Story [The Silmarillion] "This Taste of Shadow" (UDC7) Week 15 up 5/10

“This Taste of Shadow”

Genre: Everything
Rating: PG
Time Frame: Everywhere
Characters: Everyone

Summary: A collection of responses for the Ultimate Drabble Challenge Seven.

Author's Notes: Because my muse is smitten by Tolkien, and I wanted to challenge myself. If anything is ever a challenge, condensing The Silmarillion – where every sentence can be a book of its own – to drabble form is definitely it.

To anyone who is wondering, The Silmarillion is J.R.R. Tolkien's 'history book' to go with The Lord of the Rings, published posthumously by his son Christopher Tolkien. The novel consists of five parts, which together tell the history of Arda – it's creation, the rise of the first Dark Lord Melkor and his servant Sauron, and the formation of the Silmarils and the wars fought for those jewels which formed the bulk of the First Age. It then tells of the fall of Númenor in the Second Age, and ends with the formation of the Rings of Power, leading right into The Lord of the Rings. If anyone here hasn't read this masterpiece – which I enjoy just as much as the original trilogy - you should really give it a try. Within its pages you will find characters you recognize, and quite a few you don't, and the whole world of Middle-Earth will come alive in a way it couldn't have before.

BUT, I digress.

So, on with the drabbles . . .


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine for the words.

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Notes: For week one, I am tackling part of the story of Elu Thingol and Melain the Maia, parents of Lúthien, and great-great-grandparents of Arwen (and many, many times great-grandparents of Aragorn ). Whose story we all know very well.

Week One: “the song enchantments sing”

I. Baby

She was a daughter of time's beginning, and he but a sapling to the oak tree of her days - this Elven-king entranced by her Maia's song.

Yet he listened like no other, letting her enchantments snare in his bones, in his very heart, the long years of the world passing them by until a whispered command says, You must let him go . . .

Melian released him, but found she could not release herself . . . and so, where she gave him back his spirit, she gave up her own for a body of flesh, a form of bone - vowing never to be parted from him until his own body's end.



II. Child

Her daughter's birth takes every last bit of strength from her, leaving her weary - for while the Valar had allowed such a union, they had blessed it not, and such a birth was unprecedented. Within her fortress of flesh, her spirit ached, even as her heart sang for Lúthien's arrival.

“She is not a son,” Melian says, grieved, knowing she had not, and would not be able to bear a heir to her husband's throne.

“But she is perfect,” Thingol breathes, reverent as he holds his daughter - their child of heaven and earth. “I could of hoped for nothing more.”



III. Teenager

Lúthien grows to be the fairest of all of Ilúvatar's children, even though one could not recognize her for the mud in her hair, the scratches on her face - lost as she had been by Doriath's border. She was returned safe and sound, full of questions and curiosity for the world beyond, but the whole encounter threw Thingol's heart into a fright - leaving Melian to sooth his fears.

“What are you going to do when the time comes to let her go - lock her in a tower?” Melian asks, trying to jest.

“If I have to,” he answers, but his smile failed to reach his eyes.



IV. Adult

Her years pass; her spirit grows into her body.

Her father's winds call to her from the West, and her mother's stars glitter at night, pleading with their glory, ever harkening her home. Melian sings, but no longer could she become that song with her body of flesh surrounding her. Instead, she spends her days teaching her daughter the secrets of the Maiar. She whispered, and Lúthien learned, and Thingol watched them both with a sad smile on his face – the look of one who had long kept the unkeepable.

“Do you ever miss it?” he whispers that night. “Being more?”



V. Elderly

Elu's mind was closed to her; he feared her answer, she realized. For a moment, neither breathed.

And she hesitated, remembering the peace of Lórien's gardens, the glory of Ilúvatar's music and the song of her kin. But then she thought of the touch of flesh on flesh – the sweet thrill of her hand in his, the warmth of her daughter's embrace. She thought of loving, and being loved . . .

. . . how could the glory of Valinor ever compare?

Until the end of time – all of my days, she whispered against his mind. I promised, remember?

Aloud, she answers, “What could be more than this?”



~MJ

These are so sweet! What a lovely love story

You write Tolkien so well!

Nat: One of the loveliest! I am glad you enjoyed.

Daena: Now that is a compliment indeed! My work here as an author is complete. I am glad you liked these.

Lauré: This family and the way it comes full circle is one of my favourite things in any work of fiction, ever, I do believe. And so, it seemed a fitting place to start. I am so glad that you enjoyed this set, and I hope you continue to enjoy the rest.

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Author's Notes: This week we are jumping ahead in history to Elros Tar-Minyatur, son of Eärendil, twin brother of Elrond, and one of the Half-elven who chose to be counted amongst Men rather than Elven-kind. He was the first king of Númenor, and Aragorn's sixty-three times great grandfather.

Azrê is the name I gave to his wife here, even though Tolkien left her unnamed. Her name means 'seas' in the language of Adûnaic, which I thought fitting.

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Week II: “a sea-song in my veins, a siren-call in my heart”

VI. Healthy

The ocean-winds were fresh upon his face, filled with the salty sweetness of the sea-spray. The cries of the seagulls and the crashing of the waves were enough to leave him breathless with a well-being of spirit – a rightness in his soul.

It would be perfect, Elros decided, as soon as his stomach stopped trying to keep time with the waves below.

“Breathe in deep, Peredhil!” the High-king called . . . and right . . . breathing. Elros inhaled, and felt his stomach calm.

“It's the mortal blood,” Gil-galad chuckled. “It adds to the sea-sickness.”

Círdan smiled ruefully, his eyes prophesy-bright. “Aye, the mortal blood indeed.”



VII. Injured

Eönwë knew his choice before it was made; Círdan and Gil-galad too. Only Elrond looked on in shock, repeating Mankind under his breath as one bewildered.

