#silm shortfic

[eri-pl]

@erendur, @peasant-player twas your idea.

I'm not sure if I should tag anyone else (it has Finrod, but it is half a joke, and you'll read it anyway, so—)

-------------- (no proper cut, we knit like Men)

Finrod stepped back and looked at the relief, wondering how angry Andreth would be seeing her face in the line of his other friends, carved in his messy style. (How angry she will be)

Edrahil stood in the door. "My lord, you have a guest."

Strange. In the long years after their reembodiment, the captain learned to simply let the guests in when Finrod was not very busy. And now he waited, tense. Did one of the Valar come to visit?

There was only one way to see. "Let them in."

Edrahil left and after a while returned with— How?— The hair as dark as shadows of the evening. Eyes grey as starlit sky. Not a Vala, but—

Finrod blinked for a moment, until he regained some clarity of thought. "You must be my nephew-in-law. Or one of his sons, maybe? Celebrian has told me a lot about you all, but I'm afraid I'm not up to speed with the recent news—"

The guest bowed. "I am indeed Elrond. My sons have not sailed with me." Why was there sorrow in his voice? Was there a conflict in the family?

Finrod put away the chisel and turned to face Elrond properly. The relief could wait. "Come in, I am beyond glad to meet you."

"I bring an invitation to Tol Eressea and a gift from—" Elrond's voice faltered "—my son-in-law, who carries a gift from you, and from my daughter, who made this."

Finrod ignored for now the scroll and opened a package of beautifully woved linen, uncovering another fabric. It was thick and knitted, at first it seemed like a rug, but no, it had sleeves. Shorter than a tunic, it was a kind of Mannish garnment, but made with more artistry than he would expect from the Secondborn. Deep green, light, but warm and soft.

He unfolded the garnment and there was a pattern on it, knitted in lime, brown, and gold—actual gold thread—a familiar pattern of two snakes and a wreath of flowers.

What was the meaning of it?

The ring, obviously— but it made no sense, Elrond's son in law would be an Elf— would he?— the grief in Elrond's voice— the Mannish style of it all— and Lúthien— and they were all heirs of Earendil, they could—

Oh.

"I see," said Finrod softly. "Thank you. I— I see. Would you like a hug, a discussion, or simply to move to another topic and leave you be?"

"A hug—" Elrond's voice broke. "—would be a good start."

Finrod embraced him tightly, his new nephew's head against his chest, and held for long.

Elronds hair, just like Lúthien's, inexplicably smelled of flowers.

[arofili]

F, G and L for the fic author asks? :)

F. canon fics or au? I really enjoy both! I might honestly have to go with AU for the Silm just because there’s so many fascinating ways to diverge from canon.

G. longfics or shortfics? shortfics, definitely. longfic intimidates me, both to read and write!

L answered here!

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 4: Beard*

Warnings: sort of a small panic attack in PoV. Implications of… well, we are seeing Celebrimbor post-reembodiment. So you can estimate. But only implications.

"I wish I could see them again," said Celebrimbor. "The Dwarves, I mean." It was still somewhat strange to speak with words.

Mahtan smiled. "I wish I could see one of them too."

Right. Great-grandfather hadn't ever met any of the Khazad, obviously. Because he had enough common sense to not leave. Obviously. Celebrimbor looked at him. "I'm sorry."

Mahtan laughed and continued leading him down the stony corridors of Lord Aulë's mansion.

Assuming that he could continue the conversation, Celebrimbor said "I've always wondered, and Narvi too—how it is with beards? Are they something Lord Aulë invented, or...?" He trailed off. It seemed a stupid question.

And yet, his great-grandfather was not offended. He stroked his own—meticulously braided— beard, and spoke. "I've always assumed it was his thing, as I had not grown mine before I became his apprentice. But now of course they say the Men have those too— they do, right? It's not another thing Pengolodh made up?"

"Oh yes, they do have beards. Some quite impressive."

They went down another set of stairs, the corridor was windowless and illuminated with lamps. It felt like home, but safer.

"Mhm. See, Tyelpe, we're somewhat secluded here. Nor Tuor, nor of course Earendil had one, so... Anyway, I'm sure you'll grow it eventually."

"I don't— I mean, the fact that I could work with— Despite everything— It's just so much more than I could ever deserve."

Mahtan laughed again—a deep, rolling laughter that felt in place in those stone halls. "You will need to get accustomed to working with people who aren't— nasty."

The forge noises became louder, discouraging further dialogue. Not long after, they reached an arched gate, leading to a huge workshop, where Maiar and Elves worked, and of course, in the center, the Smith himself.

All the hammers stopped and the room went silent. Celebrimbor bowed deeply, barely daring to look at the Vala.

Lord Aulë smiled. "Come, you two. Mahtan, my friend, we've moved your things already. Tyelperinquar, I'm so glad to see you. I— I still don't understand your kind well, but Mahtan said you won't be offended— it is the best workplace after all." As the two Elves came closer, he spoke more quietly. "As an apology."

In the centre of the forge, next to Lord Aulë's huge, carved stone workbench with mithril top, stood two others, smaller, but even more ornate. One, to which Mahtan walked and began checking the tools, was made of bright white stone carved in intricate geometric patterns, parts of which seemed moveable. The other one — apparently meant for Celebrimbor — was a gold square design of perfect four-fold symmetry, with the tools sorted by size and type. While not dusted—nothing in Aman was—it was long unused, judging from types of the tools. There was a peculiar beauty to it, like—

His head went light and he grasped the edge of the golden table— than let it go immediately— if that was to be his apology, he'd have to bear it— he was better now, after years in Mandos—and yet, the very memory—

Mahtan held him like he used to do when Tyelpe was a small boy visiting his forge with the same fascination as his father and grandfather before.

"Shhh. It's all right. It is all right—" he repeated louder. "He will get over it, just give us a moment." He turned his face back to Celebrimbor, whispering: "It's all right. You don't have to, if you don't want to."

"But…. My apology—"

Great-grandfather held him tighter. "Not your apology, Tyelpe. Lord Aulë meant it as his apology to you. He felt like he owed it, especially as there's nobody else to apologize to you now, I think. But let's not get there. It is— we both thought that it would be a kind of justice to give it to you. I'm sorry. You don't have to."

The tightnes in Celebrimbor's chest slowly dissipated. "No, I— I appreciate it, and it would make him so angry and that's good, just— could I maybe reorder it a little. Not much, just…."

He spoke softly, unsure if it was worse to ask Lord Aulë if he could change the designs of his Maia (well, back then), or to talk in private when he was nearby. but apparently it was not soft enough, as the Vala replied him.

"Of course. You can change anything you like. It's yours."

A few days of work later, when Aulë again returned to his forge, he looked at Celebrimbor's workbench—now not as perfectly symmetrical, and carved in rows of Dwarven runes.

He smiled. "It looks alive. I missed it."

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent Calendar 3: the Wise

"This I cannot tell thee."

Why? Finrod shouldn't have asked, but here — where thinking and asking were the same — he could not help it. He'd lost so many friends, Mannish friends (mostly not even at his own fault, surprisingly) and all what Andreth had told him was so comforting, it fit so well, it did feel like truth, and yet, to have a clear answer, even a small bit of it—

"Tis not a knowledge meant for the Eldar," said Lord Námo.

