Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J. R. R .Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters that belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at this website, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
Rating: This collection of drabbles contains texts with possible strong but non-explicit adult themes, references to violence, and strong coarse language. This drabble collection is therefore not suitable reading material for children or teens below the age of 16.
Elves through the Ages
– A Collection –
Preface: A “drabble” is a short piece of prose of exactly 100 words. A double drabble (exactly 200 words) is a “drouble”. A “tribble” has 300 words. A “quabble” has 400 and a “quibble” 500. More than that and you’ve got yourself a “ficlet”.
Drabbles and any variations thereof that are posted here were counted with MS Word.
Music of the Ainur
As the flame roared higher, the music expanded into the void.
As light and sound met, matter condensed. Born from fire and song, Arda grew into lands of greens and blues, fields and forests, mountains and glens.
Hand in hand, the Ainur gathered to sing life into form and shape.
From the music, words grew: a story.
The plot thickened and there was love in Arda, honesty, valour and dreams.
But then Melkor’s discord struck and destroyed that heavenly harmony.
Now there was hate, disrespect, loneliness and strife.
The way the world is today.
But still the Ainur keep singing.
All You Have to Give
“Mark my words; he will obey to no orders or pleas. Words of advice will be to him like wind in the trees! Yet on him and the strength of his sons the fate of the world will depend.”
The gaze resting on her womb was heavy. She felt her very breath pressed from her lungs, the energy of life drained from her limbs.
She realized that everything she had to give and more was demanded of her.
“Are you still willing to bear him?” The Vala’s expression was inscrutable.
“Yes,” she whispered. But her eyes were full of tears.
To Honour Elbereth Gilthoniel
“What is that?” The elven woman looked at the object on the table.
It looked like an anvil. It was roughly the size of one, too. But it was not made of iron. It consisted of a crumbly, partially blackened substance, and it was covered with something…
“That is a cake,” Nerdanel declared. “To honour the Lady Elbereth for the spring festival. It even has icing on top!”
The mother knew better than to hug her fierce daughter. But she laid her hand on the elfling’s head in a loving touch. “And what a well-forged cake it is, my dear!”
Once he made up his mind, no diversion would distract him from his goal.
It was the night of the spring festival. He watched the forest trail and waited.
Tonight he would lead her to his bed. Tonight he would feel her pure body writhing under his. His eyes flashed like heated steel.
Suddenly she was there. It looked as if she had stepped right out of the mist drifting up between the trees. She was soft, like the mists that parted around her. But she was also fiery, like the stars in the sky.
“Nerdanel! You look beautiful tonight!”
“Rats!” she exclaimed. A long day’s hard work and she wasn’t any closer to the completion of her chore.
Granted, working ceramics was not her favourite way of working.
Given, that this task was indeed a challenge.
However, she of all Elves really should be able to …
But whenever she tried to mould the frame of her husband’s naked body, her attention …
… strayed …
… wandered …
… distracted by strong forms, long lines …
Her cheeks burned with the memory of last night…
Disgusted, she threw her down her attempt at capturing a fiery spirit.
“I just can’t do it. He’s simply beyond me!”
Fire and Water: For Allie
Metal and stone are my tools. Fire and water to temper the steel. Whetstone to sharpen the blade. The blade to carve jewels.
Without fire and water, heat and cold, no blade will be hard and sharp and beautiful.
Yet like weds like.
And yet… what is a sword without a jewel in its hilt? A ring without its diamond?
I stare at my father. Stubborn.
I feel Fëanor’s gaze upon me. There is steel in his eyes. I will be the fire and the water to temper this steel.
“I will have him,” I say. “Or none!”
Luceo, Non Uro? – When Fires Burn and Lights Go Out
All words were lost now.
She knelt in front of him. She reached for his hand. She wanted to beg and plead – if not for herself, at least for her sons.
But no words would come to her.
Nor tears. (Not yet.)
She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. She searched for the fire she knew so well, from long labour and longer love, shared and shared again. She reached for the spirit that had once held her spell-bound.