Already, Elros could feel his twin dying from his mind – their mental bond turning from a wildfire to embers as his mortal doom took hold. In those last moments, he tried to explain mentally what he could not say with words – how he longed for movement over immortal stillness, sea-winds over familiar shores, and the Gift of Ilúvatar beyond mortal death . . .

“Will you be happy?” Elrond finally asked.

“Very,” Elros vowed.

“Then . . . I can ask for nothing more.”



VIII. Sick

He felt as if he was just gaining his sea legs again. One moment he was reviewing scrolls from the shipyards, and then the room was swimming underneath him, his vision turning sickly.

Azrê – a daughter of Númenor with a talent for ship's design – leaned over to press the heel of her hand to his forehead, informing him that he was with fever.

“The Eldar do not take sick,” he protested, baffled.

“But Men do,” Azrê chuckled, and her smile was doing things to his stomach past the sickness. “Come now, let me show you how we mortal-kind battle every malady with tea.”



IX. Stressed

From the birthing room, Azrê's screams resounded sickly in his bones. Elros – shooed away when complications first arose - paced anxiously, fear heavy in his heart for his wife's struggles.

From across the sea, he could feel Elrond stir in the ashes of their bond, sending him support and strength. Elros could touch his twin's mind not, and the other could only under great duress and determination - but he was grateful beyond words as he sent back his love and his gratitude, breaking the link only when Azrê's screams faded to that of a child's, and Elros had thought for little else.



X. Frustrated

One summer's eve, Elros chose to let his life go. Elrond felt his spirit depart, like a candle blown out by a sea-wind.

The pain of the loss drove him to his knees. Distantly, he heard Gil-galad's anxious questions, he felt as Galadriel's healing presence touched his mind. But neither were enough when suddenly the other was no more.

Frustrated by his own weakness, he blinked back tears. He had had centuries to accept such an inevitability, such a truth – the mortal consequences of his brother's happiness. And yet . . .

He looked to the west, where Númenor stood tall from the sea, and knew grief.




~MJ

Poor Elrond Painful as it is, I like reading about his grief for his brother's choice and eventual death. And even more painful knowing that his daughter will make the same choice.

Nat: I go 'poor Elrond' a lot reading these tales, that's for sure! But he is one of my favourite characters for how he's stood up under so much. The bitter-sweetness of mortality versus immortality was fascinating to play with here - as was foreshadowing Arwen's choice.

Daena: That's an interesting way to think of it. For Elros the injury would be slight - choosing humanity was a natural step for him. For Elrond, the loss of his twin - in mental bond now and then in a later death - was the true injury, for my inspiration. I love seeing what you took away from it, though. Playing with colds and tea was lots of fun, too.

@Jade_eyes: Deb! It is so good to see you here, and your words do me great honor! I have had a blast playing in this fandom, and I am thrilled that you have tucked yourself in for the ride.

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Author's Notes: This week we have a grab bag of characters, tied together by a common theme. We have . . .

Melkor/Varda: Melkor (better known as Morgoth), the original Dark Lord, Sauron's master, a Vala fallen from grace. And Varda (better known as Elbereth), the Vala Queen of the Stars. These two share an . . . interesting past.
Fëanor/Nerandel: The Noldor jewel-smith who forged the Silmarils, (really, you can blame the whole Silmarillion on him), and his wife, a sculptress, great in her own right.
Maedhros and Maglor: Sons of Fëanor, who swore an Oath to recover their father's jewels, and facilitated all three kinslayings as a result.

We have already met Melian - and her fellow Maia Olórin - whom you may know better as Gandalf. . . . And then, you already know who Sauron is.

If you have any other questions, let me know, and I will answer as best as I can.

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Week III: “I hold with those who favor fire”

XI. Attraction

In the time before time, Melkor sought the Flame Imperishable; wearing his spirit like a black fire, seducing careless hands to touch.

“Wast thou successful in thy quest?” Varda asked as he formed bodily before her, night-shaped and darkly breathtaking.

“Nay,” whispered Melkor, gazing hungrily upon her light. His regard of her bodiless spirit devoured, ever searching for the ultimate flame . . . but Varda denied him. She would not burn her fingers on the heat of his soul.

Melkor was fire, but Varda was light - and so, when her Father commanded sing, she sang into creation her stars, and lit up the night sky.



XII. Love

In Mahtan's forge, Fëanor had sought escape (from his half-family of cold stars, from his father's shadow), but instead found his calling. His spirit's inferno was one with the furnace of the forge, his wares fanned brighter by Aulë's own breath.

Nerdanel's mother complained that her copper hair smelled of forge-smoke too often, but Fëanor insisted that her tresses were born from candlelight, so smoke was only fitting. He tried then to feed light into stone cased gems, inspired, but Nerdanel counseled him against such craft - for what was fire without the air to sustain it?

Fëanor smirked – challenged, and tried anyway.



XIII. Commitment

The Oath still burned in their blood, it bit at their bones; a blackening of spirit darker than their bloodstained hands.

Fëanor's surviving sons stood overlooking the camps of Eönwë. Maglor knelt on the ground, his head bowed before his sword. At his knees, the dirt was red already, battle-fouled and saturated.

“One last time, and then the Silmarils shall be ours,” Maedhros swore, his voice echoing hollowly. “I promise, Kano.”

Maglor was silent to his brother's vow, having heard enough of binding words throughout his life to trust them not. Finally, he rose to his feet, battle-ready.

One last time, then . . .



XIV. Marriage

Irmo's gardens were just as Melian remembered them, and yet, Lórien's golden song afforded her little peace, yearning as she did for he whom was sundered in death.

“But never wholly parted,” reminded Olórin gently, ever a boulder in the current of her grief.

