Fic: Silmarillion Drabble Dump
Don't mind me - just collecting a bunch of old Silmarillion drabbles here for archival purposes.
Title: Speaking Without Words
Rating: G
Words: 453
Summary: Maglor, Elrond and Elros finally come to an understanding (of sorts).
“They will not speak to me, Nelyo,” Maglor said wearily, his slumped posture speaking vividly of the exhaustion that he felt. “They won’t do anything at all.”
A flicker of pain passed over Maedhros’ face, a small change in his expression that would have passed unnoticed by any but his brother. “Give them time,” he said finally.
“It has been a week,” Maglor insisted. “They barely eat, or sleep… At this rate they will die in our care.”
In the privacy of the small home he now shared with his younger brother, Maedhros allowed some of the vast hopelessness he felt to creep into his expression, and he tiredly passed his hand over his eyes. “Perhaps there is nothing to be done,” he said with a note of finality that worried Maglor far more than he could put into words. “Goodnight, brother.”
Maglor remained seated, staring blankly into his near-empty wine glass, watching the way the firelight reflected off its smooth surface. A low, melancholy melody drifted into his mind and he hummed softly, fingers plucking invisible chords and muscles memorising a tune he wasn’t even consciously aware of.
And then, almost as if arising from his own mind, came the soft sound of a harp. Blinking Maglor straightened and stood, his sensitive ears quickly discerning the source of the sound. He crept silently down the hall, pausing outside the door that belonged to the Peredhil.
He’d provided them with anything they might have wanted - save that which he could not provide, in the hopes that something might interest them. He had seen no results, at least, until now. It seemed that one of the two of them had taken up the harp.
The tune was simple, clearly meant for a child, and slow, but as he listened he heard the gentle strains of the waves lapping on the shore, and the voices of gulls in the air, woven into the simple notes plucked by a child’s hand.
Moving swiftly, and almost automatically, he grabbed his own, well-worn harp from its case and came to sat outside the door, his fingers poised over the strings, his body curving around the instrument like a lover.
Gently he picked up the notes, echoing them with his own, and then adding a sadder, deeper undertone to the song. The playing from within the room stopped, but he continued, weaving low, sad notes with shaking hands.
He continued, oblivious to his surroundings, and slowly the door opened just a crack, and two small, dark-haired figures peered out hesitantly into the hall. They didn’t speak, but huddled together against the door frame and sat, staring at his hands with knowing eyes.
Yet, it was enough.
---
Title: Unexpected
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: Haleth refuses Caranthir's offer of protected land for her people.
He’d expected her to be timid, scruffy and somewhat uneducated, based on what he’d been told of the race of men.
At first, everything she did seemed to prove him right. Her words were curt and to the point, lacking even the modicum of social grace he managed to imbibe his speech with. But he pitied her none-the-less, and her people had been through their fair share of hardship.
But she refused him, and, though her words were still curt, they were brave, and, for a moment, the admiration in her people’s eyes was mirrored in his own.
---
Title: Spring Rain
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: It never rained in Valinor.
Notes: I'm playing rather fast and loose with canon with this. I don't know if there's anything to back up the theory that there's no rain in Valinor (heck, the fact that they have food is actually a good sign that it does rain, I'd think), but I like the idea and it worked for this, so I'm sticking to it.
It never rained in Valinor. Tirion had been blessed with flawless weather, the seamless change from gold to silver as Laurëlin and Telperion waxed and waned, and the sky was ever clear, revealing the magnificence of the stars.
But there were no stars here. No warm golden light at day, or soft silver glow at night. Nothing to mark the passage of time beneath the suffocating smoke of Thangorodrim.
When the first droplet touched his feverish skin, he thought himself delirious. But slowly the heavens began to open, and he opened his parched mouth to drink the first spring rain.
---
Title: Maitimo
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: Maedhros muses on the irony of his name just after he's rescued from Thangorodrim.
Notes: He makes my heart hurt. For those who may not know 'Maitimo', Maedrhos' mother name means 'well-shaped one'.
How ironic that he, named and renowned for the beauty of his form, should be so broken. As he lay, silently moving phantom fingers and grimacing from pain in invisible fingers, he had little to do but think. Unbidden the soft voice of his mother came to his ears, and he felt the phantom touch of his fingers - like the fingers he had once twined in her hair, as he’d laid his head upon her breast in sleep. Maitimo. The name, now like a curse, mocked his unsymmetrical shape.