But there was no more magic.
She found him subdued, defeated, withdrawn. A mere shell of the fiery spirit she had loved. He did not meet her gaze, instead looked down on the joined light of their wedding rings. The light, reflected on his armour, made it glitter in the blood-red flare of the torches. He did not move. He did not take her hand. He did not cry.
He would leave her.
He would leave with his head held high, with his eyes blazing, his expression stern, his posture unyielding.
His spirit filled with fire once more.
A fell fire.
A fire that would burn his heart.
And the lights of their rings would shine no more.
She got the cheese out of the cupboard. There was no limit to her grief. She put the cheese on a plate. If she let go of her grief, her tears would never stop. She got out a knife. He had made that knife. It would never lose its edge.
Her blood would be very red on the edge of that knife. Crimson pearls on silver… like precious jewels…
Nothing was precious anymore.
Music drifted into the room from down the road.
She picked up the tray. She forced a smile. Mahtan, her father, was waiting in the living room.
“Well, at least you have kept your figure,” the Vanya told her. “Even if you did not keep your sons.”
It was not the arrogance of that comment that hurt her.
It was how off-handedly the shape of her life, and her love, were wiped away.
Unconsciously, her hand crept to the gentle swell of her belly. She caressed her womb, trying to rediscover the shapes of her sons in it, the way they had ripened within her, safe and sound, before life and their father had ripped them away from her.
“Yes,” she replied. “That, at least, I kept.”
Cold Like Fire
White and pure, she had always imagined ice floes to be. And easily floating, delicate wonders of Eru’s design, the sweetest of waters, solidified, swept up by the bitterness of salty floods below.
Now here she was.
The ice shone green and black and blue, grinding and moaning, breaking under their feet. The air so cold it burned her lungs like fire.
Now she was here.
Fell deeds and fey oaths had led them forth; no less than fitting that they should not find purity here, to cool and soothe their angry spirits. Just reward, to meet a cold that burned as true as the fire that had sent them forth.
But here she was.
She was here. Tears froze into glittering pearls around her lashes, her eyes gleamed green and blue like the ice to her feet. Too many were not. Faltering spirits or failing bodies had sent too many back from whence they had come, houseless fëa born crying on the icy winds. Yet she was still here. Every careful inhalation sent a sense of prickling exhilaration coursing through her body.
She was here.
She had reason for hatred now, where once there had been merely a faint distaste born of envy. She had reason for a bitterness now as bleak and grinding as the ice of the Helcaraxë. Yet she felt it not. If anything, she felt a strange kinship to that spirit of fire who had led them forth and abandoned them. She shuddered. Had she been in his stead, would she have stayed her hand in time? Or would she, too, have sealed the destiny of her people, as he had done?
But oath or no oath…
Here she was.
The icy cold of the far North suffused the woman who would once be called Galadriel. It roused in her a fire equal to the one burning in the soul of the High Prince and self-proclaimed King of the Noldor. Her feet did not slip as she moved along on the ice. Ice that was black, blue and green, with shards that tore through her shoes and coloured her foot prints red with blood. And though the fire of the North made her spirit burn, it did not consume her.
For while her fire was fey and fierce, it was a cold fire, this fire won in the North, on narrow painful paths through the grinding ice of the Helcaraxë. Paths that would be found only twice in all the long ages. Once by a spirit of shadow, once by a spirit of light.
Under the silver moon, their trumpets finally rang out in triumph. Echoes raised of unholy cries were lost amid the golden ululations of the Noldorin fanfares. Her soul answered the song of the trumpets. The air was wild and free and sweet. Wide lands beckoned. Destiny waited to be made her own.
Her heart beat heavily.
Cold fire glowed in her eyes.
She was here.
Thank you, Fëanáro.
Eärendil tried not to show fear, as the elvish guards led him to stand before the thrones of his judges. He hoped that they would not notice the way his hands trembled. He hoped that they did not see how he had to fight to hold back his tears.