But why? Because it did not concern them? And yet it did. There was more time until it would matter, but it would. He knew so little. They all knew so little, despite the tomes of philosophy that had been written during the Long Peace, despite having learned from the Valar, despite calling themselves "the Wise" they knew so very little about anything that would matter in the end.

Even on the small scale… Lord Námo had told him that Beren survived. But what about his quest?

"Their quest. They shall go together from now on."

But Lúthien— childish, laughing, precious Lúthien, who had danced in the forest, and tumbled down the hills! Will she— Can she— How terrible shall it be?

"Thou asketh many questions. But this one I can answer. They shall win the Silmaril, and Elu Thingol shall receive his price and his doom."

Doom. So the sons of Feanor would slay them all in the end? Finrod's brave friend, his sweet cousin—an impossible victory only to perish because of it?

"See, this is the trouble with giving you answers. They only lead to more questions. Not by the sons of Feanor shall they perish, but perish they shall indeed. And what comes after—this I do not know." There was a hint of satisfaction in Lord Námo's words.

Finrod should feel sorry for having so many questions, or at least uneasy for frustrating a Vala. And yet, he could not help but pity the poor, sweet Lúthien, who often used to say so many words with so little thought, and yet it would not be true to call her less wise than any of the Noldor. It was simply a different kind of wisdom. Loving every flower, wishing to catch a star and wear it—

The wave of Lord Námo's attention—his thoughts touching Finrod's in common wonder—was bright, but not painful. Everything was silent—a silence of minds pondering half-understood premonitions that can't be yet put to words.

A memory of Lúthien wishing to see world's most beautiful treasure, to catch a star and wear it as a trinket—And she would.

Time passed in strange currents unlike in the lands of the living, and on the edges of Finrod's attention, tapestries grew.

Lúthien wishing to have a love as great as her parent's but somehow greater, a love that songs would be sang about—And she had.

The tapestries became tangled and strange.

No, not tangled. Interwoven with others, and pins of silver and gold kept from unraveling the loops that waited to connect to events yet unwoven.

Lúthien wishing to find something beyond what even her mother could deram of—

Unsaid, half-understood like a Mannish dream and yet more like a waking world seen from within a dream—

Finrod wished that he had eyes so that they could be wet with tears. He wished that his voice could tremble and he would say that (after he had this moment now, after he'd seen Lord Námo (surprised?) listening to him—to him!) he would not question why Men are given (fragments, shadows, tangled threads of) an answer and the Elves nothing.

There was beauty in that, even if lined with sadness.

But he was dead and there was no voice to break, no eyes to tear up. All his thoughts were bare, and many of them did not make him as wise as names would have it.

"Still, you are much less of a fool than most of the wise. But I must go now." Lord Námo did not have Finrod's limitations, and his voice—mind or not—trembled. "She is here, seeking to say farewells to her love."

[eri-pl]

Announcement: Silm Advent calendar

OK, so you know how Advent calendars work, right? I imagine it's a known thing, not only for Christians, because every chocholate making company makes them and supermarkets shove them in people's faces.

Anyway in case you don't: You have a box with 24 (or whatever amount of days depending on the year) slots, and each day you open the one with the day's date and there's a small treat in there.

So I'll be posting something like this. Every day there'll be a scheduled post (not all on the same hour) with a title "Silm Advent calendar [day]" and a "read more". And under the "read more" there'll be a small treat for y'all.

They are all already scheduled.

All treats are entirely SFW: The images are mostly kid-appropriate (some have too much fire for small kids, also: quality may vary). The texts are… if you're old enough to use Tumblr, they're age-appropriate four you. Not all would beappropriate for, say, a 7yo because sometimes there's a little violence or cursing. Some are very fluffy, some are sad or somewhat ominous. Also, they are related to the Silm, so the implications/context are sometimes much, much darker (or lighter). All potential triggers are hopefully tagged and listed, please let me know if I missed something. The quality may vary too (but hey, they're proofread, we die like Men!)(well ok they aren't proofread that well obviously. But they are proofread) which is still something.

They aren't necessarily 100% consistent with each other or other stuff I wrote, but there are some connections.

So:

Silm Advent calendar 1: Day

Warnings: teenager PoV in late Númenor and he's not even Faithful. No triggering details, but it's late Númenor.

Too young.

Too young to sail with everyone. (They really meant "not good enough", didn't they? Not good enough with the ship, with the ropes, with the sword, with the lessons, with anything. It's not like there's an age limit after all.)

The air is thick, too hot for the season and the street is black. The soot stains Zâinathôr's new shoes.

Too young to sail, not good enough to sail and to return with the glory of immortal lands. (Will they all be immortal when they come back, or just the important ones? Or just the ones who fought best against the jealous, lying "lords" who claim those lands?)

Not enough and now they're probably fighting already and Zâinathôr has to wash a damned wall like a peasant, because some traitor had vandalized it—again—with strange, wicked letters. Is it a threat? Is it a curse? Hopefully even if it is, it will befall on the broom, or on the wet cloth on it, not on Zâinathôr. He mutters luck-bringing proverbs just in case.

His life is cursed enough already. The younger son, and also the less gifted one. Too young to sail.

They'd been gone for over a month and yesterday the abandoned island shook without its king. Will they ever return home? Or will they bask in the immortal glory and leave the weak ones waiting forever?

Zigûr has stayed, but the island doesn't seem to care. Or maybe he does not care. The black smoke rises into the sky, but it changes nothing, except the state of walls and streets. Apparently the rebels don't care either.

Zâinathôr smears the watered down paint in all directions, now it's dark from the soot, but the hourglass and the curse are still visible below the black. Why do those people want everyone to die? What has anyone even do to them? Well, except killing then, but, damn, they started it! They tried to usurp the king. Zâinathôr curses them quietly, unsure if he's more angry about the murder plots or about the stubborn unreadable vandalism.

It's been over five weeks already, maybe five and a half. Hopefully when the King defeats the cowards who live in the west, the traitors would finally understand that they can't win and go away or... something. And leave Zâinathôr and his friends alone.

The street beneath his feet vibrates with a low murmur again, and he continues washing. His thoughts are already at next week's play. What should he wear?

It gets darker. Why do those damned clouds always have to appear when he needs to see clearly? Even in the dimmed light, the paint on the wall is still visible, despite all the washing. The only difference is that now large part of the wall is black.

For a moment Zâinathôr wonders again what those words mean. Something nasty, that's for sure. Better no not think about it. (The air smells of fire.)

He'll wear the sea-blue tunic. It will look better in this weather.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 7: Light

(thank you @edennill for your headcanons, here's a small hc of mine)

Varda smiled, looking at the young Noldo bowing nervously before her. Despite being named “the spirit of fire”, he wore pale blue and yellow, both clean narrow hues, but not too narrow, matching the outer colors of the Treelight surprisingly well for something made by an incarnate.

“I want to show you something, my lady.” There was a tone of anxiety in Feanáro's voice. Why? 

