Fic: East of the Sun and West of the Moon
I couldn't help it. I had to share. No, honestly.
I think I'm just going to call this my magnum opus and stop writing. It is a MASTERPIECE.
(No, not actually. Really rough, really crack, really, really bizarre.)
Title: East of the Sun and West of the Moon
Fandom: Silmarillion
Word Count: 2677 oh god.
Summary: "He was called Fingon, and was a tall, strapping lad, strong and bold as he approached his manhood, and it was in this time that he began to see the bear." Princess Fingon has to rescue his mysterious...husband? I blame coppertone. So hard.
Once upon a time in a land of ice and snow where the people were few and far between, there lived a young man with his father. He was called Fingon, and was a tall, strapping lad, strong and bold as he approached his manhood, and it was in this time that he began to see the bear.
It was a great white bear, of the kind found only in the far north, and for a time he only barely glimpsed it watching him. At last, after many days, he found it waiting by the well where he drew water.
“Bear, why do you watch me?” Fingon demanded, standing straight with a flush in his flawless cheeks. “If you desire something, then speak, but if you will not, then begone, and trouble me no more.”
“I am lonely,” said the magnificent bear. “And I have never seen any being like you. How are you called?”
“I am called Fingon,” the young lad said. “How are you called, then, bear?”
“I do not remember,” said the bear, “But you may call me what you like. Draw the water, Fingon, and I shall carry you down to your house on my back. I know the way, for I have traveled it many times, trying to gain the courage to speak to you.”
“Speak to me of what?”
“I beg you,” the bear said, slowing among the snow-laden trees. “Do not ask me questions, but come with me to my castle, and stay there with me. I promise that you shall lack for nothing, and there shall be singing and hunting aplenty.”
Fingon hesitated, because he knew that it was an ill thing to refuse a request made in such a manner. “I cannot leave my father to be alone,” he said, at last, and the bear shook his head.
“He shall be provided for as well. Anything your heart desires, Fingon, may be yours, so long as you will come with me and do as I say. You must not ask questions if I say I cannot tell you, and must not break any of the rules of the house. Do all these things, and I promise you that you will never be disappointed, or want for anything.”
So desperate was the bear, and so fervent his pleas, that so it came to be that Fingon left his father and went with the bear to a great castle, made all of gold and diamonds. And while there was always dancing in those grand halls and music and feasting, Fingon saw little of the great bear.
While he was still happy, curiosity began to gnaw at Fingon’s heart, and one day brooding as he ran a brush through his silky hair, he heard a small bird singing at the window:
Late at night, you must see
Who it is that comes to thee.
Indeed, Fingon was a deep sleeper, but that night, pretending to slumber, he saw a tall shadow come to his room and lay beside him in the bed.
Every night thereafter Fingon kept his vigil, and every night the figure came and lay with him, and was gone in the morning, before the first light. Finally, one night as his companion lay down, Fingon spoke.
“Who are you,” he asked, “That comes to my be each night after dark, and vanishes before dawn?”
For a moment there was silence. “I am no enemy to you,” said the figure at last, voice somehow familiar. “But a true friend. You must trust me, Fingon, and never by force or trickery design to reveal my face. You swore on coming here; have mercy and remember that promise now.”
Fingon agreed, but a terrible suspicion grew in his mind that the bear that he had ridden here was none but the same as his bed’s companion, and that he had sworn himself to some evil, twisted thing. He tried every night to pierce the darkness and perceive the face of his visitor, but to no avail. Disgust tainted his happiness, and Fingon could no longer be happy in that great castle.
One day, again brushing his hair, he saw again the bird at his window, and it sang:
Take a candle, by its light
You may see who comes by night.
Fingon turned swiftly to speak to the bird, but it flew away. He attempted to shake the treacherous thought, reminding himself of his promise, but it stuck in his mind like a burr that would not come loose. He fretted for many days, but finally curiosity won out. “If it is some evil thing,” he reasoned, “Then my promise to it can mean nothing. And if it is not, then who is to know?”
