Fanfic December Collection

[Laurë]

Hello there!

In another community a friend of mine put together a prompt list with a December theme to base Tolkien fan-works on. I've been wanting to dive a little deeper into creative writing, so I thought it'd be fun to write a short story or scene based on each of the prompts. Hopefully, If I'm not too busy I can get to most of them!

I thought it'd be fun to share them here as well, as I've never worked on a project like this before. I'll post all of the entrees in this thread throughout the month as I finish them. It's going to be pretty casual and I'll be doing these quickly, so they might not be the most polished work but hopefully it'll be fun anyway.

I also think it'd be fun to make a discussion thread so you can share your thoughts with me and I can explain some of my creative decisions. I don't have time to set that up at the moment, but I will do it soon.

Edit: I made the discussion thread, so here is the link, I plan to add some more information to it a little later

The first prompt was holly, admittedly harder to work with because of the tighter Christmas association. Unfortunately, the concept got away from me a bit and it's a little less based on the prompt then I'd like, but the connection is still there.

I was mostly looking at the symbolic meanings of holly. It can represent immortality, endurance and peace among other things (within and without Christianity), which made me think of Valinor. I already had a concept for a story I'd like to write that takes place in Valinor, and it seemed to fit that meaning pretty well . . . from there it's just a fairly simple story about some of my favorite characters.

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Holly​

Nerdanel finished smoothing a small blemish in the face, the clay bending easily to her fingers. It was mostly done, all the base shapes were there but the details still evaded her.

She had sculpted his face several times; had held the real thing in her hands many more. Still, something about it wasn’t quite right. Despite being heavy-handed, it felt like the piece didn’t reflect the image in her head.

Wiping the grit off her hands onto her thick work apron, she stepped back. They always say a piece can differ by the angle you look at it. Carving tools still clutched in one hand, she circled the bust on her worktable looking for areas to change.

Of course, it might not look right to her because she was intentionally creating a different image than what she remembered. Nerdanel had pushed his mouth down in a deep scowl, brow furrowed, eyes hard. The face of a monster, someone who had forgotten love.

These many years, she had mostly been at peace, her thoughts accompanied by her everyday life. The visions of foresight she had once seen regularly had completely disappeared after Fëanor had gone and taken her sons with him.

Nerdanel had not been dismayed, the subject of those visions were always her children. With them gone, lost in more ways than one, what was there for her to see? She liked to think the Valar themselves had cut her sight off. She had grieved enough, no need to watch horrors unfold for souls already lost.

Secretly, a small part of her had ached while alone. She often wondered how many of her sons were still alive out across the sea. Even still, she did not seek out Mandos to ask him if they had come to his halls--ultimately she thought that knowledge it would be too much for her.

Just a fortnight ago her visions had returned. Not violent or eery as they had been before, but soft and dim.

For several nights she saw nothing but the ocean. Nerdanel had first taken this as a message from Ulmo; he spoke with the folk of Valinor on occasion. But a visit to nearby Vanyar in his service proved otherwise--they assured her he had no intention of calling on her.

After that, what she saw changed. Not just the ocean, but grey shores and rocks. Something on the wind, almost a song but too distant for her to tell.

Last night there was more still. A face, pale and familiar, surrounded by darkness.

When she saw it she knew who it belonged to--she could never forget the face of Fëanor. Surely he was not still alive, so why did she see his face? Perhaps, evil even in death he had chosen to haunt her rather than rest.

Yet the same secret part of her that had longed for the visions to return did not feel anger or terror at his sight. No, her heart closed from many years alone, had opened. Just a little, but enough. Despite it all, she found herself wondering if there was room within her for hope.

Nerdanel's frustration grew as she continued to stare at the sculpture. Warm sunlight came in through the large windows of her workspace, leaving a soft glow on the wet clay. The light seemed to only make his image more confusing.

Despite her secret feelings, the strong part of her had awoken this morning and had chosen to squash that hope before it grew too much for her. She would remind herself of what a monster that man had become by recreating him in the only way that could reflect the truth--sculpting.

