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melestasflight · 4 months

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27. there was now no returning, Mithrim Lake

for @polutrope. 600ish words of Maglor, Maedhros, and Fingolfin at Mithrim Lake. Warnings for physical disfigurement, mental instability, and deliberation on murder.

there was now no returning

Maglor stared at the torpid form of the stranger Fingon had delivered on eagle’s back. It was the resting, recovering body of his brother, he knew that in some small corner of his mind, but the entirety of the rest of himself struggled to reconcile Maitimo with this. He bit his cheek to a bleed to prevent himself from acknowledging the words that his barely restrained repulsion was coining.

It was not easy to consider him like this, in a deep stupor that left him defenseless. The ugliness of his figure blindingly displayed, a grotesque exposition of Morgoth’s dark art. Still, Maglor much preferred it to the waking hours that inevitably brought the burning gaze of those yellowed eyes. The yellow that was firmly winning the battle against the clean silver grey that Maglor’s own eyes contained also. Its hue was not the one of joyful summer, of sweet ripe fruit. It was sickly rather, the sooty yellow of active decay.

Worse than that was the sharp-toothed grin that appeared at the most inappropriate moments. This thing, which was once Maglor’s brother whose smile could win over even the most tactful lords, now laughed at his own warped ideas of how the creatures of the enemy could be annihilated most effectively and thoroughly.

Not for the first time, Maglor wondered if Fingon would have done a kinder act by releasing his arrow when he had the chance. But there was now no returning the miracle Thorondor had granted. The only thing left to decide was what should be done now. First and foremost, the crown demanded a resolution. Maglor himself had never worn it, never wanted it, though he had ruled all these years with the iron fist these lands demanded.

He recalled his father with that crown, its gold too clean, too brilliant against the filth of blood and ash upon Fëanáro’s brow. Míriel’s madness awoken fully in her son, growing until it had consumed him whole. Maglor shuttered at the thought of that crown resting now upon the head of one whose lungs were still filled with the foul air of Thangorodrim.

It had to be prevented, at all costs. Now was an opportunity better than any.

There was a small bottle of deadly nightshade tincture by the bedside table. A drop was given for a dreamless rest. Four drops could put down a grown horse. Maglor quieted his internal song to a whisper and took a careful step forward, nerves taut as a bowstring.

When suddenly the heavy flap of the tent was opened behind him, he held back a scream through sheer willpower. But it was too late. Fingolfin stood by the entrance as one stricken and he had already caught Maglor’s intention. He had made himself too vulnerable, his thoughts too raw about him.

Unmovable, they gaped at each other for a long moment. A confession and an understanding. None would know it but the two of them. It could be a shared secret that would keep their mouths bound. And a burden carried by two would be easier to live with.

Neither had dared move even a finger when the slumbering body stirred by Maglor’s side.

‘Laurë… Laurë… Where is Makalaurë?’ He was calling for Maglor in his waking haze.

Overwhelming pity rattled Maglor to the bones, and all at once, his resolve snapped as easily as a dry twig beneath a heavy boot. ‘I am here, I am right by you.’ He choked back a sob and grasped the bony hand reaching for him.

When their gazes met again, Maglor found an echo of his own pity in Fingolfin. They both knew it then, with the crystal clarity of Mithrim's waters in the morning light. The crown would find its place upon Fingolfin’s brow. It was for Fingolfin to rule in the West, and for Maglor to hold the East together.

‘Here, Nelyo, sit up.’ A new resolve formed itself in Maglor’s heart as he brought a glass of sweet water to his brother’s lips.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#maglor #maedhros #fingolfin #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien #cw mental instability #cw murder

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melestasflight · 3 months

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For the holiday prompts, could I please request 🌄Sirion and "still hope may seem bright"? Thank you! <3

still hope may seem bright

Idril stands at the edge of a rocky outcropping whose body has half-sunken into the water and stares into the Great Sea. She can feel the coolness of heavy water droplets against her bare ankles as the waves crash against the rock, again and again, in a steady rhythm that is most welcome for her unruly thoughts.

The water here at the feet of Sirion’s bluffs deepens quickly, only a few steps of shallow sands, and then a sudden abyss opens, housing the massive coral reef that gives life to the Bay of Balar. Idril pierces the depths with her gaze, letting herself be enthralled by the sea forest beneath the surface.

Flung about by the waves, pulled by the currents, tossed this way and that by the entire power of the sea, the seagrasses sway in the tide. Fish, big and small, and critters and crawlers of all sorts wade between their tall green bodies, feeding on them, hiding between them, using them for survival. Flung, and pulled, and tossed, the grasses choose not where they go, the most vulnerable beings in the sea though all life starts with them.

Idril sees something of herself in these simple plants of the sea for she also has been tossed around from one land to the next, pulled by currents much larger than herself, uprooted time and again from each place she has called home. Here she stands at the edges of Beleriand, by the sea after so long, yet not of her own making. How Idril had longed for the sea during her first years in Gondolin, for there is something of that scent when the algae bloom, of the ways salt crystals form along the skin, that never truly leaves someone who has known them.

Now that she is returned to the gentle embrace of the coast, Idril has little strength left to rejoice. Questions weigh heavily upon her, of the hurts her people still carry, of the favors she must ask and has nothing to offer in return, of dark winter nights that are soon to find them, of kingships and crowns. She still owes an answer to Ereinion on that last matter and has promised to deliver it before nightfall.

The sea breeze picks up to snatch at Idril’s tresses, tossing them around playfully and bringing with it the lilt of cheerful laughter. It is a most familiar sound, most beloved, yet one she has not heard in close to a year. A very long year.

Idril’s heart chases this sound desperately and her eyes follow down the beach to where Eärendil runs to Tuor, hands overflowing with shells and pebbles. The treasures fall out of his small palms and he must pause to retrieve them from the sand before sprinting, the merriment spilling from his lips again. Tuor laughs too, though quietly, its resonance lost between the coming and going of the water. Their bright heads shine brilliantly in the afternoon light and when they are joined, Eärendil’s gold next to Tuor’s early silvering, it is as if the Sun has met the low Moon.

The sight is so beautiful and soothing, almost a dream, as something Idril’s mind must be conjuring to find a temporary refuge from the questions that give it no peace. A vision or no, Idril dares not interrupt and remains watching how Eärendil offers the gifts to his father with a beaming smile, how Tuor falls on his knees to receive the offerings, how they both touch and turn each shell as if examining a most remarkable jewel. Tuor explains something with utmost care and puts a big round shell next to their son’s ear. Eärendil listens, and then his eyes open wide and he shrieks with delight.

The laughter reaches Idril’s ears again, clearer and brighter this time, and it is as tangible as the cold water beneath her own feet. This is not a dream. Her boy laughs again, for the first time since Gondolin.

The tears that come then are not the familiar murky streams of grief but of a heart opening itself to hope again. Idril lets the water flow out of her, fall down her body, and mingle with the spray of waves until she is one with the Sea. Still hope may seem bright, Idril believes, if Eärendil keeps laughing like this, if Ulmo’s waters keep their steady rhythm.

A decision settles in Idril's heart. She will not rule, her head will bear the weight of no crown in Beleriand. She will be like the seagrasses. Stand tall for her people against whatever comes, be the home they have lost, guard them, and nurture them, and then, when the time is right, let the currents take her where they will.

Idril gives thanks to Sea and turns away to deliver her answer to the one who shall now be a High King to their people.

For ghosti.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#sirion #idril #tuor #earendil #ereinion gil galad #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 3 months

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23 "winter there was cold" for Russingon, rated T or lower if you're so inclined? ♥️

winter there was cold

As they descended the mountains, the barren plains of Oiomúrë stretched open before them. It was the furthest away from Tirion Findekáno had ever come, and he felt the change in pressure as the last of the treelight faded behind them. Maitimo and Makalaurë walked in silence beside him, absorbed in their own wonder, and Tyelkormo and Carnistir were waiting ahead with Fëanáro.