That night he kept himself awake, waiting silently until his bedmate came and lay beside him. He waited then still longer until the breathing beside him evened into the unmistakable rhythms of sleep. Finally, then, he took a tallow candle and lit it, and held it over his companion’s sleeping head. Then he was indeed shocked, for lying there in repose was no troll or orc but an elf, of the fairest bodily form, cheeks as white as milk and hair as red as flame. So beautiful was he that Fingon stayed frozen, captivated and wondering.
But two drops of melted wax fell from the candle to his shirt, and even as Fingon moved to blow the candle out, the elf’s eyes opened and he cried out in a loud voice, horrified.
“Ai, alas!” He cried, recoiling from Fingon. “My love, did you not promise never to do what you have done? This is my true form - if you had waited but a year I might have been with you forever. Now I must go back to the terrible castle east of the sun and west of the moon, where I shall be held in eternal servitude. Farewell, my love, and alas! That your curiosity should be our undoing.” And even as Fingon cried out, the beautiful prince vanished in a thunderclap and a puff of smoke.
Fingon heard then a terrible croaking laugh, and perched on the windowsill was a gigantic black crow. Furious, Fingon flung a dart at the fiendish bird, but it flew away cawing. Then understanding fully the terrible fact that faced the beautiful elf because of his folly, Fingon fell to his knees on the stone floor and wept bitterly.
**
When at last his tears ran dry, Fingon found the castle that had once been so full of light and joy dark and drear. The gold had all turned to dust, and the diamonds to coal, black and pitted. He left that now terrible place and stood outside in the snow.
“I musn’t leave him to such a fate,” he said at last, fiercely. “I cannot, not when it was my fault that condemned him. But wherever shall I find him? What place can possibly be east of the sun and west of the moon?”
At last he squared his shoulders and shook off the spectre of despair. He raised his voice and called upon his ancient friend from his younger days, the East Wind.
“East Wind,” he cried. “Speak to me, for I have need of you.”
“Speak, I am everywhere and listening,” said the East Wind, cold with the breath of storms in his ear.
“I am seeking a castle,” said Fingon, “East of the sun and west of the moon. You winds have traveled far, to many strange places. Do you know of this one?”
“I have never heard of it,” said the East Wind sadly. “But my brother, the West Wind, has traveled farther even than I, and may know what I do not. Call on him and ask of this place.”
But it was the same with the West Wind, and the South, and the North. Fingon began to despair, wondering, if such a place existed, how could the winds never have traveled there? But he was fortunate, for in speaking to the North Wind a great eagle overheard him and came down.
“You are seeking the castle east of the sun and west of the moon?” It said. “A fell place for a stripling to travel.”
“I am no stripling,” Fingon said defiantly. “And my mission is one of honor. Do you know of this land, eagle? If you do not, begone. I shall find my own way.”
“My name is Thorondor,” said the great eagle. “And you should never find it on your own. But I have flown there, though I was exhausted by the end, and can fly there again, if you bid it. I would gladly see it emptied by a warrior of your kind.”
Fingon’s heart soared, then, with relief. “Then so be it,” he cried. “I will use your wings and rid this place of a scourge.” So he mounted the eagle and they rose into the air, and hope was renewed in Fingon’s heart that he might find the beautiful elf-prince yet.
They flew for very long, and even the great eagle was gasping with weariness when they reached the land east of the sun and west of the moon. There, a great towering mountain reached toward the sky, and set in it was a black castle, windowless and terrible with fear. Fingon shuddered to see it, and Thorondor landed half swooning above the castle.
“I must leave you here,” said the great bird, “But take this gift, for it shall serve you well,” and from his feathers he produced a golden harp. “Use it well,” warned the eagle, “for it may be your only hope.”
Then Fingon was alone in that bleak and gloomy place.
He descended to the castle, but found no way in. He sat at the gates and thought and thought, and at last he had an idea. He found a pool of black tar and smeared it on his face and arms, and made himself lumpy and blackened and misshapen, horrible to behold. And now disguised so not even a friend would know his face, at last he stood outside the great gates and waited for them to open, concealing the magic harp in his pack.
There he waited for three days and three nights, and at last the gates opened. “Who are you?” Demanded the terrible face, and Fingon quickly disguised his voice.