People used to gossip, back before she’d stepped out of most social circles, that her sculptures looked so real they could have come to life. Nerdanel never failed to capture a likeness. Perhaps her mind and memory could not conjure a version of her husband that reflected the truly evil man he had become, but her hands could. She would show herself how terrible he was. She would face that, and dismiss these visions.

Thus the expression on his face. Looking at it now though, Nerdanel felt only anguish. It was not enough. The cruelness she’d given his eyes might also be seen as determination, could it not? Her own heart betrayed her. She could not make him terrible.

Nerdanel leaned back in to keep going, but found herself truly at a loss for what to do next. How to make him appear worse, short of giving him horns and splattering his face with faux-blood?

Frustrated, she threw the sculpting tool on the workbench. She would have some of her journeymen destroy the sculpture and use the already warmed-up clay for practice. If she could not squash that little sliver of hope, then she would ignore it instead.

“My lady?”

Nerdanel jumped a little, not realizing she had been so absorbed in her thoughts. Turning she saw her handmaiden, Lasselante. She had dismissed most of her household years ago, in favor of solitude, but a few remained.

“What is it?” Nerdanel asked, trying to refocus herself in the present.

“You um . . .” The poor girl was young and quite shy, not bad attributes to have when your mistress lived isolated in the countryside, but bothersome at times.

“Yes dear?” Nerdanel asked, making her tone softer. Perhaps her frustration had leaked through too much.

“You have slip all over your face, my lady.”

“Oh,” Nerdanel replied with a chuckle, “I must not have been paying attention.” She wiped an arm across her cheek and sure enough, the sleeve came back with splotches of watered down clay.

Lasselante led her through the doors of the workshop into one of the main hallways of the house. A little way down a large mirror decorated the wall, conveniently placed for quick cleanups.

The handmaiden gave her a tea towel to wipe the rest of the slip off. Glancing at herself in the glass, it wasn’t too bad. There was a little left smeared on her cheek, but only a few other spots remained.

“You ought to be more mindful of what you do with your hands,” Lasselante suggested, “Especially when you’re getting them dirty while working.”

“Is it such a crime to have a little clay here and there?” Nerdanel asked jokingly, “It’s not as though I’m trying to impress anyone with my appearance while I sculpt--that’s what the finished product is for.”

“I know but . . . It is frustrating to have to remind you every time.”

Nerdanel chuckled again. “Alright, I suppose I must learn to do better, you’d think someone as old as me would have broken the habit already.”

Lasselante nodded sweetly, but her smile faded.

“I didn't just come to remind you of the slip, My lady, there is a lord here to see you, along with his companion, he is waiting in the foyer.”

Nerdanel frowned. It was well known she disliked visitors who showed up unannounced. She wasn’t interested in local society or politics, mostly preferring to keep to herself. Lasselante didn’t recognize them, so it couldn’t be the few relatives she still kept contact with.

“Didn’t the butler tell them that it’s rude to call on me without notice, especially while I am working?” She asked.

The handmaiden nodded. “Taure tried but the lord was so insistent and genuine he let them stay.”

Her butler was also a bit of a pushover. Nerdanel loved her staff but sometimes she needed to get a job done herself.

“Very well, I will simply go explain things to them myself, if they want to call on me, they must tell me in advance.” She said resolutely.

“Don’t be too mean . . . they seemed decent folk.” Lasselante insisted nervously.

“I’m not mean, I’m simply assertive,” Nerdanel said, turning to go.

“Oh! You're not going to get more cleaned up first?” Her handmaiden asked, taking a few quick steps after her.

“I cleaned up my face didn’t I?” Nerdanel asked in return. ”That’s enough for me.”

Lasselante wrung her hands, staring for a second at Nerdanels dirty apron and old work trousers. “Yes I suppose,” She finally admitted with dismay, “Especially if they didn’t reach out to you beforehand to find a good time . . .”

