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eilinelsghost · 5 months

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In Memory Beside You

A little birthday ficlet for @actual-bill-potts.

You are an absolute treasure of a person - brilliant, incredibly hard working, a marvelous writer, a truly kind and caring friend. You bring so much laughter and joy to all of us and it has been a delight getting to know you this past year. I hope your day is filled with lovely and delicious celebrations!

Tossing this one on the pile 😊

Arafinwë knew the path without thought. He had long ceased numbering these pilgrimages to the silent groves and his feet could find the way of their own volition. Here the low hill, then round about and over stream’s passage, now the living arch of yew branches bound in their fast embrace. And as on every visit, he shuddered as he passed beneath the boughs. Their shadow touched him with the breath of the dead and with their snaking arms came the image of spirits reaching out, his sons’ hands extending toward him from their long rest.

He left the passage and drew a stifled breath. The yew grove itself was less unnerving than its entrance, but still the air hung close and the branches wove a low canopy, muting light and sound alike. Arafinwë found himself wondering once again whether this atmosphere mirrored the Halls themselves, placed thus to ease the spirit’s return by degrees, or whether the weight was an opposite, pressing fëa and hröa together as they wove back into one.

It had been oppressive in his first visits, the silence resting upon his chest, and each time he fought down panic as the hours of his vigil crawled by. But now he shrugged into it as though drawing on a blanket and its weight was a comfort, here beside the dead.

He slowed before a particularly ancient tree and brushed his hand along the bark in greeting. Its roots were twisted about the base, branches arching in various formations, and along one side they curved into a makeshift bench. Arafinwë settled himself upon this with a sigh and tried to quiet his thought.

One breath in. My father, taken in the night.

One breath out. My brothers, slain in the dark.

One breath in. My sons, gone before me.

One breath out. I sit in memory beside you.

He had begun these ritual visits soon after the return from Araman, drawn in his loneliness to seek that grief which he had found no license to mourn. For his father’s death was his brothers’ banner and Exile the lament it demanded. And amid that cacophony his own grief had been drowned, buried beyond his own hearing until the reckoning came. Until the breaking.

He had heard it then throughout the empty palace when he stumbled back from the Doom, reeling in fury and anguish. It echoed along the marble halls. Its dirge was in the silence of stilled fountains. It was his one companion as he lifted the shattered remnants of his people, and his shadow while he set about the atonement for the dead.

At last he had followed its pull and ridden out from Tirion, passing like light over the starlit plains of Aman till he found the Halls and the yew grove’s grim, yawning arch twisting before him through the dark. He had come there only once before, long years ago when he was a curious youth trailing behind his brother’s sojourn.

What is her body, shorn of its soul? Fëanor had sensed the boy behind him when Arafinwë followed him in secret to Mandos’ gates and his voice drifted back through the yew boughs. Here will I keep vigil, not in the gilded vales of Lórien, for here my spirit sits beside hers where all is remembered, and nothing forgot.

And here Arafinwë too kept vigil—his brother’s ritual of lament the only comfort to beckon amid his sorrow. He had ridden to the yew grove before the sun’s rising, and every year since, lingering in silent remembrance first for his father, then for the brother who gave him this rite, for the brother who had been his steadfast companion, his guide. For each son in turn, the last less than a year gone. Ai Valar, each beloved infant he held…there, just there beyond the crags and the clinging roots, gone now beyond his reach.

Others came too to this grove, more often now than in those first years when naught but silent accusation walked beneath these tress. But the trickle of the returned was ever growing as the wars in Beleriand drew on and often he would encounter those he knew, waiting too among the gnarled boughs—Olwë’s people summoned to meet sisters and brothers who abandoned the Great March, parents who had disappeared in the dark years. Now and then a pair of his own people, waiting with hesitant hope to greet a grandchild of whom they knew naught till the summons—life announced through death. He watched their hope with longing, witnessed each reunion’s joy with the sharp pang of bitterness upon his tongue.

One breath in.

One breath out.

There was a rustle in the thicket behind him and he turned, expecting a similar break in the solitude. But instead, a tall stag strode past, black and sleek as obsidian, its movements rolling like wind through the grasslands. Arafinwë caught his breath with a gasp as it lifted its head and met his gaze. They were not unknown to him, the wardens of the fëantarwa, for they moved ever through the grove in ceaseless watch.[1] But only to the summoned would they raise their eyes in greeting, heralds too and not mere guardians.