Winter there was cold as the Ice of the North drew nearer but the discomfort was a price worth paying for the view of the stars that shone uncontested with the intensity of beating hearts, so close, Findekáno believed he could feel their trepidation against his palm if he only reached out a hand.

As their small group came together, Fëanáro told them in a whisper, as if taking care not to disturb the calm of the land. ‘The mists of Oiomúrë are known to be treacherous. The nearer we are to the sea, the harder it will be to see the path. Stay close to one another.’

Findekáno instinctively stepped closer to Maitimo, seeking the solidity of his body. Maitimo acknowledged him with his small smile that he had begun gifting to Findekáno lately. It was no more than a gentle twist of his lips but it made Maitimo’s face glow as few other things did. Findekáno chased after these fleeting moments, living from one smile to the next and letting his longing fill all the time in between.

This smile, like all the others, was entirely too short and Maitimo looked away toward the uncharted path ahead. They fell in step beside each other, matching the rhythm of their strides. The deeper into the plains they dove, the thicker the mists that surrounded them until even the stars above were blotted out as if painted over with a fine brush.

Time here was passing at a different pace, it bent and shifted like the sands under a tide. They had been walking back into history with every step further away from Tirion. Findekáno knew these lands to be ancient, unchanged for many ages since the time the world was still young, and the Valar stretched and folded the earth like bread dough, materializing the music they had sung together in the Timeless Halls. The stories of creation Findekáno had read in Tirion’s library were now unfolding before his very eyes as shapes strange and marvelous appeared like enormous statues, relics of things that had long evolved unrecognizable. It was Arda’s own museum preserved in the mists between the mountains and the Sea.

It would normally have been more than enough to hold his attention, but despite all the beauty around him, Findekáno found his heart pulled in a different direction. He snuck another glance at Maitimo, preferring to see the world in the reflection in his friends’ curious gaze. Maitimo’s presence tugged at his heartstrings, pulling him into its orbit. All the things Findekáno once had the patience for — Fëanáro’s teachings, the thrill of discovery, the merriment of spending time with friends — were now shadowed by Maitimo’s small smiles and stolen glances.

It had been thus since that day the two of them had sat together, as was their custom, conversing in the privacy of the weeping willow in Anairë’s gardens. Findekáno had said something in passing and Maitimo had laughed as a friend laughs not for what is told but for the sheer joy of simply being in the company of the other. Findekáno had sat listening, isolating that sound as a thing that only ever existed upon Arda for his sake alone. That Maitimo laughed like that only because Findekáno was in this world beside him.

It had been a swift moment, as long as the time it takes for a breeze to shake the willow branches but it had slammed against Findekáno with the force of a windstorm. A sudden realization of something that had already begun growing some time ago, Findekáno knew not when or how exactly, only that he no longer wished for their friendship only.

He knew no moment of peace after that.

‘I would like to show you something, Findekáno. Follow me,’ his friend whispered now as he pulled him by the hand, and there it was again, that feeling that Maitimo did some things for him only and no one else. They had separated from their companions, and Findekáno could hear no other whispers around them. He let himself be led toward a dark granite block that stood in the mist as a small mountain emerging from deep waters.

‘These shapes are remnants of Yavanna’s first trees,’ Maitimo explained, ‘when her creations were all but indistinguishable from Aulë’s. They were drawn from the earth like jewels, needing no light other than the stars.’

Findekáno placed his hand upon the trunk carefully as if afraid to damage its ancient body. Its surface shone as polished stone, the ridges smoothed by years uncountable, but he sensed the faint rhythm of life within like the languid breath of a slumbering giant. His fingers traveled along the body of the tree, caressing it with deep instinctive reverence while his other hand still held onto Maitimo’s. They had interlaced their fingers in their silent reverie, fitting perfectly against one another as a key falling into its lock.

They kept walking between the granite forest, holding on to each other. So thick was the air around them that Findekáno felt blind with his eyes open. They were moving into nothingness. Findekáno was there, and the ancient trees, and Maitimo beside him but they were casting no shadow. There was only the mist all around, everywhere. The illusion was so complete that Findekáno had trouble keeping his balance. He held Maitimo’s hand tighter.

It was a strange but not unpleasant experience. Findekáno’s mind turned still, all the worries that had rattled his waking hours on the long journey from Tirion dispersed somewhere. It was an entirely new feeling, this emptiness of thought, of existing fully within a moment and not knowing if it is the present, the past, or the future.

He sought the comfort of familiarity, something to ground him, and his memory recalled a scripture he had found among Indis’ collections. A transcription of a short verse by an unknown author, perhaps someone who had made the Great Journey to Eldamar.

Of the emptiness was Arda born

shapeless and nameless,

as all things that emerge

from Darkness unto Light.

Findekáno recited the words quietly, and the moment he spoke the last verse, he felt it in himself, this duality, the sensation that he was only one half of a whole. That there was another, made just for him.

I only am because there is You,

the stars are only bright

because darkness lies beneath.

‘Maitimo.’

‘Findekáno.’

He heard his own name just as he called Maitimo’s. They were reaching for each other in the half-light fitting their bodies like hands clasped together. Two halves becoming one.

There was no treelight, no starlight, no world, nothing. Only the two of them, existing in the harmless timelessness, Findekáno because there was Maitimo, Maitimo because there was Findekáno. Findekáno knew the ending of his hand only because Maitimo held it into his own, he could feel the borders of his lips only because Maitimo’s were pressed against them.

He knew then, no matter where or how far down the line of time they went, that they would always seek one another, be part of each other as the darkness exists within the light and the light in the darkness.

When they came apart, after some time that could be the blink of an eye or a full blooming of Laurelin, the mist around them had begun clearing. The space felt tangible again and sounds reappeared in the distance of their companions calling for them and the breaking of great waves against the shore.

They were standing at the edge of the world. Findekáno looked ahead and smiled, still holding Maitimo’s hand.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#fingon #maedhros #russingon #valinor #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 5 months

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For the holiday asks, #16 and Aegnor/Andreth in Dorthonion.

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @elentarial 'as a naked flame' and for @greyjedijaneite who requested 'their hearts were stirred' Warnings: Discussions on death and mortality

as a naked flame

An Edain story from the far East, as woven by the wise-women of the House of Marach, recorded in Sindarin by Andreth daughter of Boromir of the House of Bëor, F.A. 394.

Long ago, when the Sun was mighty in its youth, a boy was born in the Vale of Murmenalda. He came to the world on the longest day ever known to his people when the Sun shone brightly and did not set behind the mountains for a full day and night. The fire of the Sun shall ever be his boon, the elders had said, his story a light that shall never set.