“But a humble traveler,” he wheezed, “Who wishes to serve the lord of this place,” and even if his skin crawled to say the words, he hid it well, for such was his penance and desperation to free his elf prince from a terrible fate.
“Very well, then,” said the hideous guard, and led Fingon inside, where he had to wait still longer, creeping about and listening for any word of a beautiful elf who was held in eternal servitude.
And at last, when his spirit was beginning to crumple in that terrible, black place, he heard two orcs cackling over the torment they had put to the prisoner in question. Fell and dark was Fingon’s wrath then, and nearly did he kill them, but managed to shuffle over in pretense of listening eagerly.
“Where is this prisoner, then,” he managed to ask, though it made him nearly sick, “That I may join in your sport?”
They looked at him with suspicion. “And who are you?” They asked. “What is your name? Why have we not seen you before?”
“My name is Nognif,” Fingon said, because he was clever in the knowledge of the raucous names of orc-kind. “And I am but new come, but I hate all things elven and I would rejoice at the chance to torment one of their kind.” And the orcs did not know what rejoice meant, but they got the meaning, and surrendered, leading Fingon down into the belly of that terrible place. And they brought him to a room lit only with torches, and there he saw that the handsome Maitimo lay bound and seemingly dead upon a table.
And the rage in him then was too strong to contain, and he swept out his sword in anguish and anger. The orcs saw the light of his blade and knew its make, and realized that they were deceived, and shrieked with terror. “Rue the day you touched him, fiends,” Fingon cried, righteous in his fury. “And pray that whatever dark place birthed you will take you in again,” and with two sweeps of his blade he killed them.
Then weeping he rushed to Maitimo’s side and knelt, and touched one black hand to his neck, where he realized that a pulse was still beating. And then he knew that his beloved yet lived, and he had only to win back his spirit from the pit of despair. He remembered the harp, and the great eagle’s words, and produced it from the pack that he kept always with him lest his disguise be discovered. He touched the strings lightly, fearful that the black stuff that covered him would mar the music’s sound, but the sound came through clear and strong, and so he played, knowing that the wondrous sound of the music would bring the Enemy down upon them, but knowing of no other way to waken his beloved.
And indeed, it had not been so long before his eyes began to flutter and Fingon cast aside the harp, took his shoulders, leaning over him. “Wake,” he commanded, “For I am here.”
Yet when Maitimo first opened his eyes he saw only a black and misshapen thing and thought his tormenters had returned once more, and screamed terribly, eyes full of loathing. And Fingon was confused, but quickly realized the mistake and managed to smear enough of the tar off that his beloved could recognize his eyes, and then they embraced, but only a little because Fingon didn’t want to get tar all over the prince’s nice clothes.
“Quickly,” Fingon said, with urgency, “I must get you free,” and he began to work on the bindings, because they could hear the hordes approaching, summoned by the wondrous sound of the music. All the shackles came free but one, which would not budge, and the door was beginning to open. Then with a cry of anguish Fingon took his blade and severed the hand from Maitimo’s wrist, and enfolding him in his arms drew him back against the wall to make his final stand.
At that moment, all seemed lost, but then the golden harp where it had fell transformed into Thorondor, the great eagle, and he seized them up in his talons and bore them away. And the hordes of the Enemy screamed and gnashed their teeth in rage, and the Dark Lord himself stamped his foot so hard that one of his towers fell, but swiftly and high on the wind did the eagle bear them away from the castle east of the sun and west of the moon.
And Fingon asked how the eagle had made himself a harp, and the eagle smiled mysteriously, if birds can smile, and said “deus ex machina.”
So it was that they returned to the castle where they had lived together with joy, but they looked at it and it was cold and empty, so they decided to go and live with Fingon’s father instead. And Fingon and Maitimo together lived out the rest of their days, which were many, in that quiet cottage in the snowy lands where few people live, and were very happy, except for Maitimo, who still didn’t have a hand, but that was mostly all right since Fingon was always there to help.
And there was much joy and prosperity, and whenever a bird sat and sang at his window Fingon knew what to do. So he lay at nights with his beloved beside him, and sometimes left the light on, just so he could make sure that Maitimo stayed an elf, and did not become a bear.
