Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: The Shipwright Shrugs (#4265)
Author: KittOtter
Chapters: 5
Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: Short whatnots and nonsense about CÃrdan, spanning from Cuiviénen to Forever.
5 -- Waiting: Nowë makes four promises to his brother. 500 words fixed length.
Published: 25 Jul 2010
Updated: 19 Aug 2012
Warnings:
Type: Humour
Characters: Cirdan; Thingol; Sauron; Yavanna; Finrod
Chapter 1 - Rhyme of the Finwion
Thingol muddles the Noldor lords’ disturbingly similar names. Diplomatic ruin? Not with Círdan to the rescue!
___
“I did it again. It is nauseating.” Thingol rubbed his brow. “I sent my good wishes to Fingon on the birth of his son.”
“Quite gracious of you!” said Círdan. “But does politeness always cause you nausea?”
“No. It is because in the message I named Fingon Finrod.”
“Ah.”
“That is not the worst. Fingolfin, Finarfin. Which is husband to Eärwen my niece?”
“The latter, I believe.”
Thingol waved his hand. “And once I summoned Aegnor and Angrod and named them Amras and Amrod.”
Círdan tsked.
“It’s their names. So many and so alike! It gives me a headache.”
“If you’d only get out more often… but I know you won’t… Actually, I have an idea.”
Círdan left him.
And three hours later he returned, his silver hair frizzled and his fingers stained black.
“Rhymes fasten to the mind, yes? Well then, here’s the solution to your problem.” Círdan pulled out a slip of paper, cleared his throat and began.
These are the sons of Finwë:
Who was a great king-y
(To rhyme with Finwë)
Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin
(The Ar that married Eärwen).
Fëanor’s sons are seven:
A bothersome brethren
(You say)
Two are the M, three are the C,
And two are the A.
Of the A’s (they say)
They Am.
Fingolfin’s sons are two:
Fingon, brash and blue
(Not in skin but in emblem)
Turgon, cloistered and can-do
(There’s spatty Aredhel too)
To them, be Gon
(Say you).
Finarfin’s sons are four:
Finrod, Orodreth, Angrod, Aegnor,
And Artanis, the daughter
(She listens at the door)
Rods they do not abhor
(Save poor Aegnor).
And that is the house of Finwë
The sons are far too many
So if still you can’t recall,
Don’t be cross
(Applause).
Círdan looked up.
The king’s head rested on his fist.
“That was awful.”
“Sorry.” Círdan dropped the paper on Thingol’s knee and went to lunch.
Thingol waited till the Lord of the Falas had shut the door. He took up the paper and began to study.
These are the sons of Finwë…
Chapter 2 - Nowë’s Ark
It’s the War of Wrath. And Yavanna has a wee little job for Círdan…
___
Yavanna looked on the marching host of Valinor and the shuffling hordes of Angband and finally on all Beleriand, trembling, cracking, and smoking under their feet. She pouted.
To Manwë she said, “You know how the Children have all been called to the shores and carried thence away from battle. But the birds and beasts and crawling things have had no such chance for flight: to the north are ice and our Enemy; to the east are mountains of terrible height; to the south are forest and rivers impassable; and to the west are the perilous waters. Let me call them to the sea and aid them, those who will answer, for not all are under Melkor’s shadow.”
And Manwë answered, “Yea, I will grant this request. But tell me, to the sea you will call them, and then whither and… how?”
“I have considered this,” she said. “And I thought of procuring the help of that shipwright whom Ulmo speaks of so often and lengthily.”
And to the Isle of Balar she ran.
Now, the shipwright was taking his afternoon tea upon a pavilion, when his young lackey burst in quivering and making sounds with no words. A lady, radiant in green-spun, strode in at his heels.
The shipwright set his cup on its saucer. “Who is your friend, Galdor?”
“Ya. Ya. Ya,” said the servant.
The lady stepped forward. “I am Yavanna.”
The shipwright stood and bowed.
“You are Nowë?”
Nowë lifted his chin. “I suppose.”
“I have a request.”
“Anything.”
She related her concern to him and then said, “I understand you build ships.”
“A hobby, my lady. One that’s expanded of late. We’ve harvested the untouched timber of this isle and Nimbrethil to build up our fleet, for we foresee a need in the future.”
