spoke to in Stonegift, her banker with the stupid feathered hat, you recall him?”
“I liked his hat,” Gislin said.
Durin/Daeron :P (I was debating how mean to be, you almost got Imin/Ingwe)
Fire in the lower galleries, smoke in the tunnels. Poisonous gases and heat and explosions, collapsing homes and escape routes caving in. Cracking stone, screams, a metropolis darkening under the roars of a demon from the deep. The king does not need to see to know what is happening to Khazad-dûm. The miners and soldiers are blocking off the tunnels from the mithril mines into the populous heart of the great city, trying to seal the air locks to hold off the noxious fumes that are asphyxiating his people, trying to fight a monster made of flame and shadow. Durin’s people need time to flee to safety, and the universe has been overturned, for safety used to mean deep underground. His civilians, his few mothers and children, the most precious jewels of the Dwarves, need time to reach the uppermost levels and gather supplies to survive a possible exodus through hazardous lands. If the locks cannot hold, if the Balrog makes it from the deep mines into the wide thoroughfares, Khazad-dûm is doomed.
They need their king to lead them. Durin gives his son Náin a final set of instructions, the plans to divert the aqueducts and flood the lower levels in a deluge that shall hopefully defeat the demon of flame if all else fails. Minor versions of similar plans for smaller emergencies, gas leaks and caves-ins, orc invasions, have long been on file. For several hours Durin has conferred with his son over the strongest locations in the mountains to hold out for a final siege and concurred with Nain’s proposals on how to best adapt the emergency procedures. Nain’s face beneath the raised visor of his helm is pinched with worry, but Durin has faith in his son’s capabilities. Gruffly, he reassures his son a final time on the soundness of their plan, one Nain still clearly believes should be his father’s duty as king to lead. After initial arguments, when it became clear changing the courses of aqueducts would be easier than changing the will of his father, Nain has not disputed Durin’s intentions to join the soldiers in the lower galleries. His son knows an unbeatable fight when he faces it.
Durin dons his golden helm and face-mask and heads for the door. The guards open it to someone Durin expected to have long retreated with Nain’s wife and barely-adult son. Nain only nods briefly in respect to the new arrival. There is a flash of what might be guilt in his son’s eyes, for it is obvious Nain knows why this person is present in the Chamber of Mazarbul instead of safely guarded near the surface levels. A suspicious corner of Durin’s mind wonders if the search through the records of the city layouts has been orchestrated so this new arrival would have time to sneak back into the Seventh Level and confront Durin. Has Nain recruited the only person his son hopes could persuade Durin away from what they both know is a sacrificial last stand? He glares at his son instead of his guardsmen. The king is not surprised that his guards defer to this person, however much he might wish otherwise. No door in Khazad-dûm is barred to him. The arrival blocking the doorway is someone most precious to Durin and his people, someone who has been a heart-companion during the many repetitions of Durin’s life. The tallest person in the room, with the shortest beard, he kneels down before Durin arrayed in a coat of silver mithril. He is holding what Durin at first mistakes for a slender pole-arm. Durin frowns and commands, “You should be with the other lore-masters and master-craftsmen. You are too valuable to lose.”
Precious barely begins to describe the feelings the dwarves of Khazad-dûm feel for this one. The only non-dwarf in Khazad-dûm, the one to give the dwarves the first letters in which to preserve their history, he has rejected all names but those the dwarves have given him, and the name that Durin’s people call him is Preserver of History. The truly deathless one, the Preserver of History remembers Durin II, having lived with that king during the end of the First Age and into the Second. He is the one who would recognize when Durin returned to his people with each rebirth, proclaiming the news to eager mothers and lore-masters. Those sad grey eyes of his eternal faithful friend, the first Durin can remember meeting upon this earth, lock gazes with his king once more. Stubborn as any dwarf, his heart-friend.
“You should not be arrayed in armor,” Durin says more forcefully. “You are not a warrior.”
“You will not send me from your side,” Daeron answers. “I will not abandon my home or king to destruction.”
“You will!” Durin growls. “You will not survive against a Balrog, you fool elf!”
