The next installment in the Daily Drabbles series. Like I said, I'm far behind - these are the last few to backup, all others will be relatively new.

The disclaimer on the userinfo page applies to all stories in this journal.

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The death of Fëanor.



Sere

The earth groaned and cracked beneath their steps. Grass flared up and died. Horses screamed in terror and eyes were shielded against fire. Standards whipped in hot wind, burst into flame, were cast away.

One stood. One fought. One fell, facedown into the dust.
Trumpets sounded. The demons retreated. He was lifted up and borne away.

"Water!" one cried. Though he laved his father's feverish body and the sprung lips, they cracked and bled. His father spoke. His sons listened, grim-faced, and echoed the dying words.

He breathed forth... and burned.

She watched, woke, and would have wept, if not for lack of tears.

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Nerdanel, Finarfin and Eärwen, and the aftermath of the Darkening.



Acclimate

Valinor was cold without the light, she said, and was chided by Arafinwë (with his arms protectively around Eärwen). She knew nothing of cold, he said, she who had not been in Araman and heard the doom of the Noldor herself.

Too wearied to reply she kept her silence, and pulled her scarves more closely around herself. A soft hand rested on her shoulder.

"Leave me," Nerdanel said then. "If you say that I know no cold, I say that you know little of warmth or fire." Eärwen put a blanket around her. "Our peoples learned. Too much of both."

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A lesson, not only for young Maedhros and Maglor.



Didactic

"... the hosts of the Eldalië departed from Cuiviénen..."

The words faltered and failed when a younger voice, already stronger than the other, suddenly sped into wordless song. Images of a white horse and a magnificent rider burst into being, hovering in the air like butterflies. The room seemed to darken, stars burned where the high ceiling should be.

"Father!" Out of place and almost squawking with indignation, a cry broke through the spell. "Mother! I was telling the History! Make him stop?"

He waved his arms at the figures, who had now stopped in their paths and gazed up cruel mountains half-veiled with mist. Then ascent and descent and a wooded land. Some tarried and strayed.

"Mother! Make Macalaurë stop, please!"
The song went on, unperturbed. Nerdanel smiled. "Speak while he sings, Maitimo. Do you not see that together you can create more beauty than each of you alone? It is often thus. Alone, for all our crafts, neither your father nor I could have brought forth beauty like you and Macalaurë. Is it not right, then, especially being kin, that you should work together, too?"

"Mmmh... yes... thus after many long years the Teleri..."

But Nerdanel already looked to her husband.

A/N: Maedhros's "History" is borrowed from the Silmarillion, Chapter III - Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor.

Maglor, even at that young age, is already a powerful singer, with "[...] the gift of elf-minstrels, who can make the things of which they sing appear before the eyes of those that listen." (The Return of the King, Appendix A: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen).

- I really hope it isn't too far-fetched.

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Nerdanel, Fëanor and a promise.



Betimes

"How far is it to Tirion?"
"Two days. We will ride without pause."
"I cannot go so fast, for I am tired. I fear, Fëanáro, that your first son shall be born in the wilds, and his father shall be the midwife." A flutter in those words belied her outward calm.

Silence. He was pale, his eyes too wide, his lips pressed together. Her fingers brushed his hand; reassurance by touch; but he jerked the reins and the contact was broken.

"I will not lose you, too!"
"Do not fear, love. I shall live to give you many children."

But after... a shadow.

---

Nerdanel, Fëanor, and letters from Formenos. 350 words, recycled from an older drabble I wrote ages ago.



Desideratum

Her father's house lay near the road from Formenos to Tirion.

Messengers often passed that way, and always she wished that it was not for her: Please, a message from Finwë to his other sons. But more often than not they wore her husband's colors and clattered over the cobblestoned yard to wait outside while she locked the study-door and read. They would not have to tarry long, she could soon promise, for in his letters he used few words, and each time the same. Her fingers trembled nonetheless.

You will return.
And that was all.

She gave the letter to the flames, unlocked the door, and smiled. She had long since learned to let it reach her eyes. "My only message to my husband is that I have none. He will know what to make of it."

The messengers departed and returned.

You will return.
That letter, too, fed the fire.

You will return.
That, too.

After that, years passed and no more letters came, though often the messengers would stop on the road, just briefly, and gaze at the house in wonder. They wore Finwë's colors now and passed out of sight into the city. There was no more reason to smile. The fire moved hungrily when she passed by, but she had no paper for it now.

At last, one morning, the half-missed sound of hooves on stone. She rushed outside in her festival gown, her wreath of copper-flowers knocked askew, and received the note. Her study-door remained unlocked as she read.

Nerdanel, please return. As the Valar have commanded me, I will be at the feast in the Halls of Manwë upon Taniquetil. If you will, beloved, I will await you there.

No tears came. Instead, she sat long in thought, the letter still in hand. A sudden cold fell on her, a dread she could not explain nor understand, and her fist tightened around the paper. Already arrayed for that very festival (though her dress was crumpled now), she rose and gazed outside. Golden and silver light played on her study windows --- faded, struggled, flickered --- and went out.

Darkness.