Nimble

Canon-compliant. The challenge of Fingolfin through a fresh perspective. Sindarin names used mostly. Melkor, Morgoth and the Black Enemy are all one and the same. Sauron's (possible) real name is Mairon, and that is what (in my mind) Morgoth calls him, just in case its usage brings about confusion. Also, Sauron calls Ilúvatar "Father" because I don't want to theorize what the Ainur call him in Valarin (because I'm lazy and it's 11:45 PM and I am kind of tired). Takes place in FA 456 after Dagor Bragollach. Introspective.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion, and I did not make up Fingolfin's speech. That came directly from the Lays of Beleriand, so don't sue me or anything!

Pairings: none

Characters: Sauron, Fingolfin, Morgoth (mentions of Ilúvatar, the Valar and Tulkas in particular (three others indirectly--can you guess which?))

Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, semi-explicit, mentions of war, lame fight scene, world domination plots, blatant sadism and schadenfreude

Song: I Hate Everything About You

Words: 1,324
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
nimble (adjective): quick and light in motion: agile; marked by quick, alert, clever conception, comprehension or resourcefulness
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/nimble

The fight before him would be sung unto legend until the End of Days.

Eagerly, Sauron narrowed his eyes upon the challenger, the brilliant white star cloaked in the night sky and studded in silver. A sword, glistening as a shard of ice caught in the sunlight, temporarily blinding all who dared gaze upon it, was lifted aloft towards the blackened sky. Like lightning, he flew across the land towards the fortress of darkness, and Sauron could imagine the desperation flowing through those veins like fire. It made him salivate with anticipation!

The High King of the Noldor threw himself down upon the ground, springing forth and landing upon his feet as a deadly feline would its prey. In the air around him, molten intensity felt tangible, so thick that the air seemed un-breathable. In that, the Lieutenant languished.

Eyes darkened into pits of agony and despair gazed upon the three towering peaks of the Thangorodrim, like unto the peaks upon which the Silmarilli crowned Melkor's brow, and though those eyes wept, the voice that issued forth did neither falter nor waver in its deeply hewn pitch. It rolled and washed over flesh, resonating with bone, and none could fail to hear its power.

"Come, open wide,
dark king, your ghastly brazen doors!
Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors!
Come forth, O monstrous craven lord,
and fight with thine own hand and sword,
thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls,
thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls,
thou foe of Gods and elvish race!
I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!"

It sent shudders through the Lieutenant of Angband, for he knew his master better than any other. He knew what lingered in the darkest corners of the heart of the Black Enemy, knew his every strength and every weakness. Glee burst in the cage of his chest, its fists rattling the bars of his ribs until it seemed his entire being vibrated.

Melkor--the all-powerful, the unstoppable, the greatest in all things--quailed in fear.

For all that his master was, Sauron knew one thing. His master lacked all that this creature before him possessed. Lacked the skill of foot and agility of sword. Lacked the steadfastness of heart and the ironclad center of determination. Lacked the creativity of strategy and the icy burn of spirit.

Lacked the bravery to banish the cowardice.

The cowardice that urged the Black Enemy to deny the challenge, and all the same left him backed into the corner of acceptance. For there was no way Melkor could deny this King his challenge and insult--the Lord of Slaves indeed!--without appearing foolish and frightened, without showing his shameful weakness before all those who cared to watch with their own two eyes and freedom of thoughts.

He would look weak before Mairon, who did not feel fear in his breast, did not tremble at the sight of the Valar or this mighty King--not even the Black Enemy himself!--and did not doubt the strength of his own bravery and zeal to succeed.

In a way, Sauron almost commiserated with this elven creature of defiance. For this briefest of moments, they were one and the same, nimble in mind and body and spirit. For this briefest of moments, Sauron wished that this elven king would rise victorious from the ashes that settled over his kingdom, the ashes of his people as they were consumed by the vicious flames of defeat and wretched hopelessness. For this briefest of moments, the Lieutenant of Angband felt camaraderie.

And then Morgoth came forth, clad in black armor, wielding the Hammer of the Underworld, towering as a mountain before the star of Fingolfin son of Finwë. He accepted the challenge, voice rumbling to the foundations of the world.

The elf did not flinch. He did not quiver in terror. He did not even blink.

And he fought as one possessed by the strength of Tulkas.

As he watched, Sauron breathed a deep lungful of the smoky air, the scent of charred bones and melted flesh filling his head until the Lieutenant was drunk with lust for death, his vision burning with the dance of the killer and the survivor. Before his eyes, Fingolfin wove between the great swings of Grond without hesitation, too swift to be struck, akin to the painted light gifted upon the earth before thunder shook the ground, and thrice as terrible.

When the first blow struck Melkor, the very universe trembled with his mighty roar of rage. Sauron quivered in bliss. How he loved that pain! How he delighted in the lightning feet of his master's beautiful adversary!

Thrice more, Fingolfin son of Finwë struck the Lord of Angband before Melkor so much as dented his crystalline shield or scarred his glittering mail. But for all that he wished, Sauron knew that this elf--this kin of spirit--would fail in his quest, would topple before the unbending might of the greatest in all things. What a shame it would be, but so lovely all the same!