The boy grew into a fierce warrior, and as it was foretold, his spirit blazed as the Sun and he was untouchable. No curse nor weapon could do him mortal harm. When darkness threatened his people, as it always has since those ancient days, he was the first to stand in its way. He fought with spear and stone, and his own body he put as a shield between his enemies and his home. Great glory and renown he earned, and the stewards of the Vale of Murmenalda knew peace for many long days while the warrior kept their lands safe. But as time passed, and the years of the warrior lengthened, and still he knew no defeat, he began to carry the weight of sorrow. For none of his friends were blessed as he was and one by one, death took them be it by weapon, or sickness, or old age. In time, his brothers were gone too, and after them, even his sons he watched depart the lands of the living. Robbed of those he had loved, the warrior came to believe that his boon was no fortune at all but a curse. He wished it no longer and sought to free himself of life. Death he dared take him at every step, seeking battle ever more fiercely, calling upon himself dooms never before imagined. But the more he fought, the greater the victories he won, and the songs of his deeds echoed across the Vale of Murmenalda. His body is touched by the Sun, the songs told, the enemies turn blind if they but set their eyes upon him. A day came, at last, when the Sun darkened and a heavy storm ravaged the land. No friend nor foe dared emerge in the open, and the warrior came outside alone and besieged the skies to save him from his life. His plea was heard. The sky opened, and a bolt of lightning struck a tree that stood tall before the warrior. If no war or weapon will take me, he thought, let it be thus. Then he stepped forward and walked into the fire. As the flames began licking his skin, the warrior felt the fire of life kindle within him. In his final moments, which he had long desired, he understood that he had wasted his life on seeking death. Suddenly, he wished for nothing more than to keep living. All his strength he summoned to his desire for life and battled with the fire that sought to destroy him. Long they fought but the warrior prevailed at last, and consumed the fire, swallowing it whole. He burned as a naked flame as if the the entirety of the Sun had been captured within a mortal body. When the storm passed and a new day came again, the people found a warm fire burning from an old tree and wondered long at the sight. They lit branches and spread the flames of that fire. They carried the flames and with them built the first hearths, bringing light and warmth to their homes. Thus, the warrior lived on and death never took him. Сваро́гъ they called him in the language whose words are seldom remembered by the people of our times. He lives still in the flame that keeps us warm as we tell our stories, the light that keeps the darkness away.

Aegnor releases the parchment from his hands and lets it fall on his knees. Wet marks in the shape of his fingerprints adorn the edges of the sheet; he did not realize that his fingers were sweating. So absorbed in the stories that he lost track of what was happening around him. The jeweled obsidian of the sky is now framed between the windows of Andreth’s house and lively flames dance in the hearth.

Andreth sits beside him quietly, a deep frown adorning her face as she pulls a thread with utmost concentration. He follows the swift movement of her fingers, mesmerized by the sight of the slender needle appearing and disappearing between the reds, yellows, and oranges of the old tapestry she is mending.

Aegnor does not permit himself to interrupt; moments such as these are rarely granted to them. He basks in the simple joy of watching Andreth closely, so close he can feel the warmth of her body, her attention given to her work as if nothing else matters, as if time has halted its ceaseless marching for her sake alone.

It was how he had first seen Andreth on a summer morning in the high hills above Ladros. He had stood beneath the tall pines watching her unearth dandelion roots from the dewy ground, and soon after, their eyes met and their hearts were stirred at once. Now, with that same awe, Aegnor observes how the shadows of the flames dance upon Andreth’s face, warming the mahogany flush of her cheeks and diving between the ridges along her lips that had not been there even a few summers ago.

When the needle between Andreth’s fingers swings around itself and the image of the fiery warrior there is once again whole, she notices that she is being watched. ‘How long have you been watching me like that?’ Andreth’s face transforms, the focused frown replaced by soft crinkling along the edges of her eyes.

‘An eternity, or perhaps a few moments, I couldn’t tell you,’ he responds truthfully, earning himself one more smile. Aegnor looks to the tapestry in her hands, ‘Is that Сваро́гъ with his burning tree?’

‘Oh yes, look how handsome he looks now that his flamy hair has been renewed. It rather reminds me of your own.’ Andreth pulls on a stray strand that has escaped from its braid and now stands rebelliously atop Aegnor’s head. He chases her hand but Andreth is swift and eludes his grasp.

‘You may have to rewrite this one,’ he tells her when the chuckles die down. ‘I'm afraid I have spoiled the parchment with my fingerprints.’

‘All the more reason to keep it,’ Andreth says with gladness that warms his chest like honeyed tea.

‘You didn’t transcribe Сваро́гъ’s name to Sindarin,’ Aegnor inquires.

‘No, I am still undecided on how to translate it well.’

‘Does his name not mean fire?’

‘It does,’ Andreth explains, ‘though the word is never used alone anymore, it only serves as a stem for many words associated with warmth. And besides, its meaning is not always literal. Сваро́гъ is the fire we make with our hands to light our hearths but it also signifies life-fire. The desire to keep living even if we know the end is inevitable.’

‘It would be closer to hope, then?’ Aegnor suggests. ‘Perhaps estel might suit it better.’

‘It is not a bad thought, I shall ponder on it some more.’

They fall into quiet contemplation for a while, their gazes straying to the hearth. The flames there extend their limbs eagerly as a fat log finally gives in and cracks its wooden heart open. Even from where they sit by the windows across the room, Aegnor can feel the heat of the flames, their erratic movements stirring some ancient power within himself. He obliges them and keeps looking right at the core where the hues of red and orange collapse upon one another and disappear altogether, leaving a white pulsing core. The heart of the warrior beating still.

‘Isn’t it strange,’ Aegnor hears himself say, ‘how we always desire that which we cannot achieve?’

Andreth hums, eyes still fixed upon the hearth, but says nothing more. As is her custom, she waits patiently for the unraveling of his heart.

‘In life,’ Aegnor continues, ‘Сваро́гъ sought death, and when death was finally upon him, he wished life. He is a part of us all, seeking what is beyond grasp, his irony is our own.’

Andreth turns to him then, eyes searching deeply into his own. ‘All of us, you say. Even you?’

It is a simple question, but it befuddles him. Aegnor had never felt the immortal life of his people as a curse, but time in Beleriand paced on its own strange rules. Where a year passed in the blink of an eye, a moment could stretch out for eternity. And how he wishes he could stretch out moments such as these forever, fold himself in this singular time and space where he simply sits with Andreth by the fire.

He wonders now why he had never given his heart to a lover of his own kindred, not as he gives it now, fully and easily. If it is the taste of her mortality that holds him so. Aegnor has no answer for himself and he does not offer one to Andreth either. He asks instead, ‘Have you not wished to reach immortality as many among your people?’

‘But I can reach it, Aikanár,’ she says as her lips settle into a small smile. ‘Immortality is right here, within my reach if even for one day, for one moment.’

Andreth's warm hand reaches for him, her thumb brushing along his cheekbone. Aegnor turns to bury his face into her palm, to fill himself with the scent of freshly crushed herbs and burning pine and something else that is just her. He feels Andreth's life-fire against his lips, the pulsing rhythm that counts the hours of her mortal fate.

If flames consume me, Aegnor decides, it shall not be such a bad ending.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#aegnor #andreth #prompt fills #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #ficlets #silmarillion #tolkien #athrabeth finrod ah andreth #cw: death

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melestasflight · 5 months

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Galadriel/Celeborn and 6 and Andreth/Aegnor and 17. DNWs- Hurt no comfort, smut, graphic violence, angst

One more Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @greyjedijaneite with Celeborn and Galadriel. They were so much fun to write 🤩

Celeborn expects his first meeting with the golden Noldo princess to be a tense diplomatic ordeal. He’s quickly proven wrong. Featuring vine climbing, bird eggs, and other shenanigans.

crowned with the Sun

Celeborn assesses the outfits he has narrowed down for the King’s reception, to which he will be arriving late given how long he took to bathe, oil his hair, and perfume his body with sweet sage. He dismisses the overly formal dark blue robe that on a second glance seems more fit for a council discussion. He would not like the Noldo princess to think him a prude. The festive kaftan in red and yellow lined with silk won’t do either, saving him from leaving the impression that he is overly eager to receive these foreigners into their land.

He is certainly not pleased by the idea that some among the Noldor are now permitted to cross the borders of the Girdle as they please. It troubles him that they have come to Beleriand at all, stirring matters in the North and provoking Angband’s wrath.

But he does not intend to demonstrate his displeasure openly. King Thingol asked him to serve as a guide to Eärwen’s daughter and pry from her news from their long-parted kin in the Western Lands, and Celeborn is determined to be an archetype of Iatrhim hospitality. Besides, if the Noldor mean to stay in Beleriand, it would be wise to establish positive diplomatic relations early. Keep your friends close, and enemies even closer, as the elders say.