He pulled out an ornate box which shone richly from the inside and opened it—

They were beautiful. A harmony of two lights, resulting in a wide and balanced white, almost like a reflection of the light in her face. This brilliance was the fairest thing ever made on Arda, surpassing the glorious lights made by the Valar, even though it was born from two of them. Three gems in perfect harmony with each other. Almost too beautiful for this marred world, like a pure sound of a violin, narrow, and impossible for the imperfect beings to harmonize with.

She reached for them but stopped, waiting for permission. 

“I love them dearly,” said Feanaro apologetically. “But of course, if you wish to take a look at them, I would be honored… Forgive me, o queen, but I feel— I feel they are so vulnerable, so — they are near impossible to destroy and yet — I do fear for them.” The last part he was almost a whisper.

Varda nodded. Light could only shine where it could be touched, of course. And what could be touched could now also be hurt. Did the Elves not know it? It was difficult to distinguish what was new to them and what they would consider too obvious to even mention.

She studied the scared prince. The best she could do for him was to put some thin glass to protect the light a little and hope for the best. Half-measures, always half-measures. But that was the way with incarnates, wasn't it?

She took the gems and kissed them gently. They were warm and alive, even though unmoving, and they rejoiced seeing her.

No wonder Feanáro loved them.

“Neither evil nor hand unclean shall touch you and stay unharmed,” she said. “Nor a mortal man—” she paused, seeing the Elf’s expression. What was he surprised about? 

Anyway, the blessing was done, for good or for ill.

She kissed the gems farewell and gave them back to the prince. “Thank you.” 

She rarely spoke, indeed, but some occasions were worth it.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 10: Grass

With special dedication / thank you for @erendur (you will see, why :) )

“Why are they digging up the soil?” asked Finrod.

Balan smiled. “It's not just soil, it's hyacinth bulbs.”

They sat on a log. The wind brought smells of decomposing leaves and early frost. Balan’s wife and two sisters worked with shovels in a distance, singing a simple work song about the sun setting and rising.

“You eat hyacinths?” For the Eldar they were one of the many plants of Beleriand that proved somewhat toxic, but maybe the Men reacted differently?

Now his friend outright laughed. “Do we look like fools? They are for growing. To have some color in the winter.”

“But they're dead.” The bulbs were dark and lifeless, with nothing green to them.

Balan glanced at him with knotted brows, as if suspecting Finrod of joking at his expense (he had done this a couple times, and despite it being always friendly, he probably shouldn't have).

“I am not jesting. I genuinely do not know how to grow anything from a dead bulb.”

Balan sat silent for a while, then his face relaxed. “You don't have winters, do you?”

“Yes and no—” Finrod ignored the usual sigh. Despite what Men said, ‘yes and no’ was often a good answer to questions. “We— Aman does have snow, but the plants don't die, unless they're needed to.”

“Our plants have some tricks… But you'll see.”

The snow fell silently outside and Finrod warmed his hands on the …Men would probably call this unshapely thing a vase. It was filled with warm water and stood near the heath, but not too near. On the top of the vase sat a pale purplish bulb, and on the top of the bulb emerged a tiny green sprout.

Balan entered the room with a bundle of wood, dropping snow everywhere. “See? I told you they have some tricks.”

Mid-winter passed and days grew longer, but not yet warmer. The Men barely had enough food., But they had flowers. There was something both foolish and beautiful in this. 

In the four containers — Finrod still couldn't force himself to call them vases — purple hyacinths bloomed, filling the tiny room with their spring-like smell.

Balan whittled a wooden creature for his nephew and hummed. 

“Shouldn't they be growing in the ground?” Finrod asked him. Outside the snow was patchy after a short-lived thawing.

“Yes, but it's still too cold. We'll plant them back in the spring when the high frost stops coming, and then they'll bloom even better, and in more colors.”

“And then in autumn you'll dig them out again?”

“If we're still here. We move a lot, you know.”

Finrod turned from the window back to Balan. “I wonder… would you like to move to Nargothrond for some time?”

“I— But—”

“If you don't want to, I understand! Please, don't feel as if I demand anything from you. It was just a thought, I didn't mean to offend you.”

“Offend me? I'd love to. But I'm just a man.” Balan looked down at his whittling, uneasy.

“And I'm just an Elf. And I'm inviting you for a visit, as long as you wish. You can bring some of those hyacinths with you. They’ll remind you of home.”

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 15: Kindness

Bilbo sat in one of the cozier chairs in the library — still intricately carved, like everything in Imladris — and pondered about his book. Elrond seemed to like it, but he'd said he had some things to discuss (surely he would be polite enough not to question the events even if Gandalf did gossip about it, wouldn't he?). Anyway, some of the illustrations still needed finishing. The dragon was a pain — of course dragons were like that, and—

A single creak of the floor interrupted the hobbit’s musings. 

Elrond stood in the doorway, and very clearly had made the noise deliberately, out of politeness. The Elves were never heard if they did not want to, even here, with the wooden floors and many doors. 

Bilbo smiled, and the lord of Rivendell sat next to him. 

“Your book shall be a wonderful addition to my collection,” he said warmly. 

“...but there's some ‘but’ about it. You don't have to beat around the bush. I'm old enough to be able to handle criticism.”

Elrond looked at him with a strange expression, common for him, that may have been friendliness, sorrow, or simply lack of sleep. Did the last one even happen to Elves? Or to whatever he was exactly. Bilbo still wasn't entirely sure.

“...but you don't know much about summer, my friend, do you?”

“I haven't seen as many, but over a hundred is something.” Bilbo looked at Elrond cautiously, unsure where this conversation was going. (There was no mention of birthdays yet, but who knew?)

“A summer is not kind,” he replied, looking somewhere far away, and his eyes seemed darker than usual. “A summer can be the scorching heat and a drought that kills all of the land. Violent storms. Sea tearing into the land. A summer… can be something you've waited for centuries leaving you empty and broken.” Elrond spoke quietly, as if to himself. “It can be farewells with not much hope of meeting again, or at least— not anytime soon. Summers can be cruel. Almost as much as winters.”

Bilbo didn't know what to reply to such a strange remark, so he went with what worked best: common sense. “Summers in the Shire are always nice. Well, once in a while there is a tad too much rain and someone's field is flooded, or the mill needs repairing, but still, it's the kindest time of the year, even though the others aren't bad either. And you are like that. Except for the floods.”

Elrond smiled, but clearly there was something he wanted to say and did not. For a while they sat in silence in the warmth of the afternoon sun. The host moved as if to get up, but didn't yet. Instead, he said “You can write ‘as kind as a summer in the Shire’, then.”

“It would sound bad. Anyway, who's going to ever read it outside of the Shire? It's just an amateurish account of the adventures of one small hobbit, and some slightly bigger, and way braver Dwarves.”

“And Mithrandir,” added Elrond, looking more comfortable again. He leaned forward on the chair, closer to Bilbo.

“Well, he surely knows that summers are kind.”

“Still, I would rather not force everyone to read about my alleged kindness.”

“It's not alleged!” said Bilbo in the most forceful tone he could muster against an Elf.

Elrond smiled. “Thank you. I really appreciate that you think so. But less that you write so in a book that will be read by many people who haven't even met me. That's unseemly.”