She sucked in a breath at his words, nodding as he wiped her tears away. Thingol's spirit rested in Námo's halls, and someday he would be released to her once more. They would remain married in spirit until then, their love an ember waiting for flame - no matter how many years Námo would put before their reunion.

Until then, she had but to wait.



XV. Anniversary

A hundred years after Melkor was chained within the Timeless Void, Sauron rose from thought, his plans finally made.

Fury licking at his bones, he foresaw the centuries ahead – mentally orchestrating what would be the greatest song sung since the creation of Eä itself. Where Melkor had been a naked flame - raw inspiration and power, Sauron was a craftsman - a steady flame of the forge. He would bide his time, and once more would fire be gifted to Arda marred. The smoke of that inferno would rise to his Master beyond the Doors of Night, and then . . . perhaps . . . his soul would know peace.



~MJ

I liked them all, but Comittment and Anniverary were my favorites. The brother's Oath tearing everything apart was so sad. And Sauron is cunning. But I really love the last line about his soul knowing peace. I'm so used to thinking of Sauron as the embodiment of pure evil--a lame joke since he doesn't have a body, har har It's very interesting to think of him seeking peace.

Nat: 'Embodiment of evil.' Oh, but I had quite the snicker fit at that comment. One of the things I loved about the Silmarillion was how Tolkien took Sauron from being the Ultimate Evil to a fallen from grace character who started down his path with the best intentions. He's fascinated me ever since.

@Jade_eyes: I have to agree with you about Gandalf! I had a totally blown away moment when I realized the depth of his powers. The whole Thingol/Melian kickoff, and then Lúthien and her whole family line is one of the best stories ever told, in my opinion, and it is so much fun to play with here. The Silmarils are such a gorgeous creation, it's true. It's just sad that something so lovely has brought so much pain and despair in its wake.

Daena: I am glad that that line stuck out. I crafted the whole drabble around that one sentence. Thanks for reading.

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Author's Notes: Featured in this week's drabbles, we have . . .

Idril/Tuor: The Elven Princess of Gondolin, and her human husband Tuor. They were the second union of Elves and Men after Lúthien/Beren, followed only by Arwen/Aragorn.

And . . .

Elwing/Eärendil: Elwing, grand-daughter of Lúthien, whose family was slain by the Sons of Fëanor in the Second Kinslaying at Doriath. In Sirion, she met her husband Eärendil, son of Tuor and Idril, whom you may better know as Gil-Estel - the Star of High Hope, mentioned often in The Lord of the Rings. Their sons were Elrond and Elros.

And now, that said . . .

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Week IV: “a light in dark places”

XVI. Snow

Snow was treacherous in the steep mountain passes, crunching ominously underfoot as Gondolin's surviving children made their escape.

Idril Celebrindal moved in a daze, the snow pulling at her steps as she remembered . . . Dragon-fire, glinting from her father's sword . . . Glorfindel, giving his life for theirs before the Balrog's fury . . . Maeglin, plummeting to his death . . . Her next step faltered, but Tuor was at her side then, holding her upright with one strong arm whilst carrying little Eärendil with the other.

“I won't let you fall,” he vowed, holding his wife close until the shadow of the mountains passed from over them.



XVII. Sand

Elwing quickly grew to love the seashores of Sirion. Often would she walk the sands with Eärendil at her side - a refugee just as she, making Arvernien his home.

“My mother says that the sea-winds carry the voices of those parted from us,” Eärendil confided when her gaze turned west, “So that we may hear them always.”

Standing where the sand met the surf, Elwing tilted her head. She thought she could hear it then . . . her mother Nimloth's soft lullabies . . . her father Dior's resonating baritone . . . the giggles of her baby brothers, now gone.

Her throat thick, she whispered, “That . . . I believe.”



XVIII. Water

“You've reached your decision, then?” Círdan asked, gazing upon the sketches of Vingilot.

“I have,” Eärendil answered.

Círdan frowned, and Eärendil could read his thoughts clearly - of Elwing his wife and his infant sons, whom he would leave behind . . . of the Sons of Fëanor, ever desiring the Silmaril of Lúthien . . . and of Morgoth himself, a power that could not be defeated without Valinor's aid . . .

Círdan sighed. “When Tuor first sparked the sea-longing in you, I knew that you would be the one of Two Kindreds to find the Straight Road once more. I will help you build this ship, and Ulmo himself shall bless the waters you sail.”



XIX. Heat

The Silmaril burned as a small star in her hands.

“Hand the jewel over,” commanded Fëanor's eldest son, but Elwing stood tall upon the cliffs, refusing to relinquish a gem so bathed in the blood of her family.

Below her, the ocean waves were calling, thundering in time with her heartbeat.

“Elwing, be not a fool,” the second pleaded, understanding her intentions -

- but she had already turned, committing her soul to the sea. The waves rushed up to meet her as the Silmaril blazed . . . and Elwing prayed for Ulmo's sea-winds to carry her spirit to Eärendil one last time before coming to rest in Mandos' halls.



XX. Clouds

The night sky gleamed with a new star in the heavens. Curious, the sons of Fëanor stood upon the seashore, and they knew -

“Elwing and her husband made it to Valinor,” Maedhros stated hollowly. “For surely that is a Silmaril above us. Eärendil sails the stars now.”

“Brother,” Maglor tried to reason, “The Silmaril is now far from evil hands. Better in the heavens than on Morgoth's brow -”

“ - but it lies not in our hands, and our Oath still stands,” Maedhros sighed, his eyes clouding as with storm.

He turned, and Maglor let him go, the waves beyond reflecting the light of Gil-Estel above.



~MJ

@Jade_eyes: As always, you flatter me! Someday I will actually finish a novel, and when I do you will be the first to know. Heck, you'll probably be in the dedication.