Twice more, the Black Enemy was wounded, but those small victories would not turn the tide, would not win the war. As his mortal body--forever young but marred all the same--weakened, Fingolfin crouched upon the earth and mis-stepped, tumbled unto the caldera left in the wake of Grond's terrible weight, fallen and as broken as his weeping people.

Melkor's voice rose in a cry of victory to the skies, a cry of defiance to their Father, whom watched them even now and shook his head in dismay, Sauron imagined. Yet in his breast, the Lieutenant felt a strange hope kindled.

For as the fallen hill of Melkor's left foot was hewn by the blade of ice in the hand of the Noldorin King, he knew this victory was as false as Melkor's lordship of the skies and the sea and the land. Not a one of those mighty realms was solely in his possession, he who lacked sorely and surely as Arien rose from the East--the lack of whit, the failure of dexterity, the mockery of originality, the inadequacy of determination and a will to dominate, they crippled his master as cruelly and tangibly as the sharpened point of the elf's mighty sword.

The snap of Fingolfin's neck and the scream of his spirit as it departed to the Halls rang in Sauron's ears, and the Lieutenant smiled.

For all his kinship with the puny little creature rolled up in a deathtrap of mortal flesh and broken spirit, Sauron had learned a great lesson from this battle. The Lieutenant of Angband watched as Melkor retreated back into the deepest, darkest pit of filth that could be found.

Were he to succeed, he would need to surpass the agility of body and mind this unimaginable young soul had possessed.

Brute strength was not the path to ruler-ship of the world. His glowing eyes burned between his master's broad, slumped shoulders with wicked delight at the knowledge, knowledge shared and denied, feared and secreted away for later use.

He would have to be quick and light--brilliant. He would have to fall from the sky between blinks of mortal eyes, settle himself deep in the earth and shake it with the voltage of his adamantine will before any living creature could wince away from his touch. They would never see him coming.

He would be nimble. He would be victorious.

He would be all that his master was not.

The mountain of defeat that was Morgoth disappeared into the depths of hell. As soon as his haunting shadow had retreated, Sauron leapt for the skies and cried in the purest of ecstasy. Energy flamed across his flesh.

The world would kneel at his feet. And it would weep. And he would smile.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm addicted to Sauron's personality. This is most likely not a good thing. But hey, he's an interesting character. This turned out surprisingly well for having almost zero planning beforehand. I guess I should be grateful that his mind is such an interesting place to be a fly on the wall. It's funny that it ended up being so Sauron-centric, because I had my sister do a random name pick from the Silmarillion again and she landed on Morgoth three times in a row. That is why he is suffering in my story. That, and it's canon that Tolkien hates him.

Anyway, I was listening to I Hate Everything About You by Three Days Grace, which at the beginning made no sense whatsoever but somehow ended up strangely fitting at the end. That happens quite often, and it pleases me greatly. In any case, this is one of those songs where I enjoy how it sounds but don't understand why because there's really nothing all that special about it. Nevertheless, I love this song, and I dance to it when no one is in the room.

And here is a picture of Morgoth, our favorite Dark Lord (I'm kidding, Sauron is really my favorite, can't you tell?): 'And Morgoth came' by =Gold-Seven on dA. Not exactly how I imagined him, but you can look up dozens of pictures of the scene with Fingolfin and Morgoth on the internet. Go and look. Find one that fits your fantasy.

Blush

Mellow Soulmate AU. About Maglor and his wife being young and adorable. Quenya names would have been used if Vardamírë (OFC) had actually known what Maglor's name was. However, it's probably best she didn't, because he is a prince, even if he's only third in line to the throne, and I can imagine that being f-ing intimidating for a baker's daughter. I decided on the profession of her father on the spot, but just letting you know that she's not dirt poor or anything, just not some rich aristocratic snobby lady of the court covered from head to toe in silk and gemstones. Takes place in the Years of the Trees (so "day" is really "Laurelin is waxing" and "night" is really "Telperion is waxing" just to be clear--look it up if you really want to know).

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Maglor.

Pairings: Maglor x Vardamírë

Characters: Vardamírë (OFC), Maglor (random other elves and the Valar mentioned)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, fluff, fluff and more fluff, romantic angsting, cliche if I do say so myself

Song: Rogue Heart

Words: 1,474
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
blush (noun): a reddening of the face especially from shame, modesty or confusion; a rosy or red tint
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/blush

He was the most striking man she had ever seen.

As she stared out her window onto the busy streets below, Vardamírë heaved a wistful sigh, twirling her long, pale hair absently about her slender fingers. Two stories below, she could see him, that stranger. He walked the same route every single day without fail, always passed in front of her father's shop on the opposite side of the street.

Everything about him left her breathless, though she knew not even his name, had not even heard his voice. Tall, graceful, and utterly handsome, he could not fail to capture the attention of any woman with two eyes and a healthy dose of longing in her breast.

Dutifully, she gazed. He paused occasionally at a cart here and there, perused the market at a leisurely pace. Sometimes he would smile, and her breath would catch. For all his natural beauty, Vardamírë found that she admired his crooked little grin the most. It was vibrant and genuine, not the mockery of politeness that she sometimes witnessed on the obsequious merchants and traders. And when he laughed--by the Valar!--her heart fluttered like a hummingbird, ready to carry her off into the sky through sheer will!

