Fanfic100 Prompts #020 - Colourless, #051 - Water
Title: An Untold Tale
Fandom: J. R. R. Tolkien
Characters: Eärendil, Turgon, Idril
Prompt: 020 - Colourless
Word count: 545
Rating: G
Summary: Eärendil recalls a quirk of his grandfather's.
Author's Notes: Everything belongs to the Professor.
My grandfather always had a passion for vivid colours. The white stones of the city were just right for setting them off, he always said. I recall the deep azure of banners, the purple and gold of tapestries in every room of the house, the rainbow gleam of stained glass, every inch of unpaved ground verdant with grass. There were flowers all year long: roses and opulent peonies in spring, fiery pomegranate in the summer, chrysanthemums like burnished copper in autumn. And even in deepest winter, narcissus from the hothouse: the yellow ones were best for being akin to the sun.
What was more, he never cared for pale, subtle shades, not silver, not even the soft glimmer of moonlight. Being but a small boy then, it never occurred to me how unusual this must be among the Eldar. Bloodless, that was the term he used.
I remember the eve of a festival--I must have been five or six--and my mother standing in a new gown the hue of young stars against snow. I remember staring wide-eyed, marvelling at the way she glowed with her own gentle stars, but she looked into the mirror, and a faint furrow touched the edge of her brows.
"Father probably would not care for it, I suppose," she said with a half-laugh. "What say you, sweet one? Something brighter?"
I watched with a frown while she crossed the room to choose a different dress.
"Because he's King," I said.
"Well, actually, he happens to be my father also," answered Mother, turning to glance at me. Then she came over and sat down on the rug where I lay.
"You see, dearest," she said, "there was a time, many years before you were born, when your grandfather and--grandmother, and many others of our people were in a place where there were no colours at all. They were there for a long time, and..." She gazed away as if lost in thought. "Ice and the frost covered their clothes and banners, and the wind bleached everything right out of their eyes. And your grandfather, he told himself, if this ever came to an end, he would always surround himself with the richest, sharpest colours he could find. Always. He would never change. And--" She grinned down at me. "Here we are, aren't we?"
"But, but--" I bit my lips, not understanding. Self-centered as only a child could be, I wondered what other stories Grandfather had been keeping from me.
"He will tell you, my little one. There will come a day when he will tell the story." My mother smiled, then leapt to her feet, a swirl of silk and starlight. "Now, come to think of it, this dress does look a little bloodless, doesn't it?"
My grandfather never did get the chance to tell me this tale himself. Years later, after he had gone to the Halls of Mandos, I finally came to understand what my mother had meant. By then Ondolindë was only an image in my mind, with its riot of flowers, banners and tapestries and carved jewels reflecting the sun. The city was the more beautiful for the memories of its people's suffering, both before and after. This would never change.
Title: Extinguishing Fires
Fandom: J. R. R. Tolkien
Characters: Eärendil
Prompt: 051 - Water
Word count: 302
Rating: G
Summary: For a child, only a glance suffices to set the imagination in motion.
Author's Notes: Everything belongs to the Professor.
The first time he saw it, the boy thought, this would put out all the fires of the world.
That very instant must be when the fantasy first took seed, and for years afterwards--for most of his childhood--he would wake at night, slip from his bed to the window and stare out at the wide openness beneath, the glittering lines of silver along the horizon, rushing nearer and nearer, almost to the house.
He said to himself, nothing could turn this to steam, no dragons, no flame demons, not a hundred thousand of them. He imagined waves pouring down the mountains in wild white cascades from every side, charging across the plain like masses of cavalry with deafening roars. Then the enemy would scream shrilly and crumble, helpless, their shadowy wings twitching, the red glare flickering out into blackness. Then they would turn to puffs of grey smoke, and fade away into the dawn.
At other times, he imagined his own hands grown gigantic, vaster than the wings of even the greatest of Eagles, and he would lift the city, towers and houses and gardens and everything, and hold it carefully in the palms, then lay it down upon the shore, here, right here next to the endless blue. They would not dare attack then. No one would ever dare attack a city that had the sea.
Childish notions, he came to know when he grew to adulthood. But for the longest time he clung to them with stubborn faith, and despite the years, despite evidence to the contrary, despite everything, there still came moments when the incessant whisper of the waves would part to reveal the depths, its constant rhythm shift to a promise, every word unmistakable.