Celeborn settles at last for a comfortable coat in soft green elegantly embroidered along the sleeves with the trees of Neldoreth, the pride of Doriath. He catches his tresses in a loose ponytail between a hair clip in the shape of a nightingale’s beak aiming for a spontaneous appearance that should conceal the amount of effort he put into this look.

On the way to the Menelrond, Celeborn repeats to himself the schedule he carefully planned to entertain a representative of these war-like people come from across the Sea. By the time he arrives, Daeron’s flute is already filling the king’s hall with pleasant notes that match the mood of the Elves conversing merrily.

He spots her instantly.

Amid the colorful crowd of intricate braids and floor-trailing robes resembling the feathers of birds from the southern forests, the princess of the Noldor stands out in her modest leather leggings and light sleeveless tunic, her unbraided hair her only adornment. For all the simplicity, her beauty outshines the splendor around her.

But Celeborn won’t allow himself to be distracted by her proud nose and the sharp lines of her jaw as carved from fine marble. He inhales and strides across the hall with pride and assurance, a brilliant smile painted across his face.

‘Be welcome to Menegroth, my lady. I am Celeborn of the house of the King, and have the pleasure of serving as your guide through our fair lands,’ he says, forcing himself to slow down the words that try to rush out of his mouth.

‘The pleasure is all mine! Lúthien spoke highly of your person. Artanis I am known among my father’s people and Nerwen among my mother’s, the Falmari of Aman, our shared kin.’

Artanis Nerwen towers above him as she introduces herself, fixing the intense light of her eyes at him, though her voice flows gently as a playful stream across the forest floor. Celeborn clears his throat to refocus himself on the task at hand. ‘Will the lady care to join me for a walk? We have much to show that might please you.’

The confirmation comes in a smile with teeth as white as pearls and they begin their tour through the caves. Celeborn directs them first to the Hall of Guardians where many of the weapons of famed Marchwardens hang on the walls. It is the first of many strategic steps on this guided visit – let the Noldor see that Doriath is not passive in the war against their foe.

‘These bows were crafted from the wood of many ancient trees for Beleg Cúthalion over the years and the latest one, Belthronding, he still uses to defend our borders,’ Celeborn explains, watching how his companion runs a finger along the smooth bodies of the bows with wonder.

‘And this spear,’ he points to a steel-gray wooden weapon, ‘was carved by Mablung the Chief captain of King Thingol from a branch of Hírilorn, the heart of Neldoreth.’

At that, Artanis’ face alights, ‘Hírilorn! Oh, I have been dying to ask since I arrived! Pray tell, how does it get pollinated?’

Celeborn feels his eyebrows furrow in confusion. ‘The tree?’

‘Well, yes,’ Artanis continues, ‘the pollination of beech trees is performed by the winds, is it not? I have heard that the Girdle disrupts the flow of currents to prevent the deadly frosts incoming from the Iron Mountains. So how do the beeches reproduce in the absence of natural winds?’

‘Our Queen Melian summons the flight of nightingales, and their wings help stir the flowers of the trees. We also stimulate pollination across the mixed forests with song and flute,’ Celeborn expounds enthusiastically, despite himself.

‘Fascinating!’ Artanis claps her hands as if she has suddenly found the clue to a great riddle.

Mablung’s spear entirely forgotten, Celeborn beckons his guest to follow him to the pools where water emerges from silver fountains and leaps joyfully into basins of pink marble. The Noldor may be famed for their craft, but that won’t stop Celeborn from flaunting Menegroth’s architecture. The greatness his people have achieved without the aid of the Valar even!

Celeborn is more than pleased to see how Artanis is pointing her ears in all directions to catch the pleasant sounds around them. ‘Water is the lifeblood of our country and these pools were built to provide respite to all who dwell here. We are most grateful to our friends, the masters of Nogrod for their skill in hewing marble and stone but it was the King himself who designed the channels of the Esgalduin which—’

‘Is that the song of a Magnolia warbler?’ Artanis interrupts him to trace the flight of a small bird that disappears among the vines and flowers crawling up a tall pillar.

Her dismissal of Celeborn’s praise of his King should bother him by all rights, but to his own surprise, he finds Artanis’ open marvel enchanting. They both follow the ruffling of leaves with the attention of cats on a prowl until the black and yellow head of the songbird reemerges from its small nest that is perfectly camouflaged among the greenery.

‘She has eggs!’ Artanis exclaims and takes off at once, climbing up the natural trellis of the pillar with impressive dexterity. As he watches the ripple of muscle exposed by Artanis’ sleeveless tunic, Celeborn catches his mouth falling open. He closes it promptly.

‘Take care, my lady!’

‘Be worry-free!’ Her voice echoes several feet above him already. ‘I grew up scaling the tallest trees in Oromë’s forests. And to the frustration of all my brothers and cousins, I won every time!’

Artanis moves her feet swiftly along the vines to reach the nest of the warbler and murmurs something in her language that Celeborn fails to understand fully. The bird sings back and with one swift flight leaves its nest to bury itself in Artanis' hair, its yellow plumage disappearing among the gold.

‘Look, Celeborn! They indeed look like little Moons.’ Artanis holds one of the warbler’s eggs between her fingers before gently returning it to its nest. Then, she descends the vines, even quicker than she had climbed them. ‘This is so much fun. Where are we headed next?’

Suddenly, the schedule he had created for them seems unsuitable and frankly, utterly boring. ‘I had planned a visit to the King’s armories but perhaps we could adjust our itinerary?’

‘I couldn’t agree more. I shall be frank, Celeborn, I am rather tired of matters of war. Perhaps we could venture beyond the caves? The day outside looks quite pleasant and I find myself in need of some forest air.’

Spurred on by Artanis’ infectious eagerness, Celeborn gives in to the urge to forsake all etiquette of diplomacy. ‘If our common interest in the protection of our lands is not of interest, may I ask my lady, why have you come to Doriath?’

Artanis turns to him then and the tree light in her gaze softens as a gentle caress. ‘You would know this best. Melian who once sang the gardens of Lórien to joy dwells here and Lúthien beneath whose feet Niphredil blooms, and Daeron also, who alone keeps the memory of many songs that our people made of old ere they crossed the Blue Mountains.’

As she speaks, a sunbeam finds its way between the vaulted ceiling of the caves and bounces from the many fountains to settle upon Artanis’ head. The gold of her tresses blooms under the light and she seems to Celeborn as if crowned with the Sun. Standing tall and lithe as a beech tree, she is the image of Ivann, Queen of the Earth, tho Celeborn has never met the Belain.

‘What use to us is war,’ Artanis asks, ‘if we do not take the time to know the things that need protection

They stand in comfortable stillness for a while during which Celeborn decides to leave the question unanswered. Instead, ignoring the wild thumping inside his chest, he proposes, ‘What say we visit Hírilorn and I can show you the nightingales at their work? It is only a long walk away and we would be back before nightfall just in time for supper.’

‘Lead the way,’ she answers in a heartbeat.

Just then, the yellow warbler finally detangles itself from Artanis’ hair and takes flight. And when the princess shrieks in joy, Celeborn begins to believe that the coming of the Noldor may be a blessing after all.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#galadriel #celeborn #celeborn x galadriel #doriath #prompt fills #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #ficlets #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 4 months

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For your writing prompts, what about Fëanor/Fingolfin + 13. I shall break my heart, if you want! :D

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @ettelene and also for Anon who requested 'no other home.'

Young Nolofinwë comes to watch an artistic performance. He does not expect to become the art itself.

1.6k of Fëanor/Fingolfin, pre-slash or to be read as the reader pleases.

Warnings for artistic binding and an erotic performance.

I shall break my heart / no other home

on Ao3

Serindë’s body has long been resting in the gardens of Lorién, and the hands that once wove things of marvel are cold as stone, yet much of her warmth, of the craft she thought into being, lives on through her son.