“Exactly, they’ve interrupted my workflow, how dare they!” Nerdanel exclaimed in mock offense.

Lasselante let out a giggle despite herself. “Very well then, maybe the sight of you will scare them away.”

“A brilliant idea! I hope it does.” She gave her a final smile before setting the tea towel on a side table and leaving for the foyer.

The walk helped soothe any leftover frustration from her sculpture attempt. The hall's ceiling was a bit higher than one might expect, making the whole building feel nice and airy. Large windows let sunlight in on one side, illuminating the furniture. The housekeeper had put up garlands of holly to decorate the walls.

She had lived in many houses throughout her life in Valinor, but she loved this one the most. It had been built when she and Fëanor were just married. She had carved many of the details in the stones and columns herself.

Though Nerdanel and her family had traveled often during their time together, she had raised her children in this house. It felt strange to look at the running deer painted on the walls and not see her little sons running down the hall with them.

It helped her remember times in the past that had been something other than disaster and pain. When she was here, she could remember those good things.

The doors to the foyer were larger wooden ones, her father had carved tall trees into them, creating a classical forest scene. Near the bottom of one corner were scratchy engravings of stick figures, clearly made by a child but faded and old. She had scolded Tyelko at length for ruining her father’s door, but neglected to fix it in the years since. If he had simply drawn the figures on paper she would have lost it by now. Nerdanel could still make out the smaller figure holding the hand of a bigger one--Which he had explained was meant to be them together. How could she sand something like that away?

She pulled the right door open by its smooth metallic handle and glanced out. Her foyer was a large and welcoming room with modest furnishings and marbled floors. A staircase descended down from where she stood to connect with the rest of the room. The main doors to the house sat on the far wall, also elegantly carved with trees. It had been a very useful room for parties, back when she did that sort of thing.

The two strangers were waiting there for her. One stood patiently in the middle of the hall, and he waved when he saw her enter--likely the lord Lasselonte had mentioned. The other stood a distance away by a window near the front. Backlit and looking outside, his face was turned away.

Nerdanel studied them both as she closed the door behind her and made her way down the stairs. Neither wore house-specific colors or symbols, at least not ones she knew of.

“Good morning, Lady Nerdanel!” The first one said as she drew near, clearly somewhat nervous.

“Good morning,” She replied with considerably less enthusiasm. “Might I ask why you’ve arrived unannounced?”

“Please allow me to introduce myself first, My name is Elrond, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“Not that I can immediately remember,” Nerdanel replied.

“That’s alright, of course I haven’t been here long so I’m not surprised,” Elrond said easily, “The last of my people and I arrived in Valinor a few months ago, as some of the last ships coming west.”

“I see,” Nerdanal replied. She had heard that most of the elves of Middle Earth were returning west now. She preferred peace and quiet but snippets of news still made their way to her. “And what can I do for you, Lord Elrond?”

“Well,” His nervousness returned in full force, “My friend here wanted to speak with you, but was having a difficult time coming alone--If you’d give him a moment of your time, we don’t mean to stay long.”

Nerdanel understood why Taure had caved so quickly. He seemed to be a very earnest man, the two certainly weren’t door-to-door salesmen trying to waste her time.

“. . . Very well, as long as it really only takes a moment.”

“Thank you!” Elrond said brightly.

His smile faded a little as he turned to his friend, “I really ought to let you two speak alone, now that I think about it.”

“That’s fine with me, why don’t you wait outside?”

Elrond nodded. With one last nervous glance at his friend he slipped out the front door.

Nerdanel moved further across the room to his companion, who turned to see her as she approached.

One of his arms was in a sling, and he gripped his shoulder with his good hand anxiously. His long black hair fell around his shoulders like a curtain he was trying to hide away in.

“I . . . truly never thought I would return to this place,” He said softly. His good hand moved to touch a line of stone holly that was carved into the windowsill.

He turned to look at her, sadness in his eyes.

