zhie
in
shortfic_500
Whispers : Prompts 47, 229, 244, 318, 452
Story Name: Whispers
Author: Zhie
Fandom: Tolkien
C/CP: House of Finwe
Prompt Word: 47.Death; 244.Forget; 229.Skill; 318.Surrender; 452.Gold
Word Count: 125 each
Rating: G to NC17 range for series
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I'm just playing in the sandbox. I promise to return them when done, without too much sand in their boots.
DEATH
“Now that Gil-galad is gone, who will be named king?”
“I suspect Elrond will be.”
“The Peredhel? A mutt?”
Glorfindel interrupted the soldiers who were whispering. “That ‘mutt’ is your king.”
Elrond was right behind him, and after the soldiers bowed and scattered said, “I am no king.”
“You are now; the last of Finwe’s line.”
“Not the last,” Elrond reminded him.
“Someone must claim it.”
“It will not be me. I cannot take the crown.”
There was a solemn look in Glorfindel’s eyes. “You can refuse the crown and refuse the title, but long ago I pledged myself to the High King of the Noldor when I was in Gondolin.” Glorfindel dropped to one knee. “Until my death or yours, you are my king.”
Forget
I loathe to be reborn, to be thrust back into the world as a weak, mewling, incompetent babe. That it is told that we will forget all we know, even for a little while, is wholly unappealing to me. I would rather my spirit remain intact and pure than have the slate wiped clean.
Maybe my concern is that they would rewrite my own mind while I have no control over it. I would not put it past them. My longing for the physical world grows strong, but always I remind myself that a hundred years is a long time.
What if they decide it should be longer? Can I trust them? No. And so here I continue to dwell, spirited, formless, but always, Feanor.
Skill
“It would seem you have far surpassed your grandfather’s skill at the craft,” remarked Erestor quietly after the rings had been presented and accepted, tested willingly by those who wielded them.
“It would seem,” replied Celebrimbor.
The majority of those few who were assembled were gathered around the ring bearers, but Erestor held himself back. There was more than caution: Fear, perhaps. He asked Celebrimbor in a whisper that could almost be mistaken for mind speak, “Is the power in the ring, or in the jewel the bearer wears?”
“The power is in the spirit of the one who possesses it.” Celebrimbor smiled slyly. “It is the only way the rings remain safe, unconnected. My skills are not greater.”
“Perhaps, but your solution is craftier.”
Surrender
“You would think that eventually he would give up and go do something else.”
Gil-Galad paused midstride and walked back to the campfire where a dozen soldiers were warming their suppers. “You want to know why Sauron never gives up? He loves a good fight, perhaps more than anything else. He loves power. He loves to win.”
“Well, my lord, why does he always have to come after us? He attacks us harder and more often than he does Men or Dwarves,” stated one of the younger warriors.
“Men... dwarves... neither offer the sort of sport he wants. Men are hearty, but at times they cower before him. Dwarves more often hide in their caves than come forth to fight. But Elves... we never surrender.”
Gold
“Of the metals, gold is far more precious. Why, therefore, covet silver above it?”
“Silver is like the stars,” explained Erestor. “It reminds us where we came from, and who we are.” He watched his friend polish his armor, damasked in fine detail. “Why gold, then?”
“I suppose it reminds me where I came from. My house, for one, the sun, for the other. I do not have such memories as you,” Glorfindel reminded Erestor. “My days of youth were spent beneath Anor, not the blessed jewels of Elbereth.”
Erestor nodded. “Dangerous, though. Your armor does not camouflage you. You stand out among the sea of silver.”
“Yes, I know,” said Glorfindel. “But then, there are a million stars, and yet still only one sun.”
Author: Zhie
Fandom: Tolkien
C/CP: House of Finwe
Prompt Word: 47.Death; 244.Forget; 229.Skill; 318.Surrender; 452.Gold
Word Count: 125 each
Rating: G to NC17 range for series
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I'm just playing in the sandbox. I promise to return them when done, without too much sand in their boots.
DEATH
“Now that Gil-galad is gone, who will be named king?”
“I suspect Elrond will be.”
“The Peredhel? A mutt?”
Glorfindel interrupted the soldiers who were whispering. “That ‘mutt’ is your king.”
Elrond was right behind him, and after the soldiers bowed and scattered said, “I am no king.”
“You are now; the last of Finwe’s line.”
“Not the last,” Elrond reminded him.
“Someone must claim it.”
“It will not be me. I cannot take the crown.”
There was a solemn look in Glorfindel’s eyes. “You can refuse the crown and refuse the title, but long ago I pledged myself to the High King of the Noldor when I was in Gondolin.” Glorfindel dropped to one knee. “Until my death or yours, you are my king.”
Forget
I loathe to be reborn, to be thrust back into the world as a weak, mewling, incompetent babe. That it is told that we will forget all we know, even for a little while, is wholly unappealing to me. I would rather my spirit remain intact and pure than have the slate wiped clean.
Maybe my concern is that they would rewrite my own mind while I have no control over it. I would not put it past them. My longing for the physical world grows strong, but always I remind myself that a hundred years is a long time.
What if they decide it should be longer? Can I trust them? No. And so here I continue to dwell, spirited, formless, but always, Feanor.
Skill
“It would seem you have far surpassed your grandfather’s skill at the craft,” remarked Erestor quietly after the rings had been presented and accepted, tested willingly by those who wielded them.
“It would seem,” replied Celebrimbor.
The majority of those few who were assembled were gathered around the ring bearers, but Erestor held himself back. There was more than caution: Fear, perhaps. He asked Celebrimbor in a whisper that could almost be mistaken for mind speak, “Is the power in the ring, or in the jewel the bearer wears?”
“The power is in the spirit of the one who possesses it.” Celebrimbor smiled slyly. “It is the only way the rings remain safe, unconnected. My skills are not greater.”
“Perhaps, but your solution is craftier.”
Surrender
“You would think that eventually he would give up and go do something else.”
Gil-Galad paused midstride and walked back to the campfire where a dozen soldiers were warming their suppers. “You want to know why Sauron never gives up? He loves a good fight, perhaps more than anything else. He loves power. He loves to win.”
“Well, my lord, why does he always have to come after us? He attacks us harder and more often than he does Men or Dwarves,” stated one of the younger warriors.
“Men... dwarves... neither offer the sort of sport he wants. Men are hearty, but at times they cower before him. Dwarves more often hide in their caves than come forth to fight. But Elves... we never surrender.”
Gold
“Of the metals, gold is far more precious. Why, therefore, covet silver above it?”
“Silver is like the stars,” explained Erestor. “It reminds us where we came from, and who we are.” He watched his friend polish his armor, damasked in fine detail. “Why gold, then?”
“I suppose it reminds me where I came from. My house, for one, the sun, for the other. I do not have such memories as you,” Glorfindel reminded Erestor. “My days of youth were spent beneath Anor, not the blessed jewels of Elbereth.”
Erestor nodded. “Dangerous, though. Your armor does not camouflage you. You stand out among the sea of silver.”
“Yes, I know,” said Glorfindel. “But then, there are a million stars, and yet still only one sun.”