andie, she/her, 26, united states. this blog is full of Tolkien. also other art, photos, fandoms, and big-eyes-emoji stuff, but mostly Tolkien. i tag! my girlfriend is bright ivanaskye, who is a lot, but not too much
The stitching was astonishingly fine, the tapestry’s weave
giving way to finely embroidered detail. Celebrimbor could not quite make out
the craft of it; the intricacy of the threads was familiar enough, but when he
glanced away, the picture seemed to shift, as if the light was changing, events
now seen from one angle, now another.
It was his own hand that was raised to inlay the ithildin, the moon glancing down, Narvi
gesturing beside him, the holly-saplings by the water with a dark gleam to
their leaves. He thought, for a moment, the scent of leaves and stone and clear
night air was around him; then the memory left him, and it was only a picture,
still upon the wall.
Death was like that. After a moment, he could smile,
reaching up to let his fingers hover over Narvi’s woven shoulder, where a heavy-ornamented
braid lay crookedly.
“It was a pleasure to weave,” a woman said beside him, her
tone fond, and Celebrimbor glanced round. Or directed his attention to her. The
body remembered its expressions; he found it difficult to think of himself
otherwise.
The woman was at once more solid than him, and less so; she
wore her form, but there was something of the veil about it, as the lesser
gods, who might carelessly put bodies on and off. He thought her of their
kindred, for a moment. Then recognised her.
“How does it work?” he asked, helplessly curious. “Great-grandmother
– “
Míriel Þerindë smiled,
and set her own fingers to the threads, which rippled at her touch; as if she
had dipped them into the pool of the night sky shown there. The moon gleamed as
he watched.
Ash fills the clean air; you taste lightning at the back of
your mouth, and strike again, feeling the pressure of the blow shudder through
your bones.
Steel-armoured, Mairon smiles at you, sharp-toothed and flame-eyed,
circling like a wolf. You pause, looking at him in – pity? Disgust?
“Fine,” you say, ungraciously. “What do you want, foul one?”
You stress the name, noting the curl of a lip in reaction. “Your master has
fallen; your strongholds are cast down – “
“I had,” Mairon
says, sardonically, “noticed.”
In the distance, the earth shakes. You hold your ground, and
stare at him coldly, arching a brow.
He tilts his head, smiles again, and – drops the weapon he
holds.
“I surrender,” he says, almost lightly.
You look at him.
“Do you.”
The glint of anger at the back of his eyes is hardly
noticeable, but you can see the clench of his empty hand, claws pressing into
the palm of his gauntlet.
“I’m not a fool, Eonwë,” he says, still smiling. A wolf’s-grin,
that shows his teeth, once more. “I can see when I’ve been outmatched. If you want
my submission – you have it. I will make all the proofs of repentance that you
like.”
You hesitate. You want to ask for –
The truth is that you are in no position to demand
apologies, sorrow, to make him show the grief and horror you might wish. You
have seen Angband’s thralls. You have seen the scars on Beleriand itself, as it
breaks around you, the earth gutted and defiled.
“Then come with me,” you say, meeting his eyes. “I can’t
give you either judgement or pardon. But if you mean it – “
It isn’t you he
needs forgiveness from. You were barely touched by his deeds.
He makes a face: persuading, now, having seen that you aren’t
rejecting his words outright. The form he wears for battle is shifting, a
little, armour melting away, mouth softening; appearance calculated for beauty
rather than terror.
“Isn’t surrender enough?” he says. “I haven’t discovered an
inclination to cast myself upon the mercy of the Valar – not when they turned
away from Middle-earth, unlike you and I – “
You hadn’t thought you still had it in you to hurt for him,
but you do, looking at him now. You remember Mairon for pride and skill, fair
of form and craft and speech, and it grieved you to lose him to Melkor, like so
many others. You had known, and still not expected to see him fallen so low.
But the truth is, you are tired.
Your skirmish has only been
testing, so far. You know Mairon, know his power and calculation, and have no
desire to carve more scars into the flesh of the world, or discover what else
he can make you lose as the cost of victory. There has already been so much
lost to come this far.