Daena: Why thank-you! And it's true, the Balrogs are oooold - older than the physical world, even. Originally, Melkor had a whole army of Balrogs - Maiar of fire who took up his theme of discord during the music of creation. The one in LoTR – Durin's Bane - was a straggler who survived the War of Wrath, and he was not pleased to be awakened from his beauty sleep, that's for sure.

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Author's Notes: Sooo, the House of Fëanor never fails to give me feelings - and not all of them are good, at that. But while I have an exasperated love/hate relationship with Fëanor himself, Maedhros and Maglor - Maglor especially, if I am honest with myself - have wormed their way into my heart something fierce. And so, this week is their turn with my muse. That said, the italics in the first drabble are directly quoted from the Oath of Fëanor - they are Tolkien's words and not my own.

Enjoy.

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Week V: “bound by blood and oath”

XXI. Seek

His voice had been crafted for music and song, but today he knew sounds of sorrow; of rage and despair - his vow rising in seven fold harmony with his brother's, all drunk on their father's rage.

“Neither law, nor love, nor league of swords . . .” they swore to seek, to hunt . . . To stop at nothing until the Silmarils were returned to their maker's hands.

“ . . . Shall defend from Fëanáro, and Fëanáro’s kin . . .”

Maglor could feel the notes of their vow wrap about their spirits, invoking eternal darkness as payment for failure. Their Oath, a terrible discord of voices, and then-

“ . . . be Manwë and Varda our witnesses.”

- silence.



XXII. Sneak

Though Maedhros was recovering, he bore the scars of his imprisonment even still. His skin was ashen, his body gaunt, and his hand . . .

“Brother,” Maglor revealed himself, stepping from the shadows, “Let me.”

“Kano,” Maedhros greeted, anger trying to spark in his voice, but failing. “I suspected you were sneaking about.”

And Maglor wished for anger, for fire, over the nothingness he heard instead. “Only to save you from your dreadful pride.” His hands – two of them, both – were steady as they plaited Maedhros' hair for the night, a task now impossible for the other.

“Pride?” Maedhros snorted. “I feel it not.”



XXIII. Steal

The ringing of steel rose from the courtyard below. Determinedly, Maglor told himself that it was not his place to interfere, that Maedhros shared his weakness with Fingon and no other. But today there were shouts, not of war but of anger – hurt feelings and short tempers (crowns and blood), sparking and taking flame -

Fingon departed, and Maglor took his place. It was the first time he had held a weapon since . . .

. . . the thought was irrelevant.

“Morgoth stole your hand, not your soul,” Maglor finally hissed, tossing Maedhros back his sword. “Now stand up and deny him that victory, if you dare.”



XXIV. Share

He had shared his family with Mandos before. He had mourned his father's death as a son, a child. His brothers though, all decades his junior, belonged to his shield by blood and love – a bond greater than any vow of tongue. They were his to preserve alive . . .

Doriath burned - a useless slaughter, for the Silmaril still evaded their grasp. His fingers were slick with blood – slipping against the strings of his harp.

Celegorm, he plucked the first note . . .

. . . Caranthir, he strummed a second.

Curufin, and the chord was then three fold . . .

I shall see you again, Maglor mourned . . . but not yet.



XXV. Sell

The sons of Elwing slept, finally pushed into slumber by his song. Maglor himself kept guard, his lullaby waning only when Maedhros entered his tent, his gaze darkening over the children. Maglor tensed, holding the twins tighter - for their lives would come as forfeit only through the last breath of his own.

“You cannot buy their forgiveness,” Maedhros snapped at his brother's defiance. “Someday, they will hate you.”

“I ask naught of forgiveness,” Maglor returned fiercely, “for it is a coin greater than I can pay.”

Forgiveness was impossible, but here the deaths would end . . . That was an oath he swore to freely and refused to break.



~MJ

@Jade_eyes: Why thank-you! Those two give my muse pleanty of emotions to write about, that's for sure.

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Author's Note: Soooo, here's the thing. Originally Week Five had another focus from my muse, but I had to scratch the idea because it became too long for me to par down to a hundred words. BUT, rather than scrap the idea completely and wait for later prompts to twist these around, I decided to brush them up and post them here anyway. These are still fixed-length fics, just . . . quarbbles (drabbles of two hundred and fifty words) rather than a hundred.

. . . what? This set is purely an indulgence, I tell you.

That said, this set deals with Melkor and Sauron's fall. It also deals with a few of Sauron's many, many names - (Mairon, his original name as a Maia of Aulë, meaning 'admirable'. Sauron, the name in Quenya the Noldor Elves gave him, meaning 'the abhorred'. Gorthuar the Cruel, the name used by the Sindarin Elves, meaning 'terrible dread'. And Annatar, his later alias whilst forging the Rings in Eregion, meaning 'lord of gifts.')

Thuringwethil here is characterized after only a paragraph of meeting her in the book - where she is introduced as the Vampire-like herald of Sauron, with a cloak of bat wings that allows her to fly. Everything else about her is my own fan theory.

Curunír you know too, although you probably know him better as Saruman the White, another Maia of Aule, and always doomed to play second fiddle to Sauron, it seems.

And now, after all of that rambling . . . here we go.

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“when you fall, you fall in flames”

“While Morgoth still stood, Sauron did not seek his own supremacy, but worked and schemed for another, desiring the triumph of Melkor, whom in the beginning he had adored. He thus was often able to achieve things, first conceived by Melkor, which his master did not or could not complete in the furious haste of his malice.” - excerpt from “Morgoth's Ring”

Seek

Melkor flickered as a wraith through Aulë's halls, casting his presence like a net, calling those of like soul forward as he flew through the belly of the blacksmith's forge. To those unworthy who perceived the weight of his might, they passed it off as nothing more than a terrible thought in the unwaking hours, a fell chill in the dead of the night.

The work of Aulë was done for the day. The great forges had all but emptied, with only two of his brother's Maiar remaining to work through the night. Curunír first he recognized, a willowy and silvery white spirit whom Aulë spoke of well enough, but who did not draw his interest long enough to linger.