The Crown Prince of the Noldor rarely displays his talent for working fibers, his restless heart always in pursuit of some new industry to master, but when he does, it is a spectacle that outshines even the works of the Valar.

Such a performance has now drawn a crowd of elves from all corners of Valinórë. Many of Míriel’s old apprentices, now masters in their own right, are in attendance, and so are some of the most acclaimed artists, dancers, and poets, lovers and appreciators of delicate beauty. Nolofinwë has joined the crowd, aware that many eyes fall on him, but his own gaze searches patiently for one figure only.

Fëanáro is only recently returned to Tirion after several seasons of journeying across the southern lands. He had missed Nolofinwë’s coming-of-age ceremony, yet he had remembered to send a gift — a translucent shirt of finest silk, hand dyed in resplendent silver and amethyst in the hues of Telperion’s light coloring the shallow waters of the Bay of Eldamar.

He wears that shirt now, though it is coming short above his wrists and it constricts his chests a little. It is evident that Fëanáro remembers him quite shorter and slimmer, as Nolofinwë had been last they saw one another.

When his half-brother appears, at last, it is with the casual grace that is so definitive of his personality. Fëanáro has created an art form of radiating elegance seemingly with no effort at all. He greets the crowd with a simple palm atop his heart and then gets to work at once. A metal construction stands in the middle of the stage and Fëanáro begins tying red silken ropes at its edges.

At first, Nolofinwë understands little of this performance, never having dared attend before. But as the music lengthens, and the metal is clothed in red, he begins noticing the intricate patterns Fëanáro is fashioning. The artist’s slender fingers work with remarkable dexterity, the sight of their movement enthralling, and Nolofinwë slowly lets himself become enchanted.

‘These silks are stronger than steel.’ Nolofinwë hears someone in the audience behind him whisper. ‘The Prince has fetched them from the darkness of the South where few dare venture. Each strand is worth more than Nienna’s tear.’

Nolofinwë is little surprised. Fëanáro has never shied away from what many find dark and ugly. He rather seeks such things, challenging himself to distill beauty and tenderness from their core.

When the complex web is completed, forming an abstract image of Yavanna’s tender roses, Fëanáro’s chest heaves from exertion. Nolofinwë cannot restrain his gaze from tracing the rapid rising and dipping of Fëanáro’s ribs nor the swell of fine muscle along his forearms. The gossamer of labor-swollen veins on his hands is as intricate and fair as the knotted artwork he has created.

The artist comes forward and scans the crowd before asking, ‘Who among you shall lend their body to my art?’

Several elves step forward, all strong-bodied and lithe. One of them Nolofinwë recognizes as the leading dancer of Olwë’s court, famous for his acts of agility. Nolofinwë’s own heart dances wildly in his chest, he hesitates, but the urges of his body are stronger, more stubborn than his reason.

He will choose someone else and I shall break my heart, he thinks to himself even as he joins the elves who stand offering themselves to Fëanáro.

His brother’s eyes fall upon him in astonishment as if seeing a bloom in the midst of an icy plain.

‘Nolofinwë.’

‘Fëanáro.’

The greeting is deceptively simple, failing to subdue the electric pulses that fill the space between them.

‘Have you done this before?’

‘No,’ Nolfofinwe confesses with a strand of embarrassment.

Fëanáro pays no heed and steps closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. His fingers probe against Nolofinwë’s bicep, then dig between the tendons that bridge the shoulder to his collar bones.

Nolofinwë does not dare breathe, conscious of his rioting heartbeat. And yet, a small corner of his mind finds satisfaction that he now towers over his brother, his legs longer, his chest broader. Fëanáro must crane his neck upwards to meet his gaze.

‘You have grown strong,’ Fëanáro tells him quietly, kindling a flame in the pit of his stomach. ‘Just follow my lead.’

As he is guided by the hand to the stage, Nolofinwë distantly hears the enthusiastic whistles and cheers from the crowd behind them.

Thereafter, he submits to Fëanáro’s ministrations. His shirt is removed from him and his body is pushed and pulled, rotated, twisted. It is done with the utmost gentleness, but Nolofinwë’s muscles stiffen nonetheless. He is not used to anyone exerting such control over him. The ropes snake around his wrists, his elbows and shoulders, then his stomach and thighs, all across his back. The knots are precise, and fully binding.

And when the silk tightens around his breast, just beneath the hollow of his throat, the air rushes out of him against his will. There is naught he can do to keep it inside. The space around him turns foggy, treacherous.

‘Nolo, look at me!’ Fëanáro’s loud whisper breaks through the constricting haze. ‘Look at me! You must breathe. Inhale fully, and exhale slowly. Follow my breathing.’

One strenuous breath, and another, and another. Nolofinwë mirrors Fëanáro’s rhythm, drinking the air that emerges from his lips and returning it, ever slower, longer, until Fëanáro’s face before him is crystal clear again.

‘Just keep breathing. You are just not accustomed to this feeling, that is all.’ They share the air for some time more and then his brother asks, ‘Do you trust me?’

Nolofinwë can see himself in the deep well of Fëanáro’s eyes. The reflection is slightly distorted and wet, a mirror upon the surface of a clean stream, but it is undoubtedly beautiful. He is beautiful like this — the silks fitting themselves around his bare body, their redness a rich contrast against his tanned skin.

‘I trust you,’ he says.

Fëanáro smiles and brushes the loose tresses of Nolofinwë’s hair away from his face. Then, the performance continues. The knots are tightened quickly and firmly around his knees but then they linger, caressing, his inner thigh. Heat and warmth take turns and his body responds, softening, stretching.

What an image they must make, the sons of Finwë, the princes of the Noldor, displayed for all the world to see. Nolofinwë cares not for any of it. His eyes fall shut and he gives his awareness fully to Fëanáro’s soft touch as he weaves the ropes across his stomach, Fëanáro’s warm breath along his shoulder blade, the faint scent of Fëanáro’s sweat mingling with the sandalwood oil rubbed into his scalp.

When the endings of the ropes at tied together, and he is cradled within the net, Nolofinwë can move nothing but his face. Fëanáro nudges gently at his knees and shoulders to give momentum to the silks and spin his body. A proud smile adorns his face, but it is not one of arrogance. The gleam in his eyes is that of an artist who has satisfied his creative impulses fully and now basks in the gratification, intent on drinking every last drop of it.

Take a good look at my artwork, he seems to beckon their audience.

Nolofinwë finds he does not mind being Fëanáro’s piece of art. Because his brother, more than anyone he knows, gives himself selflessly to his art and his craft. The works of his hands are not objects to be simply displayed for vanity and then left for dead in a dusty corner when the esthetic proclivities evolve. They are living beings, growing with their creator, and nurturing the roots of his imagination.

Bound as he is, with an utter lack of control over his body, Nolofinwë is amazed to discover how liberated he feels. There is no weight to his limbs, no urge to resist or move or do anything at all. He floats in a boundless space, released of all burdens and expectations. It is a sensation of being completely at home with oneself.

I wish for no other home than this, Nolofinwë concludes in his pleasant trance.

Time must flow without his notice because when he next opens his eyes, most of the elves are gone and no music plays other than the trills of evening songbirds. Knot by knot, he is freed back to himself. Fëanáro holds him in what could be a loving embrace in a different situation until he finds his footing.

The energy is changed about them, Nolofinwë can sense it, and he is certain Fëanáro knows it too. The tension of the rainstorm is now softened, calming as a summer drizzle.

‘I shall like to do this again,’ he tells Fëanáro, astonished at his own boldness.

Fëanáro only hums as he helps him dress. Nolofinwë cannot catch the thoughts in his mind, but he knows they are there, can almost hear them clashing against one another.

‘It is ill-fitting,’ his brother says when the amethyst shirt finds its way back upon Nolofinwë’s body. He sounds disappointed with himself.

Fëanáro fingers the silver cuffs along the too-short sleeves of the shirt and then his touch lingers upon Nolofinwë’s wrist, caressing the plaited lines there left by the ropes.