THE END.
I think I'm just going to call this my magnum opus and stop writing. It is a MASTERPIECE.
(No, not actually. Really rough, really crack, really, really bizarre.)
Title: East of the Sun and West of the Moon
Fandom: Silmarillion
Word Count: 2677 oh god.
Summary: "He was called Fingon, and was a tall, strapping lad, strong and bold as he approached his manhood, and it was in this time that he began to see the bear." Princess Fingon has to rescue his mysterious...husband? I blame coppertone. So hard.
Once upon a time in a land of ice and snow where the people were few and far between, there lived a young man with his father. He was called Fingon, and was a tall, strapping lad, strong and bold as he approached his manhood, and it was in this time that he began to see the bear.
It was a great white bear, of the kind found only in the far north, and for a time he only barely glimpsed it watching him. At last, after many days, he found it waiting by the well where he drew water.
“Bear, why do you watch me?” Fingon demanded, standing straight with a flush in his flawless cheeks. “If you desire something, then speak, but if you will not, then begone, and trouble me no more.”
“I am lonely,” said the magnificent bear. “And I have never seen any being like you. How are you called?”
“I am called Fingon,” the young lad said. “How are you called, then, bear?”
“I do not remember,” said the bear, “But you may call me what you like. Draw the water, Fingon, and I shall carry you down to your house on my back. I know the way, for I have traveled it many times, trying to gain the courage to speak to you.”
“Speak to me of what?”
“I beg you,” the bear said, slowing among the snow-laden trees. “Do not ask me questions, but come with me to my castle, and stay there with me. I promise that you shall lack for nothing, and there shall be singing and hunting aplenty.”
Fingon hesitated, because he knew that it was an ill thing to refuse a request made in such a manner. “I cannot leave my father to be alone,” he said, at last, and the bear shook his head.
“He shall be provided for as well. Anything your heart desires, Fingon, may be yours, so long as you will come with me and do as I say. You must not ask questions if I say I cannot tell you, and must not break any of the rules of the house. Do all these things, and I promise you that you will never be disappointed, or want for anything.”
So desperate was the bear, and so fervent his pleas, that so it came to be that Fingon left his father and went with the bear to a great castle, made all of gold and diamonds. And while there was always dancing in those grand halls and music and feasting, Fingon saw little of the great bear.
While he was still happy, curiosity began to gnaw at Fingon’s heart, and one day brooding as he ran a brush through his silky hair, he heard a small bird singing at the window:
Late at night, you must see
Who it is that comes to thee.
Indeed, Fingon was a deep sleeper, but that night, pretending to slumber, he saw a tall shadow come to his room and lay beside him in the bed.
Every night thereafter Fingon kept his vigil, and every night the figure came and lay with him, and was gone in the morning, before the first light. Finally, one night as his companion lay down, Fingon spoke.
“Who are you,” he asked, “That comes to my be each night after dark, and vanishes before dawn?”
For a moment there was silence. “I am no enemy to you,” said the figure at last, voice somehow familiar. “But a true friend. You must trust me, Fingon, and never by force or trickery design to reveal my face. You swore on coming here; have mercy and remember that promise now.”
Fingon agreed, but a terrible suspicion grew in his mind that the bear that he had ridden here was none but the same as his bed’s companion, and that he had sworn himself to some evil, twisted thing. He tried every night to pierce the darkness and perceive the face of his visitor, but to no avail. Disgust tainted his happiness, and Fingon could no longer be happy in that great castle.
One day, again brushing his hair, he saw again the bird at his window, and it sang:
Take a candle, by its light
You may see who comes by night.
Fingon turned swiftly to speak to the bird, but it flew away. He attempted to shake the treacherous thought, reminding himself of his promise, but it stuck in his mind like a burr that would not come loose. He fretted for many days, but finally curiosity won out. “If it is some evil thing,” he reasoned, “Then my promise to it can mean nothing. And if it is not, then who is to know?”