His heart pounded as the creature’s gaze did not falter, but rested full upon him, purposeful, unblinking.

Then came another rustle in the wood, jarring amid the heavy silence—a twig snapping behind him, a sharp intaken breath. The stag sprang through the thicket with a crash of bracken and Arafinwë turned, anticipation pulsing through every fiber.

It was a mistake. This was no one of his knowing.

The figure stood a stone’s throw from him, of middling height, his hair dark and roughly cropped above the shoulders. He was staring at Arafinwë in disbelief and he took a halting step forward as their eyes met, his every motion flooded with confusion.

Where were his kin, the king wondered in indignation? They should be here to ease this passage. It was negligence to leave a soul staggering alone through its return—nay, it was cruelty rather. Death was unnatural; its remedy hardly less so.

The king’s face softened in pity. It was more likely, he realized, that there were none in Aman to greet him, yet one more of their Silvan kindred slain in the darkness and brought to life uprooted. A stranger in a land unknown and unchosen. There had been many such in recent years and Arafinwë struggled to discern whether life’s restoration was balm to them or injury.

“Arafinwë Ñoldóran?”

The king rose in surprise as the stranger’s voice broke through his thoughts. It was resonant, the syllables of his name warm and earthen within its touch, and a shiver ran down his spine at the other’s recognition. “I am he,” he managed at last. “How is it that you know me?”

“I do not.” The man faltered and shook his head, the dark eyes full of wonder. “Only you are so very like him…”

His speech was in Quenya, Arafinwë realized with a start—fluent, but tinged with an accent he could not place. None of the Silvan folk had known the tongue, nor the Sindar who too had joined the ranks of returned. An uneasy prickle rose at the base of his neck. “Who are you?”

“I am called Bëor.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable with care as his tongue too relearned its steps. “But my name is Balan Beldarion. I was…in Beleriand I wedded your son.”

1. fëantarwa: garden of the spirits (lit: spirit-garden)

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Sorry it’s just a teaser. The full au will materialize eventually, but I couldn’t help trying out a smidge of it for the occasion. 😊 Happy birthday friend, have an immortal Balan. As a treat.

#finarfin #finrod #valinor #reembodiment #the silmarillion #my fic #Bëor

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cbraxs · 4 months

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Warped [Time Warp Trio Fanfiction] - Chapter 17

The Palace of Versailles was beyond magnificent. It was a nearly ninety million (yes, million) square feet estate covered in gardens, winding walkways, and topiary, with the main attraction the palace itself, a towering presence of marble white and cream that glowed in the night brighter than the hundreds of candles lighting up the night.

The soft winter breeze carried the fragrance of flowers through the night air. The din of excitable chatter nearly drowned out the airy sounds of several flutes, harpsichords, and violas.

It would have left Anthony breathless… if he had been there on holiday.

He imagined Isadora would’ve adored the palace, trying to capture every pond, fountain, garden, and tree to recreate later in her artwork. She’d ask a dozen questions and inexplicably have a dozen more answers. She’d love it so much she’d beg to stay for just a few more minutes and, of course, Anthony would give in.

He sighed and placed his mask on his face. He couldn’t afford to get distracted with thoughts of his daughter, not when he was purposely heading into a trap. He had to be alert. Focused.

Anthony was glad he warped close to the entrance, and even happier he was hidden behind a large yew tree. The estate was positively crowded with hundreds of gilded carriages and thousands of guests dressed to the teeth made their way inside. Women dressed in big baroque dresses decked with ribbons and bows. Meanwhile the men looked almost as extravagant, wearing every color under the sun. Many of them wore masks similar to Anthony’s, allowing them to enter without invitation.

With a snap of his fingers, his outfit changed to match that of the aristocratic party guests. Green mist shimmered around his form and when it vanished he wore a green frock made of silk and velvet with gold embellishments. White breeches, black boots, and a jabot-- fluffy white neckwear-- completed the look, and with his green and gold domino mask, he blended in with the crowd.