But at the second, Melkor paused, his curiosity drawn. Strong hammer-falls danced against a white hot fold of metal upon the anvil, the rhythm seemingly resounding in Melkor's chest without a body to hold such a pulse. He gazed on, drawn by the Maia working before the forge. Where Curunír was white and silver – snow after a storm, this one was a flame, with braided hair the color of molten copper and catlike eyes, colored gold and wreathed by fire – a stare to rival the Flame Imperishable he had first sought in the time before time. Mairon, Aulë had named this one – the admirable, first in lore of the earthsmith's house, and jewel of the blacksmith Vala's collection of spirit followers . . .

Entranced, Melkor drew nearer, joining the shadows to listen, and he heard . . .



Sneak

“The hosts of the Valar fight a loosing battle with Melkor. Or, at least, a battle that will be long and filled with discord,” the first was saying. “Many are those of flame who have joined his cause. Some from Oromë's fold have joined, and even more still of our own ranks . . .” His voice was shaped in consideration – testing the waters. Melkor could taste his curiosity, like salt upon the skin.

“You speak treason, Curunír,” came Mairon's voice in return, scolding. “Everything he touches turns to ash. Is he raw power? Yes, in that way, he is the greatest of our Father's children. And yet, he lacks the order necessary for true control; complete conquest. It would be a folly for you to consider such a defection.”

“I have no wish to join the Fallen,” Curunír sniffed. “I merely know how to espy a formidable foe, Mairon.”

The golden one snorted, unconvinced. Melkor felt the hands of his will shape like talons then, hearing the undertone in the Maia's voice. He, who had sung the original counter-song, could hear that same discord in the blacksmith's voice now. Mairon may have spoken one way, but his thoughts were not as barbed as his words. His spirit betrayed him, ever searching and building, thinking in numbers and fixed figures and sums.

Ravenous, Melkor's spirit spread like a shadow - consuming.

“Yes . . . a formidable foe indeed,” Mairon whispered dubiously in return before turning back to his work, unaware of the shadow that had joined his own, ever there to stay.



Steal

One of the original spirits of fire, a Maia of Melkor from before the Music of Eä, Thuringwethil was one of the few of her brethren free from a Balrog's body. And yet, even being akin to her Master in form and mind, she had first thought nothing of the golden Maia Melkor had dragged in his wake when returning from the dwelling place of the Valar, where he had taken to haunting often as of late.

Mairon, she recognized the spirit even before he took a body once more. She recalled his song from the Music, how his clear voice had supported that of his master Aulë's, trying to chain the melody of Melkor's discord with order and strength; the iron wrought bonds of chains and the smoldering heat of the forge - a mere candle when compared to the flame of Melkor's might.

She had scoffed at her Master's newest pet until the first time Melkor had bidden him to sing - to create as Melkor himself could no longer wholly create. The Maia had paused - considering, planning, where Melkor himself would have pushed blindly ahead.

She had waited patiently, ready to judge and find the other wanting. And yet, from that first song, dragon scales and the great wings of a wyrm started to take shape from golden light. Power blazed from Mairon's spirit, reflected in the hungry cast of her Master's eyes, and Thuringwethil started to understand, just barely, why Melkor had coveted this one enough to steal him so boldly from underneath Aulë's nose.



Share

Thuringwethil's freedom of form and ease of movement often took her away from Utumno as a spy and messenger both, sent forth by Melkor's voice in her mind and greeted by silence when she returned to her tower, her duty done.

But Mairon was there that eve, concealed by the shadows but for his eyes of flame, unable to be veiled by the night. She let her eyes fall over him (ignoring the urge to touch, to come closer – flames drawn to flames as they were, tongues of fire burning all the brighter for the consuming of each other), instead turning to the long fall of fabric he held in his hands - shimmering indigo and violet at turns in the twilight, black like the spaces between stars.

“Heat rises,” he said in explanation as she donned the cloak. If she did not know any better, she would have thought his fair face to be blushing. “You shall fly whilst wearing this.”

Her lips drew back from her teeth, her smile revealing the pointed tip of fangs. The fabric fell from her shoulders like a shadow, blocking the moonlight beyond and casting wings from her arms, as if she were a bat, a fell creature of the night sky.

“This is an unparalleled treasure, Annatar,” she praised sincerely.

“Annatar?” he raised a brow, his eyes questioning.

Her smile only grew as she backed to the edge of her tower. “Annatar . . . lord of gifts,” she translated -

- and fell into the night sky, only to fly.



Sell

Where originally the Song of Eru had been order, neatly lined notes and carefully constructed chords, the land the Song birthed was now chaos, war and waste and division. Through fire, Mairon had seen a way to restore order to Arda marred – as he would melt down a metal not fit for forging, purifying it until it was worthy of craft.

When he first sold his soul to meet this final end, he did not foresee the depths this goal would sink him to . . . and yet, even now, he was unsure of what he would change if ever he had a chance to choose again.

“They call you Sauron now,” Melkor remarked pleasantly, standing from his iron throne in order to hover before his prostrate servant. He crooked a single finger beneath Mairon's chin, forcing the Maia to meet his master's gaze. “Sauron, the abhorred . . . Gorthaur, the cruel. Should I too address you so?”

He was unable to bow his head in the Vala's hold, Melkor's eyes holding him as firmly as his ungentle grip. “Whatever name suits my lord's will the best,” he answered dutifully, “so may I be called.”

Melkor's laughter was rich and full; all in his court shuddered to hear it.

“My admirable one, how you do please me,” Melkor praised, releasing him.

Mairon – Sauron – let out a breath, and swore that this too was done for unity, for order . . . And not for the rich flare of pride he felt, deep within him; an ember coaxed to flame by Melkor and Melkor alone.