‘I shall like to mend your shirt,’ Fëanáro’s response finally comes. ‘And if it pleases you, we can practice the knots. Seek me in ten days time at the second mingling.’

I shall seek you always, Nolofinwë thinks and lets his thought spill out on purpose.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#feanor #fingolfin #feanolo #valinor #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 4 months

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For the holiday prompts, 4. filled with wonder and delight + Celebrían/Elrond? Thank you! — @emyn-arnens

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @emyn-arnens. 1k words of our favorite comfort pairing.

Elrond and Celebrían in five poems and a little more.

filled with wonder and delight

on AO3

It had always been thus, that poetry was the language of their hearts. For verses could tell those things that could not be spoken.

Elrond’s heart composed rhymes of its own will as he watched Celebrían dance, the words matching themselves in harmony even as her own two feet followed one another, different but same.

Onomatopeias sprang at the tip of his tongue whenever Celebrían laughed. How she chirped as the robins in the forest when Elrond would bring himself to share a jest. How she howled in unguarded glee at Glorfindel’s stories and chortled smugly at Erestor’s incapacity to defeat her in any argument at all.

It was Celebrían who had started it all on her first summer in Imladris.

Oh to walk among your gardens fair, lord of waters, lord of things green, Oh to rid myself of all despair, lord of summer, kindness unseen.

A note left behind in her guest quarters, no more than a scribble on a piece of scrap paper, almost swept with the dry leaves of fall descending through the open windows.

But Elrond knew the meaning behind these simple words. Your valley is a home closer to my heart than any I have known, he could almost hear Celebrían’s words in his mind.

A damp and cold winter followed Celebrían’s first departure, and Elrond was sick with longing for her, reading and rereading that little note until the paper was worn and the ink almost illegible beneath his fingertips.

The warmth arrives with Celebrían’s return, for every season turned into Spring when she was around to fill the halls with her laughter, to let her song coax the valley to life. Then quietly, with no spoken agreement, they let themselves fall into the sweet habit of verse.

In the depths of the forest, Under the light of the moon, My heart rushes like water, Flowing clear and crisp and clean, Seeking the stars of your eyes.

Letters left for each other at the breakfast table, slipped underneath doors, folded between the pages of favorite books, tucked between gifts, never of farewell, but of endless beckoning — come back to me.

Even in Celebrían’s absence, Elrond sought after suitable words to match this meter or another, verses that stretched out leisurely or cut themselves short at just the right place to form stanzas worthy of the princess of Lothlórien.

Always his heart resorted to poetry because plain language was simply not good enough, not beautiful enough for this person whom he loved beyond what any word could describe.

Verses lingered even after their partings, as the scent of freshly baked bread remains long after the warm crust has been sliced and eaten to the last crumb.

An Elven-maid was here in my home of old, A bright star in my day: She has gone back to her forest of trees gold, Her dress of silver-grey.

With her I send the wood’s breeze, To stir the tresses of her hair, In place of my love to ease, Her journey to Lórien fair.

Until spring I shall await her return, Of betrothal vows to say, May my heart in longing not fully burn, Let her spirit to mine stray.

In time, the words folded themselves around their children also. There were songs written and drawn into Elrohir’s leather-bound diaries, verses embroidered along the sleeves of Arwen’s riding cloak, stanzas engraved along Elladan’s bow. Elrond loved them with each verse, the poetry filling his home almost too fair to be true.

Until the day Celebrían was gone, and when she returned she was silent and no words at all came from her lips or quill. No poem, no song of Elrond’s could alight the Spring in her heart.

He let her go and remained to live yet another winter, longer and bleaker than any.

The last winter did not seem as cold As this. Her hand was warm in mine, and she Made these icy halls a homely place to be. Where the cones of the spruce did once unfold Stories beneath their shadows were told. Now the ground is sodden wet, the apple tree Has shed its fruits. No green leaves to see Its crown is empty, so barren to see.

Spring shall surely come but not for me, Across the Sea I send a voiceless plea.

Elrond measured the passage of the centuries by the coming of each winter, that cyclical quieting of the land. And as the valley was emptied of birdsong so was his house emptied of poetry. For he wrote, endlessly, tirelessly. He wrote missives, and orders, and plans. Drew maps of battlefields and kingdoms. Sang his people to survival, to hope.

But verse he refused to write or read as long as he remained wed to Middle-earth.

Until now.

On this day, a day he had not dared dream in his long winter, Elrond finds himself in Celebrían’s home. She had not waited for him upon the docks of Tol Eressëa with Elwing, noe welcomed him with fresh bread and sweet water beside Idril.

He stands now in Celebrían’s small house, a green-roofed cabin between the trunks of ancient trees. All windows and doors are open wide as if inviting any beast of the wood to dwell as a guest here. There are few things but the house does not feel empty.

A neatly folded piece of paper sits on the small table in the only room. It is for him, Elrond knows.

Winters and summers Will come and go but You will come to me.

The world shall change And the roads curve but You will come to me.

None shall remember The people we were but You will come to me.

Tho Tilion descends With Arien from the skies You will come to me.

His hands shake by the time he reads the last verse. And when he looks up from the paper, she stands there watching him, renewed and more beautiful than in any of Elrond’s memories.

I have no poem for you, he wants to say but does not dare speak, afraid that he shall shatter this moment and never regain it again.

‘I knew you would come to me,’ his beloved says and opens her arms.

Elrond lets his heart open and be slowly filled with wonder and delight as he steps forward to fall into Celebrían’s embrace. They do not need words for this.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#elrond #celebrian #celrond #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 4 months

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For the December Silm asks, Aredhel/Eol and "call upon her name out of the darkness." I'd love to see you explore their relationship more. Thank you!

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @sallysavestheday. Thanks, friend, for encouraging me to come back to this controversial couple. Posting the collection of stories on AO3 here.

Aredhel returns to Gondolin and considers the price for her decision.

call upon her name out of the shadows

After more than eighty years under the Sun, Aredhel finds herself returned to Gondolin. She is a guest now, a refugee of sorts, in the very city that was once her home.

On their way from Himlad, Aredhel’s heart had been beating wildly like a drum on a festive day prompting bodies into reckless dance. From fear, excitement, or some other type of strange agitation, Aredhel could not tell then. The horse beneath her legs had felt her restlessness and had kept speeding up, faster, fiercer, the closer they were to the Dry River.

‘Mother, wait for me!’ Lómion’s voice would echo behind her from time to time. Ensnared in her thoughts as she had been, she would almost forget that her son had never known the way to the Hidden City.

It was the overwhelming impatience that had filled her, fed by the homeache of many long years, to know how her brother’s city had changed in her absence. To learn who in Gondolin still spoke her name with longing.

Now that she walks the fair white streets, Aredhel feels as if she has fallen into some queer dream she has already dreamt before. The city seems frozen in time, a well-preserved image in rock carved over eighty years ago.

Certainly, a few new houses are perched around the Great Market and streams flow down freshly built channels along the Way of Running Waters, but most things look precisely the same as she remembers them. The rows of trees stand immaculate along the walkways, their branches trimmed in the orderly fashion that Glorfindel’s house has favored since Vinyamar. The same gossip about the same century-old romance is still murmured between the greenery at the Square of the Folkwell. Aredhel even recognizes the song that spills from a corner house where some of Ecthelion's folk reside.

It is a shocking contrast to Nan Elmoth where all things are in constant evolution. Birds there come and go with the changing of the seasons, and colors blend endlessly in the glades. Even the giant trees of the forest move, making space for each other under the starlight, creaking as they lean against each other in a song that no one ever hears twice.

Gondolin lacks the deep shade of the ancient woods, and the trees here are too young to shelter Aredhel from the Sun that is too warm against her skin. The gardens she passes by are rich and tempting to the eye, but they are maintained with skill alone. They are, as with everything in Gondolin, too perfect. An abundance of skill and a lack of soul.

