Drabblucious!
Oct. 26th, 2005 12:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dawn_felagund posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
silwritersguildGenerally, I do a daily drabble based on the word of the day, leading me to have quite the collection of drabbles and versions thereof. And so here's a new one and some of my old favorites.
Title: First Day at the Forge
Rating: General
Notes: Written for the New Beginnings challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
drabble_madness
Fëanaro stared up at Aulë’s forge. He was still young enough for his hair to curl around his ears, to require reaching up to unlatch the gate. His hands hadn’t yet learned enough sense to tremble at so prestigious an appointment.
Aulë’s other apprentices—Maiar with coppery skin and eyes like the sparks off a flint—watched the newest of their number, an Elf-child no higher than their knees, stride up the path. Could hands so small, ensconced youthful softness contain the fate of the Noldor? As Aulë had said?
When they looked into his burning eyes, they believed it.
~oOo~
Title: At the End of the Day
Rating: General
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
allie_meril
The words on the page are as fuzzy as the clouds, where I wish I could dwell instead of here.
My ears feel stuffed with cotton—but yet, I hear a harper in the street, a wren trilling, the summer breeze in the oak outside.
I force my eyes to focus on books until tears burn my eyes, but the smell of roses means more to me than the ancient tales of heroes.
At the end of the day, I am a disappointment.
At the end of the day, my father kisses me goodnight and says, “Arafinwë, I love you.”
~oOo~
Title: Nargothrond
Rating: General
I close my eyes….
It is warm here, not like being clutched in stone but more akin to lying in the grass on a warm summer evening. The wind wraps me, carrying to me the sound of music….
It does not crash into the walls, where it is wounded and falls screaming to my ears. It entwines with the air, with the wind, with my heartbeat; it embraces me—all is one here.
I smile.
The fountains laugh.
I join them.
There are stars here, brighter than any I have ever seen, strung in the shapes of imagination. I see a bear! I see a maiden standing beneath a waterfall! Eager fingers prod the sky, tracing the dark spaces between pebbles of light. My hand lifts to hers; they converge, pale fingers entwining against the spangled-silk sky, as her lips press my neck.
In Valinor…?
Nay. Nargothrond.
I open my eyes.
The passages before me are raw and dark. Water plunks somewhere, a harsh rhythm that makes me want to cringe and stop my ears.
She is in Valinor. I am here.
I should despair. I would despair: But for the potential I see.
The wind whispers, behind me: Nargothrond.
~oOo~
Title: To Wander Home
Rating: General
Warnings: Character death.
I.
The air is a patchwork of sound: of the screams of the gulls, of the susurration of the sea, trying to shush us—or drown us out. The wind slithers between it all, whispering or howling or roaring, sometimes rousing the sea to cacophonous anger.
Tentatively, I add my voice to it, until he comes along.
All falls silent then: The gulls settle upon the mirrored sea—halcyon and silenced—and the wind holds its breath. We listen.
His voice rises. It shapes the silence into mirages that burn behind eyes pinched shut. I want it to end—and not.
II.
But not this day.
This day, he arrives, barefoot and in the tattered clothes of a common Man. Silence, like a shroud, falls over the beach. I watch. I listen.
But he does not sing.
He falls to his knees in the sand. The sound of a heartbeat, a whispering breath, of tears dropping to the sand—so deep is the silence that these things ripple the air between him and me. And then
they stop.
I flutter to him, my bird’s heart trembling in my chest, to see the soundless smile on his lips.
And eyes that look West.
~oOo~
Title: The Price I Paid
Rating: General
Warnings: Violence and character death.
I. Angband
The air of Angband screams as the whip rends it, to fall across my back, unzipping my flesh with only a whisper. For I do not--will not--scream.
I have lost count of the marks upon my flesh, a body that has become but a wound. The smell of my fetid flesh—rotting upon my back—comforts me at night, for it convinces me that I have not yet died. I live still, to complete my quest, to recover from Morgoth the Silmarils.
Another scream and a whisper—and tears spring to my eyes.
It is worth it.
II. Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Who would have thought that grief would become a banality?
Who would have thought that we—the People of the Light—would cease to wonder at tears, would cease comforting those in mourning. No one stops to wonder why a general as stoic as I falls to his knees among the dead and weeps, why—silently—I strike with my blade at the cloud of vultures, decapitating one and leaving its blood to mingle with yours, in senseless anger, for it does what it must. As do I.
And so I sacrificed my greatest friend. Why?
For Light.
III. The Chasm
I hold it, at last, this treasure of my father’s. The Light of the Trees, we’d believed we’d pursued, but this does not do them justice, this gimcrack bauble sizzling in my hand.
It does not soothe; it burns.
I see now why the Valar had been puzzled by Atar’s reluctance to relinquish it.
They think pain of the flesh is unbearable? Laughable!
And I do: manic, agonized laughter that stabs the air. Blades, whips, hammers rending flesh; the dizzying circles of carrion birds: These were the prices I had paid. It is not worth it!
And so I fall.