Some of the shocked gasps from others in the room might have been at the acknowledgement that Daeron, Durin’s Treasure and Preserver of History, was an elf. It was a tactfully ignored truth. They knew the lore-keeper had once held a similar exalted position among the elves. However Daeron has lived so long among the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, sharing in their familiar pains, delighting in their joys, attending loyally to their king, and hiding from his former people even during the time friendship with Eregion blossomed, that they forget it had not been Mahal’s hands that shaped him. Durin II had welcomed Daeron into his home, cloistered him deep within the heart of the mountain, and over time taught him the secrets of the dwarves. Each year Daeron’s wistfulness for long-gone forests and heartbreak for a long-dead unrequited desire had lessened under the admiration and affection from the people of Khazad-dûm and the closeness of their king. The dwarves understood such heartbreak and how to heal it. Daeron had been appreciated in his first underground home, highly respected by its rulers, but Durin knows the nostalgia Daeron feels nowadays lingers solely inside these halls, for these caverns above the Kheled-zâram. For centuries only Khuzdul has passed through the elf’s lips. His songs are lullabies to sing to dwarven children. The stars he praises are the reflections from the Mirrormere. The lore he gathers and shares comes from the wisdom found here in Mazarbul. Daeron’s skill as a craftsman of wood is equal to Narvi’s with stone, or any other of the great artists of Khazad-dûm. His patience and willingness to teach that skill is even more rare and valued. Nain’s son learned to carve wooden marvels, form his letters, and play the harp on the lap of his grandfather’s heart-friend. Durin does not wish Nain’s grandson to grow never knowing of Khazad-dûm’s most treasured secret.
The rest of the astonished cries come from how Daeron has not budged, staring like an unmoved cat in defiance to his king. Durin cannot push him aside, so he moves to divert around him as one does when tunneling and faced with stone too onerous to chip through. Daeron grasps his king’s hand and turns Durin to face him once more. Grey eyes impede him.
“I will go with you, to death this time, so be it! And here is my weapon, my king, to wield in service of you and our people. Song has defeated the enemy’s monsters before. If mine is still the greatest voice to ever grace this world, then its greatest use will be to sing enchantments to ensnare this demon in the depths, perhaps to lure it back to slumber for as long as my power holds. Enough time to buy our children a chance for safety.”
Durin weeps into his beard as Daeron reverently kisses the crown of the helm, then kneels even lower to pull Durin’s gauntleted hand to his lips and then to caress the side of his face. “We go together this time.” Daeron whispers.
The Survivor’s Guilt Coda to the Band of the Red Hand series I’m writing:
Beren has done this before.
This was one of the thoughts that came to Beren in his insurmountable grief as he cradled the cooling corpse of beloved Finrod, king and friend, blind hand feeling in the dark at the gaping wounds on Finrod’s chest where the wolf had scored with venomed fangs, fingers dipping into the blood that has overwhelmed all his senses. Strange that the blood slides and sticks across his fingers like that which leaks from mortal things, that the scent is over-familiar.
He had been here before, Barahir’s son. On the shores of Aeluin, rushing alone and wild with grief and rage into the orcs’ camp to slay that one holding aloft a dismembered hand, he knew this. For two years he had know this numbness.
He has carried dead men’s names, the names of comrades that have left him behind. He alone had been there to pick up those burdens. He lived then, even though he had not desired to. He should have joined them, the names he carried in a solo dirge. A choir they had once been. Now his was the only voice that remained to speak those names, to sing their deeds against the great foe and preserve their glory, to recall their joys and sorrows, and to carry on their defiance against the enemy and all his monsters and orcs. For two years Beren had carried the weight of twelve dead men, of doughty Dagnir and Ragnor, Radhruin, Dairuin and Gildor, Gorlim and Urthel, Arthad and Hathaldir, his cousins Belegund and Baragund, and his father Barahir. Kin and comrades, and all died, leaving but Beren to survive.