That night he kept himself awake, waiting silently until his bedmate came and lay beside him. He waited then still longer until the breathing beside him evened into the unmistakable rhythms of sleep. Finally, then, he took a tallow candle and lit it, and held it over his companion’s sleeping head. Then he was indeed shocked, for lying there in repose was no troll or orc but an elf, of the fairest bodily form, cheeks as white as milk and hair as red as flame. So beautiful was he that Fingon stayed frozen, captivated and wondering.
But two drops of melted wax fell from the candle to his shirt, and even as Fingon moved to blow the candle out, the elf’s eyes opened and he cried out in a loud voice, horrified.
“Ai, alas!” He cried, recoiling from Fingon. “My love, did you not promise never to do what you have done? This is my true form - if you had waited but a year I might have been with you forever. Now I must go back to the terrible castle east of the sun and west of the moon, where I shall be held in eternal servitude. Farewell, my love, and alas! That your curiosity should be our undoing.” And even as Fingon cried out, the beautiful prince vanished in a thunderclap and a puff of smoke.
Fingon heard then a terrible croaking laugh, and perched on the windowsill was a gigantic black crow. Furious, Fingon flung a dart at the fiendish bird, but it flew away cawing. Then understanding fully the terrible fact that faced the beautiful elf because of his folly, Fingon fell to his knees on the stone floor and wept bitterly.
**
When at last his tears ran dry, Fingon found the castle that had once been so full of light and joy dark and drear. The gold had all turned to dust, and the diamonds to coal, black and pitted. He left that now terrible place and stood outside in the snow.
“I musn’t leave him to such a fate,” he said at last, fiercely. “I cannot, not when it was my fault that condemned him. But wherever shall I find him? What place can possibly be east of the sun and west of the moon?”
At last he squared his shoulders and shook off the spectre of despair. He raised his voice and called upon his ancient friend from his younger days, the East Wind.
“East Wind,” he cried. “Speak to me, for I have need of you.”
“Speak, I am everywhere and listening,” said the East Wind, cold with the breath of storms in his ear.
“I am seeking a castle,” said Fingon, “East of the sun and west of the moon. You winds have traveled far, to many strange places. Do you know of this one?”
“I have never heard of it,” said the East Wind sadly. “But my brother, the West Wind, has traveled farther even than I, and may know what I do not. Call on him and ask of this place.”
But it was the same with the West Wind, and the South, and the North. Fingon began to despair, wondering, if such a place existed, how could the winds never have traveled there? But he was fortunate, for in speaking to the North Wind a great eagle overheard him and came down.
“You are seeking the castle east of the sun and west of the moon?” It said. “A fell place for a stripling to travel.”
“I am no stripling,” Fingon said defiantly. “And my mission is one of honor. Do you know of this land, eagle? If you do not, begone. I shall find my own way.”
“My name is Thorondor,” said the great eagle. “And you should never find it on your own. But I have flown there, though I was exhausted by the end, and can fly there again, if you bid it. I would gladly see it emptied by a warrior of your kind.”
Fingon’s heart soared, then, with relief. “Then so be it,” he cried. “I will use your wings and rid this place of a scourge.” So he mounted the eagle and they rose into the air, and hope was renewed in Fingon’s heart that he might find the beautiful elf-prince yet.
They flew for very long, and even the great eagle was gasping with weariness when they reached the land east of the sun and west of the moon. There, a great towering mountain reached toward the sky, and set in it was a black castle, windowless and terrible with fear. Fingon shuddered to see it, and Thorondor landed half swooning above the castle.
“I must leave you here,” said the great bird, “But take this gift, for it shall serve you well,” and from his feathers he produced a golden harp. “Use it well,” warned the eagle, “for it may be your only hope.”
Then Fingon was alone in that bleak and gloomy place.
He descended to the castle, but found no way in. He sat at the gates and thought and thought, and at last he had an idea. He found a pool of black tar and smeared it on his face and arms, and made himself lumpy and blackened and misshapen, horrible to behold. And now disguised so not even a friend would know his face, at last he stood outside the great gates and waited for them to open, concealing the magic harp in his pack.
There he waited for three days and three nights, and at last the gates opened. “Who are you?” Demanded the terrible face, and Fingon quickly disguised his voice.
