Submissions for the Back to Middle-earth Month project at the Silmarillion Writers' Guild. It just occured to me to post something new here, and since these have not previously been shared (except in abovementioned project), I might as well put them up in this journal.

Two one-shots, a drabble, a poem, and not all of them are about the House of Fëanor.

On the creation of the Silmarils.



There is light, again, from the crack beneath the workshop door. Her knocks have gone unanswered for six days, and that there was no reply to her calling out. Sometimes, her eyes stinging with angry tears, she had stubbornly sat before the heavy door, next to the tray of the last meal not taken, but even that had no effect.

There are few sounds from within: Fëanáro's footsteps, the sound of one tool or another, and sometimes the hiss and smell of substances poured together--to what effect, she knows not. And often, there is light. A flicker like the Trees on water, a shimmer like the stars--and sometimes a blaze that makes her wonder if within he has gone blind. And then again, nothing.

This time, though, the light is constant, and she hopes that finally, finally, the door will open. Even Fëanáro has limits of endurance, even when he is crafting, even though he claims it gives him strength rather than sapping it. She knows this from countless challenges before, when the frenzy of discovery drove him on, with matted hair and triumphant fever-bright eyes, and so completely exhausted so that he nearly pitched forward into her arms.

When the door opens this time, she is ready to tell him all that, and that she will no longer suffer it. She stands with the last tray of food not taken in her hand, and is caught by surprise by the look in his eyes: How did he become so young again? How is it that he looks so refreshed after a week's ceaseless work?

But then she sees the light behind him and she thinks she knows.

On the betrayal of Gondolin.



The city has too many lights. It has lights, and white walls, and smiles - the very smiles that I endure each day. I return them with teeth bared, so that mine might as well be the snarling of a wolf. Yet they say "Maeglin is softened," blind fools that they are. It is a comfort to know that soon their walls shall stand blackened and crumbling, and their smiles and lights will trouble me no more. A softer radiance shall be mine instead, that could be mithril or silver for its beauty. The Dark One (for he, though fallen, is an artisan as well) - he understands.

I will have you, Celebrindal. He promised.

There is rivalry between Feanor and Fingolfin. What about their wives?



Telperion is waning when he walks into the bedroom, with his back held too straight and his eyes too bright. If that happens, she has learned, there is news from Tirion that he dislikes. He can never keep it a secret for long, so she waits while he undresses and washes and comes into bed.

"Anairë gave birth to a daughter today. They mean to name her Irissë."

Her back is turned to him, and she is painfully aware that his voice comes from a distance. It hovers over the space between them, that cold space in the middle of the bed that she so loathes. And yet, each night she moves closer to the egde. She has her reasons; a quick movement and a tumble to the floor have spared her his attentions many times.

"I will draft a message of congratulations come morning," she replies. "And make a gift." She knows he loathes that task and the admission that his brother has accomplished something he could not. Fëanáro keeps his silence, but he is not asleep. "In fact... I will start now."

She rises and puts on a dressing gown, and walks downstairs into her studio.

Laurelin is waning when she finishes her work, with her head bowed and her eyes red and tired. There are two statuettes on the table in her studio now: One a perfect likeness of Anairë in white marble, cradling a girlchild swaddled in soft cloths - a dainty thing that will fit well into their house in Tirion. The other is less delicate - unpolished brown soapstone that bears Nerdanel's face with a look of deep envy and empty arms. It is standing too close to the edge of the table, and when Nerdanel stumbles against it, the statuette topples to the floor.

"It is no matter," she says to Anairë and Irissë. "We were given seven children."
Her voice rings hollow in her own ears.

A poem in Adunaic (and its translation) on the Downfall of Númenor and what comes after.



Idô dulgî dolgu nakhî,
Balîka 'nAr-Pharazôn êphal êphalak.
Bîtha lôkhî Anzigûr magra balîka adûni
Du-azgar 'nAr-Pharazônun avalôiyada.

Idô azra-dalad zirân Anadûnê,
Balîka an-Nimruzîr êphal êphalak.
Bîtha izindi 'nEru magra balîka azûlada
Du-azgar an-Nimruzîrun zigûrada.

Batân lôkhî, batân izindi,
Idô kâtha batîna ayadâ zâirada.

Translation (or what this was intended to mean):

Now Black Night comes
The ships of Ar-Pharazon are far far away.
Crooked words of Sauron drove the ships westward
For Ar-Pharazôn's war against the Valar.

Now under the sea is beloved Númenor,
The ships of Elendil are far far away.
Straight words of Eru drove the ships eastward
For Elendil's war against Sauron.

One road was crooked, one road was straight,
Now all roads lead to longing.