Nerdanel felt her head spin at the site of his face. The face she had seen in her vision . . . the one she’d been carving.

A spike of panic touched her heart. How could he be here? Fëanor was likely dead by now, and if he were alive he had no reason to return to this place. Surely Elrond would have given her more explanation--

Her thoughts came to a halt as she realized the voice wasn’t right. Fëanor had never really spoken with such a soft cadence.

Yes she knew that face, but it was not her husband. The terror in her heart lessened, though not the shock.

“I really won’t stay long,” Maglor said, clearly aware of how out of sorts this had put her. “I’m sure you don’t want to speak with me, so I wrote this.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “It’s mostly . . . well most of it is meaningless, I know it won’t fix anything, I merely thought it’d be good to explain.”

Maglor did not resemble Fëanor as closely as Curufin had, but his features were certainly his fathers more than hers. Her vision hadn’t been about her husband at all.

He looked different from how he had when he’d left her. Like some of the statues she’d made early in her life, he was still the same shape and image but now chipped and weathered in places. Underneath it all, he was still himself.

“I just want you to know that I've done as much as I can when it comes to redeeming myself and fixing things,” His voice shook a little, and he touched the arm he held in a sling. The hand and wrist below the sleeve were covered in terrible black burns. “Elrond helped me get back on my feet, and we spoke a lot with Ulmo . . . they’re the reason I was allowed back here.”

Maglor took a deep breath, steadying himself. “But that’s all explained in the letter so, I’ll go now . . . In hindsight I should have mailed it to you, I just wanted to see you again--make sure you’re still well.”

One of her sons was alive. He was there right in front of her, no longer a distant vision.

The little piece of hope inside of her won. But the strength she’d been shielding herself with hadn’t really ‘lost’--it would simply help her hope instead of pushing any change or risk away.

Slowly, Maglor turned to go but before he took more than a few steps she caught him in her arms and pulled him close to her. He stiffened a little at her touch.

“Macalaurë . . .” She whispered into his hair.

After a moment of silence, he whispered back with uncertainty, “Why don’t you hate me?”

“You know I could never bring myself to do that, Laurë, especially not when you’ve done everything to return.”

Slowly he let his arms wrap around her, his head resting on her shoulder.

It would not completely fix things, she would still be in pain. Only one of her children had come home, either the others had truly fallen or hadn’t lived to make it back. Maglor could tell her for sure.

Her vision had not been about Fëanor but she would still struggle with the memories of happiness she still had of him.

But it was something. If Maglor could heal himself, then there was hope yet for her own wounds. Things would never go back to how they had been before, instead they would simply soar to a new, better place.

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Thank you for reading!

 

[Laurë]

Hello all! As per what I decided in the discussion thread I'll be posting this next story in pieces. It's split somewhat naturally into four sections, and considering it'll be a bit on the longer side, this seemed more logical. I finished and did my best to polish the first section tonight, so that's what we'll start with. I'll be posting them as I finish them, which hopefully won't take as long as it has so far 😅.

I can't really say how happy I am with it, as it's just the beginning of something. Hopefully at least, it's a good start.

I hope you enjoy it!

Snow - 1​

They made their way down the last stone ridge slowly. Artanis’s boots kept slipping on the loose stones of the hillside, so it was best to move carefully.

She squinted at the horizon through the snowfall and darkness as they got closer. Tiny lights were visible at the bottom of the valley, somewhat sheltered by the rock heights around it. How fragile the camp looked from up here, the lights fading and flickering.

Rantarna trekked down the slope next to her, his breath clouding in the cold air. He slipped on a loose stone, but caught his balance before Artanis had a chance to reach out and catch him.

“This is going to be a nightmare to cross tomorrow,” Rantarna said in his typical jovial tone that never quite matched his words.

“Maybe it won’t be snowing so hard then,” Artanis said absently, her mind still on the lights.

“A foolish thought,” Rantarna said with a chuckle, “But one worth entertaining all the same.”