At the thought, she closed her eyes for but a moment, some strange foreboding coming over her. It was a magical thing, the voices rising from the din below, but overshadowed by the sweet breeze that flowed around her, tangling in her hair and caressing her eyelashes. She imagined that one of those voices ringing in her ears was his voice.

When she opened her eyes, it was to molten silver.

Below her, his face half-lit with the early morning light of Laurelin, he watched her curiously, his head canted ever so slightly to the left, lips just barely parted.

He could see her!

Oh Valar!

Gasping, she felt heat rise unbidden to her cheeks, blood rushing beneath her skin. What must he think of her, some baker's daughter spying on him from her window when she should be doing her chores?

Quickly, she fled from the window--embarrassment swirling in her belly--and resumed her morning ritual. Best not to keep her parents waiting.

But even as she turned away, she wished she could stay just a little longer and watch him. Now, at least, she knew his eyes more clearly and intimately than the back of her own hand. Silver, hotter than molten rock, brighter than Telperion, more shockingly brilliant than anything she had ever seen in her life. No precious jewel could compare.

Then she scoffed and tied up her pale hair. What did a baker's daughter know of such things?

It was, after all, but a daydream.

---

It was many a day afterwards that Vardamírë found herself sweeping the shop near to the end of the day, just as she did every afternoon. But she felt weightless today, a sweet bubble of happiness pooling inside her at some unknown thought just beyond the edges of her mind. It was the strangest feeling, but it was welcome.

As she always did, she stepped out into the doorway overlooking the street, singing softly under her breath. Around her, the elves shuffled to and fro, their bright eyes resting on her and then dismissing, moving away.

But then her movements paused, a foreign sensation coming over her, pricking at the nape of her neck, tapping gently to claim her attention. It felt as though someone was guiding her with invisible hands when she turned, her bright blue eyes entangling with familiar stars.

Across the way, he stood. From here she could see him so clearly, could see the dark lashes, long and rich, that lined the pale eyes, could see the waves of dark, silken hair that pooled on his shoulders and curled over the curve of his back, could see the startled stillness of his figure, frozen in motion between the revolutions of the world. Unblinking. Silent. Captured.

For a long moment, they stared at one another, and the heat crept once more upon her cheeks. The urge to flee itched in her feet, almost lifting her legs as though she were a puppet upon a puppeteer's strings of fear and uncertainty. How easy it would be to retreat back into the shop, into her comfortable little life and pretend she had not seen him, to hide up in her room and daydream about his sharp features and kind smile, about what his voice might sound like against her ears, brushing over her soul, and not risk the disdain that could blossom in his sharp eyes.

But she would lose her chance.

Shyly, she smiled into his stunned visage and continued her melody, soft against the cacophony of reality, a stillness that surrounded and cradled her in the midst of movement and the flow of time. Slowly, she turned from him and continued sweeping, though all her body longed to look back, to watch, to gaze, to wish, to hope...

When she looked back, he was gone.

---

"You have a beautiful voice, my lady."

Startled, she nearly dropped the tray of pastries settled atop her gentle fingers. Vardamírë turned and met eyes that haunted her dreams and lingered in her fantasies, eyes that burned straight down through her skin and blood to something else. By the Valar!--that smile that she so adored, that stoked her hidden longing, was tilting at the corners of his lips, just beyond her sight.

"H-how may I help you, my lord?" she asked, attempting (perhaps foolishly) to curtsey while holding those fresh pastries. It was probably not a wise idea, but-- And then she overbalanced, one sandaled foot caught in the hem of her gown, and--

"Here, let me--"

A hand at her waist, just above the curvaceous swell of her hip, hot through the layers of linen that cradled her body but steadying and powerful all the same. The other hand snatched away the tray, moving it to the table and settling it safely upon the flat wooden surface. For a moment, Vardamírë stared at the white swirls of steam that rose from golden-brown bread and wondered why the hand touching her had yet to move. And why that did not bother her more.

"I... My lord, I... Forgive me for..."

His eyes went back to her face, and familiar heat settled high in her cheeks. How unattractive that must be, to show her infatuation so blatantly. Why, he must think her a simpleton or worse!

But his eyes were not repulsed. His lip did not curl with disdain. His smile did not for a moment waver on his incredible face as he guided her up from the half-curtsey she had tried to fold herself into. "There is no need to apologize."

And her blush only darkened further. Mortification burst to life in her belly, stabbing like cold little knives on her insides. She turned away, hands rising to cover her cheeks, as if the coolness of her smooth flesh would soothe away the unflattering color that suffused her skin. "I must look a sight," she muttered, more to herself than to her companion, to whom her back was now turned. Oh, how she wished the ground would open its gaping maw and swallow her whole!

Gentle hands held her back from fleeing, though. One caught at her wrist, pulling her hand away from her blotchy face, turning her around so that his eyes shone once more upon her. "You look glorious, my lady."

It was the kind of thing those oily flirts in the market oft said to the flighty young women who gathered there for empty flattery. But when she looked up at his face, the sincerity of the words struck her more harshly than could a physical blow, rooting deep in her belly and blooming into a golden glow that shuddered through her entire tingling spirit.