Anthony recognized when and where he was: The Yew Ball. The celebration of the marriage between the Dauphin of France, Louis Ferdinand de France, the son of King Louis the XV, and the Infanta of Spain, Maria Teresa Rafaela. Many of the guests were looking for the king for even a simple glimpse of His Majesty, but Anthony had a different target he was hunting down.

Mad Jack had to be here. Even if this were a trap (and it absolutely was) and he did not need to be there, he’d still be here. The man couldn’t help himself. He had this deep psychological urge to gloat even at the cost of his goals. It was infuriating but could work to Anthony’s advantage.

The Warp Wizard made his way through crowded courtyards, making polite and short conversations to not stand out. His eyes scanned every masked face and accessed everybody for a familiar lanky build, but there was no sign of Jack.

Past fountains and Roman-styled statues, he came across the ballroom, a wide open space situated outside surrounded by fountains and beautifully shaped hedges. Couples waltzed along to the lovely music while others socialized on the sidelines. Anthony scanned the dance floor when he saw “her.”

Across the dance floor was a woman with an oversized white powdered wig and an unbelievably big and bright green dress. She stood out like a broken arm.

Anthony ignored his years of training to blend in and go unnoticed. He stormed across the ballroom to reach her, blind to the strange looks from the other guests. As if sensing Anthony’s presence, the bearer of the bad wig turned around, a wicked grin under his mustache and a mean gleam behind a monocle.

“I’ll be damned.” Mad Jack snapped his fan shut with a dramatic flourish. “Look who the cat dragged in. It’s Anthony the Steadfast.”

“You look ridiculous.”

Jack laughed, like anything in this situation was funny. “Is that any way to talk to a lady?”

“Don’t play games. Why did you bring me here?”

He had the nerve to tut-tut-tut at him, waggling his finger like a disappointed guidance counselor. “So impatient. Why don’t you ask me to dance first?”

Anthony could arrest him now. Send him to Em and be done. But he needed answers and playing along with this silly game might be the only way he might ever understand what this nutter was up to.

He held out his hand and grimaced when Jack placed his gloved hand in his. The two of them glided to the dance floor, falling into the practiced waltz they’ve done a dozen times back in their academy days.

“You’re looking well,” Jack said.

Anthony snorted. “Like you ever cared for my well-being.”

“You got me there. Never could stand your meatheadedness.”

He’s been called much worse. As Anthony rolled his eyes, he caught a glimpse of something resting against Jack’s collarbone. It was a necklace of pure gold, two bands coiled around each other like serpents.

The madman noticed what Anthony was looking at and smiled. “Lovely, is it not? A perfect copy of the Necklace of Harmonia. I took it off the hands of a witch who was squandering its power.”

Jack was a thief. That was nothing new, he always had sticky fingers even when they were young. At first, it was endearing, but then he started taking historical artifacts. Important items that always got him in trouble, and for what?

“What do you want, Jack?”

“What do I want? As if anyone has ever given a flying fury about what I wanted. If they had then we wouldn't be here now, would we?”

Anthony could never comprehend the sheer entitlement of this manbaby. Ever since they met, it was all about what the universe owed to him, what he deserved. Like a disease, it’s only gotten worse with age.

“I suppose,” he mused, “that’s not entirely true. Dulari cared, once. That is before you and my simpleton of a brother corrupted her with your utter incompetence and softness.”

“You do not get to talk about her that way! Not after the way you treated her.”

“She didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do.”

Anthony stopped dead midstep. His jaw was tight. He clenched Jack’s hands in a death grip with his, and he briefly imagined them around his neck.

Jack’s smirk widened. “Uh-uh-uh. Remember the Academy’s golden rule: Don’t cause a scene~”

Anthony dropped Jack’s hands and sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to fight you. That gets us nowhere. Just tell me what you want with Isadora.”

“What makes you think I want—”

“For once in your life tell me the truth! I know what you’re up to, so why don’t you just admit it.”

A bluff. He still had no clue what the maniac was up to, but he hoped this would catch him off guard.

Apparently, it worked. Jack’s playful features morphed into shock before he quickly reclaimed his demeanor. “What does it matter? With those little earrings, I can’t get near her, anyway. Sounds like you’ve already solved the problem.”

Anthony’s heart skipped. Time slowed around them. “You’ve been around her?”