She took a deep breath of icy air, trying to calm the agitation in her heart. They’d gone out to scout the route forward, and found nothing but more cliffs of rock and ice. Was it too much to hope that they would soon cross to gentle plains? The Helcaraxë couldn’t go on forever.

Halfway back Rantarna had even found what looked like an animal trail; they’d taken a large detour hunting it, but then lost it among the cliffs.

Hopes dashed and the promise of stale rations did little to soothe her mood. Foolish indeed.

They paused to jump a small ravine hidden between rocks. Closer to the valley floor, they’d discovered it on their way out earlier. Rantarna didn’t almost fall this time, which was an improvement.

“You aren’t the least bit frustrated by all this?” Artanis asked as they started pushing through the snow again.

“Sure, who wouldn’t be?”

She thought she heard a grin, but couldn’t see it through the snow–she would never understand that ellon. Rantarna was an old friend of Finwë, from the earliest days of Arda. He had followed one King of the Nolder out of Middle Earth, and was now going back in the footsteps of another.

“Yet it doesn’t seem that you are,” Artanis insisted, “You hum while we hike, and talk like it’s a stroll through the gardens of Valinor!”

“I’m good at being patient, that is all.”

They were on the valley floor now, the shadowy outline of the camp now visible in the never-ending snow. Here there were less rocks to worry about, but deeper snow.

There was a moment of silence except for the crunching of their boots and their own breath.

“It is difficult to be patient, not with traitors ahead of us.” She finally muttered back, “I have so much to do, yet I cannot even begin to get started.”

A watchman on the edge of the camp waved to them, shouting so they’d notice him.

Rantarna yelled back a greeting, jogging the last few steps into the rough circle of firelight made by flickering torches.

“My lady Artanis, Sir Rantarna” The watchmen said, approaching, “Why were you gone so long? We expected you back quite a while ago.”

“We thought we’d found some kind of animal to hunt, but lost it.” Artanis replied.

Rantarna nodded, “The tracks looked like a hare of some kind, I thought we could’ve eaten it.”

“Well, we can’t eat what we can’t find, sir.”

The watchmen squinted out at the slope they’d come down and the icy wastes beyond, “You were gone long enough we worried you wouldn’t come back, if I may, there are others who can do this for you.”

Artanis shook her head, “I prefer it to other things, truthfully. It feels like I’m actually doing something when I go out ahead.”

The watchman turned back to her, his face tired, “Just a suggestion, my lady.”

They moved on, passing him and entering the largest of the tents. Inside it was dimly lit, but warm. A large portion of the company sat in small circles here and there, conversing wearily. A few were still eating, but most had already finished.

In one corner, her uncle and cousin sat together, apart from the rest of their family.
Ñolofinwë had a blanket tight around his shoulders, trying to mask how miserable he was, and failing just a little. Findecáno, bless him, was doing his best to make light conversation and cheer his father up.

Artanis approached both of them, she didn’t feel much like eating with this sour mood.

“--And I was telling Turu, you can’t eat stew with no salt, that’s half the flavor--especially out here when our stew is little more than meat water. But he insisted it was better without salt! Can you believe that?” Finno was saying.

“How terribly strange,” His father replied dully.

“I know! It’s delightful, he’s been letting me use his.”

Findecáno turned suddenly, the golden ribbons in his hair sparkling in the torchlight. “Cousin, you’re finally back!”

“That I am,” Artanis replied, surprised by how tired she sounded.

“You were gone so long we worried you had frozen to death,” He said, more seriously. “What happened?”

“We thought we’d found something to hunt, but . . . it ended up being a dead end.” She glanced at Rantarna, who was standing on the other side of the tent speaking with some friends.

“What a shame,” Ñolofinwë said in a way that made it clear he wasn’t surprised.

“What kind of beast was it?” Finno asked, curious.

“Rantarna thought it might’ve been a hare, like the ones we caught a few weeks ago.”

“Ah well, a single hare isn’t worth getting lost in the snow,” He said, leaning forward to look her in the eyes when he said it.