For the first time since his father had died, he wept.
---
Title: Strength
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: Haleth stands against the hosts of Morgoth.
"Then Haleth held the people together, though they were without hope; and some cast themselves in the rivers and were drowned. But seven days later, as the Orcs made their last assault and had already broken through the stockade, there came suddenly a music of trumpets, and Caranthir with his host came down from the north and drove the Orcs into the rivers."
-- JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion
Dawn broke over the small camp, its pale light glinting off the tips of their swords, and illuminating their stark, grief-lined faces. Resolute, Haleth stood at the forefront, grim determination set in her face as she stood defiant against the hosts of Morgoth that swarmed like flies on the hills, outnumbering them easily.
On that day, those that remained stood behind her with the same resolve, gaining their strength from her. They were a butterfly fighting a tempest - but they were not yet defeated.
Then, as the sun climbed over the mountains, they heard the faint sound of trumpets.
---
Title: Tedium
Rating: G
Words: 150
Summary: Fëanor has a unique way of curing boredom.
Notes: I love it when he's smug. :D Sarati, for those who may not know, is the system of writing developed by Rúmil, and predates Tengwar.
Callused, ink-splattered fingers clutched the pen tightly, knuckles white with the pressure exerted. Slowly, with his tongue sticking out in concentration, Fëanáro brought his pen down in careful, measured strokes.
He rubbed at his eyes in attempt to ward of sleep, oblivious to the dark smudges of ink he was leaving on his face.
Finwë chuckled, coming to stand behind his son’s chair and smoothing his dark hair back from his brow. “That is enough for today, I think,” he said gently. “It will still be here tomorrow.”
His eyes fell to the sheet of paper his son had been studiously working on for the past several hours, his brows drawing together in confusion. He reached past Fëanáro’s shoulder, lifting the page and examining it in puzzlement.
“What is this?” he asked finally.
“A better system,” Fëanáro said smugly. “I have called them Tengwar. Sarati is far too tedious.”
Title: Speaking Without Words
Rating: G
Words: 453
Summary: Maglor, Elrond and Elros finally come to an understanding (of sorts).
“They will not speak to me, Nelyo,” Maglor said wearily, his slumped posture speaking vividly of the exhaustion that he felt. “They won’t do anything at all.”
A flicker of pain passed over Maedhros’ face, a small change in his expression that would have passed unnoticed by any but his brother. “Give them time,” he said finally.
“It has been a week,” Maglor insisted. “They barely eat, or sleep… At this rate they will die in our care.”
In the privacy of the small home he now shared with his younger brother, Maedhros allowed some of the vast hopelessness he felt to creep into his expression, and he tiredly passed his hand over his eyes. “Perhaps there is nothing to be done,” he said with a note of finality that worried Maglor far more than he could put into words. “Goodnight, brother.”
Maglor remained seated, staring blankly into his near-empty wine glass, watching the way the firelight reflected off its smooth surface. A low, melancholy melody drifted into his mind and he hummed softly, fingers plucking invisible chords and muscles memorising a tune he wasn’t even consciously aware of.
And then, almost as if arising from his own mind, came the soft sound of a harp. Blinking Maglor straightened and stood, his sensitive ears quickly discerning the source of the sound. He crept silently down the hall, pausing outside the door that belonged to the Peredhil.
He’d provided them with anything they might have wanted - save that which he could not provide, in the hopes that something might interest them. He had seen no results, at least, until now. It seemed that one of the two of them had taken up the harp.
The tune was simple, clearly meant for a child, and slow, but as he listened he heard the gentle strains of the waves lapping on the shore, and the voices of gulls in the air, woven into the simple notes plucked by a child’s hand.
Moving swiftly, and almost automatically, he grabbed his own, well-worn harp from its case and came to sat outside the door, his fingers poised over the strings, his body curving around the instrument like a lover.
Gently he picked up the notes, echoing them with his own, and then adding a sadder, deeper undertone to the song. The playing from within the room stopped, but he continued, weaving low, sad notes with shaking hands.