~MJ

@Jade_eyes: Aww, thank-you! My muse got wordy there, but I am glad it came over well. Sometimes a hundred words just isn't possible.


Daena: Wow! Thank-you for the breakdown. I enjoyed every word.

You know... that actually explains a little bit about why Elrond acts the way he does. A little, anyway...

A very little bit indeed. Things just keep on getting more and more interesting from there, that's for sure.

Seek: Not sure what to make of Melkor, sneaking through the halls and eavesdropping, but I loved the characterization.

Thank-you! When Melkor is not busy trying to dominate Arda, he is a terrible gossip hound, so it would seem. Any gleaned allies are just a perk after that.

That... oh my. Oh my goodness. First taint?

And I am glad that came across so well. Sauron's fall fascinates me - especially as how Tolkien was very, very careful to say how he started out with the best intentions. There is a saying about the path to hell and such things, though . . .

Woah... and here I thought he was disturbing enough before. The possession thing takes it to a whole other level, doesn't it?

Melkor can take any other Dark Lord when it comes to the creep-scale, that's for sure. There is an interesting line in the Silmarillion about Sauron trying to repent of his deeds after Melkor's defeat, but being unable to because of his Master's hold on his mind. The possessive and rather disturbing relationship between the two has been part of my head-canon ever since.

Again, thank-you for the thoughtful words.

---

Author's Notes: This week, we have more madness from the House of Finwë. But first, I have some backstory that forms the axis of a good portion of the Silmarillion as much as it adds to this week of drabbles . . .

Finwë was the King of the Noldor Elves in Valinor during the Years of the Trees, before the birth of the sun and moon. His first wife, Míriel, died not long after giving birth to her son, Fëanor. Fëanor's spirit was so great and fiery that his birth drained Mírie of her own life-force. (Elven parents give of their own souls to their children, which is why larger families are rather rare. Fëanor is an exception to that rule - seeing as how he had plenty of fire to give. ) Míriel lost the will to live, and died a few short years later. When Námo offered her the chance to be reborn in a new body, she refused, saying that she wearied of the thought of life again. This put her husband in an previously unthinkable dilemma - the idea of having to live through the immortal years of his life alone when his people were still young (second marriages and adultery are unthinkable because of the union of souls that binds together marriage mates). Because of Míriel's choice, this once, and only this once, an Elf remarried, and from Finwë and Indis of the Vaynar came two sons and two daughters. Tolkien said that most of the tragedies that later befell the Noldor could have been avoided had Finwë not taken to marriage again, but the history of Arda would have been forever diminished - for through that second union came heroes like Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fingon, Galadriel, Finrod, Gil-galad, Turgon, Idril, Eärendil, Elrond and Elros, and whole Ages later, Arwen and Aragorn.

I also use the original names in Quenya here, due to the place in the timeline, rather than the Sindarin names used later in history.

So Arafinwë = Finarfin, third son of Finwë, whom you may know better as the father of Galadriel.
Nolofinwë = Fingolfin, second son of Finwë, father of Turgon and Fingon.
Fëanáro = Fëanor.
Amil/Atar = Quenya for mother/father.

Also, since Fëanor became rather long winded here (go figure ), and took up three drabbles where he was supposed to only take up one, I have the original forms of Rude and Funny as they were meant to be in order to tie the set together as a bonus. They are long (250 words again), because they are extras, and I can.

And now, that said, you can finally read the drabbles . . .

---

Week VI: “with kindle as to flames”

XXVI. Serious

Visits from Fëanáro to Tirion were rare, but Arafinwë awaited each eagerly. With the utmost seriousness he paid attention to the way Finwë embraced his son - Fëanáro stiffly suffering through the affection before melting into the embrace as if he had no bones, his eyes glittering like a fire without kindle.

Later, Arafinwë carefully copied his Atar, his heart full as he wrapped his small arms around his brother's legs, thinking that this time -

- but Fëanáro only reached down to gently pry his fingers away. To Arafinwë, the look in his eyes was no suffocating flame then, but rather a shadow, tired and cold.



XXVII. Silly

Arafinwë looked at his brother's retreating back, unsure how to define the queasy sort of hurt he felt inside, like a wound revealing bone beneath.

“Silly Arafinwë,” Nolofinwë said, having observed the whole interaction. Arafinwë felt his cheeks flush. “Fëanáro lets none but Atar touch him.”

“But he's our brother,” Arafinwë protested, confused.

“He is Atar's son,” Nolofinwë corrected, “And that is the only tie to this family he will let touch his heart.”

“Why?” Arafinwë asked, his young eyes troubled.

A smile ghosted past his brother's eyes, sad in shape. “Loyalty,” he answered, but when pressed he would say no more.



XXVIII. Charming

Loving Fëanáro was easier in the wilds of Aman, on the dark seashores beyond her father's forge. Here in white washed Tirion, Nerdanel heard every whisper – remarking on her ignorance of which spoon (out of five!) to use, comparing her freckled and plain features to the beautifully gilded women the eldest son of King Finwë had been expected to marry . . .

“How charming,” Talawindë (one of those girls) was saying then, her porcelain face frowning as Nerdanel hovered between two spoons before choosing – the wrong one it would seem, by the humor in the other's eyes. “A . . . sculptress?”

“Aye,” Nerdanel answered, “A sculptress.”



XXIX. Rude

“And a sculptress without match, at that,” Fëanáro's voice interupted, “Whose craft is praised by Aulë himself.”

Her husband was using the same spoon as she, she noticed, as if claiming even her imperfections as his own – his eyes daring all who watched them before moving to draw her away from the table, muttering aloud at the manners of the 'enlightened' as they passed. Nerdanel hide her thoughts – wondering, as alway, how the greatest son of their people (first in knowledge and lore, in fire of spirit and beauty of form) could have chosen her, over all he could have had . . .