Please, he thought, let me go home to see my wife again, and my sons!
But when he faced the Valar, standing alone in the square that was Máhanaxar, the only thing he said was: “Please, save Middle-earth!”
He remained silent, even when the ritual words of his sentence were proclaimed.
Lice, Edar and Edain
It was a dirty war. There was no other word for it. It was a dirty war and an ugly war.
Seven years in the dust and the stones of the plains of Gorgoroth. And still there was no end in sight.
Eldar and edain, side by side, in the tents and the trenches.
Eldar and edain… and the damn louse did not know the difference…
Gil-galad scratched his behind with a vengeance. Ahhhh… easy does it… The elf-lord sighed deeply with relief.
This only shows, the elf mused, that all of us are Eru’s children, Firstborn and aftercomers alike.
The objective was so clear in the beginning: get back the silmaril, restore the light of the trees, heal what was marred.
The reason was beyond any doubt. Evil must be defeated – and they had the courage and the weapons to see to that.
That was why they swore their oath.
That was why they declared themselves exiles.
That was why not even the lives of their kin could hinder them.
So many deaths lay between the oath and today, so many tears had been cried since Alqualondë …
Objectives and reasons were hazy today.
And Arda Marred – home.
Sing Me a Song, Love
“Sing me a song, love, for my heart is weary and yearns for the sea.”
“Would that I could, love, but my heart is wearier and never will long for the ocean again.”
“Tell me a tale, love, for my heart is heavy and bleak like black swans.”
“Would that I could, love, but my tongue is heavier and I will lift it no more.”
“Kiss me goodbye, love, for my spirit is drawn to Aman’s sweet dawn.”
“Would that I could, love, but for us it’s farewell. My lips turned to dust, love, my spirit fled from its shell.”
Farewell or Goodbye
He had imagined a clear morning.
He had thought he would rage and scream and collapse.
After all, he would lose what was most precious to him in his life.
But now, that the time was here…
It was a soft evening in autumn with mists swirling around the quays.
It was impossible to follow the course of the ship even with his keen eyes.
After a long time of standing there in the haze, he finally turned around. He returned home before nightfall. He entered the house and gently closed the door on the darkness
– and the pain.
“Greetings, my lady,” he said lightly.
He had heard about her. A war-leader of the Noldor, a magician of unfathomable powers… and, he realized, as he looked at her now, an extremely beautiful woman.
He offered her both hands in the gesture of greeting traditionally exchanged between Sindarin leaders.
She met his gaze without hesitation.
Her eyes shimmered in an almost turquoise shade like exquisite jewels. There was power in her gaze, cold and heat, intelligence and temperament. But there was more to her, he suspected. A hint of shadow? Sadness? Grief? Loneliness?
She touched his hands.
“I am Galadriel.”
A Safe Haven
“His fleet got ditched. Completely, I tell you!” The little elfling was almost jumping up and down in his bed, filled with sheer unlimited enthusiasm.
The twins had spent the day playing with small wooden boats in the shallow waters at the banks of the Bruinen, getting themselves and their mother completely soaked in the process.
Elladan lay facing the wall. It had been his fleet that had suffered a defeat of epic proportions. It was a miracle that his glare did not bore a hole into stones and mortar.
“Aren’t you at all sleepy, Elrohir?” Elrond’s voice was patient.
“No, not at all,” was the prompt answer of the youngster.
His father only shook his head. “Lie down and be quiet, or there won’t be any tale tonight!”
Elrond turned to his other son, who was still sulking in silence. “What do you want to hear about tonight, Elladan?”
Reluctantly Elladan turned around. There were tales he wanted to hear and tales his father would tell. But there was one story he had always wanted to hear, and which had always been denied.
“I would like to hear about our grandfather and how he reached the haven of Alqualondë,” he suggested hesitatingly.
His father sighed. But when Elladan was already trying to come up with another idea, Elrond sat down next to the elder twin and laid his hand comfortingly upon the small, bony shoulder of his son.