Another twelve now, and this time, waiting for the last wolf to come, Beren knew he would not linger on alone. Pulling back the hand covered in Finrod’s blood, Beren waited and began to compose his song. A new list of names, ones just as dear, and like before only Beren left behind to recall their names. Of doughty Arodreth and Ethirdir, Aglar, Consael and Heledir, Tacholdir and
Bân, Gadwar and Fân, Edrahil, and his king Felagund.
This time there would be no empty years afterward, alone but for the trees and the shy creatures of feather and fur that aided him in a long and fruitless fight against the enemy. No long years with words worn away until he forgot the names and remembered only the grief and vengeance call they burdened him with. No stumbling numb and dumb and mad into a starlight glen where a wondrous vision sang and danced and for a while lifted the burden of grief and rage.
He had joined his voice in a duet, that fey and joyous summer, he that had lost his voice.
To think of Lúthien hurt more than the rest of his sorrows. There his thoughts could not dwell, for he knew this time would not have reprieve.
He had done this before and knew what should happen next, what were his next steps, the next lines to sing.
This time he shall join the names of his dead, such was the thought of Beren.
So why did he smell flowers?
Lemon Cakes
This was a writing experiment for myself- sit a bunch of my OCs down and ask them to eat something. Consider it a prototype of the Round Two of the Beren’s Band of the Red Hand series.
…
Aglar’s sister, the elder one who stayed with their mother and youngest brother, hosts a luncheon for her brother and his companions once they have all reunited from the healing gardens of Estë. Amanië relishes the opportunity to play as gracious host, and she has a fondness for lemon cakes that she shares with her guests. Multiple platters of tarts piled high are placed before her guests.
Faelindis, who quickly bonded with the older woman as a replacement for the bond of deep friendship she once shared with Princess Finduilas, equally adores the tart yet sweet treats. Her husband, Faron, splits one of the cakes with Faelindis, then leans back in his chair and watches with bemusement as Faelindis and Amanië devour a platter of cakes together. The two lean their heads together and giggle, but of what their topic of amusement is, Faron has no idea. Nor does he truly care. Next to them sits Aglar and his wife, Faelineth. Faelineth, with her thick curly brown hair, heart-shaped face, warm brown eyes, and Nargothrond accent, shares a few superficial traits with the similarly named Faelindis, but neither woman would be mistaken for the other. This is especially true when Faelineth is several months pregnant with twins, the yellow cotton dress draping over the wide bump of her middle, her cheeks -and other curves- more plump than normal. Faelindis, though healed from the horrors of her long captivity in Angband, cannot shake the thinness of her features, the shadow suggestion of gauntness to her cheeks. Once more Faelindis is a pale girl flanked by two more vivacious and beautiful women. Amanië is accredited as one of the foremost upcoming beauties in Valinor, with her striking red hair and bright blue eyes. She also towers over her brother and the other women, that tree-slender-and-tall body prized among Noldor high society, the same standard of beauty that garners Amanië comparisons to Princess Artanis. She resembles Princess Finduilas in personality, at least somewhat. Still, though Faron cannot help but admire her beauty, his attention returns again and again to Faelindis. Aglar watches his best friend with the knowing smirk of an expectant father anticipating his experiences with fatherhood soon to be mutual. He bites into a lemon cake to hide his smirk.
Ethirdor eyes the lemon cakes, which are closer to a tartlet despite the name, with a bit of confusion. Visually they look most like savory custards, the steamed egg dishes that he loved back in Beleriand. He eats one and is surprised at the sweetness and texture. Eagerly he eats a second.
Tacholdir takes a bite of the lemon cake, makes a face at the unexpected tartness of the lemon, attempts a second bite, then places the remaining cake back on his plate with a forlorn and disappointed look. His dismay at his own unwillingness to finish the proffered treat makes his fiancé laugh, and the blonde man fetches the half-eaten tart off Tacholdir’s plate and tosses in into his mouth. After he swallows the cake, he teases his fiancè. “Not sweet enough?”
“I thought the lemon flavor would not be as strong,” Tacholdir admits quietly. He glances towards Amanië, who is still deeply enthralled in her conversation with Faelindis. Relieved that their hostess has not been offended, the former pin-maker and clerk, now employee with the same publisher as Princess Findis, twists the chain of jewels around his neck and tries to calm his nerves. His fiancè rests a hand atop his, stilling the nervous action.
