Into Darkness [Silm|Feanor]

He knew he had died before he was dead, which was quite a strange notion. He had seen the horrified looks on his sons’ faces, had felt his strength leave him. He had known the exact moment when his heart stopped beating and when his body crumbled into ash, to be blown about by the wind.

And he had known the exact moment when he understood that Morgoth would never be defeated by the Noldor. The curse that had escaped from his lips was filled with all the hatred and anger from the depths of his heart.

And then he was gone.

Curufinwë Fëanáro stood on a raised platform, surveying the long line of dead Souls. The line was straight, leading directly into large chamber. That was, he knew, where Mandos resided. That was where they were all going.

And that was where he was not going to go.

He would not go there for the Vala to tell him of his mistakes. He will not go there to receive punishment for the deeds he had committed. He would not go there to be told that he was wrong, and his life had been wasted, and everything he had done was for nothing.

And he would not be treated like a child.

Looking around, Fëanáro saw red walls, red floors and red ceilings. He saw the lanterns that bathed everything in an eerie glow. He saw the red light encompass all that was not yet crimson and turn them into statues of blood. He knew Mandos was taunting him. He was not going to fall for it.

Ignoring the flight of stairs leading down to the dead, Fëanáro turned and exited through a corridor behind him. It was flanked by the same repulsive red lanterns and seemed to stretch on for eternity.

All he could see was blood. Blood of his father, blood of his kin, blood of the Elves who had followed him from Tírion that he had selfishly left to die.

Fëanáro gave a cry of fury and struck one of the lanterns on the wall, stifling the flames of the candle. It was satisfying to see that the redness of the corridor had dimmed, if only slightly. He kept walking, blowing out the fire as he went and leaving a trail of darkness.

One by one the lanterns went out, until Fëanáro suddenly stopped in his tracks. A dead end. One lantern yet remained undimmed, its light flickering like a desperate flame of life. He pushed on the wall that blocked his path, snarling with rage, and yet it remained there, resolute.

Cursing hopelessly, he turned around to go back the way he came.

Only to find a long passageway of darkness.

Nirnaeth Arnoediad [Silmarillion]

Depicting the scene of Fingon before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad  (Battle of Unnumbered Tears) when he marches to war. Seen in eyes of young Turin son of Hurin. I may have gone overboard with the description a little, but it doesn't matter.

He saw tall lords upon majestic horses, mail glittering like the sun on rippling water. Heads held high, spirits soaring, they march upon their steeds, towards battle. The points of their spears glistened and shone, their shields dazzled when the sun's rays hit. Tall and proud were the Elves under the High King, and strong and brave and hopeful.

Spears they held, and banners too. Bright blue banners under a blue sky, banners of the High King, of the renewed hope of the Noldor. And so they march, eyes ahead, dark hair flowing freely under their shining helms. Bright smiles on their flawless faces: smiles of hope, of the future, of an end to this war.

The vanguard passed, their banners fluttering in the breeze. Then came the main escort of the High King, taller and sterner than the others. They drew themselves up, proud and cold, but their faces reflected light and kindness. Leading them was the fairest and tallest of all: the King himself, sword buckled in at his waist, sharpened spear thrusted into the air triumphantly. Then in one flowing motion, he lifted a hand and tore his helm off, his long hair flowing freely in the breeze. His eyes shone with a fiery light as he looked towards the horizon.

A new day had come. And with it came a new hope.

So I wanted to depict a scene where Elves were... well, very obviously Elves. Not humans. I wanted to show them almost as angels, something higher than Men. Because in all honesty... that's what I see them as xD Comparing them to us is a bit degrading. For them.

Socks

This is to make up for yesterday xDDD
---

Manwë was not a happy Vala.

Now, one could think of a whole lot of adjectives to describe the Lord of the Breath of Arda, but 'unhappy' was not usually included in those lists. Those lists usually include holy, magnificent, merciful, great, kind, and good-singing-voice (of course, these lists were also usually made by the Vanyar). Manwë rather liked being praised. But not today. Today, he was unhappy.