“Very well. But only if Elrohir lies down this instant and promises to listen quietly.” A raised eyebrow and the prospect of a story told never before were enough to calm down even this recalcitrant elfling.
“Once upon a time, there was a mariner called Eärendil,” Elrond began and hoped that his sons would not see the tears in his eyes.
Home of the Heart
“Recite to me verses of Aman,” he asked. “Aman, the Blessed Realm, the Undying Lands, our home beyond the Sundering Seas.”
Tradition demanded that songs were sung tonight: of Aman, their home, and of their guardians, the Valar.
At first his sons’ voices were faint and hesitating, then, as they realized he would not interrupt them, they grew brighter and clearer with growing self-assurance.
Yet they had never seen Aman.
It was invisible to their hearts.
He heard it in their voices.
He saw it in their eyes.
And if he was honest, it had become invisible to him, too.
Crouching Elf, Dreaming Peony
He slouched with an almost catlike grace next to the sultry flowers. His raven hair flowed over his naked shoulders. They shone like ivory in the westering sun. The heavy blossoms seemed to strain towards him, to caress him in pinks and violets and breath-taking purple, breathing their summer scent onto his skin.
But he was oblivious to that touch.
His fervour, his attention was completely captured by the one in front of him.
He exhaled ever so softly, allowed himself to fall forwards –
and expertly caught the frog that he intended to place in his brother’s bed that night.
He was young and only half-elven, so at times he still slept like a human, with his eyes closed, his soul adrift.
But even then he knew he was dreaming.
He knew it was a dream when he felt the hand of Glorfindel’s niece reach for his clothes and pull at his laces. He was certain it was a dream when he felt her hand on parts that had known no one else’s touch for three decades. He was almost sure that it was a dream, when she closed her fingers around his length.
Her hand was hot and tight and his mind reeled.
This could not be a dream!
He was helpless as a pressure slowly built up inside him, a power beyond thoughts and dreams, a fire that burned his body and his soul and suddenly – suddenly – exploded, exploded in a burst of inexplicable delight that left him weak and spent.
Elrohir opened his eyes and found himself strangely light-headed, but awake, with his hand curled around his softened member, his fingers wet and slick with a strange white substance.
He sat up in his bed, his heart racing. He stared at his hand and wondered why he felt so strange, at the same time exhausted and exhilarated.
What kind of dream had that been?
Confused and embarrassed he washed his hands and his body. He had to find his brother! Elladan would know what this meant! But when he opened the door, he found himself staring into a face that mirrored his own bewilderment and mortification.
“You, too?” he asked.
Elladan nodded wordlessly.
Glorfindel – whose keen ears had heard their nightly sighs – watched the two pubescent elves and suppressed a sigh and a smile.
He had better go to them now and explain their discovery.
Arwen cautiously sidled away from her father’s desk. She looked at her ada out of the corners of her eyes, at the same time anxiously and guiltily – and yet, there was a wicked gleam in her eyes.
Would he notice the parchment with her artwork soon? Would he like it? Or would he yell like mad?
She was not quite sure what reaction she preferred. But she waited eagerly for whatever reaction she would get.
An hour later a roar shattered the quiet of Imladris.
“WHO IN ERU’S NAME PAINTED MULES AND MONKEYS ON THE REPORT FROM MINAS TIRITH?”
A Homely House, A Happy House
It was the sound of laughter that woke her.
Her home was a happy house, but the weight of the past and the future rested on it; a sombre responsibility at the best of times.
Now, her doll clutched firmly in her arms, Arwen followed the sound of laughter. But when she reached the Hall of Fire, the room was silent.
Arwen’s eyes grew very round. Her Ada was standing there! He was going to sing!
Much later, strong arms picked up an elfling who had fallen asleep hidden away in a corner and carried her away, back to bed.
“This will forge a bond between us that can never be broken,” Elrond said and gently placed the cradle onto the tabletop.
Celebrían looked at him, her hand resting lightly on the sweet swelling of her stomach. How she hoped his words would prove true!