“And I thought I would be the one ill at ease today,” he murmurs.
Greensails wip
Today y’all get instead of Silm fic it’s original fiction (sort of, it’s actually a bunch of DC characters in a AU fantasy setting) but I got bored and wanted to write out some of the background characters. that dumb rose story universe, older time period stuff where I detailed more of the setting and played with adapting comic characters and a few plot-lines aka that vague batfam wish-fulfillment plot. This is the Green Lanterns stuff, hidden under a few layers of medieval fantasy, and tying a loose end or two to the first Rohese plot stuff.
…
Rothaide inherited the ownership titles to two of her father’s fastest and most advanced ships, beautiful greensail-rigged river vessels with high-walled clinker-built hulls barely touched by barnacles, a pair of magnificent ships that could ply the harbor and safer of the coastal waters of the Navel of the World. The ships were a most unusual inheritance, and one of questionable legality – her legal right to them questioned only because the situation was unprecedented and the almost brand-new ships so undeniably valuable. Had the will stipulated that the ownership was for Rothaide’s dowry, or had not unequivocally given her authority in matters of captaincy, allocation of crew shares, and the imperial writ to hunt pirates and anyone declared a royal enemy -a lucrative enterprise if greensailed– no questions of the inheritance would have brought before a judge. With no actual legal prohibition and her father’s swishes so plainly written out along with signed witness statements from multiple lawyers, an envoy of the merchants’ guild association, the heads of various craft guilds from the shipyard and ropewalk, and the master of the greensail pilots and marines himself to vouch for her, Rothaide kept her ships.
It was the greensails that caused the greatest concern and their Grandmaster whose opinion tipped the ruling in her favor. Had she needed to, Rothaide would have forgone the greensails and rigged her ships only with ordinary cloth, allowing another vessel to take on the greensails contract and the pilot who used them. But Aubertin vouched for his former employer’s daughter, and thus the wizened old head of the greensail marines, Grandmaster Guarin, defended her inheritance titles in court. It would have been a hassle to work up a new contract with another ship owner in the free cities along the mouth of the Green River and to rig new vessels, if one could hope to find a pair of ships as swift and in excellent condition, to cover the same shipping lanes and territory up and down the coast that Rothaide’s contract provided. Anyways, the pilot assigned to replace Aubertin aboard the senior vessel was something of a childhood friend to Rothaide. As the guildmaster of the shipbuilders remarked in confidentially to Grandmaster Guarin, if everyone had done the sensible thing of betrothing Rothaide to Heral, as the comradery and attraction between the two of them was so readily apparent, then fewer questions would have been raised. A sharp reminder of the unavoidability of controversy and a scathing rebuke from the spokesman of the powerful merchant association silenced that train of suggestion. The greensails and their pilots were to be kept away from outright ownership of private vessels. Aubertin’s motives for inviting his ultimate superior including a fervent prayer that Grandmaster Guarin could impress onto Heral just how ill-advised it would be for him to enter any formal union with with Mistress Rothaide, no matter any current motives. Said conversation had been embarrassing and unfruitful – on Guarin’s end of things. The greensails were items of magic and forest-taint, powerful weapons and thus under the regulation and authority of the imperial bureaucracy- if given some autonomy by avoiding direct military control by having their leader internally elected as Grandmaster from their senior-most members rather than some army general or court favorite. Had Heral been married off to Rothaide, that would bring imperial scrutiny down on the greensails who enjoyed the semi-independence that such benign negligence of oversight had so far granted them. Their usefulness as the main force by which pirates were dealt with along the rivers and coastal waters of the central regions of the empire was a balancing act. As long as they kept the ships of the powerful merchant alliance safe and happy, that guild association lent the greensails protection and political clout, but seen as too closely intertwined and no longer impartial to all members of that guild or in danger of becoming too strong a rival replacement for the old river barons, such power and protection would be ripped from them, leaving the greensail pilots and marines marooned. And with their green-glass lanterns and the greensails woven with magic, the group was the most visible example of people using forest-taint related powers, even if the summoning magic was centered in the weft of their cloth and not visible on their flesh. Public favor towards anyone displaying forest-taint powers was at a low ebb, even in regions without widespread Pure Ones sympathies. On the Green River there were pockets of that heresy and stretches of banks unsafe for greensail marines to disembark. Like the priests, that their powers were both tied to external tools and so evidently beneficial for the safety of the general populace shielded the group from ostracism and persecution, yet if that public goodwill ceased, the greensails would be exterminated hand in hand with the priests, as it was in towns that the Pure Ones controlled. It was for this reason Grandmaster Guarin offered indefinite invitations to the senior clergyman of the port city of {} for weekly evening meals, and there was a longstanding careful threeway courtship dance between the marines, private merchants, and the upper ranks of the priesthood along the river and coast.