“Then have you a very large ship, say.” Yavanna stretched her white arms wide. “Like so?”
“Near,” Nowë shrugged. “And just finished. She is named the Massive. I’ve never constructed one of her girth that sunk not.”
“Excellent,” said Yavanna and she told the shipwright what to do.
Yavanna and Nowë and a crew of three set sail on the Massive, north along the coast. Night and day of the voyage the Vala-queen sung. The song never repeated. It sounded both piercing and soft, sometimes almost a roar, other times an almost inaudible hum. On and on as they glided further north. Finally and too long postponed it seemed, her voice faded and she directed them to a likely spot to set anchor.
Yavanna crossed to the shore took up her song once more. The days passed. Nowë and his crew of three felled trees and built a wharf to set the Massive beside. All the while Beleriand trembled, cracked, and smoked.
At last they set in the last plank, and on cue Yavanna blinked and said, “There! I’ve called them. Let’s see who will come.”
Nowë and his crew of three were only too pleased for a break. Absorbing the quiet, they sat on their wharf and munched biscuits.
But a sudden rush of wind and cloud enveloped them. They beat the air, blind and aimless. They only knew that their biscuits had been spirited away. The cloud wheeled over their head and they saw birds of every color, length and temperament: owls, ravens, and gulls, sparrows, nightingales, and hawks, doves, swans, and shrikes. And their count was growing. Nowë’s three companions fell into the water with shrill cries.
Nowë, however, stood on the wharf and rubbed his chin.
The three crawled sputtering to the beach. But only to come nose-to-nose with a bear tribe. And beyond, harts and their does. Wolves and sheep, moles and mice, serpents and toads, otters and boars, bees and beetles. And their count grew as Nowë and his three-man crew locked themselves in the ship and watched.
These creatures had heeded the Vala-queen and had been given speed and sense to answer her. And perhaps, Nowë thought, also a love for gossip. Their growls, mewls and cheeps drowned even the voice of the sea. The shore had become a shifting mass of eerie shapes, grotesque and noisome like a host of goblins. Nowë and the three mariners slept not a wink.
When Nowë believed the shore must surely buckle, Yavanna said, “They’ve come, all who will.”
The three crewmen sprang to their feet. Nowë forced on a face of joy, and they lowered a plank to the wharf.
The birds, the beasts, and the crawling things boarded at Yavanna’s command. They spilled into every corner. They filled every surface and every perch. Nowë and his crew exchanged glances as slowly the flea-harboring tide rose above their knees, then to their waists. The whole shore emptied into the ship and in came Yavanna last of all.
Nowë’s three mariners found themselves jammed into walls or under creatures of various weights. But Nowë had better luck, for he had found a box to roost on. And not alone: a fox sniffed pair of hares by his shoes. Nowë snatched them into his arms. He turned to shoo a goat’s maw from his cloak and even as he brushed it aside, a squirrel scrambled up his sleeve. He felt pricks on his leg. Ants had found his shoes to be a suitable place to start a home.
“I am curious, my lady,” said Nowë as he swallowed an ouch, “how shall we feed them and keep them?”
“They shall sleep till we reach our journey’s end,” she smiled. And she sang her song of sleep and the birds and beasts and the crawling things dropped where they were.
Nowë set the dozing hares down against the fox and tripped to the helm with Yavanna.
His three crewmen were emptying their pockets of mice. They removed tails and talons from the moorings and cast off, glancing for a final time at the trembling, cracking, and smoking land where they had been born.
The Vala-queen, yawning now too, stood beside Nowë as he piloted the Massive back south.
She spoke without ceasing of the mission’s next phase, but the shipwright listened neither to her nor his three mariners nor the thunderous snores of the birds, beasts, and crawling things.
“How,” he pondered, a small crinkle on his nose, “will I get this smell out?”
___ ___ ___
The Massive – name stolen from the flagship of the Irkens in Invader Zim.
Nowë – Círdan’s prehistoric name from The Peoples of Middle-earth, “Last Writings.”
Chapter 3 - Lavender's Blue
Círdan chats with the blue-eyed, perfumed ex-lieutenant of Morgoth.
___
Ereinion paced his friend’s study, pausing to glare at the rain hitting the window. He muttered, “Asking for my audience. The sheer impudence.”