Yet she knew that their bond would never be complete.
There was friendship between them, yes; but not the love they had dreamed of and he knew that, too.
This way, she thought, one of us will be able to fight on, no matter what happens.
For the freedom of Middle-earth she would sacrifice everything.
Love of my Life – A Galadriel Drabble
This midsummer’s night held the promise of new beginning.
How many of these nights had he seen in his life?
He could not remember. All his centuries had been busy, filled with the comings and goings of Arda and her endless battles…
He was tired. Yet he could not give in to this fatigue; not while his wife laboured on, undaunted, determined to keep an oath she had not even sworn.
So he renewed his oath, just like every midsummer’s eve since he met her.
To have and to hold, from this day onwards, until her white ship would sail …
The Gulf of Lhûn
“The river of Lhûn is born of three springs. Two are nourished by the blue glaciers of the Ered Luin. The third wells up in the Emyn Uial, the twilight hills of Evendim. Beyond Mithlond the river widens to a fjord and between Forlindon and Harlindon it spans a hundred miles: a gulf. With a surprisingly blue colour for this grey northern clime.”
“Amazing that you remember, after such a long time.”
“Not very amazing. I met your mother there, before the days of the Last Alliance. And her eyes were just as blue as the water of the gulf.”
“You will find him changed; you might not even recognize him from my description,” Elrond cautioned his daughter.
Arwen glared at her father. As if she would not recognize her foster-brother… She might have not seen him very often, spending most of her time in Lothlórien. But not recognize him? Unthinkable.
“Don’t make such a fuss, ada,” she retorted. “Of course I will know him.”
When Aragorn stood in front of her, she did recognize him. She knew she would recognize him anywhere, anytime. And that was a change that made her catch her breath in a deep, surprised gasp.
Aragorn rode into the small copse and dismounted. Rivendell was a day’s ride behind him. Not far enough.He clenched his fists. What could he do, except comply with Elrond’s wishes?
Aragorn understood the righteousness of it. He accepted it.
A life for many lives. A life for a world saved, for a throne won.
His heart said this was more than just. The same heart that could not bear the thought that his love would one day kill his beloved. The same heart that was determined to win that prize nevertheless.
Who was he to know what was right?
A Midsummer’s Night
It was midsummer. The night was hot and heavy with sighs. A breeze sighed down from the mountains and raised goose-bumps on his naked skin.
If he had the permission …
If wishes were horses …
She would be on the terrace now and dance with her hair flowing in the wind …
He sat alone in the shadows. Never had a night seemed longer! Never had a night stirred his blood like that!
But he knew he had to wait.
Many years would come and go, ere his midsummer would be complete, ere he could woo and wed the one he loved.
Eärendil’s Memories: Seen From Afar – a drabble and a half
He stared off across the sea. With every grey wave he watched washing up against the remnants of the quays, his memories wandered back farther in time: back to bleak-bright days witnessed from afar.
The days of Eregion in bloom: red berries bright against gleaming, dark green leaves – brilliant golden rings held in a hand blackened by fire.
That was the way Celebrimbor had come into the history of Arda as well: idolized his skills and his love, brilliant against the darkness of his forge and the shadow of the deceiver, gleaming just like his rings in the dark ashes of his forge.
That was also the way Celebrimbor was carried out of the history of Arda: bright-white in the darkening sky with his broken body wound around the standard of Sauron.
He had not been there.
But he had seen it, from afar:
bleak-bright days of Eregion in bloom.
The trees of this foreign country did not know him – he could not tell if that saddened him or relieved him. However, the watchfulness of the dark crows wheeling above them definitely did bother him.
During his watch Legolas moved uneasily among broken boulders that might have been buildings once. As he placed his hands on the stones, an icy draught swept through his hand. He drew back quickly. He knew it was only a ghost of an ancient time; but the pain he felt was still real and perhaps would never fade.
This was Hollin that once was Eregion.
Dawn of a New Age
“Ázenya, great-granddaughter, let me sing to you, as you lie slumbering in your mother’s womb.
