Before I post anything new, here be backups of the stories already submitted over at SWG. These four were for the Seven in '07 Project, and some have art to go with them. None of these is all that great, I believe that most drabbles to follow are far better, so please don't be too spooked...

The disclaimer on the userinfo page applies to all those stories.

Maedhros at Losgar.



Losgar

The veils of smoke tore, revealing a path of dark water extending far beyond the light of the fire. Almost, he fancied, he could see the other shore, campfire patches of light and miniscule shadow-shapes.

A gust of wind from across the sea caught him in the face.
Almost, he fancied, he could hear their laments. Or were these voices in his mind?
For he alone stood aside.

Betrayer to those on the other shore: A son of Fëanáro.
Betrayer to his family: Mourning those left behind.

What now?

As though in answer, the smoke closed in.
He stood alone.

---



An AU from two POVs. Umbarto returns.



Return

Nerdanel

The cry carried far in the mournful silence of Alqualondë.
“A ship! A ship returns!”
Hoping the best and dreading the worst, she ran. Pebbles slipped beneath her feet just as her stony composure slipped through her fingers.
She reached the beach. Face turned into wind and spray her eyes narrowed against Uinen’s tears (the sea was raging once more, her grief not forgotten) she stared into the dark.
“A ship!”
The cry was taken up.
“A ship!” “It is landing!”
Her own words and a nightmare of fire were whisked from her mind in an instant.
“Ambarto!”
Not Fated.

Ambarto

A plaything of wind and waves. Torn and tattered sails, tossed about, to and fro. Up and down. Darkness and fire behind him and shallow water beneath the keel. Then the scrape of rocks and pebbles, but he heeded them not.
A figure in white on the shore, storm-tossed and forlorn.
Cries in the town. “A ship!” and then “A kinslayer!”
He heeded them not. Pebbles slipped beneath his feet as he ran.
“Ambarto!”
“Mother! I have returned! I have returned!”
Strong arms around him, stronger than he remembered. Voice down to a whisper.
Certainty.
“I am no longer Umbarto.”

---



Nerdanel, Fëanor, and a chance for farewell.



Ghost

The dim sound of hammerfalls, a familiar lullaby from childhood, had accompanied her when she closed her eyes – only to open them again (or did she?) in a place familiar yet strange.

Mountains… Taniquetil to the South behind her, a valley and a ridge to her right. It was night, or what night there was in the Blessed Realm with the stars bright overhead. At the edge of her mind was the memory of footsteps behind her, and the call of a young voice, little older than her own, but when she looked around, searching… naught but her memories.

They had begun here.

She turned back to the path – to find herself face to face with Fire.

Dazzled by the sudden brightness (he illuminated so much more than he should) she meant to step back, but found herself drawn, gently and irresistibly, towards the white figure in the flame. Familiar… so familiar a warmth that she had thought lost… enveloping her, flaring up, fading…

Upon waking she would swear that she had felt a touch to her lips like a kiss of farewell.

It was no surprise to her when a messenger arrived, black-clad, hailing from the Halls of Mandos.

---

Fëanor and Nerdanel toward their estrangement. A portrait.



Burned

Nerdanel slept.

Her body still posed, hair and sheets carefully arranged to hide pale skin beneath, the picture she made would meet only the barest definition of decency in Tirion. A green dress lay crumpled at her feet and one hand rested on her belly to caress the unborn children.

The room was silent save for the scratch-scratch of charcoal, harsh breaths indrawn whenever a stroke went awry. Smudged fingers tangled in his hair, tugged, left prints in red and black on his forehead. A rip, a rustle. A ball of paper hit the floor, rolled, stilled.

Scratch-scratch. Anew and hastier. Almost desperate. Rip. Rustle.

Were she awake, Nerdanel would have coaxed her husband into smiles and kisses by now, and whispered (even now never without a blush to her already reddened cheeks) a better use for passion than to spend it in anger. The imperfect sketch would be flung aside, for her to find, afterwards.

But now Nerdanel slept, and upon waking would find, in the empty room, only wisps of burned paper that a breeze had swept from the fireplace. She wept to see herself so charred by the flames... and knew what time would tell.