He turned to his sole listener.
“It wouldn’t be right to meet him. It would look like I’m sanctioning him.”
Círdan grunted. For four days clouds had burst and for four days he had been moored to his chair. His feet itched for the shipyard. He’d constructed a ship in his mind, more slender, faster and stronger than any before, or so he supposed. He’d not the opportunity to envision its niceties. That morning Ereinion had arrived in Mithlond and had talked ever since.
Ereinion looked back out the window. “Maybe the rain will drive him off.”
“I doubt it,” said Círdan.
“But I would like to see him, just to get a better measure of him. Not to sanction him, you understand.”
“Of course,” Círdan said faithfully.
“But if what I’ve heard is enough… and not those praises of his wisdom and charity. He appears suddenly, with no one to vouch for him except himself… and all these young ones listening to his promises of wisdom and glory like that in the days of the Trees over the sea… forming cults and I know not what… it all smells wrong! No! No concession should come from me, it would be twisted.”
“Elrond saw him in Eregion,” Círdan pressed. Ereinion was besieged by his generous nature. He disliked passing judgment, though once he did, he did not waver in its execution. Círdan hoped he could tip him over that edge.
“Elrond. His kindest words were--” Ereinion cleared his throat. “But now I’ve come to my point. What have you to say about him?”
“Nothing substantial.” Círdan yawned and stretched his legs. “If the matter bothers you so much, I will go.”
Ereinion frowned.
“I can settle both our curiosities without causing a fuss – I am not a king and the youths ignore me.” Círdan added, “I’ll wear a disguise.”
“You and your disguises! Well,” Ereinion began and lost the course of his thought. He began to tap his right elbow with his left fingers, which was a hopeful sign.
“Whatever answer your wisdom demands you to give to this fellow, someone must deliver it. Besides, young one.” Círdan stood, towering over the other by an inch. “You should show deference for your elder’s whims.”
Ereinion stepped back, as though overcome with terror. “Very well, grandfather, go! Use your judgment. Tell that charlatan to leave or return to tell me how wrong I was. Lord of Gifts indeed!”
As soon as his horse could be saddled, Círdan galloped from the harbor-city, now Aerdin, an inquisitive elf of the havens. The rain pursued him every leg of the journey, beating the roads into a thick black sludge. His splattered mount soon ran through its whole library of equestrian epithets. The deluge only let up when he came to the bounds of Lindon.
Ereinion had forbidden Annatar’s stepping inside Lindon. Perforce the king’s law, Annatar’s camp sat not in Lindon and neither outside, but right on the line between two border stones. And right off the road, it was hard not to miss. The tents were huge and luxurious, numerous enough for a small and well-fed army. Throngs of elves scurried about, fetching this, doing that, talking to whomever. There were overwhelmingly young Noldor of Celebrimbor’s folk, though he saw that some, by their dress, were pilgrims from Lindon. They took his horse, who gave a thankful whinny. Then they showed him to the grandest tent and told him to wait; Annatar was engaged.
Very, very engaged. Círdan stood ten minutes, rocking on his toes, saddle sore and pasted with mud. Even the spares in his bag were mire-soaked. Ulmo, of course, had a pitiless sense of humor. Finally he sat himself on the corner of a crimson and gold pillow, feeling unwanted in the fabulous but symmetric display of cushions, rugs, and urns, all glowing with jewels and brilliant textiles. The dyes on the cushion he was ruining likely were worth more than his house in Harlond.
Musicians stowed away in a corner plucked gently at strings. At one point, maidens in borderline modest dress served wine. Before sipping, he inspected the cup, a weighty silver thing crusted with glittering stones.
“Charlatan,” he thought, mimicking Ereinion’s word. “Well, these are real.” He clicked his fingernail on the gems.
The splendor of the tent began to make him dizzy. He shut his eyes and went over what he knew of Annatar. A lot of nothing. Of him even Ulmo had said “who?” His chin nodded. The skeletal hull of his dream ship soared over him.
The flap rustled. Círdan cracked his eyelids and stretched to his feet.