XXX. Funny

Hearing the whisper from her mind, they were not even out of sight before he was turning to kiss her fiercely, answering her unspoken reservations whilst opening his mind to her – letting her see how he laughed over the empty elegance of those such as Talawindë, how the idea of sharing his spirit – his body and children and eternity with any of those women was such a foreign idea to him that it was funny.

Tirion looked on, scandalized and tittering, but Fëanáro refused to release her - daring any to witness the violence of their attachment, and still find their match wanting.



.
.

Rude II

Arafinwë's sudden interest in Teleri music was marked by the visit of King Olwë and his daughter Eärwen - a beautiful and silvery maiden with an ear for harp music and a laugh that sounded like bells . . .

Nolofinwë snickered and commended his brother's daring for courting a bride from outside the Noldor, while Finwë smiled and wished his son every possible happiness. Indis only raised a brow before wryly remarking on their matching temperaments, teasing that they would never know a day of discord in their marriage. At her words, Fëanáro - present for their father's court that day - had snorted and said that if that was the case, then he would also be missing out on the joy of a fight's aftermath, as well – his and Nerdanel's spirited bickering well known to all in Tirion. Indis had replied in a cool tone that she was ignorant to such strife within the marital bond, and would have to take his word for it - only to have Fëanáro return like a hunting animal for the throat, asking what was strife but for passion precessed and disguised? his implications of her marriage to his father clear to all.

Arafinwë – used to being the buffer between his Amil and her not-son by default, having not of Nolofinwë's cool temper or their Atar's tied hands - chuckled, taking the weight of the conversation onto his shoulders, “Then I wish for just enough discord to know the best of both worlds. I should then count myself truly blessed.”



Funny II

He still raised a brow in chastisement when catching Fëanáro's gaze – and felt a dark thrill that the elder flushed slightly at his censor. Over the years Fëanáro had developed a grudging respect for him (and an unadmitted liking, Arafinwë thought), simply because of his refusal to take rise to an insult (or respond to a hint, for that matter). Thankfully, Fëanáro was silent after that, and took his leave earlier than he was wont – leaving Indis and Finwë to an evening of cool silence where Fëanáro and his bride would have been up in flames.

Yes, a middle ground indeed, Arafinwë reflected ruefully . . .

And yet, the most curious approval of his choice of wife came the next day, delivered from Fëanáro's home right outside of Tirion. The gift was that of a silver harp, intricate in its detail and stunning in its timbre. On the note attached, his half-brother's neat words proclaimed that the instrument was made by his own hand, admitting that he had had time enough to study the mechanics of such things with the advent of his second-born's prodigious talents with the musician's arts. The note fell to an awkward end after that, as if the other wanted to write more, but was unsure how.

As he read, Arafinwë held the ornate instrument as one would hold the most dearest of treasures, bewildered, before finally laughing - reflecting that it was almost funny, how just when he thought he knew Fëanáro's mind better than most, he truly knew nothing at all.



~MJ

@Jade_eyes: Aww, thank-you!


Daena: Thanks for the thoughtful review, again - I really appreciated it.

Love, love this description of how he melted into the embrace and later didn't want to be touched. It's a special thing for him to let the walls down like that, even for a moment.

Oh, Feanor and his issues, how I do love thee. I'm glad that struck you - I had all sorts of feelings writing it.

Nothing wrong at all with loving a sculptress, but perhaps I'm confused about what they're really talking about.

Nothing wrong indeed. The other lady was just being a snob - a 'working woman' like Nerdanel, plain and common-born, snagging the high prince for a husband was quite the subject of gossip for a century or two, at least . I can only imagine that many ladies of the court had stung prides after that.




Kingsdaughter613: Hello fellow Silmarillion fan, and thank-you for stopping in! You are too right - there are not nearly enough of us out there, indeed!

---

Author's Notes: Alrighty, here I am on the catch-up trail! On that endeavor, I combined Week Seven and Eight together to tell the tale of the Darkening of Valinor and the First Flight of the Sun and Moon.

So, here's my fun backstory for this week: during the Years of the Trees, Melkor was imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos for three ages for his crimes committed against Arda. His captivity, rather than humbling him, made him more angry than ever before - even though, on the surface, he feigned repentance and sued for the pardon of his sins. Manwë forgave Melkor of his crimes and agreed to his release under the condition that he be paroled in Valmar and live as the lowest of those in Valinor – giving freely of his power and the works of his hands in an effort to heal the hurts he caused. Valar like Tulkas and Ulmo were less than pleased by this verdict, while others, like Manwë and Nienna truly believed Melkor, since malice was so far from their own hearts.

Melkor spent almost nine hundred years (by our counting, only 92 years by Valian counting) in Valinor as one 'reformed', but he used that time to plant the seeds for future evils. During those years, he used his words to spark rebellion in Fëanor's heart, and to move the rivalry between Fëanor and Fingolfin into open hostility. His whispers put enmity between the Noldor Elves and the Valar – causing the Noldor to long for their own lands away from the 'chains' of the Valar – and his schemes worked so well that even elves like Galadriel were caught up with that longing, (even though she did not believe in Melkor's fair facade). At Melkor's bidding, the Noldor started crafting weapons, and muttered openly against their 'subservient' role beneath the Valar. All of these events culminated in the Darkening of Valinor, where Melkor destroyed the Two Trees (with the help of Ungoliant), slew King Finwë, stole the Silmarils (thus inciting Fëanor to his Oath), and made it all the way back to Middle-Earth to continue his evil there.

With the destruction of the light of the Two Trees, the Valar created the sun and the moon so shine on Arda in their place. With that first celestial flight, the First Age under the sun began. (LoTR was at the very end of the Third Age, for reference. )

And so, without further rambling on my part . . .