He had woken up in the morning and did all his usual morning activities, and then noticed something. Lucky hat, check. Shirt, check. Pants, check. Shoes, check. Socks, uncheck, not that he could uncheck something that was never checked in the first place.

"Manwë, dear,  you look different today," said Varda Elentári, when he came down to breakfast that very morning. She looked him up and down, and frowned. "You're not wearing socks!"

"Yes," said Manwë, who wasn't pleased nor proud of this fact. "Indeed. Have you seen my socks, dear?"

"I saw several pairs yesterday," Varda replied. "Are you sure you don't have a single pair?"

Manwë shook his head. "Not one."

"Well, I'm sure Vairë could knit another pair for you, if you're lost them all."

"I haven't lost them!" protested Manwë.

"I'm sure Vairë could knit another pair for you, if you can't find any," Varda rephrased.

Manwë nodded, and went to find Vairë.

--

The Halls of Mandos were just as dark, dangerous and threatening as they were a few hundred years ago, when Manwë had last visited. He tried to avoid the place as much as possible, of course. The last time he had come was a curious case of a beautiful Elf who wanted to become mortal, which was strange. Something about her beloved husband, a wolf, and a Silmaril. (Manwë was really only paying attention to the Silmaril part of it).

The Valar pushed open the door and almost immediately crashed into an unfortunate fëa who was trying to escape.

"Ow!" said Manwë, who couldn't feel anything due to the fëa being...well, a fëa. He thought he'd better say 'ow' so that the fëa would feel better, as if he had a real body.

"Ow!" said the fëa, who had crashed right into Manwë and unfortunately couldn't go through due to the Vala being...well, a Vala.

"Are you alright?" asked Manwë kindly.

"I just crashed into the brother of the Vala who stole my most prized posessions," snapped the fëa, who was Fëanor. "Of course I'm not alright! Now, if you'd kindly move aside to show how sorry you are, I may forgive you for this act."

"Oh," said Manwë. "Well, have you seen my socks?"

"No, I have not seen your Eru-forsaken socks-- I mean, if you will move to the side and give me enough space to just squeeze through this door, I will be able to tell you where your socks are, O Holy Great Magnificent Merciful Kind Lord of Arda."

Manwë quite liked the sound of that title, so he shuffled aside to let Fëanor pass. But the fëa shot through as soon as there was enough space and flew off, cackling, into Valinor.

In an even worse mood than before, Manwë shut the door behind him and went to find Mandos.

--

"There is a problem, Mandos."

The Doomsman sighed. "Who has escaped now, Manwë?"

"Oh, actually." Manwë swallowed. He had just been about to tell Mandos about his socks, but he supposed that an escaped Fëanor was more of a problem. "It is Fëanor."

"How?"

"I, uh, opened the door and he escaped. Why couldn't he open the door by himself?"

"The door could only be opened by Vala."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Well."

"Has someone else escaped with him? Curufin, perhaps?"

"Oh, no. It's just." Manwë wondered whether or not to tell Mandos about his socks. Perhaps he should just go ask Vairë directly. But he had no idea where she was.

"Manwë?"

"Mandos?"

"Why are you not wearing socks?"

Gil-Estel

Elwing looks up at the night sky, and sees the Star of Hope.

She is sitting on the beach in Alqualondë, the soft sand beneath her toes, her hair trailing behind her. She sighs, and lies down, and now her hair fans out like a beautiful shell, and she herself looks like a crab of swirling colours.

She blinks, taking her time, and then settles her attention on the Star once more. It twinkles down at her--only her, after all, it is meant for her--and she can imagine her husband aboard that ship, looking down at Arda with a fond smile on his face. As if he was no longer part of the world. As if he did not mind.