Melkor sits in chains at your camp. There are guards, but
what guard could hold him?
“Go,” you say, at last. “Repent, then. Maybe you won’t even
make me regret it.”
He starts to thank you, bright-eyed and plausible, and you
turn and walk away. You are starting to regret it already, but what else can
you do?
The war is over,
you think, and wish it sounded less hollow.
The gold of the Nauglamir still glittered dully beneath the rapidly drying blood of its previous bearer. Beren lifted the necklace carefully by the chain and held it at arm’s length, examining it closely. His scalp prickled as he thought of the last time he had seen the thing, gleaming at the throat of King Finrod Felagund. Now it seemed merely a twisted echo of its former self, and when he looked at it he saw nothing but the image of Finrod lying on the cold stone floor with blood covering his face and his eyes staring up at the darkness.
At last his eyes were drawn reluctantly down to the jewel, which burned clean and bloodless in its setting. It looked grotesquely out-of-place, he thought, wondering what had possessed Thingol to combine what must be the two most ostentatious pieces of jewelry in the world into one horrifying creation. The Silmaril caught the light so effectively even as it generated its own that Beren could hardly bear to look at it, yet he did not glance away. It seemed to be daring him to do so, but he thought he would let himself go blind before he allowed the damned thing to best him.
“The gem is yours, if it is anyone’s,” a voice said close to his ear, and Beren jumped. He had become quite good at detecting the silent approaches of the Lindi, but Almwë could still sneak up on him when he was distracted. The elf appeared unhurt, and his narrow face was devoid of emotion, but his movements had lost some of their grace to weariness. Beren had caught glimpses of him during the battle; Almwë had been everywhere, a deadly whirlwind that swept through Nogrod’s forces and prevented as many as possible from reaching his people, most of whom bore no weapons other than bows and arrows.
Seeing Beren grimace at his suggestion, Almwë said, “Give it to Lúthien, if you wish. It may be of some comfort to her, though I am sure nothing will please her more than your safe return, and the boy’s.”
“What should we do with the rest of it?” Beren asked, indicating the spoils taken from Doriath that now lay in the dirt and blood among the bodies.
Almwë shrugged, disinterested. “It is cursed. Drown it in the river.”
Beren nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. Though he could not match Almwë’s ferocious pace, he had fought as hard as the elf in the heat of battle, never faltering until all of their enemies had fled or fallen. But now that the anger and desperation had faded, it was catching up to him. I’m not as young as I used to be, he thought, then laughed softly to himself when he remembered how many times he’d heard his grandfather or Aunt Andreth or Uncle Bregolas say those exact words.
Clouds had threatened, but the day was bright, cold sea air
rippling through the new grass. The tumbled earth had quickly become overgrown,
wildflowers nodding amid the rocks, the first saplings starting up here and
there.
In a century you would hardly know the hills had not always
been there, which was really very little time, for Valinor. It was a novelty to
herself be part of the cataclysm, to be young and strange and terrifying.
Míriel tugged up the hem of her skirt, and clambered past a
slab of fallen rock, the edges still sheared clean. She found herself smiling,
the expression shifting her face, something lightening inside her as she let
herself test muscles long unused.
Was this it? The view was pleasant enough, at least,
stretching out towards the sea, a hazy grey-blue this far away.
“Here!” she called, and heard a bird-screech, a flash of
plummeting white wings as Elwing circled and dived. Hard fluttering as the gull
braked above the ground, and then a woman stepping down to it, pushing her hair
back from her face and stretching her arms after the flight.
She carried a covered basket, presumably in the same fashion
she stored her clothes while winged. Míriel preferred not to ask, the magics
involved being so convenient.
“You think?” Elwing asked, frowning as she glanced around –
the sun was in her eyes, Míriel thought. “It seems – “
Her ancestress hesitated.
“I think it’s only proper to celebrate,” Míriel said,
serenely. “My husband always so wanted to reach Valinor! I want to congratulate
him. We can pour out some of the wine, even.”