The morning after the judge’s verdict on the will was declared, Heral ambled up the docks to Rothaide’s ship with an unlit lantern cradled in one arm, then boarded the Judoc with a cocksure grin and hug his lantern from the ship’s stern. He carefully lit the lantern and closed the door, smiling at the light emitting through the panes of smooth jade green glass. Stamped at the bottom of the lantern brass was his full name, the emblem of the greensail marines, and a string of numbers that designed his personal record in the masterbook. Aubertin, holding his own extinguished lantern and looking forward to a necessary retirement, waved to Heral from the docks. On the Judoc’s sister-ship, Heral’s replacement was hanging his own lantern and lacing a pair of greensleeves over his well-muscled arms.
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.
Dreadful Wind
Hey, y’all know that one plot-hole in “Of Ingwë Ingwerion” and its connecting stories that no-one has yet to ask me about? Here’s the answer.
Author Note: Imin, the first leader of the Minyar/Vanyar, is reembodied right as the War of Wrath begins. He submits to Ingwë’s royal authority and becomes a general under Ingwerion (his grandson).
…
In the trenches, the Vanyar foot-soldiers called it the foul wind. It was a cruel spirit that punched through all their defenses, barreling through the fortification lines in a gust of un-light, a screaming gale of hate and despair.
Light and song were consumed in its path.
It blinded eyes and shoved into lungs, causing convulsions and suffocation to those trapped in its attention before rushing onto more victims. It raced always upon the earth, rarely leaping high, but bold and unmindful of light, song, or ward raised in futile effort to thwart it. A dark wind swift enough for the deaths it dealt to almost be merciful, if not for the mocking intent. Worst of all was the mind behind the torrent, an envious intelligence that hated them personally. Eönwë’s lieutenants only confirmed what the elves who faced the attentions of that black gale knew, that the spirit was not a Maiar like the balrogs or Sauron the Cruel, but one of the Houseless long corrupted by Morgoth, twisted in hate and made unbelievably powerful. Disembodied elven souls could be dangerous to the unaware- yet remained pitiable. The borders of Taur-in-Fuin had been home to many of those phantoms eager to stalk and strangle any lost wanderers, and during the campaigns to free and purify that forest of darkness, the Vanyar and their Ainur allies had worked tirelessly to overpower the Houseless phantoms and send them to Mandos for healing. Fighting phantoms depended on a bright strong will. Ingwerion had never attempted it, but those that had said it needed aught but a clear voice and patience, and a familiarity with using ósanwe. Yet this spirit could be neither caught nor given the luxury of pity. Eönwë himself had tried to capture the dark gale, shooting after the rushing wind swifter than his king’s eagles, and could not touch it. Among both his soldiers and generals that Ingwerion commanded as supreme leader of the Vanyar, not even Sauron himself was more hated and feared – nor inspired the same great feeling of helplessness. “The foul wind could not be bested”, was whispered in the trenches.
Ingwerion doubted that the black gale was only an elven soul, even as he beheld the shadowy force barreling towards their central headquarters deep in the rear trenches, a dart of hate hurling right towards him and General Imin. “It has finally come,” one of the bleak-faced captains whispered.
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