“It would be if you wrote the book, but it's mine. You're just giving advice and corrections.”

“And my advice is: please, remove that description.”

“I won't.”

Bilbo expected (and not entirely without excitement) a long argument about this, but Elrond just sighed. “I think the more objective details are correct. And you have a feel for words that I didn't expect to find among hobbits.”

And with this, he left.

Maybe Bilbo should write ‘as a summer in the Shire’, after all. Warm, gentle and full of flowers. But — he thought again — nobody would read his book outside the Shire, except maybe Elrond’s family, so what would be the point?

His hands were cold despite the sun. It was the time for a good, hot tea with cookies. And maybe provoking one of the less kind residents of Imladris into a long argument about that or another historical event. Ideally one which they happened to live through.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 5: Sand

Warnings: fire (visual), typical Silm level of impled violence.

Turgon knelt on the sand, pondering Lord Ulmo's words.

He would resist Morgoth the longest... His memory went back to the happier times, when the Enemy—then hidden back behind politeness and fair looks—always had seemed to avoid him. Yes, of course the hope came from the West, all came from the West, but it felt good to be a weapon of this hope.

He would resist.

He left the beach, contemplating the armor he had to make and the city he would soon move to. His city. The mightiest, hidden, impenetrable. Beautiful.

Turgon sat on his throne, amazed by the young mortal's words which seemed as powerful as if said by one of the Valar. (They had been said, it didn't feel that long ago. But this was his home, and it was mighty, hidden, impenetrable and beautiful.)

He would block the secret door.

Yes, that should do it.

Turgon hid in his tower, staying behind like— there was only one king who would not come to the battlefield. Better not to think about him now.

The Noldor would surely win, the city was mighty and beautiful.

Turgon knelt on the sand again, in the shallow water. Gems covered the brilliant shore, but his robes were now simple. (How long has it been?). The waves tickled his chest.

"I am a fool. I was utterly stupid. And vain, cowardly, and somehow unable to understand the simplest instructions. I have gotten all the people who trusted me killed. Except the ones my daughter saved but not thanks to me. I was a fool."

The sea roared and water sprayed his face as he spoke and spoke, but there was no answer. So he spoke further, closing his eyes to stop the tears from coming.

"I refused to listen, to care about anything outside my tiny hiding hole and I thought I was safe, I was willing to abandon everyone else and yet— And you had told me all that. In detail. And yet. I—"

A mighty wave slammed into Turgon and enveloped him save only his face. "You were a fool. But you are my fool. I forgive you."

He opened his eyes and cried into Lord Ulmo's arm, tears mixing with the seawater. They embraced for long, until the tide changed and the sun rose, painting the beach in gold.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 20: Mountain

Warnings: discussion of Miriel and Pharazôn's marriage (less awful than a typical reading but still), also, it's Númenor, and we all know how it ends, thalassophobia warning (text and visual).

Miriel sighed. “Do I have to, father? We go every year and yet nothing changes.”

“You are not the queen yet, and it is not your duty, but please, come.” Tar-Palantir wore a simple white robe, almost unfit for a king of the most powerful nation, and was ready for the journey. Her things were packed too — reluctantly — but Miriel’s heart yearned for the library, not for a steep road, muddy from the melting snow up on the mountain.

“I will come next time.”

Her father looked at her with those unnerving piercing eyes. “Life is like sailing. If you stop, the wind pushes you back. You won't go again if you don't go today.”

Miriel turned away, adjusting the dry flowers in a vase. 

He took his bag — he always carried much of the things by himself when going to the mountain. “You could pray for a good suitor.”

It came to Miriel's mind to tell him that she was in love with her cousin and see the king's reason for this, but she did not. Was she even in love? She barely knew Pharazôn now, only that he was tall and broad of shoulders and for thirty years she could not think of another man with love. But he was also proud, arrogant, and long gone. And her cousin.

She thought of Idril Celebrindal from the stories of old and of Tuor… Miriel wasn't a girl anymore and should not hope for the Valar to send her someone special. She probably shouldn't read the tale of Gondolin so often either. Life was devoid of miracles. 

She'd prayed for a long time for a man to come, strong and golden-haired and noble, but it has been futile. Why would she go to the mountain again?

Wasn't hope supposed to be waiting patiently and not asking for things? If happiness was meant for her it would come anyway.

Tar-Palantir sighed and left the room. 

Miriel — she should get accustomed to the name Tar-Miriel — put on the gray lacey veil and entered the chamber. It wasn't the throne chamber — not yet. Amandil bowed to her, more deeply than ever before. He wore elegant robes, mourning-appropriate, but official-looking.

“The summer is high,” he said. 

It took Tar-Miriel a while to realize his meaning behind it. “I have to bury my father! Besides, I'm not even officially the queen yet. But sit down, please.”

Amandil did as she asked, but still seemed tense. “A formal coronation is something the people may care about, but only that. You are the rightful queen, Tar-Miriel. You know the words, don't you?”

“Of course.” It's been over seventy years since she went to the mountain, but it felt like one season.

“The people are upset. If there was a sign, something to strengthen your position…”

She shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. I— I'm sorry. Those were rude words. I'm in mourning and I don't think as clearly as I'd wish. Still, I do have obligations to my father. I cannot abandon them.”

He looked at her for long. “You have greater obligations too,” he said quietly, moving closer. “My queen. My friend. Please—”

She closed her eyes. “My friend. Now I need you more than ever. Please, don't leave me, don't argue with me, you at least. If I asked for a sign, that would feel— a real queen doesn't need one. A real queen can hold the power. And nobody owes me any signs anyway. I'm not such a good person as my father was. You don't know me.” She blinked, a few tears went down, hopefully hidden by the veil. 

“Still, you're the best ruler we can have now. The only one. My child—” Amandil put his hand on her head, as he used to when she’d been a young girl.

Tar-Miriel moved back, and he backed too, bowing. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not, just— if the people see— I must be strong. Not all for help. Your or— anyone's.”

The guards came a few days later, before the dust on her father's tomb settled, bringing a different veil for her to wear.

Ar-Zimraphel gazed out of the window, at the wet, brown garden. Winter was drawing near. At least a few months of peace, because he surely wouldn't return in the cold months. Her mother sat at the window with an embroidery work, but idly. She'd grown so much older in the last year. It wasn't fair. 

“I should go to the holy mountain,” she heard herself say. “Pray for the defeat of evil.” Ideally, both of them. 

“Are you insane? Your husband forbade it!”

Ar-Zimraphel shrugged. Why did she always feel like a girl when talking to mother, even now? “What are they going to do? Arrest me?”

“Lead you back to the palace in humiliation and punish your friends for your fancy. This isn't the way to achieve anything.”

“So what's the way?” She turned back to the dim chamber. Mother didn't even pretend to embroider anymore. 

“Patience. You still have time. You don't have an heir, and I don't think you're going to, am I wrong?”

That was an entirely inappropriate question, but old people had their rights. “No. Fortunately, all he cares about from me is the throne. Not the bed.” And to think that she'd once been in love with that hideous man. She'd been such a dumb girl. 