Elwing stepped from foot to foot, then closed with her,
dropping to sit beside her. Míriel reached for the basket, hunting out bread
and preserves, and the heavy clink of a bottle.
“Well,” Elwing said, eventually, reaching out a hand. “I can
drink to my surviving descendants, at least. Although I gather Calion’s status
is somewhat ambiguous, in that respect.”
“If he wants immortality I think he should be allowed it,”
Míriel said, pouring. She glanced around herself, at the sun on the rocks, the
insects humming around the wildflowers. “I think, all things considered, this
is a better end than he deserves.”
Elwing tugged at a grass-blade.
“As long as you’re happy,” she said, at length; and glanced
up to smile at Míriel, who returned it, beaming. The wind was fresh, the air
clear, the wine rich on her tongue.
“To surviving, then,” Míriel said, and Elwing raised her
glass, her eyes warm as she looked back at her.
The smell of sweet grass charring in the meadows did not discomfort them overmuch.
There was some nickering and stomping of hooves, and young Celil, who had always been flighty, sucked air and gnawed at her stable door, but for the most part their discipline held.
All but the youngest colts were veterans and the eldest had seen darkness fall in the West, had crossed the great salt wastes of the sea in the wooden bellies of swans, screamed and danced at their picket lines as they burnt upon the shore. They had starved around a poisoned lake, been traded away for forgiveness of a feud, and dashed out orcish brains with the panicked flailing of their hooves.
They had been bred for hunting and the drawing of carts and carriages long ago in a brighter country, and in the depths of their great, dark eyes, the light of dead trees shone yet.
They had been trained for war, and their glossy hides were striped white with the scars of spears and arrows and the tearing fangs of wargs. Now when they trampled foes beneath their hooves, it was not in panic.
Ard-Galen burned and the horses of the Noldor flared their nostrils and paced their stalls.
Ard-Galen burned and the High King came among them.
He did not stop to pet the soft noses thrust at him, nor did he offer Rochallor his usual tribute of apple slices. He did not speak words of praise or comfort as he tightened the girth or slid the bit into his horse’s mouth.
They smelt the fires upon him, and fury like the air before the white-hot crack of lightning, and madness like the seep of pus from a wound. The king stank of despair and that more than the distant roar of flame or the ash upon the breeze put fear in them.
The High King rode out and behind him in the stables, the horses began to scream.
Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth – J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Celebrimbor/Sauron Characters: Sauron, Celebrimbor, Galadriel Additional Tags: Manipulation, Emotional Abuse, hurt/comfort???, Idfic, Referenced Offscreen Torture, I Don’t Even Know, Sauron’s A++ Planning Skills
“Listen!” cried the bard. “Listen, good folk and I shall tell a tale such as never you have heard before.”
The taproom of the Prancing Pony stilled and quieted, which said much for the skill of his voice, or of the mannish want for new stories.
“The Dark Lord is thrown down and a king crowned in the West!” the bard went on, leaping up onto a table and drawing out his harp. “But Sauron – yes! I shall speak his name! – is not the first nor the greatest foe of the free peoples, and there are kings that sit e’en now in a West more distant than Gondor. A flagon of ale and a warm bed for the night, and I shall tell you of the fall of Morgoth, and the fall, too, of the great Elvenkings of old. I shall sing to you the Noldolantë, as was first sung by Maglor Fëanorian, the greatest bard to ever walk this earth.”
Barliman Butterbur looked around at the crowded taproom and the folk squeezing in from the stables as the news spread and decided he knew a good deal when he heard it. He filled the requested flagon and handed it up.
The bard drained it in one long gulp, wiped his mouth upon his sleeve and struck another cord. “There was a man – a prince! The greatest of all princes! – and he had seven sons-”
It was a long story, but a good one. Barliman liked the clever maiden in the vampire fell even if he couldn’t quite keep up with all the Fins – what kind of names were those, he asked you? – and much of it was sadder than he liked. But it kept the patrons in and kept them drinking, which was more than enough to recommend it to him.