---

Week VII & VIII: “said the sun to the night”

XXXI. Stormy

When Melkor was first released from Mandos, his cage of flesh was worn and weary - and yet, the soul lining that paltry prison was as a storm, with thunder for his bones and the fire of lightning for his breath.

Varda stood, proud within her raiment of starlight, as Melkor bowed stiffly before his kin. Briefly, his eyes met hers, and a chill engulfed her spirit for the hatred that still lingered there. Three ages may have passed, but the soul of Melkor had learned not - his captivity had quenched naught of his fire.

His gaze fell away, and Varda exhaled, cold in its wake.



XXXII. Trapped

And yet, seeing the ever-proud Melkor bowing low, eyes downcast with words of repentance on his lips, struck Manwë as it touched Varda not. Manwë – shared firstborn of creation with Melkor, their souls one spirit in origin – knelt down to wrap the other in a fierce embrace. Tears glinted in his eyes as he called the fallen Vala my brother and forgiven.

But Varda . . .

. . . she set her jaw, unmoved.

Later she whispered wearily, “How long can a flame remain trapped underneath a basket, and the straw still stand? Someday a doom shall fall on all, husband, for the kindness of your heart.”



XXXIII. Escape

All escaped, (hope and blood, light and souls).

Hope escaped (like the wound in Manwë's eyes, forever hurt and betrayed). Blood escaped (staining the courtyard stones crimson with the Noldor King's blood). Screams escaped (torn from the throat of Finwë's son, rising in the shape of vengeance unyielding). Light escaped (flashing in its death throes from Yavanna's Trees as Ungoliant drank and drank deep). Nothing was untouchable in the end.

And the Dark Lord himself escaped, passing over the northernmost ice like a terrible thought, a fell unlight.

All escaped, (hope and blood, light and souls) . . .

. . . and Ungoliant would have nothing less.



XXXIV. Rescue

Melkor's return to Middle-earth was marked by storms. The night air screamed its rage as a shadow, great and terrible, fell from the West. That shadow hungered, filling even Melkor's heart with dread as it sought its unholy feast.

Sauron, cold upon the Iron Throne, frowned as Melkor's soul brushed his own in a desperate summons – pulling a pang from his spirit with the call's savage intensity. The Balrogs roused beyond him, calling out their warcries in readiness for battle – they having heard their master's plight the same as he.

His decision made, he raised a hand. “Hunt,” he breathed his command, and fire blazed in answer to meet the night.



XXXV. Recover

Valinor wept.

Manwë stood unmoving, staring blankly into the East. Without the Tree-light to soften his features, his likeness to Melkor was uncanny. Their faces had always been mirrors of flesh, but where Melkor had chosen a raiment of shadow, Manwë chose to shine as the morning light in a cloudless sky. Now Varda ached to see that mouth frown, to see those eyes mourn . . .

She wanted to scream then, to cry: he is not worth your grief. But her words remained unspoken, her tears unfallen. Gently, she touched Manwë's spirit with her own, offering what little comfort she could.

And still, Valinor wept.



XXXVI. Mistakes

The Silmarils were a holy light as they fell from his master's ruined hands, skipping like stars across the onyx floor. Melkor himself would have fallen too were it not for Sauron holding him upright – dully realizing that this would be the only body Melkor would ever be able to take again, such was the damage done . . . and for what?

Disinterested, Sauron kicked away the Silmarils from where they had fallen, seeing no beauty in the coveted gems. Fool of a Vala, he wanted to berate. He wanted to call greed and glutton as he saw fit. Melkor, he sighed informally within his own mind, but never spoke aloud . . .



XXXVII. Corrections

“My lord,” he said instead, his anger known only by the flames raging in the torch lined walls. Once was, he would have been able to recreate Melkor's ruined flesh, heal his ravaged soul. But not now, not as he was . . . He concentrated, but could only summon a golden warmth – soothing the burn of the Silmaril's touch, but reversing naught of Ungoliant's damage.

“Your hands . . . I cannot . . .” Sauron whispered, defeated.

“They are a paltry price to pay,” Melkor's choked out, victory shading his voice, even with the irreparable damage done. Sauron closed his eyes then, hating the light as he never had before.



XXXVIII. Prank

“I still expect this to be some cruel joke,” Yavanna whispered. “Any moment, Oromë and Tulkas will laugh, saying how they again took a prank too far . . .”

The Lady of the Earth sighed, the great antlers upon her head bowing before what was left of her Trees. Varda walked in silence beside her sister, looking on where naught but a leaf of silver lingered from one, a fruit of gold from another.

“The Lamps and now the Trees . . . what hope is there now for light in Arda?” Yavanna whispered.

The gold caught in the Starkindler's eyes, where, like the dawn, an idea rose.



XXXIX. Sabotage

Fëanor swore his Oath; the Swan Haven burned as kin spilled the blood of kin. The Noldor marched; taking to the Helcaraxë's horrors in their flight. Darkness stood unchecked, while somewhere across the sea, Melkor's spirit glimmered with satisfaction. Varda could hear him laugh.

Unmoved by his taunts, Varda worked tirelessly alongside Aulë on her greatest star yet – taking the last drop of light from Laurelin and giving it life, preparing to thrust an unprecedented blade into Melkor's victory.

Manwë saw what she was working on, and smiled against her spirit. “It is fitting,” was all he said, but she could feel his quiet satisfaction.



XL. Revenge

The first flight of the sun blazed across the morning sky.

Upon Angband's battlements, Melkor shielded his eyes, unable to flee as a spirit into the shadows as he would have before. Instead the sunlight shone over too-pale skin, it caught in his too-dark hair. The light harkened as a warning, as hope - saying you are not forgotten to those who had once known the light of the Trees . . .

In reply, Melkor bowed mockingly to the West. Well played, Varda, he sent the thought across the sea. A more fitting vengeance could not have been wrought.

In reply, the sun rose even higher still.


~MJ