Autumn Drabbles
Because today is the Autumnal Equinox, I have decided to forgo my normal "Word of the Day" drabble and, instead, write drabbles about the season and themes of autumn.
Tomorrow, I will use today's word and tomorrow's to write a pair of related drabbles. (And, no, this is not just an excuse to write a drabble series!)
I will begin posting drabbles as soon as I have them and continue posting the whole day through. I have an evening off tonight and, besides some housework, will be spending some quality time with my muses.
Also, I encourage any friends who might be interested to write and post autumn drabbles. I would love you to leave them in a comment or give me a link to them, if you do! They needn't be about The Silmarillion, of course (as my husband writes absolutely delightful medieval drabbles!) If the inspiration seizes you, run with it.
Awakening
Even though Maedhros’ eyes were closed-they had been for three weeks now-Maglor and his brothers moved the bed beside the window.
Maglor kept lonely vigil and hoped: He hoped that the whisper of the trees and the caresses of sunlight would do for his brother what his father’s most skilled healers could not.
He drifted to sleep this day, and when he awoke, Maedhros’ head was turned to the window, to the trees blazing with red and gold, like nothing they had in Valinor.
“The trees…are aflame.”
Maglor’s took his brother’s remaining hand. “They are welcoming you home.”
~oOo~
Author's Note: I generally dismiss the idea that Fëanor died and Maedhros was captured as soon as the Noldor arrived in Middle-earth. (If there is canon on this subject, I am not aware of it, but do tell!) I believe some years passed, but for the sake of this drabble, I am abandoning my own take on the canon to enjoy Maedhros' response to his first Autumn.
Oh, good Eru! ::sputtersputter:: I have written a Fourth Age drabble?! juno_magic, what have you done to me???
This is probably so totally wrong because I've never written anything past the First Age before. Please excuse my (certain) blunders....
Dignity
Elladan had dreaded the thought of Time painting Imladris with decay, and so he took his brother and they rode south, and when the thought of home came upon him, he closed his mind to it.
The leaves fell around him. He didn’t want to see.
But their return was inevitable-the winter upon them-and he rode home with eyes lowered, denying.
But Elrohir gasped: The trees were painted anew.
Like rust, like fire. Like sweet autumn apples-each had a color all its own, a new, fiery independence.
He was reminded: Even in death, there can be dignity.
Because I like to be confusing, I am going to switch back to my normal Felak!canon and assume that there were autumns and winters in Formenos.
::waiting for fan fiction gods to strike me down::
While we're waiting, I should tell you: It's Fëanor. As to which son is speaking, I'll leave that to you to decide.
First Autumn in Exile
I found my father in the forest today.
It is autumn, and the leaves are changing, as they do not in Tirion. He stood-as resolute as the trees around him-and in his hand was a leaf.
The leaf was coppery-red, and he stroked it with reverence, with fingers that knew the touch of beauty, that had made far greater things than a simple leaf. Even now, I could see that the leaf was withering.
“Atar?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
He turned. “ ‘Tis nothing,” he said, and he laughed.
Then why were there tears in his eyes?
This drabble uses Tolkien's early assumption that Gil-Galad was Fingon's son, and his mother was a "Sindarin lady."
Joy
Ada raked the fallen leaves into neat, careful piles, even as more fell and landed in his hair. Unknowing, he looked at me and said, “Your mother is coming home today.”
Long had she been gone, and life seemed perpetually caught in autumn, forever dragging towards a cold, barren future. No more! Today she would return, and spring would come.
I waited until Ada turned and I ran-my skin tingling, my lungs drinking the brisk air-and leaped with joy into the largest of the piles.
Ada swept me into his arms. He laughed. “You are your mother’s son.”
Okay, I have written Fourth Age already (which I do not do), so I refuse to acknowledge that I may have written a burned!Amras drabble, from Amrod's PoV. Because I do not acknowledge that that awful, horrible evil!HoMe story even exists.
It could just as easily be Maedhros thinking about Fingon...yeah, that's it....
To Celebrate Burning
My brothers celebrate in the heathen ways of the Moriquendi: They light fires in the piles of leaves and let the dark smoke wrap their bodies, the trees overhead a red gash against the sky.
Smoke and fire….
Screams of revelry quickly become screams of rage. Of lament.
I can taste the burning, as I did that day. My feet fly beneath me, carrying me to cleaner air, my eyes scalded by tears. My mind has accepted but my eyes cannot, and they cry and cry.
A voice calls after me to return.
Atar?
I do not turn to see.
Beauty Wrought
The heat stings skin left chilled by autumn’s bite. It takes me a moment to find Celebrimbor-a shadow among flames-worrying a ring with hammer and tongs.
I try not to shiver at the light of his eyes, like the silver base of a flame: a scintilla of heat, of madness, burning.
“The leaves are like fire,” I say, full of breathless wonder, but even as I speak, his eyes drift back to his work, which he believes more beautiful than the leaves.
I hate my foresight: As with your father and his father, pride shall be your downfall.
Fire and Madness
When autumn comes, I keep my back to the trees and my eyes on the sea.
For when I see the autumn trees, I think: Fire.
And when I think “fire,” I see you.
I see the chasm and you, my Maedhros, blistering light in hand, teetering, wobbling, falling
(for I refuse to think you jumped)
and flame surged and claimed you. You see? Come the fire; come the darkness. It was your fate and it will be mine. I see it in the autumn leaves and the burning-cold winter that follows.