Aredhel recalls Eöl’s words from summers ago when Lómion had begun growing eager, too eager, to know all that can be learned in the forges, when his young heart had already departed the forest for the marble city from Aredhel’s stories. He must learn that everything has a cost, Aredhel, even his craft. For the land gives, and the land demands.

Eöl had been right, Aredhel reckons, about that and many other things, but by then the two of them had run out of patience for love. Over the years, the differences that had at first kindled the flames of thrill and curiosity had grown into impassable mountains.

By the end, Lómion had become their battlefield where they contested their opposing worlds — East against West, Noldo against Sinda, a newcomer against a native, light against dark, change against preservation — it had all come crumbling down slowly but steadily until the meager contentment that remained was no longer worth the effort. So she had stolen her son, at last, a bitter victory against one who was not her enemy but her husband, the lover her heart had chosen. Aredhel wonders now what Eöl will feel when he returns to Nan Elmoth and an empty house.

Was it wrong to leave in the manner she did? Had she taken Lómion away from the forest too soon?

Trapped beneath the weight of her uncertainty, Aredhel gasps for breath. She inhales but nothing comes in, the air escapes her like smoke that cannot be trapped between one’s hands. Nothing stirs around, but Aredhel feels the city alive, almost menacing with its high towers that pierce the sky and its perfectly geometrical shadows that cut the streets blade-sharp. She avoids them on purpose as she walks, thinking they will slice her if she dares step across their boundaries.

Left, right, right, left, Aredhel quickens her steps, running from what, she cannot tell until her feet hit the northern walls of the city and there is no path beyond. The Echoriad rise as far as up as the clouds, and beneath, nothing but the black rocky forest of the Caragdûr. Behind her, Gondolin catches up, pressing her against the wall above the precipice as whispers of things to come call upon her name out of the shadows.

Aredhel closes her eyes and waits, ready for anything, she is a hunter that has pursued a beast beyond her strength. The call draws nearer.

‘Mother!’ As the voice rings out behind her, clear as silver bells, Aredhel loses sense of the ground beneath her and all but topples into the abyss. She snaps her eyes open.

‘Mother,’ Lómion continues, ignorant of his mother's anxiety, ‘lord Rog has agreed to take me as an apprentice into his house. I can start learning as soon as I’d like!’

When Aredhel finds the courage to face her son, he glows with the joy of eagerness. She focuses on his face to steady herself. Gondolin appears tame behind Lómion’s shoulders; the city has withdrawn its claws, and the white streets are now bathed in the soft light of early evening. Elves greet each other here and there, and the scent of dinner being cooked fills the air from someone’s window.

Lómion waits for her answer, wide-eyed. He seems changed already, the braids and attire of the Gondolindrim making him look both so young and grown all at once. He is happy here, Aredhel thinks, and for that, it is all worth it.

‘I am most proud of you, my dear,’ she says and draws her son into an embrace.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#aredhel #eol #maeglin #nan elmoth #gondolin #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 5 months

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Hi Melesta! Your holiday list is a lovely and generous idea✨️

In case you're up to it, I am very curious about you might do with the prompt 'love would lead me' + Lalwen & Argon! 😉💕

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @searchingforserendipity25. Thanks for the prompt friend!

Lalwen doesn’t have the heart to quell Arakáno’s love for wild creatures. Things turn hectic when an eagle egg goes missing. (1,6k words of pure fluff 😄)

Posting the collection of stories on AO3 here.

love would lead me

Lalwen did not expect the matter with the eagle egg to become such a serious affair, certainly not something that prompted the involvement of the Valar. Although in truth, she should have known all along.

Arakáno already had a long reputation for providing shelter and friendship to any creature that seemed (to him) even slightly in need of comfort. At first, it had been the innocent thing of an elfling barely out of his cradle, when he would pick up fallen nestlings beneath the trees in Indis’ gardens and run carrying them in his small hands. Lalwen would receive the birdling gently from between his clumsy fingers, they would identify its species together before she would climb deep into the tree crowns to return it to its nest.

She could never resist the endless stream of questions that no one else had the patience to answer, never tired of Arakáno’s insatiable curiosity for the world surrounding him. Lalwendë, do fish have eyelids? Are bees just little tigers? Lalwen, do oliphaunts eat with their nose? Is wombat poo really square? Can eagles speak Quenya? Why does Manwë have wings sometimes?

Each question — a small window into the colorful landscape of a child’s wonder. More than anything, it was the twinkle in the sky blue of Arakáno’s eyes, a hue mirroring perfectly her own, that called to Lalwen’s heart. For though Arakáno was Nolofinwë and Anairë’s son, in everything else he was Lalwen’s own, a piece of herself that she readily gave away. With each answered question, each smile, and each shared secret, he grew to become Lalwen's best friend housed in the small body of her nephew.

So Lalwen had long accepted her own incapacity to deny Arakáno anything, and over the years, she allowed her home to turn into a small sanctuary for all sorts of beasts, big and small, lost by chance or on purpose. An impressive variety of bird species chirped above the edges of the windows, geckos as colorful as rainbows crawled up the walls, ocelots slept stretched in patches of tree light, raccoons raised their young in the cellars, and a colony of bats hung in the attic.

Sometimes, Lalwen almost felt like an intruder in her own house, a creature all too civilized for the micro-ecosystem that was developing inside. She let it all happen for Arakáno’s joy, for the bliss in his voice as he named every one of his friends: Linquendil the hummingbird, Kemmótar the mole, Vindusquë the wolf.

But when Nolofinwë finally stood at her doorstep, his usual calm smile jagged by something between shame and worry, she knew it had all gone too far. ‘You allow him too much, sister.’

‘Oh for the love of Eru, Nolo, Arakáno is still a child. Let him have fun while he can.’ Lalwen wasn’t ready to surrender.

‘He sequestered an eagle egg, Lalwen! Manwë himself has sent word to father requesting that the egg be returned.’

‘Don’t you think they are being a little too dramatic over this?’ Lalwen said with a chuckle as she imagined the King of the Noldor and the King of Arda corresponding over bird eggs. Nolofinwë followed suit, their chuckles turning into giggles as their minds met. ‘Ai very well, I will speak with him.’

When Lalwen knocked on the door of Arakáno’s attic room, a frustrated little warning came from within. ‘I haven’t changed my mind, Dad!’

‘Your father is downstairs, Arakáno. It’s me, let me in,’ she demanded as softly as she could.

Arakáno opened the door almost immediately, just barely to let Lalwen squeeze inside. ‘Come in quickly before Dad can hear him.’

‘Hear whom?’ Lalwen got her answer as soon as she asked. The shells of an egg were lying on the floor and a small, fragile pile of pink skin and soft down was resting folded in Arakáno’s shirt. He handed the nestling into Lalwen’s open palms. It was softer than anything she had ever touched. ‘When did it hatch?’

‘Not three days ago.’

‘Arno! You could have told me—’

‘I know, I know,’ Arakáno’s remorseful tone was a heart-wrenching thing. Then his words came out of his mouth in a rush. ‘I didn’t mean for it to hatch here. I was just curious and intended to return the egg after I sketched it in my notebook. But then it began cracking in my lap, everything was so fast I didn’t know what to do, and when I heard his cry I couldn’t let him go. He can barely see, I wasn't going to leave him alone.’

The eaglet was snuggling against Lalwen’s palm, eager for the warmth she provided. ‘I can see why you want to keep him. He is a darling,’ she said and heard Arakáno’s exhale of relief. ‘But you must return him to his nest at once.’

‘Can’t he stay just a little longer?’

‘If I say yes, love for you would lead me. There is nothing that I wish more than your joy, my dear. Yet I will have to say no for love of our small friend. Don’t make such a face, Arakáno, you know you cannot teach him all that a little eagle must know. How many eggs were in the nest?’