And he gawked. Annatar had a commanding presence. Tall and well-built. His hair was wavy and dark, spilling around his shoulders, giving off a blue sheen in the lamplight. His pleasant face was beardless; under his smiling lips, the teeth were white and straight. He was wrapped in blazing blue cloth, cut in the latest fashion and matching with eerie precision his sapphire blue eyes. His hand sparkled with rings and his head provided space for a thick circlet shaped like a ring flowering flames.
And Arien above! He smelt of lavender.
Círdan proffered a hand. Annatar gave the mud a quick survey and daintily, keeping his long blue sleeves clear, grasped it. Annatar spoke first.
“Aerdin, is it?”
“Yes. You are, I suspect, a busy fellow. I wished only to meet you.”
“A pleasure,” Annatar purred.
“Congratulations on your new situation in Ost-in-Edhil,” Círdan continued. “Most impressive. Celebrimbor must think well of you, and he’s no fool. If he’s any flaw, it’s that he too greatly loves his tongs and hammers.”
A humble dip of eyes. “Lord Celebrimbor was insistent.”
“Still, it is singular.” Círdan beamed. “Celebrimbor is notorious for taking only the best into his forges and it’s unheard of for him to give an outsider reign of his smithies.“ The maidens poured two new glasses of wine. “One does not reach the top of the pillar on one’s own. May I ask how you came to it? I’ve never come across your name before; perhaps you were known by another...?”
“One turn deserves another,” Annatar said sweetly, taking up his wine. “First, who in truth are you? We cannot speak meaningfully without some trust.”
“True,” he acknowledged with a tilt of his glass. “Aerdin is a name from suspicious times. I am Círdan and Nowë Enel’s son. All my identities, the ones I still remember.”
“Still, your history is longer than mine. I have but one name in Middle-earth. I was long a student of Aulë.” And he told his short history in long words. He’d arrived with the host of the Valar and remained when they recrossed the sea. He saw the scars the War had left on the land and its people and pitied them. “My teaching from the Blessed Realm,” he concluded, “can help you who have, and rightly, not abandoned Middle-earth.”
The shipwright nodded. “Admirable.”
“Círdan, you are closely allied with King Ereinion,” Annatar’s purr quickened. “He makes no secret of his unwelcome to me and my disciples. So why do you come then?”
“I was bored.”
Annatar blinked, then slowly bared his magnificent teeth. “As I asked. Yes, you are honest.”
“I so dislike falsehoods,” Círdan lied.
“Alas, there have been reports tossed about that I’m a cultivator of many falsehoods,” Annatar said as one who has suffered long and accepted it.
“Jealousy and gossip ever drift in success’ wake.”
“Success? False rumors have done much to hinder real success, the healing of the land.” The sapphire eyes were earnest and kindly. “That can be amended. Please tell your king so.”
“Ereinion is not my king. I am independent, only caretaker of the havens. I do not speak for him.”
The blue eyes narrowed, though the smile did not falter. “Do you not wish to be your own king?”
“No.” Círdan laughed. “Too much work.”
“I cannot blame you.”Annatar sipped his wine, nonchalant. “But I can help you and your mariners too, by whatever title you call yourself. You’ve doubtless heard of my offers? We can make your havens fair, like Alqualondë or Tirion, fairer even.” His voice was a song without a perceptible beat. Círdan suddenly found he could not take his eyes off Annatar’s pleasant face. “With the support of you and the High King – for great is his influence and respect – all elvendom can share the fruits of my teaching, and our labor together could heal Middle-earth, cultivate it glorious as Valinor, as it was meant to be…”
Annatar’s voice swathed over his ears; Círdan could not without a struggle separate his thoughts from the other’s words, telling of pearl beaches and white cities, silver streets and glittering fountains, gardens that never browned and birds never ceased to sing.
Círdan’s eyelids fluttered… really, the smell of lavender was too strong… the music too sweet… the wine too warm… A beautiful white ship rocked in a golden bay embraced by green hills. His ship, a perfect ship, that he could not build in a hundred attempts, not without aid...
“…It is as the Valar desire… I’ve this task to accomplish. You understand that, of course. What do you say?”
A girl topped off his cup.
“H’m,” said Círdan.
“Yes?” Annatar’s amulets and bracelets clinked as he leaned forward.
“Sorry! I said, ah.”