“So, patience. There is a beautiful garden at the north wall, you know. You could visit it in the spring. And who knows, maybe next year will bring some change.” Mother's smile looked almost inhuman, she barely had any teeth left now. 

“What are you suggesting?” 

“Nothing, my dear. What do you think I would suggest?”

Ar-Zimraphel blushed. “I'm sorry. I just— Maybe I should go to the mountain. Ask for a solution.”

“That never worked for anyone.”

The sceptreless queen sighed, turning back to the window. It would be snowy anyway. Maybe in the spring, maybe he would not return yet.

Ar-Zimraphel — Miriel — whatever her name was — breathed heavily. The road was much longer and steeper than she’d remembered from her youth. Or maybe it was the air, full of smoke that made it more difficult. Or the shaking of the earth beneath. Or the sheer terror. 

It's been so long.

She’d failed her people, repeatedly. Thrice every year at least. And not only them.

And now the island belonged to the shadow, and blood of her people flowed down the streets, and her so-called-husband had doomed them all.

Why did she even come here? 

It was too late for signs, and yet, she begged for hope. Not for herself— she was old, and weak, and not worthy of the sceptre —but for Elendil and his people. Was he even alive anymore? 

She barely saw the road through her tears. Maybe for the better. The whole island was dying, she felt it in the tremors of the rocks, in the screams of the cracking land, in the smell of fire. 

“Please, keep him safe, somehow. He did nothing wrong. I—” She didn't have the courage to even accept her fate. The earth shook more violently and Miriel held on to the stone wall. “Please, don't let me fall into somewhere dark and close, and full of fire. Make it quick. Please.” 

She clung to the stone, too terrified to open her eyes. Elendil, at least Elendil— she cried, shaking, but the earth shook no more. 

Miriel swallowed. The stone was steady and the air smelled differently. She wanted to curl and cry, and surely there would be no signs, the island was dying—and if she wouldn't look she wouldn't be disappointed—but she'd spent her whole life not looking and—

She opened her eyes slowly and stood up. The sea on the west was tilted. No, it was a wave as big as the mountain itself. Bright in the lightnings, towering and cold. 

She walked on and the wave came to greet her.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 18: Dream

Elros fell asleep. Unlike Men, he was fully aware of this, but unlike Elves, he no longer perceived the warmth of his tent or the camp noises.

He was home, but it was not destroyed. Just empty. No people, no animals, no dust. Silence. 

Vingilot came to the shore—shining but carried by water, not by air—and Earendil left the ship. Even though it was just a dream, the lack of the gem on his forehead filled Elros with relief. 

His father's shape changed like a mirage, now resembling Elros’s own looks, but as a Man. 

“Why do you cry?” asked Earendil-Elros.

“Because I dream of something I cannot have.”

“‘Has been just offered to me’ is quite a peculiar definition of ‘I cannot have’.”

Dreaming Elros turned to the other one and gave him an angry look, but it had no effect. The phantom’s face was still his own, but also not his. And he was smiling. 

“Who are you?” demanded real Elros.

“A dream. Come.”

They entered a cave—the cave. The air still smelled of the sea.

“What do you see?”

“My past. My pain. A dome of stone. Splashing water.”

“What happens to the drops of water?”

Elros shrugged. “They land on the floor and on my shoes, and everywhere.” 

“And then?”

It was a strange dream, and not a very useful one. 

“They evaporate, I suppose.”

“Tell me, is water useless?”

Elros tried to wake up, but it was harder than usual. 

His dream companion—now looking more like a wisp of pink smoke than a person—stepped back. “Please, don't. I apologize for my directness, or maybe for my indirectness, but please, let me get to the point.”

Elros squatted on the ground, one hand in the water. The memories weren't as painful as he'd expected. He looked again at the visitor. “Fine. So what is your point?”

“I need you to make it. This is your dream, after all. So is the water useless?”

It felt like Maglor teaching him science. Boring. Frustrating. Pointless. Still much better than other things he'd brought into Elros’s life. And less complicated.

“Of course not. Water is necessary for life, and it's singing the themes of the Great Music, and seawater isn't good, but it evaporates and leaves the salt on the ground and then it condenses into clean water.”

“And still, stone is much better.” The visitor looked at Elros with a glint in his eyes. Was there a joke somewhere? If there was, he didn't care.

“It's good for building cities, but when you're thirsty…” He shrugged again. 

The visitor nodded. “Exactly. So why do you feel obligated to be a stone?”

Oh. So that's what this whole riddle was about. 

Elros stood up. “Listen, I don't know what I did wrong with falling asleep to end up here, but you're the most stupid dream I've ever had, and I've had many. To be a stone, really? Make it a pun on our names? As if it was just— water has no friends! Nobody to miss it when it goes away. Nobody who had already lost both his parents and then some more people to whom he shouldn't have gotten attached. To whom I shouldn't have gotten attached. I'm not even sure if it's more that I don't want them to grieve one more person, or that I don't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing yet another of Luthien's line dead... I can't. Even if it wasn't for them— I can't do this to Elrond.”

The visitor withstood the whole argument calmly, and bowed. He looked like an elf now, most likely a Sinda, but his hair had a pearl sheen and in his eyes danced clouds of colors. “I apologize. I have—that's not the best point in my life either. I'm usually better at this. Maybe let's go sit somewhere more comfortable?”

“Where?”

“You lead. It's your dream. I probably shouldn't have been so forceful before.” 

A tension that Elros hadn't noticed before loosened, and the dream became more bendy, as they usually were. He imagined them in a sitting room — not a memory, but something safer: a fantasy based on a painting. A bowl of fruit on a table, surrounded by wine glasses. Carved wooden furniture. 

The visitor took a small pear and bit into it. It smelled more lively than in most of the dreams. “You mentioned Lúthien…”

“She was in love. I have no good reason.” Elros looked at the fruit in the bowl. All of them were more detailed than he'd expected. Maybe it wasn't such an unpleasant dream after all. He would have to remember this room, it was a nice place to dream about.

“So, being in love is a good reason. What's a bad reason then?”

Elros shrugged. “It just… feels right. That's not even a reason. Not anything I could explain. What kind of reason is that?”

“So what kind of reason is it?”

“Foolish? Mine? Why are you so stubborn about it? Why am I —or whatever you are, whoever—why would anyone need that?”

The visitor finished his pear and looked at Elros. “I'm not saying that you should choose the fate of Men. Not this for it's own sake. But I'm saying: please, make the choice that your heart leans into. Are those two the same, it's up to you to tell.”

“They are. And yet, I can't. I can't do this to Elrond. To everyone.”

“And can you do to them whatever shall come from you making the wrong choice?”

Outside, rain started falling, and also in the room drops of water fell on Elros’s head and at his cheeks, fell down, and evaporated.

“And what do you know about any of it? Do you know pain? Do you know how it is to love someone whom you hate? To hate someone whom you love? Do you know death?”

The rain turned to hail, then to snow. “I know as much as you, Elros. Which is still too little, I'm afraid. And yet, we have to make choices. Even if they mean learning more of what we wouldn't want to learn. I wish I had more comforting words for you. I wish I could tell you to not be afraid. And yet, I am also in fear, because the world still hangs in balance.”