“Let me sing of your mother’s people, the people of the stars.
“Let me sing to you, of the blossoming of two trees and of the burning of white ships!
Let me speak to you, of dark times and happy days and one golden ring!
Let me whisper to you blessings in two languages that you will never speak!
“When you burst forth from this cocoon of loving flesh, shine brightly, áze-anar, dawn of a new age. And know that I love you, even now.”
Ázenya áze + nya – my daylight
An Obscure Paradise
With every step into the caves, the elf grew quieter. His eyes, used to tracing the light of dewdrops caught on gossamer, delved deep into soothing shadows. His ears, accustomed to the warble of woodland birds, became attuned to the echo of crystal-clear water dropping to shape shimmering stalagmites. His heart, normally speeding up at racing the wind over wide plains, began to beat heavily at columns of green beryl aglow in the flickering light of Gimli’s torch.
“You were right,” he said at the closing of the day, his voice filled with astonishment. “This is indeed an obscure paradise.”
Arwen stared at her two daughters – identical twins with the same dark hair and grey eyes as their mother – and sighed deeply.
With perfect synchronicity her daughters had fouled up their diapers.
Arwen was weary to her bones from endless nights of jumping to the needs of her pretty daughters. Now they stank to high heaven once again and screeched like rusty doors with annoyance at their condition.
Sighing, she picked her daughters up to take them back to the nursery for a new set of diapers.
“Next time I want them house-trained at birth,” the queen of Gondor muttered.
Sunshiny Maiden: Galadriel
How would it be, their reunion, he mused. Would she be fierce, the way he first knew her?Or would she be sombre as he last saw her?
He hoped that during the century of their separation the blessing of Aman soothed her pain. He hoped that his own sunshiny maiden would welcome him on those white shores.
Thus he spent the weeks of the voyage: hoping.
The ship puts to shore, his hope is put to the test.
A shout of joy, a rush of air – golden curls flow over his arms and hot lips search for his.
It had not been easy to gain the golden-haired elf’s attention. In the end, the young elleth mused, only her prowess with bow and arrow had made Legolas notice her.
But now she was down on the ground, pinned under his body. He grunted, adjusting his position. She flailed her arms helplessly as he tightened his grip.
Then, at last, when she thought she could bear it no longer, her time came: she delivered a kick into his groin and was back on her feet.
Galdhremmin combat practice made her ready to take on almost anything and anyone – even Legolas.
What’s-His-Name (Legolas drabble 2)
“Look, that was really not necessary,” Legolas hissed at her.
She stared at her training partner, trying to keep calm. She would never admit it, but now that she finally had caught the attention of this aloof elf from the distant realm of Eryn Lasgalen, she was nervous.
“I was taught to use the most effective means at my disposal in close combat,” she replied.
“Yes, of course, but…” He seemed rather angry. “Who are you, anyway?”
She frowned at him. Sometimes those Mirkwood elves could be so infuriating!
“Don’t you think you should tell me who you are first?”
Off on a Tangent
Bow, arrow, aim – only with practiced power, true mastery is gained. Impatience will lead the arrow off on a tangent. A bow held with too much power may snap.
He – curved inwards ever so gently, the perfect bow, smooth and shining, crowned with a milky pearl. She – arching her hips, opening herself to him, wishing to draw the tangent of his arrow to the aim of her desire.
He reached below her, cupped the sweet swelling of her buttocks, braced, thrust, power perfectly controlled.
The arrow flew true.
Together they came, their shared aim reached easily in this desirous game.
He embraces me.
A thousand lifetimes and more this jewel owes to me.
My sons it owes to me.
My happiness it owes to me.
Yet I hesitate in reverence in its clear, heavenly light.
As I look at it, I am reminded of the legends that have become tradition among my people.
Can it be true that it holds the last rays of the trees?
I will never know. I have to be content to bury my face against the chest of my lover.
Elwing and Eärendil.
A bird and a man.
United once more.