“We weren’t going to get lost,” Artanis said, tone a little harsher than she had meant. Her frustration was really getting to her tonight, it seemed.

“Of course Arta, I didn’t mean that, we were simply worried.” Finno insisted.

She nodded, feeling a little tinge of guilt. Everyone was at their wits end, not just her. How did Findecáno manage to stay so cheerful? Maybe he felt that he had to–his own secret way of keeping everyone alive in this place.

After a few moments of heavy silence between the three of them, she found herself speaking again. “. . . you shouldn’t have to worry, we should be in safer lands by now, or we should have not left at all.”

Something flickered in her uncle's eyes. “Now child, there is no reason to waste time thinking of what should have been, we’ve chosen a path and now must follow it. The Helcaraxë was larger than we anticipated, but we have come far and its frozen lengths are drawing to an end.”

“Just because we chose a path does not mean we should avoid action now! I’m not asking us to turn around,” Artanis clarified, in fact she’d rather not go back. The prospect of new lands was enticing to her as much as anyone. “But the deeper we get, the slower we go! Why do we stay camped in such lands when we could be moving forward now?”

“It is because,” Ñolo said sternly, “Our people are growing weaker, we all want to escape this place, Artanis, but not all can run at the same pace.”

Finno watched the exchange nervously. Before Artanis could reply, he butted in. “Now, we’re all tired and our minds are heavy from a long day, this is not the time to discuss such things.”

“These days, we are always tired, Finno, if we do not discuss it now, then when?”

He frowned at her, large brown eyes reflecting the torchlight.

Another tinge of guilt. Why did she keep letting her emotions get away from her? Artanis hadn’t always been like this, at least to not such an extreme

“I know,” He said, “But rest and thought couldn’t hurt, I think.”

His father nodded in agreement. Any conflict among them should be saved for formal meetings.

“Let’s see . . . we ought to do something to cheer up a bit, don’t you think?” Finno asked, clearly glad they hadn’t ignored him and continued to argue further.

“And what would that be?” Artanis asked, letting herself relax; she had no reason to be tense with family. At least, not this part of the family.

“Let’s see . . . how about cards?”

Ñolofinwë groaned, some level of mirth reaching his face for the first time, “We played cards last night, and the night before. I’m tired of losing to you, hina”

“If you’re tired of losing, then you ought to play more to practice! Avoiding the game is admitting defeat,” Finno teased.

“It . . . does get old night after night,” Artanis interjected. In truth, she didn’t have the energy for a card game, despite her normally competitive energy.

“It never gets old, if you ask me.” Finno insisted.

“It gets old when you lose every time,” Ñolo said with a smirk.

“Fine! I shall simply have to make you all play with me another time,” He said with a little mock sorrow, “But as of now what shall we do?”

“What about a langauge game?” Ñolofinwë suggested, “One of the simple ones, about guessing or thinking up words?”

Finno drew his mouth up into a line, “Now you are suggesting a game that you always win, how unfair!”

“Well, don’t look at me, I have very little ideas for a good time that can work around the snow and ice,” Artanis said, chuckling. Indeed, most of her old pastimes included sports and hunting–the sort of stuff that required gentle green lands and a bright sun.

“Perhaps we aren’t in the mood of a game tonight,” Finno said, tapping his chin, thinking. “How about we tell stories!”

“Stories?” Artanis asked. That seemed less tiring than a game, though it wasn’t something she was particularly good at. “If you’d like to listen to a story, Finno, let’s just call over a bard.”

“Now Arta, where’s the fun in that? Hearing stories from friends and family is far more entertaining.”

“Really?” His father asked, incredulous in his reserved way, “When you were younger you’d complain time and again about my stories and how boring they were.”

“That was years ago, atar, back when you’d tell me of ‘Little Ordo Who Did What His Mother Told Him,’ and ‘The Tragedy of The Elfling Who Didn’t Eat His Vegetables.’ Surely you would not do so now.” Finno chuckled, pushing a lock of hair behind his shoulder.