Elros looked at him, puzzled. “We won the war.”

“We won a war.” The snow stopped falling and melted, but black clouds still hung in the corners of the room, hiding behind shelves and curtains, twirling. He watched them for a while, until his face was dry again.

“My heart tells me to choose the Secondborn. And yet… What shall I tell everyone? How can I explain it?”

“Tell them what you told me. Your heart calls you there.”

“Will they understand?”

The visitor played with an apple for a while, then put it back in the cracked bowl. “I don't know. I hope your brother will—I believe that he will. Earendil almost chose the same, so I think your parents will too. And while the personal feelings of kinslayers are surely an important factor to consider—”

“Are you trying to provoke me to do it out of spite?”

“I'm trying to help you to choose freely.” The visitor smiled. “Well, maybe provoke you a little. I must admit that I'm not entirely displeased with the thought of a certain singer learning that some people actually can make difficult choices. But that's just a small and secondary benefit.

Elros stood up and came to the window. Behind it now was only darkness, pricked with stars. “I know what I should do. I simply don't want to have to handle what everyone does about it.”

The visitor put a hand on Elros's arm. “You can do it. Or at worst you can leave them and go for a walk. That's what I do when I can't handle more stupid people.”

“Fine.” He opened the window. I'll do it. I'll—”

He woke up with tears. Beside him, Elrond was also crying, but when he embraced Elros there was no anger in his touch, only sorrow.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 14: Fire

Some headcanons strongly assumed in this one.

Mithrandir rotated the ring on his finger. The moonlight reflected in the ruby, making it seem like a flame. Fire…

There was a Light he remembered but could not remember, it was incompatible with how he was now, like awakening and dream. Too large to fit in his mind. No, it's always been too great. But now even the memory of the experience…

Melian had warned him that being bound to a body would be difficult, but he hadn't expected to be so lost. And now Círdan had made it even more difficult.

The moon reflecting on the sea was silver, but Mithrandir’s thoughts — contrary to the name he had taken — were filled with red.

There was a flame he could, unfortunately, remember with more clarity, now it felt even more natural, and this worried him greatly. He turned away from it long ago, longer than time itself was long, and yet, the memory kept coming back.

Why, of all the things, did he always have to deal with fire?

There were fires he remembered from the War — so far changed from the gold-white brilliance they'd once been — hopefully all gone now, except for one beautiful flame that now rested, to rise in the next morning. Arien. One of the closest, and yet one of the first to leave. Where would he be now if it wasn't for her?

Somewhere less difficult maybe, but not in a good way.

Still, why did it always come back to fire?

Círdan stood in the door of his home. Mithrandir sighed and gestured at the bench, moving to the side.

“I left Glorfindel with some books,” said the shipwright.

“He's quite enthusiastic, isn't he? So full of light…”

Círdan smiled slightly. “Like a haystack, not like a hearth.”

They sat in silence for a while, as Tilion moved through the sky and waves roared. After a while, Mithrandir spoke again.

“You don't know how hot a hearth can get.”

“I know when I see someone who knows restraint. And you do have more experience than Glorfindel. Both with hearths and with hearts.”

“You don't know the nature of my experience!” Mithrandir turned to Círdan, facing him straight. His heart pounded.

“Really?” The elf was unfazed, even smiling slightly. “I'm just a simple elf, but I'm not blind. You came here, having put upon yourself more limitations than your colleagues, and yet embodiment comes to you so naturally that I'd never guess who you are had I not seen you arrive. Also, you feel more like a Man than like one of us. Can't sit straight, can't find a place for yourself. Full of fire. And now, instead of reading, or sleeping, or talking so much about animals that even Glorfindel looks quiet in the comparison, you brood alone in the night. Indeed, I do wonder what your experience could possibly be.”

Mithrandir sat deeper in the bench. After all this time… “I— didn't mean to brood. I'm sorry.”

Círdan patted him on the arm. “It's fine. Most elves brood too when they come here. It's the perspective of sailing. I'm accustomed to dealing with the mood of others. And I have to admit that I have deceived you a little.”

“About?”

“I don't think I would have noticed those signs, or understand what they mean, without some hints.”

Mithrandir closed his eyes. “Seaside dreams, I guess? But why—”

“Just some friendly gossip.” There was laughter in Cirdan’s voice, and a distant echo of a storm, but his face was serious.

“And yet you gave it to me.”

“Whom else?’

“Curunir. Glorfindel—experience can be learned. Anyone.”

The shipwright studied him carefully. “I have to admit, I did not know for certain where you came from when I made the decision.”

“Now you know. You can imagine what I could do with hearts if— You can imagine.”

“And yet, if the past allegiance had always been a good predictor of the present, the world would be much brighter and you would not need to be here now.”

Mithrandir pulled Narya off his finger. “And this would not exist. Tell me, how can two results of a wrong make a right?” He gave the ring back to Círdan.

“Are you certain?”

He nodded. The worst thing that could happen was another one falling into shadow. “Give it to someone worthy.”

The elf took it and nodded. “Thank you. I will feel better knowing that I gave it to you knowing the whole context.” He offered it back to Mithrandir. “As for how to make right out of wrong — you tell me. Not now. But I trust you will.”

“With who I am? Círdan, I begged not to have to come here!”

“And yet you came. You asked me to give it to someone worthy, but the worthy ones sometimes end up…” He winced. “I'd rather give it to someone who will use it to do good. Will you?”

Mithrandir bowed his head. “I'll do my best.” Slowly he took Narya back.

Círdan stood up. “Go get some sleep. You need it now.”

He did, and he dreamed of fire.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 11: Eagles

Warnings: some late Númenor, but not descriptive.

Tagroval landed on the mountaintop which still smelled of freshly-hewn stone, and, of course, of hallowed ground. Maybe rock would be a better word. Was rock a ground? Surely it was something to sit on. Below, at the roots of the mountain, Lady Yavanna and her Maiar planted the forest.

Yes, this would be a good place to live. Not as far as Middle Earth, but not in Valinor proper. Somewhere more quiet and a little more subdued.

He took to the air again, circling around the mountain, seeking a good place for a nest. 

Some years later — a dozen or two — a fleet of ships appeared in the distance, like a white flock, and it wasn't long until they landed. A multitude of Men came on the shores, and into the land. Their exclamations of awe rose into the sky. In a few years, they built the first cities, and a road to the mountain. Fortunately it wasn't too close to the nest of Tagroval’s family. 

One day the Edain came to the mountain: a perfectly silent crowd led by a descendent of Melian. There was something about them that felt both ancient and new, and none of the eagles dared to land. Instead they circled above, silently pondering what it could all mean. 

Since then the Men came often, but rarely in such a large and profound group. 

Years passed, the trees grew and so did the cities of Men, and eventually a new king led the procession. And later, another. Tagroval didn't pay much attention to those changes. 

On the distant sea, ships grew bigger and started leaving for long. He had to look really carefully to see them — visible only in good weather — at the distant shores in the east. Then a great war was fought there, but the eagles did not concern themselves with Middle Earth much, except to agree that they'd made a good decision to not live there.

People came to the mountain less often, and Tagroval appreciated the peace, but a shadow darkened his thoughts. 