“I’ve had some run-ins, nothing you need to worry your empty little head about. But I must say, you ought to be ashamed. You stifled Isadora’s potential, fed her with half-truths and lies. She’s weak, nowhere near as powerful as Dulari, but for my purposes, she’s the best bet. If she doesn’t survive the process, then it’s no fault of mine, now is it?”

A chill swept through the ball. The horror of what he said hit Anthony like a crashing wave. Rage took hold of Anthony. In a blink, his fist, glowing green with magic, slammed into Jack’s face. The man flew past the dance floor, past hedges and shrieking guests, crashing through a gilded window.

Anthony summoned his wand. With a wave, he vanished and reappeared near where his fist carried Jack off to: The Hall of Mirrors.

He yelled for the few remaining guests to flee, and thankfully they listened. Hundreds of people poured out of the hall past statues and mirrors until the two of them were left alone.

He pointed his wand at Jack and raised him above the rubble and glass. The wig disappeared in the flight. His dress was in tatters revealing his suit underneath because of course, he was wearing his suit under the dress.

Manic laughter erupted from Jack’s upturned lips, speckled with red.

The blood in Antony’s veins boiled. “She is not your damned battery!”

Jack shot his hand forward. Anthony dodged out of the way of the cane sword that whizzed by, the tip barely slicing through the sleeve of his suit and grazing his arm. He winced in pain, dropping Jack in the process. Jack landed with a crouch and shot a bolt of magic at the chandelier overhead. Crystal shards as sharp as daggers plummeted down over Anthony. He would have been skewered if he hadn’t jumped out of the way, skidding ungracefully in shoes not meant for combat.

The chandelier exploded in a plume of shredded crystals. Quartz shrapnel splintered in every direction. Anthony whipped his wand like a lasso and caught the crystals overhead, hurling them back at Jack. He dodged; hardwood and dirt erupted where he once stood. He vanished in the cloud of debris.

Fire from the candles spread throughout the room, coating the room in red and orange light. Air burned in Anthony’s lungs. The flames reached high above them, licking at the marble walls and painted ceiling.

Anthony wiped at the beads of sweat forming on his brow. Cautiously, he approached where Jack lay, a pair of magic-proof handcuffs appearing in his hands in a flash of green.

“I’m finally taking you in, Mad Jack. Under Em’s authority, you are—“

Sharp pain flared from his shoulder blade. The fez-wearing man from the diner stood behind him, pulling the blade from his back, a wicked grin under lifeless eyes.

Another stab at Anthony’s side brought him to his knees. His vision doubled and blurred. He struggled to keep balance on his knees. Poison, he thought groggily. The blade was poisoned. The warmth of blood bloomed from his wounds soaking his clothes and staining the floor.

From the dust clouds, Jack emerged. Hate radiated throughout his body. He stalked towards his fallen ex-friend brandishing his sword.

“Finally, I can be rid of at least one thorn in my side.” He raised his sword, primed to rend Anthony’s head from his body weakened. “But fear not, old friend. Isadora will be in capable hands, at last.”

He swung. But the blade never touched his neck.

A flash of green as bright as the sun slammed Jack like a freight train. A blur of purple rushed past, but Anthony didn’t have the strength to follow it. His magic fizzled in and out as he tried miserably to heal his wounds. Behind him, Jack and a familiar voice shouted back and forth. Swords clashed and magic blazed. A flash of golden light seized the room, then… nothing. Silence. He couldn’t distinguish the roar of the fire and his blood rushing through his ears.

A moment passed before the sounds of footsteps quickly approached from behind. Anthony tensed.

“Anthony! Oh, dear. You’re hurt! Can you move?”

“… Joe?”

Joe the Magnificent stood before him. His purple suit was torn and his mustache was smoldering. Joe tried to help him stand, stopping when Anthony grunted in pain and nearly collapsed.

Joe frowned and fished out his pocket watch from his breast pocket. “Please hold on, my friend!”

Somewhere between bleeding out and warping, Anthony passed out, his thoughts on his daughter, her sweet face clear in his mind as everything else faded away.

#time warp trio #timewarptrio #fanfiction #mad jack #hiiii #so i disappeared #sorry about that #i can't promise it won't happen again

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