So I keep my eyes on the sea.
Tomorrow, I will use today's word and tomorrow's to write a pair of related drabbles. (And, no, this is not just an excuse to write a drabble series!)
I will begin posting drabbles as soon as I have them and continue posting the whole day through. I have an evening off tonight and, besides some housework, will be spending some quality time with my muses.
Also, I encourage any friends who might be interested to write and post autumn drabbles. I would love you to leave them in a comment or give me a link to them, if you do! They needn't be about The Silmarillion, of course (as my husband writes absolutely delightful medieval drabbles!) If the inspiration seizes you, run with it.
Awakening
Even though Maedhros’ eyes were closed-they had been for three weeks now-Maglor and his brothers moved the bed beside the window.
Maglor kept lonely vigil and hoped: He hoped that the whisper of the trees and the caresses of sunlight would do for his brother what his father’s most skilled healers could not.
He drifted to sleep this day, and when he awoke, Maedhros’ head was turned to the window, to the trees blazing with red and gold, like nothing they had in Valinor.
“The trees…are aflame.”
Maglor’s took his brother’s remaining hand. “They are welcoming you home.”
~oOo~
Author's Note: I generally dismiss the idea that Fëanor died and Maedhros was captured as soon as the Noldor arrived in Middle-earth. (If there is canon on this subject, I am not aware of it, but do tell!) I believe some years passed, but for the sake of this drabble, I am abandoning my own take on the canon to enjoy Maedhros' response to his first Autumn.
Oh, good Eru! ::sputtersputter:: I have written a Fourth Age drabble?! juno_magic, what have you done to me???
This is probably so totally wrong because I've never written anything past the First Age before. Please excuse my (certain) blunders....
Dignity
Elladan had dreaded the thought of Time painting Imladris with decay, and so he took his brother and they rode south, and when the thought of home came upon him, he closed his mind to it.
The leaves fell around him. He didn’t want to see.
But their return was inevitable-the winter upon them-and he rode home with eyes lowered, denying.
But Elrohir gasped: The trees were painted anew.
Like rust, like fire. Like sweet autumn apples-each had a color all its own, a new, fiery independence.
He was reminded: Even in death, there can be dignity.
Because I like to be confusing, I am going to switch back to my normal Felak!canon and assume that there were autumns and winters in Formenos.
::waiting for fan fiction gods to strike me down::
While we're waiting, I should tell you: It's Fëanor. As to which son is speaking, I'll leave that to you to decide.
First Autumn in Exile
I found my father in the forest today.
It is autumn, and the leaves are changing, as they do not in Tirion. He stood-as resolute as the trees around him-and in his hand was a leaf.
The leaf was coppery-red, and he stroked it with reverence, with fingers that knew the touch of beauty, that had made far greater things than a simple leaf. Even now, I could see that the leaf was withering.
“Atar?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
He turned. “ ‘Tis nothing,” he said, and he laughed.
Then why were there tears in his eyes?
This drabble uses Tolkien's early assumption that Gil-Galad was Fingon's son, and his mother was a "Sindarin lady."
Joy
Ada raked the fallen leaves into neat, careful piles, even as more fell and landed in his hair. Unknowing, he looked at me and said, “Your mother is coming home today.”
Long had she been gone, and life seemed perpetually caught in autumn, forever dragging towards a cold, barren future. No more! Today she would return, and spring would come.
I waited until Ada turned and I ran-my skin tingling, my lungs drinking the brisk air-and leaped with joy into the largest of the piles.
Ada swept me into his arms. He laughed. “You are your mother’s son.”
Okay, I have written Fourth Age already (which I do not do), so I refuse to acknowledge that I may have written a burned!Amras drabble, from Amrod's PoV. Because I do not acknowledge that that awful, horrible evil!HoMe story even exists.
It could just as easily be Maedhros thinking about Fingon...yeah, that's it....
To Celebrate Burning
My brothers celebrate in the heathen ways of the Moriquendi: They light fires in the piles of leaves and let the dark smoke wrap their bodies, the trees overhead a red gash against the sky.
Smoke and fire….
Screams of revelry quickly become screams of rage. Of lament.
I can taste the burning, as I did that day. My feet fly beneath me, carrying me to cleaner air, my eyes scalded by tears. My mind has accepted but my eyes cannot, and they cry and cry.
A voice calls after me to return.
Atar?
I do not turn to see.
Beauty Wrought
The heat stings skin left chilled by autumn’s bite. It takes me a moment to find Celebrimbor-a shadow among flames-worrying a ring with hammer and tongs.
I try not to shiver at the light of his eyes, like the silver base of a flame: a scintilla of heat, of madness, burning.
“The leaves are like fire,” I say, full of breathless wonder, but even as I speak, his eyes drift back to his work, which he believes more beautiful than the leaves.
I hate my foresight: As with your father and his father, pride shall be your downfall.
Fire and Madness
When autumn comes, I keep my back to the trees and my eyes on the sea.
For when I see the autumn trees, I think: Fire.
And when I think “fire,” I see you.
I see the chasm and you, my Maedhros, blistering light in hand, teetering, wobbling, falling
(for I refuse to think you jumped)
and flame surged and claimed you. You see? Come the fire; come the darkness. It was your fate and it will be mine. I see it in the autumn leaves and the burning-cold winter that follows.
So I keep my eyes on the sea.