Annatar took to his cushion again and repieced his smile. “You are a practical man,” he said. “You must think I am more word than deed. Allow me now to present you with a tangible argument.”
Annatar motioned and a youth came forward holding a small chest, itself a masterwork of wood and bronze. He opened the lid and immersed his hand into the contents. Cling! Cling! Cling! Through his fingers spilled splendid chalices and circlets, rings and brooches, all, he claimed, fashioned by himself and his apprentices as gifts for the High King.
“Not only the cutting of gems and shaping of metals do I teach,” he said, setting the chest before Círdan. “Wood, stone, water, the domination of any substance you could desire.”
Círdan darted his gaze over the chest but did not touch it. “Impressive, but my people have no need, really. We’re satisfied with our crafts. We find pleasure in conceiving the ever greater ship. And no sea wall of mine has fallen yet, barring the unconventional disaster; Finrod of Nargothrond gave us a satisfactory store of knowledge in masonry.”
“One can always improve on knowledge.” Annatar smiled wide, making full show of his straight white teeth.
“Yes,” Círdan matched his smile tooth for tooth. “But not from you.”
A fire flashed behind the blue eyes, or Círdan imagined. At second glance, they were clear and kind as a rainless spring sky.
“I am sorry to hear it. Well! Say not Annatar has not attempted to be gracious. Is Ereinion Gil-galad’s wish still for us to depart?”
“Afraid so.”
Annatar’s grin slipped. “Then we’ll be off tomorrow.”
“No need to hurry,” said Círdan.
Annatar gave him a quick if courteous boot out the tent. They both forgot about the chest of gifts.
A day and a bath later, Ereinion looked him over. “Well? Have you been converted? Poisoned? A dagger in your back?”
“Not like you to assume the worse. Of course I wouldn’t have exposed my back,” Círdan sniffed. He recounted the whole interview. The High King listened, leaning close, actually beaming to hear justifications for his decision.
When finished, Círdan collapsed on his chair and muttered, “White teeth, white ship… yes, she shall be white… I’d have liked to know how he keeps those teeth so clean, though.”
Ereinion, gazing out the window in dismay at a new bout of rain, shot him a look. “What about teeth?”
He only half-heard Ereinion. He finally saw his ship in vibrant detail, flawless and proud. He might never achieve the vision, but the pleasure was all in the attempt. He closed his eyes as a nap overcame him. “I didn’t say anything.”
___ ___ ___
Nowë is Círdan’s prehistoric name. (“Last Writings,” The Peoples of Middle-earth).
The connection to Enel was completely contrived. (“Quendi and Eldar, Appendix,” War of the Jewels).
And Aerdin was made up by yours truly. : )
It may simply be from an overdose of piano practice… am I alone in thinking the first two lines of “Lavender’s Blue” are subversive?
Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly, lavender’s green.
When I am king, dilly-dilly, you shall be queen.
Wiki link to full rhyme: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lavender%27s_Blue
Chapter 4 - Hunting By Number
Finrod and Círdan learn where they fall on Morgoth’s hit-list…
___
The tiny fire blinked as a hand threw in kindling. Beside it sat two elves, heads silver and gold, and a mound of hares. One elf was skinning, the other pretending to.
“But,” Finrod tried again, “you were better this time.”
“Worse.”
“No, better! I could never have made such a shot! Right under my arm. Amazing, one inch over and it could have pierced my hand. ”
“Hmm… what happened… what happened was I sneezed,” Círdan finished.
“So… ah,” Finrod’s complexion lost a smidge of its ruddiness. “Well, it was still a good shot.”
Círdan paused, noticing a knife edging towards Finrod’s throat. But Finrod noticed first.
“Got you,” Finrod told the knife. It dropped from a quivering hand. He pulled the hand along with its owner into the firelight – an orc, a young orc, squirming and squealing, garbed in poorly scraped skins that looked more like moldy extensions of his own hide
“Don’t eat me!”
Claws flailed. Spittle flew. Finrod held firm to the wrist, like a hook on a determined fish, the rod of his arm extended far enough to evade the orc’s floundering limbs.
“Don’t eat me!”
“Sit still and I won’t.”
The orc shot Círdan, who watched their anglers’ dance with blank eyes, a quivering peep. “W-will he?”