His eyes were shyly downcast, an equally red, blotchy flush marring the pale perfection of his sharp, handsome features. It crawled up his neck and over his cheeks and set up camp on the bridge of his nose, redder and sharper than a vibrant rose, and more vivacious.

Forget striking beauty. Forget perfection of face and form. Forget molten silver eyes and wordless, nameless infatuation with a phantom daydream.

This blush was the most adorable, sweet, amazing thing she had ever seen.

And just like that, she knew what all those strange feelings had been telling her, that gentle breeze on her cheeks and the intuitive, visceral burning in her heart. She looked at him and saw.

"So do you," she whispered in return.

And it was the absolute truth.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finally! Maglor fanfiction that is not angsty! Well, not real angst anyway, just lovey-dovey angst. This is 100% fluff here, white and puffy and soft and cuddly and marshmallowy fluff! Kitten-down fluff! I guess I needed a break from the horror stories. I was originally going to write this as a much more racy piece between my current slash fixation (Sauron and Celebrimbor), but then I just couldn't make myself do it.

Once again, written from an OC's perspective. Makes me nervous, but this is the third time I've done this here. I'll live. Besides, Vardamírë needs character development. She's been around for a surprisingly long time, but I rarely ever write about her. Isn't that depressing? My OC characters need more loving.

Also, continuing the tangent in paragraph 1 of the AN, the song I was obsessed with today was not at all conducive to writing dark slashy seduction. Rogue Heart (from the Dragon Age II OST by Inon Zur) is an amazing song and I love it so much because it sounds so free and inspiring! I couldn't use anything else for my writing today. It stuck. (By the way, the first picture on the YouTube video linked above is gorgeous.)

Disaster

Mellow Soulmate AU?  Maybe?  Celebrimbor discovers Annatar's betrayal.  You can kind of imagine how that goes down.  Sindarin names used.  Annatar is one of Sauron's many aliases.  The guy has almost as many names as Aragorn, I swear.  Really, who the hell needs that many names?  (In his defense, at least Sauron has a legit reason.  Aragorn just seems to not like using his.)  Anyway, takes place in the Second Age in Eregion.  Introspective.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the characters.  The slash is mine.

Pairings: Sauron x Celebrimbor

Characters: Celebrimbor, Sauron (mentions Fëanor, Círdan, Gil-Galad and Galadriel)

Warning: canon-compliant AU, slash, allusions to torture and violence, borderline suicidal thoughts, mentions of sex, but nothing explicit

Song: Carnival of Rust

Words: 1,099
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
disaster (noun): a sudden calamitous event bringing great damage, loss or destruction; broadly: a sudden or great misfortune or failure
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/disaster

Around them, the darkness curled and twisted, blackening the world to Celebrimbor's eyes on the night of the new moon.  It was night's like this that he had once despised, that would remind him of the curse that lay heavily on his shoulders, that kept him apart from all others.  Isolated.

Alone.

But he was not alone.

Safely, he was wrapped in powerful arms, cradled, comforted, warm.  A familiar chin, square and sharp, rested atop his head.  Every time he blinked, his eyelashes brushed the delicate skin of his lover's throat, blue veins visibly throbbing so close that he could count the pulses.  About him, the thick musk of sex twined with the other man's natural lavender scent, perfuming their room so intimately it made him shiver.

Annatar.  His beloved.  His One.  The only one he would ever love with all his soul.

He had become used to this comfort wrapped around his body, holding back the chill of shards of memories that he never wanted to piece back together.  He had become used to the presence at his side, driving back the knives that waited in the dark, the nightmares that haunted these chambers, waiting to ensnare and devour him.  Protecting him.

But tonight he had no rest, felt no comfort.  No protection was to be found in this embrace.

Celebrimbor held still, hardly daring to breathe where he lay entwined with Annatar, golden hair blanketing their glistening bodies.  He hardly dared to think lest he wake the other, lest he be discovered.

His world had collapsed, and he could be certain of nothing.  Not his lover.  Not himself.  Not his own mind.  The tower of his trust had broken at the foundations, crumbled and toppled and buried him beneath thousands of tons of stones carved from secrets and cemented in place with the glue of sweet memories.

Sweet memories of lying together, sharing heat, their laughter lighting the shadows crawling over the land until they were banished from his sight.  Memories of strong hands guiding his arms, of gentle touches that barely touched skin yet burned hotter than white flame.  Memories of lying beneath the wide open sky, blanketed by only darkness and cushioned by only the thick grass and earth, where nothing existed in the world but them, two becoming one.

Memories of being together in the most intimate way two beings could be.  So close Celebrimbor could not be certain where one ended and the other began.

It only happened once in all an elf's life, and he had chosen Annatar.

What a fool he had been.

"You should not trust so easily that which appears divine," Galadriel had warned.

"I would not keep his company in my kingdom even were it to kill me," Gil-Galad had informed.

"Watch him closely.  Keep your council quiet to your breast," Círdan had advised.

Blinded, infatuated, fascinated, he had ignored them all.  For they had never met Annatar, never spoken to him, never basked in his golden warmth and his sweet, deep amber eyes.  They could not possibly understand how he felt!  They could not possibly condemn this stranger on a mere whim of their ancient hearts!  For what did they know?