Ñolo sighed, but smiled, “I suppose you have outgrown those ones by a little.”

“So . . . stories it is,” Arta said, already straining to think of a good one she had not told before, “Who shall go first?”

“I will! It was my idea after all,” Finno said, leaning forward, “Unless either of you would rather go first.”

“By all means, go ahead. It appears I have to think of something made for a grown ellon, quite the task.”

Artanis laughed, “I also need to think of something, so go on Finno.”

“Very well, then by popular demand I will tell our first story.”

He sat back in his chair, and some of the mischievousness left his eyes, replaced with sincerity.

“Yes . . . I will tell you of something wonderful, from long ago. When I was just an Elfling and the world was still bright with the light of the trees.”

--------​

 

[Laurë]

It was a shadowy spring morning. I remember dark clouds hung low around the Pelóri, heavy with water. The savage storms here have almost driven me to forget the gentle ones of Aman. How I miss seeing storm clouds and feeling gladness for the blessing of rain instead of dread.

Then, Manwë had not yet cleared our skies for the glory of summer, and the gentle tapping of rain was a welcome accompaniment to our songs. Yavanna’s children were just waking up, and their colors were a brilliant green in the light of Laurelin.

The Aman of that long ago time was untouched even by the tension and quiet conflict of our later days. Slow to anger and quick to laughter was our way, and the kindness of the land had bled into its people.

I rode with my uncle Fëanáro and his first two sons through the forests just north west of Tirion. Laurelin’s light was able to push through and under the rain clouds to hit our backs. I felt soaked in warmth despite the cool spring air.

Ingoldo was with us as well, the youngest among us then. His gold hair was easy to spot through the hanging leaves ahead of me. Kanafinwë hummed a simple tune from next to Ingo, and the wind rustled through the trees to accompany him.

Nelyo was next to me, eyes on the path ahead in anticipation. It was on this day that we had set out for a small hunt, more to spend time among the trees than to really catch something.

Fëanor, ever eager to nurture and teach at that time, had wanted to take his first sons into the woods. Finwë had suggested he take Ingoldo and I with him, and it speaks to the peace of those days that he needed only a little convincing.

“I hope we can catch some pheasants,” Nelyo was saying, shifting the reins of his horse from one hand to the other, “I’m weaving ammë a shawl, and I want to add feathers to the edges.”

I nodded, thinking of some of the lovely items Nelyo had woven for my mother. It was not the craft his father would have preferred, but it was celebrated within our family all the same.

“I’m sure it’ll turn out wonderful, Aunt Nerdanel will love it.”

“I hope so, I can show you later when we get back, and you can tell me whether you think the colors I’ve chosen will clash with her hair,” he replied. “I based it off of mine, but her hair is a much darker shade and I can’t very well hold it up to her head to check.”

“She doesn’t know you’re making it, then?” I asked with a laugh. Nelyo could never just quietly give someone a gift, it had to be a mediated surprise.

“Of course not! That’s half the joy in it, you know.”

“Is it?” I teased, “I think I’d prefer to know in advance, actually.”

Nelyo frowned, “You . . . would?”

I nodded, trying to hide the mischievousness from my tone, “Even a well-intentioned surprise would give me such a nasty fright! I don’t think my poor heart could take it.”

My cousin paled, looking at his hands, “I . . . didn’t know that.”

After a few seconds of silence, I giggled. “Does this mean you’re working on a secret gift for me too?”

Immediately he looked up, eyes wide, “How’d you guess?! Though I suppose this is for the best if you hate surprises so.”

I grinned, “Nelyo, I was joking.”

He groaned loudly, “You little trickster! I can never manage to keep things from you.”

“It’s my youthful zeal,” I said, pushing loose hair behind my shoulder with a flourish, “Alas, as you grow older your cleverness dulls.”

“Hey! I am not so many years your senior, we’re closer together than our fathers!” Nelyo said, grinning despite himself.