“He won’t eat you either. I promise.”
The orc sat down, snuffling. “Don’t eat me.”
Finrod released the orc’s arm and with his other hand stuck the little knife blade-down by the hares.
“If this is your standard method of thieving, don’t continue with it. You’ll die. Here.” Finrod handed him a partially skinned hare. The orc sniffed it. “It is not poisoned.”
The orc probably did not hear the last promise, as his fangs were already tearing and chomping.
Finrod gave him a polite minute. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. Er, no,” the orc amended. He squelched off another morsel.
“What’s your name?”
The orc spoke through a full mouth. “Don’ got un.”
“No one ever calls you by anything?”
“Er, they call me Snitch sometimes.”
“Oh, why is that?” said Finrod, not without theories.
Snitch wiped blood on the back of his hand. “I listen. I remember things. When the boss needs to remember the Lord Master’s wishes, he asks me. When he needs a message sent, he sends me. Tha’s why when he was eaten I wasn’t.”
Finrod rested his chin on a knee to watch with eyes that glittered with a radiance deeper than firelight. “That must make you an important fellow.”
“Huh. Yeah, does. Yeah.” Snitch’s green face – which Finrod’s nose asserted was more a result of hygiene than pigmentation – flushed olive.
“I bet you know more than do most your kind.”
Snitch swallowed. “Maggots more. I know – I know north and south. I know where the boss keeps his drink an’ why the moon doesn’t fall an’ how many times to crack an egg so it spills out right. I even know which Enemies the Lord Master wants most.” He added in a loud hiss, “We was, if fact, looking for one – and almost found ‘im before the others got eaten – the king and his secret fortress. The Lord Master wants the king.” Snitch held up four greasy claws. “This much. Great rewards for those who find the Big Enemies, you see, the fewer fingers, the bigger the reward.”
Snitch missed the glance that flew between the two elves, but did catch a hungry twitch in the mute silver elf. He shuffled closer to the gold one and nibbled the hare’s bones.
“Excuse me, Snitch,” said the mute. “I am curious. Who is the first?”
In a flurry of claws and mildewed hides, Snitch dropped his snack and crouched like a very ugly squirrel set to flee up a trunk.“Wha -wha’s that?”
“Sorry. I mean who is--” Círdan held high a single thumb. “Of the Enemies?”
Snitch picked up the fallen carcass and clutched it like a protective charm. He thought before saying, “Er, the evil king in the hidden kingdom.”
“And who’s-” Círdan’s pointer met with his thumb.
“Tha’s the evil queen of the dark forest. Next’s her eviler king.”
“Well, what about-” All five fingers stretched out.
Snitch shuddered. “He’s the wicked chief whose head is on fire.”
Círdan’s left thumb joined in.
“All his evil brothers.”
Finrod clicked his tongue. “That’s not fair.”
“Rph,” agreed Círdan, shooting up another finger.
Snitch studied his claws. “The big-king of the blue banner.”
For the next finger, Snitch again needed to reference his own digits.
“The whelp of the big-king of the blue banner.”
The silver elf had every one of his long fingers extended now, minus a pinky. Snitch thought that if he hadn’t been hungry before, he must have been now; and fingers do fit neatly around one’s throat.
He gulped. “Er, the evil king by the wicked water.”
“Ninth?” Círdan’s hands plunged into his lap. “Only ninth. He needs to try harder. Thank you, Snitch.”
Snitch sighed and darted his eyes about, finally resting them on the left side of the gold elf. The elf didn’t seem to notice at all, too absorbed in saying, “Well, nine is a strong number.”
So over the gold elf’s lowered knee, Snitch’s hand slipped snailspeed, outstretched, reaching... And in an eyeblink Finrod snatched up the knife, so that Snitch’s claws just scraped along the hilt. Finrod tossed it to Círdan. He caught it and stuck it in his belt.
“Do not,” Círdan roared softly, “try that again.”
Snitch, after a moment without a heartbeat and gripping a hilt of air, dropped simultaneously onto his knees and face. He blubbered in a cocoon of shivers. “I knew it. I told you everything I know so now you’re gonna eat me.”
Finrod stood and narrowed his eyes. Snitch’s whimpering magnified by three.
“That is enough. We’ve not hurt you.”