More than he had.  They had trusted their intuition and had not been blinded with powerful, false light and slippery, seductive words.

Even now, even with the afterglow hazed around him, Celebrimbor shivered, listening to the steady, deep breaths of the man wrapped around him.  Those hands that touched with such tenderness and control could wield a whip or a knife with equal proficiency, could make poor souls scream and wail with but a slash, could draw forth the blackest secrets from a heart in but an hour.  Stained in blood and horror, they now felt spidery and unclean where they rested on his back, no longer reassuring, but traitorously threatening.

Everything he thought he had known now felt wrong.  Sullied and violated.  This was the maia--the man--with whom he shared even the sanctuary of his mind and body.  Pain rippled through him at the thought, almost physical in the destruction it wrought, in the sting of tears it brought to the eyes that had not cried since the long lost days of terror and fire wrought by Fëanor.

Without Annatar, how could he be whole?  Without the golden presence, the sweet lavender and amber gaze, the comforting strokes on his shoulder and the sultry voice in his ear, the nights without loneliness and despair, the days full of laughter and company, how could he possibly survive?

Without his other half, who was he supposed to be?

In the wake of devastation, what was left?  Not his freedom.  Not his dignity or pride.  Not his innocence.  Not even blessed ignorance.  There was nothing left to him but knowledge of betrayal, for even the fury that burned in his heart of hearts was tempered and smothered by the powerful devotion he felt towards his other half.

Reality had been uprooted, revealed for what it was--nothing but a naive daydream.  The truth slashed across his spirit like a rusted blade and left him broken on the ground.  Uncertainty.  Terror.  Confusion.  Betrayal so powerful that he wanted to scream and cry, to break something, to wrap his fingers around Annatar's throat and strangle him so that he could never do harm to anyone ever again, so that he could never fully carry out his ultimate betrayal of Celebrimbor's unwavering trust.

Frightened to death, the Lord of Eregion closed his eyes and prayed.  He would need all his strength to balance on the edge of the disaster that had uprooted his soul.  The war was only just beginning, and if he did not do something he would lose before it even began.  Now the betrayed would become the betrayer and the cursed would become the savior.

And then, when all was said and done, when the last vestiges of his scarred and shattered soul had been crushed to dust by hatred in beloved eyes and agony from familiar fingers, he could close his eyes and welcome the peace that lay only beyond the cage of the body.

Maybe there, he would recover.  Would rebuild himself from the ground up, would reclaim some of who he had once been before Annatar had welded himself into all that Celebrimbor was and would ever be.

But he would never be the same.

The damage had been done.  Irrevocably.  Irreversibly.

Forever.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This couple has been on my mind for days now.  This very scene has been on my mind for days now, and so I absolutely had to write it.  In any case, I feel sorry for Celebrimbor, that poor baby, because really, his life sucks at this point.  Sauron, you asshole. >.>

Was listening to Carnival of Rust by Poets of the Fall.  I have loved this song since I was probably 13, maybe longer, because it is just that amazing.  So listen to it if you haven't already.  Of course, the original video I watched had this song playing to scenes from vampire movies, but that was way back when I was still obsessed with Sherrilyn Kenyon romance novels.  I mean, they're good books, but they get old after a while, and the sex scenes get a little boring.

Naming Creativity and First thing to say by ~kittykatkanie on dA.  Because they're adorable and Celebrimbor needs non-death-scene love.

Zeal

Canon-compliant.  How Galadriel ended up married to Celeborn.  He had no say in the matter.  I never use Galadriel's name, because at this point she is not called Galadriel and has no Sindarin name.  I guess the name Celeborn gives her is technically Telerin, but he's related to the Teleri, so I'll just leave it at that.  I will say that in this story (clearly) Celeborn is a sinda and not a teler.  He was not born in Valinor, in other words (and he and Galadriel are not second cousins).  Takes place in the First Age before Thingol discovers what happened at Alqualondë.

Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings

Pairings: Celeborn x Galadriel

Characters: Celeborn, Galadriel, Finrod (mentions of Thingol, the Valar, Finarfin, the Finarfinions and other random elves)

Warning: canon-compliant, stalking, obsessive behavior, blatant allusions to seduction, intoxication and premarital sex/sexual themes, could be considered non-con, the betrothal is sort of non-con, too

Song: Run the World

Words: 1,908
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
zeal (noun): eagerness and argent interest in pursuit of something: fervor
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/zeal

Every time he turned around, she was there.

Silver and golden, more brilliant than Ithil and Anor combined, more heavenly than all the stars blanketing the sky, more mysterious than any shadow, more intense than the heated eyes of the King himself.  She was always there, with her frozen gaze and smile-less face, angelic and breathtakingly empty.

Peering around corners in the dark.  Watching him in the gardens from beyond the arms of trees.  Standing on the balconies overlooking the forest, a star watching over the earth.

And always--always--her eyes were settled upon his form, trailing after him as he took his evening stroll amongst the shadows of the towering trees, watching him as he walked down the hallways, eyeing him as he carefully cut his venison into precise little squares and thoroughly chewed every single bite.  Never once did he ever see her look away.