~oOo~
There are lots more where those came from, but I'll save them for another time. (Although, if you're masochistic enough, I have all of my daily drabbles tagged here.)
Title: First Day at the Forge
Rating: General
Notes: Written for the New Beginnings challenge at
drabble_madnessFëanaro stared up at Aulë’s forge. He was still young enough for his hair to curl around his ears, to require reaching up to unlatch the gate. His hands hadn’t yet learned enough sense to tremble at so prestigious an appointment.
Aulë’s other apprentices—Maiar with coppery skin and eyes like the sparks off a flint—watched the newest of their number, an Elf-child no higher than their knees, stride up the path. Could hands so small, ensconced youthful softness contain the fate of the Noldor? As Aulë had said?
When they looked into his burning eyes, they believed it.
~oOo~
Title: At the End of the Day
Rating: General
Notes: For
allie_merilThe words on the page are as fuzzy as the clouds, where I wish I could dwell instead of here.
My ears feel stuffed with cotton—but yet, I hear a harper in the street, a wren trilling, the summer breeze in the oak outside.
I force my eyes to focus on books until tears burn my eyes, but the smell of roses means more to me than the ancient tales of heroes.
At the end of the day, I am a disappointment.
At the end of the day, my father kisses me goodnight and says, “Arafinwë, I love you.”
~oOo~
Title: Nargothrond
Rating: General
I close my eyes….
It is warm here, not like being clutched in stone but more akin to lying in the grass on a warm summer evening. The wind wraps me, carrying to me the sound of music….
It does not crash into the walls, where it is wounded and falls screaming to my ears. It entwines with the air, with the wind, with my heartbeat; it embraces me—all is one here.
I smile.
The fountains laugh.
I join them.
There are stars here, brighter than any I have ever seen, strung in the shapes of imagination. I see a bear! I see a maiden standing beneath a waterfall! Eager fingers prod the sky, tracing the dark spaces between pebbles of light. My hand lifts to hers; they converge, pale fingers entwining against the spangled-silk sky, as her lips press my neck.
In Valinor…?
Nay. Nargothrond.
I open my eyes.
The passages before me are raw and dark. Water plunks somewhere, a harsh rhythm that makes me want to cringe and stop my ears.
She is in Valinor. I am here.
I should despair. I would despair: But for the potential I see.
The wind whispers, behind me: Nargothrond.
~oOo~
Title: To Wander Home
Rating: General
Warnings: Character death.
I.
The air is a patchwork of sound: of the screams of the gulls, of the susurration of the sea, trying to shush us—or drown us out. The wind slithers between it all, whispering or howling or roaring, sometimes rousing the sea to cacophonous anger.
Tentatively, I add my voice to it, until he comes along.
All falls silent then: The gulls settle upon the mirrored sea—halcyon and silenced—and the wind holds its breath. We listen.
His voice rises. It shapes the silence into mirages that burn behind eyes pinched shut. I want it to end—and not.
II.
But not this day.
This day, he arrives, barefoot and in the tattered clothes of a common Man. Silence, like a shroud, falls over the beach. I watch. I listen.
But he does not sing.
He falls to his knees in the sand. The sound of a heartbeat, a whispering breath, of tears dropping to the sand—so deep is the silence that these things ripple the air between him and me. And then
they stop.
I flutter to him, my bird’s heart trembling in my chest, to see the soundless smile on his lips.
And eyes that look West.
~oOo~
Title: The Price I Paid
Rating: General
Warnings: Violence and character death.
I. Angband
The air of Angband screams as the whip rends it, to fall across my back, unzipping my flesh with only a whisper. For I do not--will not--scream.
I have lost count of the marks upon my flesh, a body that has become but a wound. The smell of my fetid flesh—rotting upon my back—comforts me at night, for it convinces me that I have not yet died. I live still, to complete my quest, to recover from Morgoth the Silmarils.
Another scream and a whisper—and tears spring to my eyes.
It is worth it.
II. Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Who would have thought that grief would become a banality?
Who would have thought that we—the People of the Light—would cease to wonder at tears, would cease comforting those in mourning. No one stops to wonder why a general as stoic as I falls to his knees among the dead and weeps, why—silently—I strike with my blade at the cloud of vultures, decapitating one and leaving its blood to mingle with yours, in senseless anger, for it does what it must. As do I.
And so I sacrificed my greatest friend. Why?
For Light.
III. The Chasm
I hold it, at last, this treasure of my father’s. The Light of the Trees, we’d believed we’d pursued, but this does not do them justice, this gimcrack bauble sizzling in my hand.
It does not soothe; it burns.
I see now why the Valar had been puzzled by Atar’s reluctance to relinquish it.
They think pain of the flesh is unbearable? Laughable!
And I do: manic, agonized laughter that stabs the air. Blades, whips, hammers rending flesh; the dizzying circles of carrion birds: These were the prices I had paid. It is not worth it!
And so I fall.
~oOo~
There are lots more where those came from, but I'll save them for another time. (Although, if you're masochistic enough, I have all of my daily drabbles tagged here.)
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