Snitch howled. “You’re gonna keep me ‘n eat me later…”
“We don’t intend to keep you,” said Finrod, raising his voice over the orc’s. “We’ll let you free.” The bawling briefly ebbed. “Yes, we’ll let you free. But only if you swear not to kill, maim or discomfort any man, elf or dwarf on your road to your master. When we hear about it we will not show mercy again. We may even reconsider eating you.”
“Yes, I swear! I swear! By the great Lord Master, I swear!”
“Repeat the conditions, Snitch.”
Snitch raised his chin and scratched at his dripping nose. “I won’t kill and maim mans and elves and dwarves on the road. I swear I won’t.”
Finrod blinked a long blink. “Stand up.”
Snitch scrambled.
“Hold out your arms.”
The orc obeyed with a moan.
“Take these as a trade for the knife.” Finrod piled him with the remainder of their game, even the hare Círdan had with such difficulty and pride procured. Snitch’s knees buckled. He stared as though unconvinced that his arms and head were still fastened to the rest of him. But he did not mull it over for long and away he scurried. They watched until the night folded over his back.
“You are too lenient,” Círdan said in the forbidden tongue, stretching full length toward the neglected fire that was protesting with sparks. “He’ll only return to pillaging and killing when he’s out of earshot.”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Finrod. He barked a laugh. “You needed to see your eyes when you caught the knife. I was reminded of Tulkas in his best mood.” His wink was broad. He then lifted four fingers to his face as though inspecting them for blemishes, and frowned. “I believe Morgoth is mistaken in the numbering of his enemies…”
Chapter 5 - Waiting
Nowë makes four promises to his brother. 500 words fixed length.
___
Nowë had slumped under the willow longer than he could say. Long enough that his back was damp and stiff, and had sunk into the dirt like an ancient boulder. And long enough that Helluin had wheeled from its highest perch on the dome to behind the hills. But not long enough to be prepared when he heard that dreaded sound of Alwë’s long gait. He did not want to look in his face. He’d already read what was there. He knew what would be said and from that he had fled hours before.
Alwë eased down beside him. Nowë felt him try to smile. The silver curtain of leaves, rippling from Alwë’s wake, hid them from any eyes on the lakeshore.
“Hello, Fish,” Alwë said. Nowë said nothing. “You amaze me, you know. This last season you and Elwë have sprouted, you both now tower over me. You will be marriageable soon! What’s more, you are cleverer than me. You are quite fit to lead the family.” Alwë paused, then continued firmly, “I leave soon to find our parents.”
Nowë did not meet his brother’s eyes. He said to a willow branch, “You won’t find them.”
“Your voices tell you that?”
Nowë nodded.
Alwë sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I hear them. I can’t help it.”
He could spend star-wheel upon star-wheel sitting alone by the Cuiviénen, and often he did, listening as the waters talked of unfathomable doings and of distant places. He rarely understood. One thing he did understand was that from wherever the lost ones went they would not return.
His brother did not forbid the practice, but neither did he approve. It seemed too much like the fell whispers in the shadows reported by those who hunted far from the lake’s sheltering shores. He voiced this view at his every chance.
Alwë was like that, paternal to his siblings’ dismay. He was the first child of their father and mother, who themselves had never been children. They left on a time, seeking lost friends and never returning. Nowë was their youngest, a small scrap then, and same age as his brother Alwë’s eldest son. He’d lived in his brother’s house since, not so much his three nephews’ uncle as their brother.
For the water’s voices Alwë had no interest. He had a mind like stone, and a purpose he set there never quivered. He looked full at Nowë, but still Nowë refused to return the gaze.
“They went over the hills. I’ll travel that way. You’ll head the family til I return. Nowë.” He seized his brother’s chin and forced Nowë’s eyes to finally meet his own. “You promise to look after them.”
“Yes.”
“And to not let Elwë or Olwë or Elmo follow.”
“Yes.”
“And to not follow either.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” Alwë released him and flicked his hair. “I’m fond of you, Fish. Promise me one thing more. Don’t marry that water.”
“Ye-es.” Nowë batted him off. “Be quick. I’ll wait for you.”
___
Of his four promises, Nowë broke three.
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Printed from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sat Nov 14, 2026 10:26 pm