As if every movement of his body somehow offended her perfect, glittering world.  As if his very existence somehow interfered with her reality, somehow turned her universe on its side and left it intolerable to her delicate sensibilities.

On and on for days, she glared, colder than the frigid wasteland of Helcaraxë.  It sent shivers down his spine, the feeling of ice stabbing between his rigid shoulders, burning on his flesh beneath the layers of his robes.

Quite frankly, it was frightening.  She was terrifying.  And she hated him.

Truly hated him.

---

This evening, however, was a rare evening in which he did not look over his shoulder to see the golden-haired angel staring at him from the shadows.  Across the table, her brother was sipping leisurely from a goblet and looking as though he wanted nothing more than to lock himself in his bedchambers and sleep for a decade or five.  Celeborn knew exactly how the other man felt.

"You look tired."

The silver prince looked up over the table at his Noldorin companion. "Excuse me?"

Finrod sent him a sharp look and pursed his lips tautly.  "You look like you have spent a week with the forces of Angband on your heels, Celeborn, my friend."

He felt that way as well.  Tired, his limbs aching fiercely with imaginary strain, fatigue sinking its teeth into his alcohol-drenched mind.  Looking up at his companion, Celeborn frowned, his brows furrowing in worry.  Without thought, he uttered the first coherent message that reached his mouth. "I think your sister hates me."

Golden eyebrows rose imperiously, incredulously. "What gave you that impression, friend?"

Was it not obvious? "Every time I see her, she stares, as though...  I think... Well, I believe I may have done something to offend her."

They stared at each other for a long while, Finrod's blue eyes narrowing with calculation, washing over his face in burning waves, almost as intimidating as his younger sister's.  The prince fought back the urge to flush an unflattering red color and look away from that piercing, knowing gaze.

"I think she likes you."

What?

Startled, he stared at the older elf.  "She glares at me whenever she sees me, as though I have committed the greatest of faux pas!  As though I were a bug crawling on the ground before her unsullied white slippers!"

"Worry not.  Her zeal is part of her natural charm," Finrod informed him.  And then the golden noldo smiled. "She is most assuredly is fond of you."

How did he reach such a conclusion?  That is illogical!  Celeborn shook his head and downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, feeling his head spin slightly.  Then he turned.

And there she was, draped in white and staring at him from the doorway, a goblet cradled between her slender white palms.  As soon as he looked, she stepped forward, and he could not help but watch the swaying movement of curvaceous hips beneath lace and silk as the foreign, glowing beauty crossed the rooms in long strides.  Elegant.  Entrancing.

Her long, graceful movements slowed, and she halted beside Celeborn, her gaze firmly fixed upon his face.  The prince felt himself begin to shrink back in his seat, and it was only sheer force of will and a healthy dose of pride that kept his back from bowing beneath the weight of her intensity.  Again, he wondered if Finrod was merely delusional about the true nature of his younger sister, because Celeborn could have sworn it was hatred that gleamed like stars in those frozen blue eyes.

"Would you like more wine, my lord?" she asked, and her voice shuddered through him like a wave of golden heat and ice, a chill running down his spine.

"O-of course," he stammered in reply, and found himself ashamed to lose control in such a manner before a woman of such high breeding, whether she was the most glorious and terrifying creature he had ever seen or no.

But then she held out her goblet to his lips.  Was it poisoned?  Would she attempt to kill him with her own brother as witness?

"Will you not drink, my lord?" Her voice captured and held him suspended in light. "Celeborn?"

Had his name always sounded so wonderful, so exquisitely perfect?  Helplessly, his eyes found her pale rose lips, focusing on their movements, on the soft flesh, the fuller upper lip, the gentle, warm glisten as they parted to breathe, to speak.

Without thought, he drank, his eyes never leaving her.  The wine could have been vinegar for all he was aware of its rich taste.  He was drunk of something else.

And then she was gone.

What happened?

He looked to Finrod, only to find the noldo smirking at him slightly, cradling his goblet just as before, amusement evident in every line of his body. "You see, friend?  She likes you."

---

She still followed him.  Now that he watched, he could tell it was not mere coincidence which entwined their paths so often and so tightly.  It was with purpose that she stepped outside when he passed to "breathe fresh air" or stood and decided to wonder in the woods during his evening walks "to connect with nature".

Celeborn was beginning to wonder if she was waiting for the opportune moment to stab him in the back and drag his corpse off into the darkness to feast upon his flesh and blood.

Do not be ridiculous, he would tell himself.  But then he would see her in all her glory, eyes half-hooded and ringed in golden lashes, following him steadily without blinking, a statue, unreadable, unmovable, a mountain built of soft rosy skin and an unbreakable spirit.

"I did not expect to find you here, my lord."

Shocked, he almost toppled from where he sat on a bench in the gardens.  The smell of night and spring was in the air, and he could not believe that he had allowed the peacefulness and the sweet scent of blossoms to carry him so far from reality that he did not see the approach of the star that was this infuriating, frightening, amazing woman.

"I did not expect to see you here, either, my lady" was all he could think to say.