The cities grew bigger and richer, and the Men became restless. They sailed back and forth, talked louder and often smelled of fear. One day a brilliant ship came from the West, and Tagroval saw glimpses of his friend, but they did not talk. The visit was short and focused on the king's palace, and the shadow thickened. 

Years passed and Men stopped coming to the mountain almost completely. They spoke to each other more angrily, and not in the melodic words of Sindarin. But the forest was still green and full of game.

The ships sailed back and forth, but most didn't resemble birds anymore, they were more like dragons — full of gold and yet greedy for more. The smaller, birdlike vessels sailed east from time to time, but never came back.

One spring a new king came to the mountain. His company was much less numerous, but his eyes were sharp almost like Tagroval’s and his heart willing to take flight — but too many burdens weighed him down and with each season he grew more tired. And the processions weren't getting any bigger. One day he did not come again. 

Not long after, the fleet went to war.

When it returned, the wind smelled of fire and Tagroval shivered in apprehension.

Soldiers patrolled the low part of the mountain road, and a new silver dome shone in the city. Nimloth screamed wordlessly in fire and soon many Men followed her. 

It was time to leave. 

Storms came and later earthquakes, and one day when a host of his brothers and sisters appeared on the horizon, Tagroval joined them, and with him all the Eagles of the island.

The fleet followed them. 

The Eagles flew back and forth, seeing, remembering, witnessing. The screams. The smoke. The laughter. The fleet. 

It finally landed and — like a rat into a nest of much nobler creatures, the king led his army into the white shore.

Unseen, brighter than Taniquetil, higher than the flight, both ancient and new — and the world broke. 

Somewhere beyond the storm a queen climbed, too late. 

Even further, a flock of ships took flight.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 9: Road

He should have sailed earlier. But when? 

(They should have sailed immediately when given the chance, but. Nelyo’s face warped in terror, his voice shaking, “Who knows what the Valar will do if we act against  them” — Nelyo had known for sure all the things they could do and many more.)

The sea roared. Was it anger or impatience?

The moon rose and the wind changed, bringing the smell of a distant storm.

So when? 

After Nelyo was …gone, when so many were returning? Maglor couldn't face their eyes, the judgment, the pity. Anyway they wouldn't probably let him anywhere near the ships alive. 

When Men left for their new home?

Elros had invited him to visit, to “help establish the kingdom” and the mix of hope, anger and determination in his eyes had been unbearable. Had he been hoping for Maglor to return home? Or to try and be slain for it? 

It did not matter anymore, Elros had long been dead.

The boat jumped on the waves and the wind grew stronger. Maglor shivered, but was it the cold or everything else? 

Should he have sailed after Elrond found him (Or: he found Elrond and his hidden home, somehow? He wasn't even sure which way it had been) and talked him out of despair and for a time it felt like home?

Should he have sailed when the world had changed and again many had been leaving, as if feeling the change and becoming afraid that soon they won't be able to? (Not Tyelpe. He had left the hard way, and Maglor hadn't even known back then that it was happening, but maybe it had been better this way.)

The stars disappeared behind heavy clouds and the western horizon blinked with lightnings. A drop fell on Maglor’s cheek, colder than a tear, and others followed it.

Should he have sailed with Elrond? Or at least meet him before he did? Maglor still couldn't decide what would be worse: if Elrond had asked him to go with him, or if he hadn't. As with all of his problems, he solved that one by avoiding it. And so Elrond had sailed without a farewell. 

Not that Maglor deserved farewells from anyone. Neither Elrond, Tyelpe, Elros or Nelyo. Especially Nelyo.

The rain grew stronger and he turned the boat back east, blinking away the rain and tears. The storm was a clear sign. He was not welcome to even try. So he would not. He never liked arguing with others’ opinions, and arguing with Lord Ulmo could not work anyway. 

The wind blew at his back, roaring with disappointment.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 8: Roads**

**Edit: I messed up the prompt, today it should be a different prompt, sorry, anyway it's too late to write a new one, so enjoy!

Elros climbed. He should have thought of himself as Minyatur now, but this name felt stiff, like new shoes not yet walked in enough. At least his actual shoes were comfortable, even on this long road, and the air was pleasantly warm, but not hot.

The road spiralled up, the lower part of it clearly visible, bright in the sun, descending into the still-worked-on main road that cut straight from the east to the west of the island. Andor was beautiful. And yet, there was much to do, and fairly so: if nothing had been left for their work, it would not feel like a real home build with their own hands.

His thoughts went to the white sapling he'd recently planted and named after his grandmother.

It was partially a coincidence, partially an expression of longing. He'd never met her. Nor his great-grandmother, obviously. Everyone said she had been beautiful. Everyone — well, all the Eldar — seemed shocked when Elros made his choice, and not even out of love. How could he explain to them?

And yet the plant — a little echo of the Undying Lands, a reminder of days when the world had been new — was immensely beautiful.

And yet it would die one day.

How did this thought come to him? But it felt true: an echo was not the thing itself, and the tree too belonged to the world of things that passed.

As did Elros.

But before that would happen, he had much to do. Build roads. Find a queen and raise a heir. See the white tree grow. Decide whom to hate and whom to mourn. Build more roads.

Now, he climbed.

Tar-Palantir descended from the tower. It took longer than it used to, and when he'd been there, his eyes grew tired of staring at the fog-shrouded sea quicker than he would expect it. His days were growing short and cold—just as the days of the year—and yet there were many things he needed to finish.

He shouldn't have started this melioration project, it became more and more complex as new problems arose — usually ones needing more gold from the treasury — and there was barely time for anything else. Yet, he needed that time. Maybe if he talked with Pharazôn again... He had been so sweet as a boy, there surely was something left of that... Maybe if he made more speeches to the people... Or lowered the taxes—but the roads—

"Do you need everything, my king?"

Tar-Palantir blinked. He had been standing with closed eyes again, lost in thought. "No, I—"

Something stopped him mid-sentence and —as they sometimes used to— words came to him. "It is close. When Nimloth dies, our downfall shall come."

It then left, leaving him lost and full of apprehension.

The White Tree had been there for nearly three millennia, how could it die? Hadn't it been a gift from those who do not perish? But Númenóre had been such a gift too. And yet, it wasn't free of death. Quite the opposite. Everything on this side of the Sundering Seas was doomed.

No, there had to be hope. Somewhere. Some day.

But his sight was not keen enough to pierce thorough the fog and Tar-Palantir was left shivering in the darkness of a cold autumn dusk.

It was so high. Aragorn was accustomed well to heights and to contasts of temperature, but not so to stunning views. And definitely not to seeing white towers, now intensely repaired, and green hills cut by roads, and knowing he was— he was the king of this land.

And yet, was he? Or was he just a pretender whose claims would fade with his death?

Arwen wouldn't come, surely, he asked for way too much and it was not the time of legends anymore, it was the time of Men and the Fourth Age was dawning and yet he would not choose any queen from the race of Men unless— but surely she would not.

A forest filled his imagination and someone danced there, bright and beautiful and beyond—

Aragorn shook his head and resumed the conversation with his companion.