And he would be pouring the ocean over mountaintops all over again.
Table here
Fandom: J. R. R. Tolkien
Characters: Eärendil, Turgon, Idril
Prompt: 020 - Colourless
Word count: 545
Rating: G
Summary: Eärendil recalls a quirk of his grandfather's.
Author's Notes: Everything belongs to the Professor.
My grandfather always had a passion for vivid colours. The white stones of the city were just right for setting them off, he always said. I recall the deep azure of banners, the purple and gold of tapestries in every room of the house, the rainbow gleam of stained glass, every inch of unpaved ground verdant with grass. There were flowers all year long: roses and opulent peonies in spring, fiery pomegranate in the summer, chrysanthemums like burnished copper in autumn. And even in deepest winter, narcissus from the hothouse: the yellow ones were best for being akin to the sun.
What was more, he never cared for pale, subtle shades, not silver, not even the soft glimmer of moonlight. Being but a small boy then, it never occurred to me how unusual this must be among the Eldar. Bloodless, that was the term he used.
I remember the eve of a festival--I must have been five or six--and my mother standing in a new gown the hue of young stars against snow. I remember staring wide-eyed, marvelling at the way she glowed with her own gentle stars, but she looked into the mirror, and a faint furrow touched the edge of her brows.
"Father probably would not care for it, I suppose," she said with a half-laugh. "What say you, sweet one? Something brighter?"
I watched with a frown while she crossed the room to choose a different dress.
"Because he's King," I said.
"Well, actually, he happens to be my father also," answered Mother, turning to glance at me. Then she came over and sat down on the rug where I lay.
"You see, dearest," she said, "there was a time, many years before you were born, when your grandfather and--grandmother, and many others of our people were in a place where there were no colours at all. They were there for a long time, and..." She gazed away as if lost in thought. "Ice and the frost covered their clothes and banners, and the wind bleached everything right out of their eyes. And your grandfather, he told himself, if this ever came to an end, he would always surround himself with the richest, sharpest colours he could find. Always. He would never change. And--" She grinned down at me. "Here we are, aren't we?"
"But, but--" I bit my lips, not understanding. Self-centered as only a child could be, I wondered what other stories Grandfather had been keeping from me.
"He will tell you, my little one. There will come a day when he will tell the story." My mother smiled, then leapt to her feet, a swirl of silk and starlight. "Now, come to think of it, this dress does look a little bloodless, doesn't it?"
My grandfather never did get the chance to tell me this tale himself. Years later, after he had gone to the Halls of Mandos, I finally came to understand what my mother had meant. By then Ondolindë was only an image in my mind, with its riot of flowers, banners and tapestries and carved jewels reflecting the sun. The city was the more beautiful for the memories of its people's suffering, both before and after. This would never change.
Title: Extinguishing Fires
Fandom: J. R. R. Tolkien
Characters: Eärendil
Prompt: 051 - Water
Word count: 302
Rating: G
Summary: For a child, only a glance suffices to set the imagination in motion.
Author's Notes: Everything belongs to the Professor.
The first time he saw it, the boy thought, this would put out all the fires of the world.
That very instant must be when the fantasy first took seed, and for years afterwards--for most of his childhood--he would wake at night, slip from his bed to the window and stare out at the wide openness beneath, the glittering lines of silver along the horizon, rushing nearer and nearer, almost to the house.
He said to himself, nothing could turn this to steam, no dragons, no flame demons, not a hundred thousand of them. He imagined waves pouring down the mountains in wild white cascades from every side, charging across the plain like masses of cavalry with deafening roars. Then the enemy would scream shrilly and crumble, helpless, their shadowy wings twitching, the red glare flickering out into blackness. Then they would turn to puffs of grey smoke, and fade away into the dawn.
At other times, he imagined his own hands grown gigantic, vaster than the wings of even the greatest of Eagles, and he would lift the city, towers and houses and gardens and everything, and hold it carefully in the palms, then lay it down upon the shore, here, right here next to the endless blue. They would not dare attack then. No one would ever dare attack a city that had the sea.
Childish notions, he came to know when he grew to adulthood. But for the longest time he clung to them with stubborn faith, and despite the years, despite evidence to the contrary, despite everything, there still came moments when the incessant whisper of the waves would part to reveal the depths, its constant rhythm shift to a promise, every word unmistakable.
And he would be pouring the ocean over mountaintops all over again.
Table here