Without further comment, she bent and sat beside him, just beyond touching, but so close that he could feel the heat of her body.  Strange.  He had always imagined that she would radiate cool poise and nonchalance, but it seemed that she took more after Anor than Ithil.  The golden crown upon her head was radiant, almost creating sunlight of its own accord and casting it warmly down upon his skin.  If only her eyes would light up to match perhaps he would not feel like a rabbit beneath the fierce gaze of a hungry falcon.

They watched each other silently, Celeborn itching to stand and flee but knowing that his pride as a prince and a man would never allow him to retreat from a woman, even one such as she.  Instead, he tried to focus anywhere but her eyes and breasts, somewhere in between, like on her creamy, swanlike throat or plump lips or the golden curls spilling down her shoulders to her shapely hips and--

Not a direction he wanted to go.

"Marry me, Lord Celeborn."

Of course, my-- What?

He must have said it aloud, must have been gaping in a most obscene manner like an open-mouthed fish on dry land, but she said nothing of his expression, merely stared deeply into his eyes, as if she could connect their souls through sheer force of will. "I want you to marry me, Lord Celeborn."

No, he apparently had not dreamed those words.  They were real.  Terribly real.

"We do not even know each other, my lady."

She frowned softly and gave him a piercing and annoyed look, as if to silently reprimand him for being so concerned with inconsequential details.  As if men and women who barely knew each other's names married all the time. "Perhaps you are right.  Come and take dinner with me in my rooms, and we shall discuss our marriage afterwards."

Come and take dinner with me in my rooms... Had he just been propositioned by a Noldorin princess?  By this haughty woman?  Dazed, Celeborn could do naught but stare.

For the first time she touched him, her white hand a searing presence on his elbow, guiding him upwards and almost lifting him aloft as if on wings.  Without effort, she steered him forth like a mariner steers his ship, and Celeborn was helpless to fight the tides of her zeal.  He was cornered and struck silent with shock.

When he recovered, they were already being served roast and rich red wine within the fine comforts of her guest quarters, her large and soft bed curtained with velvet but a few feet away, rumpled from where she had assumedly slept the night before.  And she seemed not the least embarrassed to have a man witness the insides of the chambers where she had probably only that morning walked in nothing but a thin shift to bathe, her naked body nearly uncovered.  The very thought left Celeborn stuttering and flushing like a stripling instead of a seasoned prince.

She gave him more wine, and he drank eagerly beneath her heavy gaze.

By the end of dinner, he thought he might have kissed her and spoken every thought he had ever had of her lips and hair.  Might have called her Alatáriel and whispered drunkenly that she was the most divine creature he had ever laid eyes upon, but he was not entirely certain of the last part, or what may or may not have come after.

By the end of the night they were engaged.

In the morning, they woke up together, and she was wearing only a shift.  Her body was pressed against his in the most ludicrously, unseemly, wonderful manner.

And for the life of him, the Prince of Doriath could not remember what had happened to him.

Only that, the very same morning, Finrod Felagund had laughed. "I told you, Prince Celeborn, my sister is very fond of you.  Once she sets her mind to something, it cannot be changed, not by her father, nor her brothers, nor her king, nor even the Valar themselves.  It is part of her womanly charm."

Womanly charm indeed.  Celeborn could only nod and agree.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Because it is my firm belief that Galadriel is the most frightening woman ever and that Celeborn must have balls of mithril to somehow put up with her and her overwhelming feminism.  I know people always whine about how male-oriented Tolkien's stories are, but Galadriel is like the ultimate feminist, a girl amongst men, and she doesn't let anyone walk all over her.  She's kickass and awesome, even though she can be kind of creepy sometimes.

So anyway, my sister randomly flipped to a page of the Silmarillion, and Galadriel's name was the first word on that page, so that was who I was to write about today.  And that was at, like 8:30, so this idea came relatively quickly afterwards.  And it's long.  The stories that are less metaphorical and more literal are always longer LOL.  Was listening to Run the World (Girls) by Beyoncé.  It fits Galadriel so well.  She runs her universe with a steel fist, and Eru forbid someone should dare to try and stop her.  They better be wearing a mithril jockstrap if they want children afterwards.

Celeborn and Galadriel by ~liga-marta on dA, because they're pretty.  And because I honestly hate the actor that plays Celeborn in Lord of the Rings.  Sorry.

That's all.

Pretend

Extremely AU.  What if Fingolfin had died in the Battle of the Lammoth?--a theory.  This is an experiment of sorts, so don't sue me or anything LOL.  It was just a curious idea that popped into my head yesterday evening and wouldn't go away.  Quenya names used (Argon = Arakáno, Fingon = Findekáno, Turgon = Turukáno, Fingolfin = Nolofinwë).  Yes, in this universe, the random youngest son of Fingolfin exists and therefore the Battle of the Lammoth does take place, even though it's not in the published Silmarillion. Starts during the last year of the Years of the Trees before Anar rises and continues well into the First Age.  Introspection.

Disclaimer: Tolkien created the Silmarillion.  Of course, I'm pretty sure when he wrote Fingolfin as surviving the Battle of the Lammoth, he really meant Fingolfin.