She smoothes out her flowing dress, and draws a star in the sand. She knows that he can see it, even if no one else can. But her hands keep moving, and there is not only one star, but people too. And houses, and weapons, and fire climbing up the ships, and furious Elves and sharp, bright spears. And two children. Her two beloved children who she had to leave behind.

Elwing stares at the picture she has drawn, then the tide comes in and takes it away. She closes her eyes to hide her tears, but she knows. She knows that he can see them, too.

Eärendil.

---
It's strange, because I dislike Elwing.

I will come back [Silmarillion]

Title: I will come back
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Character(s): Ereinion Gil-galad, Fingon
Warning: Spoilers for character deaths (and the Battle of Unnumbered Tears...)
Based on: A picture on deviantArt by kittykatkanie titled 'I will come back for you'. It's so cute and sad D:

I looked up at atar, then at the bearded stranger behind me. Then back at atar, who was smiling. He was High King now--his crown did nothing but make him the more beautiful, skin glowing like a pale flame, and stunning midnight black hair. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

"Ereinion," Atar said to me, "for the next few years, Cirdan will look after you. Is that okay?"

I shook my head. No, it wasn't okay at all. Where was atar going? Isn't atar coming to live with us? What about amil? But I didn't say anything. To be completely honest, I didn't want to know.

Atar sighed, and knelt down so that he was my height. "Ereinion," he said again, looking me in the eye, "you are still young. You do not understand. Out there is war, and pain, and suffering. People are dying every day. I do not want you to be one of them."

I shook my head again, vision blurring with tears. "But what about you, atar? Why don't you come with me? I don't want you to die, too."

He smiled at me, but it was a sad smile. "My people need a leader," he said, and I could tell that he was proud to lead the Noldor. "I will guide them. I am High King now, I have a responsibility. So please, Ereinion..." He picked me up and stood up, hugging me. I latched my hands behind his neck. My tears fell, unhindered, as I sobbed into his shoulder.

"Don't leave...atar..."

"I will come back for you, Ereinion."

He set me down and left, just like that.

I never saw atar again, though I still remember what he looks like. How my hand ran through his soft hair. How he outshone even Arien in his brightness. How his eyes glinted with pride, and yet were darkened with sorrow. And those who escaped from the Nírnaeth Arnoediad tell me that he fought proudly, to the end, and enemies fled before him, and none could match his prowess.

And I wept as Cirdan set the crown of the High King on my head.

Fading [Silmarillion]

Title: Fading
Fandom: The Silmarillion/The Lord of the Rings
Spoilers: The Silmarillion (a few deaths of the Noldor)
Characters: Maglor. Mentioned in brief in order: Finarfin, Fingolfin, Fingon, Finrod, Galadriel, Celeborn, Celebrian, Elrond
Other: I am not at all pleased with how this turned out, but whatever. I use Quenya names because I like them better, and Maglor probably still thinks in Quenya.

Maglor looked down at his hand, and was surprised to find that he could still see it perfectly. It had not faded at all in a thousand years--ah, but of course it has. It was his own eyesight alone which could still see himself. No one else could spot him in the trees.

Fading really wasn't so bad. It gave him a lot of time to think. He couldn't change the past--he tried not to think about the past at all. Instead, he wondered towards the future. Not for himself.

The last of the Elves had set sailed for Valinor. Arafinwe probably still ruled Tirion, unless Nolofinwe has demanded Kingship. And by now, his cousins would have been let out of Mandos. Findekano, always Nelyo's best friend, would be reunited with his son. Findarato would walk with his father. Artanis and Teleporno would have found Celebrian. And Elrond...

Maglor shook his head. He tried not to think much about Elrond either.

He took a few steps and knelt down beside the Anduin, the mighty river which once bordered Lorien. The men have begun building their domain. Lorien is silent, Imladris is silent, but Minas Tirith stands, taller and prouder than ever.

There is no place for Canafinwe Macalaure. But then again, there never was.