'Four,’ Arakáno confessed.

‘They will all hatch if they haven't already. Don’t you think he will begin feeling lonely without his siblings soon enough? Just like you miss your brothers and sister when they are away?’

‘But if he leaves I will feel lonely too!’ Her nephew was now on the verge of tears. ‘I know I am too young to be in Finno’s company all the time, even if he had the time to take me with him. Turno spends every waking moment with Findo, and they are honestly quite boring, reading their books and debating things I barely understand all day long, and Írissë is always away with her friends from Oromë’s hunt.’

There was the truth, at last.

Arakáno was the youngest among the wild bunch of Finwë’s grandchildren, and unlike his elder siblings, he did not have the luxury of growing up surrounded by his many cousins. As Fëanáro and Nolofinwë’s arguments acquired a sharper edge, Lalwen watched how a chasm was opening between their children too, ever-expanding, pushing them apart like a glacier between mountains. Her chest turned too small to contain her heart.

‘I know what it’s like to be much younger than your siblings, Arakáno, but trust me, soon enough the age difference will be all but invisible. Before you know it, you will grow tall and strong and spread your wings wide to go on many adventures, and I will be with you every step of the way.’ Lalwen offered the nestling back to Arakáno, and added gently, ‘We should let our friend do the same, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘You are right, Aunt, I will let him go back to his kind.’ A smile, even if a little wistful, was finally returning to her nephew’s face again.

Just as they readied to leave the house, nestling the eaglet into a pile of blankets, two redheaded elflings burst through the front door, quick as lightning.

‘The egg has hatched!’ Exclaimed Pityo, catching sight of the bird at once.

‘It has?’ Came from Nolofinwë, alarmed.

‘How can it be so ugly and adorable at the same time?’ Asked Telvo, ignoring his uncle’s question. ‘How old is it? Is it truly one of Manwë’s eagles?’

The inquiries came in a storm as the twins huddled around Arakáno to take a better look at the small bird in his arms.

‘What are you doing here, Ambarussa?’ Lalwen asked, realizing that Fëanáro’s youngest sons had never before come to her home.

‘We wanted to see the egg before it was returned, and begged Papa to bring us,’ Pityo answered.

‘Your father brought you here? Where is he?’

‘Right here,’ came from Fëanáro who appeared in the doorway. He crossed the room and his face turned somber as soon as he spotted Nolofinwë. ‘Good day sister, half-brother. I have brought the twins but I must warn you—’

‘Fëanáro, you—’ started Nolofinwë before Fëanáro was done speaking.

‘If you mention anything about your feud,’ Lalwen interrupted them both, raising a warning finger, ‘I swear to Eru, you will both be dealing with me. The children barely know each other because of your ridiculous quarrels!’ Her voice came in a whisper, sharp as a blade, making sure only her brothers could hear her.

Fëanáro looked taken aback, not expecting that kind of tone from his much younger sister. But he recovered quickly. ‘In fact, I was going to ask if they can stay here for the day. Nerdanel and I have our hands full and could use the break. I see they have already found good company.’

Even Fëanáro could feel overwhelmed. Lalwen had not thought it possible, but she was relieved to know it was so. ‘Of course they can stay, they are as dear to me as any of your children. But what were you going to warn me about?’

‘Oh, only that my youngest sons are wilder than Oromë’s creatures in the forests. We believed we had passed the test with Tyelko, how wrong we were!’

As Fëanáro spoke, Lalwen glanced past his shoulder to catch the blissful smile that stretched Arakáno’s lips as he was answering the twins’ questions.

‘I’m confident I will manage,’ she responded to Fëanáro and beckoned her brothers to join the children where the eaglet was being passed from one set of hands to another.

‘Have you named him already?’ Telvo asked.

‘Yes! His name is Sorontar,’ Arakáno announced proudly.

‘It is a good name! Pleased to meet you, little king.’ Pityo reached out a finger to scratch the soft head of the nestling and everyone broke into laughter as Sorontar squawked in response.

Lalwen felt something warm unravel in her chest.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#lalwen #irime lalwen #argon #arakano #fingolfin #feanor #amrod #amras #thorondor #prompt fills #ficlets #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 5 months

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for the prompts (pick whichever, the prompts sound really cool and i couldn't decide on one!): feanor & miriel + 'some fair dream' or elrond & elros + 'met never again until many ages were past'?

Holiday Silm Prompt fill for @sesamenom. Let's start with Fëanor & Míriel. 😍

some fair dream

When the stone bursts into greenness beneath the light of the early Mingling, Fëanáro finally lets the song die down in a slow decrescendo between his lips. His voice is hoarse from singing. All through the silver hours, he has been holding steady the notes of flowing water and supple green leaves, imbuing their freshness into the dense core of the polished jade.

Now, as Fëanáro turns the stone between his fingers, its light spills from his hands and bathes the walls of the workshop in brilliant hues of green dancing like shadows beneath the canopy of a tall tree in the breeze.

In moments such as these, his heart almost stops beating in anticipation. To know if he has succeeded in his purpose, to taste, at last, the fruit of his long labor. He waits patiently for the stone to open and reveal the life that it now carries. The images form themselves slowly, emerging as small seeds and then growing to unfurl their stalks before his eyes.

He sees things long withered and broken renewed again – a statue of Nerdanel’s that fell and shattered across the floor when their boys were little now standing whole again, a patch of flowers in Findis’ gardens that did not take to the soil bursting in color as they were meant to be, a smile upon Finwë’s face that has not been seen in many long years.

Fëanáro looks in awe as these images unfold before him, each one clearer and more palpable than the last, and then he can no longer hold back. He searches deeper into the green stone, pouring into it all the desire of his heart. ‘Let me see her, just once.’

The jewel obeys its creator and summons Míriel’s image at last. Fëanáro has no memories of his mother in life but he knows it is her. Hers are the fingers that swiftly move between threads finer and more delicate than anything the hands of any Noldo have created. Hers the silver tresses that shine as Telperion’s leaves in its zenith. Míriel hums as she labors, wholly absorbed, her voice laving against Fëanáro as rippling water.

‘Mother,’ Fëanáro whispers, letting his voice travel along the current.

Míriel looks away from her needle and meets Fëanáro’s gaze. ‘My little spirit of fire,’ his mother responds as her lips stretch into a smile.

For a long moment, mother and son look upon each other as in some fair dream, content to do no more but know that they are simply there, together.

As Telperion gives way to Laurelin, the light filtering through the windows of the workshop slowly shifts, slipping away from Fëanáro’s hands. Míriel’s image in the stone disintegrates and the dream fades. He is left alone with the stone, its green now subdued and muted as the lichens trailing along the tree trunks in the north.

Fëanáro slides a glance across the shelves on the wall where many of the jewels he has created over the years stand as brilliant as Varda’s stars in the sky. They are beautiful, praised across Aman for the skill of their creation and the fineness of their form. But they all lack something. They are all dead.

Suddenly, Fëanáro feels the many hours of labor weighing on him. Looking upon his reflection in the windows, his own gaze appears dimmed by the lack of tree light in his workshop. That same light he has spent so long attempting to preserve into an imperishable form. And he has failed, yet again; the green stone he created is lifeless in the absence of light. But he cannot find it in himself to regret its making. The jewel is still warm in his palm and Fëanáro believes he can still hear Míriel’s humming radiating from its polished surface.

Outside, Laurelin’s blooms open joyfully, bathing the gardens around the workshop in soft gold. I shall try again, Fëanáro thinks to himself as he opens the door and steps into the tree light.

If you enjoyed this story, feel free to drop me a note/kudo on AO3. It makes my day!

#feanor #miriel #miriel serinde #elessar #prompt fills #Holiday Silm Prompt Fest #my writing #ficlets #silmarillion #tolkien

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