Pairings: none

Characters: Argon, Fingolfin, Fingon, Turgon (mentions Aredhel and the Fëanorions and Finarfinions)

Warning: extremely AU but still somehow follows canon, non-canon character death/survival, very mild gore and blood, mentions of war and depression, self-hatred

Song: Dance with the Devil

Words: 885
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
pretend (transitive verb): to give a false appearance of being, possessing, or performing; to make believe: feign; to claim, represent, or assert falsely
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pretend

No one could ever know their little secret.

Arakáno kept it locked tightly away in his heart, pushed away the agony that seemed to radiate through his chest with its every pulse, pushed away the shame that trembled precariously at the corners of his mind, driving him mad.

Pushed away the guilt that burned against his soul like acid.  Was it not his fault?  Had is impetuousness not been the catalyst to tragedy?

Because Nolofinwë was dead.  He was gone.  And Arakáno could blame no one but himself.

He had cradled the body to himself, begged and pleaded and sobbed, listened to the frightening gurgle of blood filling the lungs, watched as crimson streamed from the corners of his father's silently moving lips.  Shaking fingers brushed against his face, leaving behind great smears of red and black, but they could not hide the tears streaking their way down his face at whispered words and crushing, overwhelming sorrow.  The death rattle of those last few struggling breaths still echoed in his ears, haunting him in every waking moment and in every dream.

His brother had taken one look at them on the ground--the younger brother's shaking form and their father's limp, cooling body--and his face had hardened, his eyes the only indicator of his horror and despair.  The next words had struck Arakáno's soul like lashes of a whip. "No one can know."

It was more important to have a leader than a prince.  Arakáno was not needed.

But Nolofinwë was.

Covered in gore and stricken with grief, the youngest child of Nolofinwë had not resisted, had gone thoughtlessly along with the plot, had taken up his father's sword and circlet, had banished the young, fiery spirit from his body and replaced it with the shoddy ghost of someone greater.

The first time he was called "father" nearly stopped his heart.

The first time he was called "your majesty" left him raw and aching and full of shame.

He was not some great king or great leader or wise father.  For Ilúvatar's sake, he had gotten his father killed in a foolish dash across enemy lines without covering his back!  It was his inexperience and rashness that had created this mess in the first place!  How could Findekáno expect him to play at being King?  For that was what he did.  He played.

Pretended.

Lied.

Danced around a secret so great that no one aside from his siblings could ever discover it.  Every time he saw his cousins, he wanted so badly to scream it aloud--that he was not Nolofinwë and never would be!  Call me by my true name, I beg ye!  See me!

But he learned.  He dared not do anything less.

"You will make me proud, hínya," his father had spoken to him, the last words to ever leave his lips as he died within the circle of Arakáno's arms, as he had pressed his sword towards his youngest child.  How could Nolofinwë utter such words after what the youngest child of his loins had done, after the shame his son had heaped upon his family?

However, the words had served their purpose.  He dared not fail his father a second time.

Oh, he learned!  But it seemed to never get easier.  The guilt seemed never to ease.  No redemption was to be found in filling shoes too big, shoes that belonged to someone else.  Like a thief, he languished in a life meant for someone more noble and righteous.  Like a pauper, he answered to respectful bows and reverent words meant for the eyes and ears of someone older, someone who commanded that respect as easily as he breathed, someone who had died for all the right reasons and all the wrong choices.

Eventually, that someone altogether disappeared.

Eventually, Findekáno called him "Atar" and Arakáno kissed his "son's" forehead in parting, whispering a blessing over gold-woven braids, and Findekáno would smile in return at his sweet words like a flower blooming from the ashes of golden years.

Eventually, Turukáno came to him to reveal all his woes--to scream and rage and curse and then curl up into a ball in his lap and weep--as if he were the man who had held the boy in childhood after nightmares in the darkness, comforting strength and confidence.

Eventually, he wondered who it was that had truly disappeared and who it was that remained behind.  When he looked in the mirror, it was not his self that he saw staring back, but a reflection of advice just beyond reach and soft reassurances that didn't quite reach his ears.

Eventually, he no longer wished for those things.  Eventually, the words came naturally to his lips.

And that was the day Arakáno ceased to exist, and Nolofinwë took his place.

They never spoke of the secret.  There had never been need, for it became less a secret each day, less a lie and a falsehood.  He kissed his sons' foreheads and did not think of them as brothers.  He kissed his daughter's cheeks and wondered when she had grown into a beautiful young maiden.

And he no longer pretended.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just a little idea that was itching to find its way out of my cluttered brain.  I blame this story I read a while back on AO3 where Thorin dies during Azanulbizar and Dís takes over, pretending to be her older brother, because her people need a prince to follow more than they need a princess to fawn over in the wake of tragedy. 

Let's be honest here, if Fingolfin had died at the very beginning like Fëanor, I think there would have been a few more problems both in terms of leadership of the exiles and in terms of familial interactions.  Can you imagine the fuss the Fëanorions would have kicked up if Maedhros had given the throne to Fingon out of gratitude?

Anyway, I was listening to Dance with the Devil by Breaking Benjamin.  This song is an old favorite and an amazing song.  You know it's good when you've been listening to it since you were like 13 and still like it in college.  And a treat: Fingolfin's Challenge by =Gold-Seven on dA, because he looks kickass and I like the horse.  There's a link to the companion piece (of Morgoth) in the description.

Ja ne.