As he turned at Mithrandir's request, just at the edge of the snow he saw a sapling, its flowers as white in the sun as the untouched snow, its leaves silver like a memory he had no way of remembering, and its smell, the cold, the mountaintop above him— Aragorn halted.

"You can proceed," said Mithrandir softly.

The king took the sapling carefully and turned back to the lands—his lands—below.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 24: Reprise

No warnings, just attempts at translating Latin terms into Sindarin purely because I can. (Not the kind of Latin terms you would most expect in the context).

Laughter and lanterns filled the hall, one echoing, others split by gems and glad into rainbows and reflections. Despite the night outside, Finrod felt almost as if he was back in the happier times. Or at least in a memory of them.

The feast seemed successful: every major group had sent some representatives, even Thingol (though it had required some diplomacy), and only the two most level-headed sons of Feanor came. So far, everything went smoothly.

So far.

It would take long before the idea of a feast would not fill him with apprehension. And yet, his uncle — his High King— had organized one and it worked. So far.

Finrod passed through the crowd, snippets of conversations floated around him: not exactly noise, but still a form of chaos.

“Like athradil, is it not?” Daeron came closer, and Maglor with him. Those two looked as if they were having an argument, but they were only upset, not angry. Good.

Maglor made an expression that for a Sinda may have been nothing, but for a Noldo he could as well have rolled his eyes.

Finrod tried diplomacy. “I see that you have been discussing musical concepts of both our cultures?”

“Musical?” Maglor asked. “They don't even use proper chords.”

“They just think about them differently, but—”

Daeron spoke at the same time. “Maybe you can explain to him—”

They both paused and apologized to each other for the interruption, and then Finrod spoke again. “The athradil is a Sindarin form of polyphony. There is a base melody, the lindog — taglinn, if you prefer to use the usual word order, I'm sorry, I've learned much of the words from Lúthien — it has to be a complete melody in itself, begin and end on the origin, plus some more detailed rules, irrelevant for now. One person sings — or plays — the taglinn, and another joins and sings… you would say: harmonizes to it.

"But again, it must work well as its own melody. This, and the further lines, if you add more, is called the athradil. It does result in chords, but the Sindar like to emphasize the particular melodies being beautiful on their own.”

Maglor looked at him with forced patience. “And how would thinking in chords make it any worse, except the fact that the Sindar would have to learn mathematics?”

Finrod forced himself not to sigh. “It would lessen the focus on individual melodies, but yes, the result is similar. When you hear it, it's often impossible to tell in which way it was composed. The Sindar even use the same rules for allowed and disallowed intervals that you stated in your book.”

“Of course they do, those are simply the rules of music! They're universal.”

“I'm certain that in a proper context, with wide enough voicing, some of those rules could be, how to phrase it... That even a tone apart could work.”

Now both Maglor and Daeron looked at him with indignation. Finrod smiled in his mind, because improving the relationship between the Feanorians and the Sindar mattered more than the details of music theory. He always sang from his heart anyway — like the Teleri — and the results, while not great, were good enough.

“Well, maybe one day you shall manage to do that and invent a whole new kind of music. Then I'll change my mind.” Maglor looked at Finrod with a challenge. Daeron nodded.

“I didn't say that I'll do it, only that it maybe could be done. Maybe. I'm trying to stay open to possibilities.” Finrod smiled widely, feeling mischievous. “Now, of you excuse me, I'll leave you two to your craft.”

He kept circling among the guests. It was late in the night, close to the morning, and he hadn't rested in a few days. There were people to talk, diplomacy to do, and Finrod was effectively the lord of his father's people here… But he was also tired.

The voices around him mixed with memories. Like athradil, indeed.

“...it's getting late, if we want to have a good look at the Sickle, we better hurry. Soon it'll be dawn.”

“...one day, I wish to build a kingdom like her, my own home, reminding of the beauty…”

Maybe Maglor had been right, maybe he should be more serious? More like a proper Noldo, and less like his mother. Maybe. But Finrod had had enough seriousness on the ice. Every moment he could spare for a whimsy felt like a treasure.

“...the Khazad are mining it, they work it into intricate…”

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Turgon approached him from behind, carrying a glass of wine, almost orange in the lamplight. It felt wonderful to see him smiling again.

All the people, all the voices, mixing, mingling, all the lights… Finrod needed a rest. “Beautiful, indeed.”

And yet, he kept glancing through the window, at the graying sky. The guards were all at their places. Good.

Why couldn't he trust in happiness? Should he?

Even after twenty years, each morning he felt relief when the sky brightened. Nobody stole the sun yet. Good.

Fingolfin discussed something with Mablung and a few others over a map. Logistics… Finrod would have to go and have an opinion about it. Later.

He was so tired. He slumped in a chair and remembered home, so far West, but his mind went to the cloaked figure and his words. Would they really never return home? They did want to leave, but not forever…

…the green lands of Aman, never fading, never withering…

…but the figure — Finrod didn't want to admit that it had been Lord Námo himself — had said that the Valar would not listen to the prayers of the Noldor, and yet— He looked again at the hall, seeking the patch of copper, and there he was, talking with Fingon, eating an insanely sweet Vanyarin dessert made of caramelized milk, so very alive.

So, if this prophecy had proved untrue in part, maybe— maybe.

Maybe one day they will come back home, triumphant. Maybe one day the spider-infested wasteland will become green again. Maybe. May it be…

…He should have gone back with his father. But who would lead the people then? They surely wouldn't all come back too. And yet, it felt like father had been right. Father didn't have to deal with the Feanorians. Father didn't have to go through the ice. Father didn't have to lie to Thingol — well, not really lie, but the omissions felt bad enough.

Well, there was no point in thinking about that now. Maybe only to think more the next time he would decide to follow an insane plan, and not do it. Or at least make sure what he really wanted to do.

He remembered the crowd with torches in the darkness, the passion… Feanáro… A spirit of fire he'd been indeed. And now he was dead, consumed by flames.

Did Nerdanel even know that she was a widow? How much did anyone back in the West know nowadays? She'd always been so kind to all the family… it must have been very hard on her when they left…

…and yet, Finrod could not regret it. Maybe it was just the Telerin unwillingness to regret what could not be changed, maybe it was more. They had left, for better or for worse, and what would come of it? He doubted he would live to see most of it.

Would he even live to see the Men? They have allegedly awakened — but the information came from the least trustworthy of sources — and Finrod was curious. The Valar said they would not win this war, but maybe with new, unpredictable allies… who knew?

He drifted deeper into dreams and memories.

…his mother, on the ship, barely aware of all the political turmoil among the Noldor…

…Taniquetil, bright in the Treelight…

…Amarië in the garden, laughing, waiting…

On the outside, Maglor and Daeron came near him, still discussing chords and melodies, and which of those was the proper way of looking at music… stupid question. Music was not to be looked at, but to be listened to. And sung. And was older than books anyway.

The sun rose and the sudden warmth felt like fire.

And yet, in his dream he was in a starless forest full of snow and wolves. The ice howled at him, and its laughter sounded like swords and chains.

“It's going to be a long night,” Finrod said into the darkness. “But eventually, the day will come.”

A single star appeared in the sky.