He continued, oblivious to his surroundings, and slowly the door opened just a crack, and two small, dark-haired figures peered out hesitantly into the hall. They didn’t speak, but huddled together against the door frame and sat, staring at his hands with knowing eyes.
Yet, it was enough.
---
Title: Unexpected
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: Haleth refuses Caranthir's offer of protected land for her people.
He’d expected her to be timid, scruffy and somewhat uneducated, based on what he’d been told of the race of men.
At first, everything she did seemed to prove him right. Her words were curt and to the point, lacking even the modicum of social grace he managed to imbibe his speech with. But he pitied her none-the-less, and her people had been through their fair share of hardship.
But she refused him, and, though her words were still curt, they were brave, and, for a moment, the admiration in her people’s eyes was mirrored in his own.
---
Title: Spring Rain
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: It never rained in Valinor.
Notes: I'm playing rather fast and loose with canon with this. I don't know if there's anything to back up the theory that there's no rain in Valinor (heck, the fact that they have food is actually a good sign that it does rain, I'd think), but I like the idea and it worked for this, so I'm sticking to it.
It never rained in Valinor. Tirion had been blessed with flawless weather, the seamless change from gold to silver as Laurëlin and Telperion waxed and waned, and the sky was ever clear, revealing the magnificence of the stars.
But there were no stars here. No warm golden light at day, or soft silver glow at night. Nothing to mark the passage of time beneath the suffocating smoke of Thangorodrim.
When the first droplet touched his feverish skin, he thought himself delirious. But slowly the heavens began to open, and he opened his parched mouth to drink the first spring rain.
---
Title: Maitimo
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: Maedhros muses on the irony of his name just after he's rescued from Thangorodrim.
Notes: He makes my heart hurt. For those who may not know 'Maitimo', Maedrhos' mother name means 'well-shaped one'.
How ironic that he, named and renowned for the beauty of his form, should be so broken. As he lay, silently moving phantom fingers and grimacing from pain in invisible fingers, he had little to do but think. Unbidden the soft voice of his mother came to his ears, and he felt the phantom touch of his fingers - like the fingers he had once twined in her hair, as he’d laid his head upon her breast in sleep. Maitimo. The name, now like a curse, mocked his unsymmetrical shape.
For the first time since his father had died, he wept.
---
Title: Strength
Rating: G
Words: 100
Summary: Haleth stands against the hosts of Morgoth.
"Then Haleth held the people together, though they were without hope; and some cast themselves in the rivers and were drowned. But seven days later, as the Orcs made their last assault and had already broken through the stockade, there came suddenly a music of trumpets, and Caranthir with his host came down from the north and drove the Orcs into the rivers."
-- JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion
Dawn broke over the small camp, its pale light glinting off the tips of their swords, and illuminating their stark, grief-lined faces. Resolute, Haleth stood at the forefront, grim determination set in her face as she stood defiant against the hosts of Morgoth that swarmed like flies on the hills, outnumbering them easily.
On that day, those that remained stood behind her with the same resolve, gaining their strength from her. They were a butterfly fighting a tempest - but they were not yet defeated.
Then, as the sun climbed over the mountains, they heard the faint sound of trumpets.
---
Title: Tedium
Rating: G
Words: 150
Summary: Fëanor has a unique way of curing boredom.
Notes: I love it when he's smug. :D Sarati, for those who may not know, is the system of writing developed by Rúmil, and predates Tengwar.
Callused, ink-splattered fingers clutched the pen tightly, knuckles white with the pressure exerted. Slowly, with his tongue sticking out in concentration, Fëanáro brought his pen down in careful, measured strokes.
He rubbed at his eyes in attempt to ward of sleep, oblivious to the dark smudges of ink he was leaving on his face.
Finwë chuckled, coming to stand behind his son’s chair and smoothing his dark hair back from his brow. “That is enough for today, I think,” he said gently. “It will still be here tomorrow.”
His eyes fell to the sheet of paper his son had been studiously working on for the past several hours, his brows drawing together in confusion. He reached past Fëanáro’s shoulder, lifting the page and examining it in puzzlement.
“What is this?” he asked finally.
“A better system,” Fëanáro said smugly. “I have called them Tengwar. Sarati is far too tedious.”