The young bard told the story well, slipping into the characters like they were well-worn boots and a favourite jacket. He was a handsome fellow, bright-eyed with hair as raven-dark as the plumes in his fine hat, and the flames licking in the hearth threw shadows across his features that made him seem now fair and merry, now old and fell as a grizzled wolf in keeping with the characters in his tale.
When he was done with his tale, had accepted another flagon of ale and refused, despite much pleading, to do an encore, the room started to empty out, the patrons wending their way home or upstairs to their beds.
“Here now, though,” said Barliman, pausing with his hands full of empty jugs and greasy plates. “What about that last fellow? You never said what happened to the second son.” He was an innkeep after all and every innkeep has a sense for when he’s been cheated.
“Faded from grief,” said the bard, wearily for it had been a long performance. “Or drowned with Beleriand. Returned to the West when the weight of his sins grew too great for even his proud shoulders to bear up under. Or perhaps,” – he leant in closer and Barliman was not sure why he’d thought this old man young. “Perhaps he lingers still upon these shores. Haunting the woods, and singing sad songs beside forgotten pools. Perhaps he steals away Mannish children to raise as his own, scions of his dead house.”
“Not around here, I shouldn’t think,” Barliman huffed indignantly. “That may have gone over in that drowned country but we have a proper king now and he wouldn’t hold with stolen children.”
The bard laughed merrily. “Of course, of course. The poor fellow’s surely dead, but I’ve long found a neat ending, all tied up in a bow, makes for a poorer story. A more forgettable one, certainly, and I would not have poor Maglor fade from history altogether. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am for my bed.” His hard heeled boots rang on the stairs as he picked his way up them.
His words rang on in Barliman’s mind a good while longer. After the tables were wiped down and Barliman was in his nightshirt blowing out the candle, he thought about that wanderer, weeping upon the cold sand of a distant shore.
All innkeeps have a sense for when they’ve been cheated and a new thought tickled at the back of Barliman’s mind.
But the bed was soft, the hour was late and Barliman never had had much luck in recognising kings.
young isildur honestly. put in the fiction words that he has blue hair
His grandfather read to him. He couldn’t hear it. He opened his eyes and was confounded by silence, like morning after a snowstorm. Snow, rare in his childhood, now was unknown on the isle—unless on Meneltarma’s slopes, forbidden to worshippers. Which was no loss, in that he hated the cold. He lay cocooned in linen and wool, too warm to speak, mouth dry, with the blood budding hard at his pulse-points, and in the window, the garden—the tree that bent to toy with listing reeds. Green caverns. He should hear wind, and branches sawing at the glass. He heard his heart, unless it were the drums that called men to provision Sauron’s fires.
He had had a vision of a white fruit splitting, roots wandering. Far from needing to nurse at the dream, he was aware that it waited for him, alive, immense, independent of any effort to maintain it—but here was his grandfather. Could he not keep awake? If he concentrated, he found there was nothing to prevent him from reopening his eyes when he closed them; and again.
Amandil smiled and shut the book. Isildur felt childish outrage, grown cloying from much use, and too sweet to give up; how dare he, when Isildur hadn’t learned yet what there was in the book?
*
The next time he woke, it was to the sound of his name, spoken by the sea wind in the hedge.
They had shaved all his hair to tend to the great gash on his brow, which now was healed to a sprig of a scar. His grandfather brought him a wig, in the capital style, dyed blue and divided in fine braids, sewn to a circlet. Isildur could hardly bear to sit for it, the last piece of his armor; in a tunic and sandals, barelegged and without a shield, he ran out the door, unrecognizable, he hoped, as the thief.
But there was his tree! A sprout. It was very much smaller above ground, and outside his dream. He knelt and kissed the mound, and, rubbing dirt from his lips, stood and beheld the courtyard that had curled in his window; he waved up at the window, where no one now lay sick.
ephal ephalak idon hi-akallabeth 