“But a humble traveler,” he wheezed, “Who wishes to serve the lord of this place,” and even if his skin crawled to say the words, he hid it well, for such was his penance and desperation to free his elf prince from a terrible fate.
“Very well, then,” said the hideous guard, and led Fingon inside, where he had to wait still longer, creeping about and listening for any word of a beautiful elf who was held in eternal servitude.
And at last, when his spirit was beginning to crumple in that terrible, black place, he heard two orcs cackling over the torment they had put to the prisoner in question. Fell and dark was Fingon’s wrath then, and nearly did he kill them, but managed to shuffle over in pretense of listening eagerly.
“Where is this prisoner, then,” he managed to ask, though it made him nearly sick, “That I may join in your sport?”
They looked at him with suspicion. “And who are you?” They asked. “What is your name? Why have we not seen you before?”
“My name is Nognif,” Fingon said, because he was clever in the knowledge of the raucous names of orc-kind. “And I am but new come, but I hate all things elven and I would rejoice at the chance to torment one of their kind.” And the orcs did not know what rejoice meant, but they got the meaning, and surrendered, leading Fingon down into the belly of that terrible place. And they brought him to a room lit only with torches, and there he saw that the handsome Maitimo lay bound and seemingly dead upon a table.
And the rage in him then was too strong to contain, and he swept out his sword in anguish and anger. The orcs saw the light of his blade and knew its make, and realized that they were deceived, and shrieked with terror. “Rue the day you touched him, fiends,” Fingon cried, righteous in his fury. “And pray that whatever dark place birthed you will take you in again,” and with two sweeps of his blade he killed them.
Then weeping he rushed to Maitimo’s side and knelt, and touched one black hand to his neck, where he realized that a pulse was still beating. And then he knew that his beloved yet lived, and he had only to win back his spirit from the pit of despair. He remembered the harp, and the great eagle’s words, and produced it from the pack that he kept always with him lest his disguise be discovered. He touched the strings lightly, fearful that the black stuff that covered him would mar the music’s sound, but the sound came through clear and strong, and so he played, knowing that the wondrous sound of the music would bring the Enemy down upon them, but knowing of no other way to waken his beloved.
And indeed, it had not been so long before his eyes began to flutter and Fingon cast aside the harp, took his shoulders, leaning over him. “Wake,” he commanded, “For I am here.”
Yet when Maitimo first opened his eyes he saw only a black and misshapen thing and thought his tormenters had returned once more, and screamed terribly, eyes full of loathing. And Fingon was confused, but quickly realized the mistake and managed to smear enough of the tar off that his beloved could recognize his eyes, and then they embraced, but only a little because Fingon didn’t want to get tar all over the prince’s nice clothes.
“Quickly,” Fingon said, with urgency, “I must get you free,” and he began to work on the bindings, because they could hear the hordes approaching, summoned by the wondrous sound of the music. All the shackles came free but one, which would not budge, and the door was beginning to open. Then with a cry of anguish Fingon took his blade and severed the hand from Maitimo’s wrist, and enfolding him in his arms drew him back against the wall to make his final stand.
At that moment, all seemed lost, but then the golden harp where it had fell transformed into Thorondor, the great eagle, and he seized them up in his talons and bore them away. And the hordes of the Enemy screamed and gnashed their teeth in rage, and the Dark Lord himself stamped his foot so hard that one of his towers fell, but swiftly and high on the wind did the eagle bear them away from the castle east of the sun and west of the moon.
And Fingon asked how the eagle had made himself a harp, and the eagle smiled mysteriously, if birds can smile, and said “deus ex machina.”
So it was that they returned to the castle where they had lived together with joy, but they looked at it and it was cold and empty, so they decided to go and live with Fingon’s father instead. And Fingon and Maitimo together lived out the rest of their days, which were many, in that quiet cottage in the snowy lands where few people live, and were very happy, except for Maitimo, who still didn’t have a hand, but that was mostly all right since Fingon was always there to help.
And there was much joy and prosperity, and whenever a bird sat and sang at his window Fingon knew what to do. So he lay at nights with his beloved beside him, and sometimes left the light on, just so he could make sure that Maitimo stayed an elf, and did not become a bear.
THE END.