I was about to reply when I noticed Kano and Ingo had both pulled to a stop, and dismounted. Ahead of them, Fëanor was standing beside his tall black mare, studying the tree line.

“This is the spot,” he said, pointing at a path that branched off of the road and led downhill through the trees. “The riverbank is this way, and that’s where we’ll tie the horses and stop for a break.”

Nelyo hopped off his own horse, radiating excitement. I joined him, feet thumping on the dirt road.

Fëanor started down the path, sticks cracking under his mare’s hooves. We filed after him, Kano and Ingo staying close so they didn’t fall behind. I was surprised to see that the path was more spacious than it had first appeared, and the horses fit along it just fine. Following a natural parting in the trees, it wound back and forth down the gentle slope.

The woods on either side eventually opened up to reveal a wide bank. The packed dirt and cleared foliage proved this spot had been used many times before, whether for hunts or picnics or other excursions into these woods.

Beyond the bank, the river rolled past, gurgling and chattering over the rocks at its bottom. It wasn’t very deep or wide, but the current was strong enough one could get swept away if they weren’t careful. Shadows clung to the trees on the other side, making the woods look endlessly deep.

Ingo tied his horse to the nearest birch trunk, and then ran to the edge of the river, laughing. He crouched down and started looking for oddly shaped pebbles to stick in his pockets.

Kano double checked his little cousin's knot before tying his own horse nearby.

Once Nelyo and I had finished doing the same, Fëanor pulled both his sons over to help with the unpacking. I started after them, but he waved me off. I was a guest among them, and he wouldn’t have his guest unpacking the supplies. I wondered briefly if nephews could not help as well.

Shaking away an odd feeling in my chest, I wandered over to Ingo. I was a little worried the small elfling would get too close to the water. He hopped up when I drew near and handed me a small, oval shaped rock.

“Look! It has sparkles in it!”

I held it up to the few rays of Laurelin peaking through the clouds, and saw tiny glittering grains within the pebble’s strata. “Why, it does! How pretty.”

“Do you think it’s gold?”

“Probably not,” I said gently, trying not to disappoint him, “But it’s lovely all the same, and if you like it, that’s what’s important right?”

Ingo tilted his head thinking for a second, then nodded, a smile spreading across his face. “Like my hair!”

I laughed, handing the pebble back to him. “Yes, just like your hair.”

Fëanor called us back over then, as the others had finished unpacking and had set up a small fire pit.

We ate a hot breakfast under the trees, birdsong singing to the beat of the river’s rushing. Fëanor had fried the eggs to perfection, and I recognized Nerdanel’s hand in the sausages we ate with them.

The clouds grew closer, Laurelin’s rays only making it under them, not through. It did not rain, though a soft fog began to gather between the trees. Perhaps these days I would have worried, and suggested we turn back to Tirion. But danger was far from my mind at that time, and a little fog seemed harmless enough.

After cleaning up and washing the pans in the river, we set out again. This time following a path along the bank as we made our way further north.

We went that way for about an hour, before Fëanor finally pulled to a stop. He squinted through the fog from on top of his horse, and a few seconds later seemed to decide this was the right place. He turned, and from there we left the bank and path behind to delve eastward into the trees.

It was much darker here, and the fog thicker. I shivered and pulled my cloak around me. I could no longer feel Laurelins light on my back, though it illuminated the trees around me. Fëanor stopped again in a small clearing and dismounted. He gestured for us to remain quiet as we did the same.

He kneeled on the forest floor and we gathered around him.

From here he began pointing out disturbances in the carpet of leaves, scratches in the dirt, broken twigs, and other such things. I already knew a little about hunting and tracking, but it was Ingo’s first time, so he covered the basics before giving some more advanced tips for Nelyo, Kano, and I.

My uncle explained everything in a hushed voice, as if the subject of our search was already listening. We watched in silence as he showed us how to identify different animals from different sorts of trails. Only a loud singing bird broke the reverence of his lesson.

Finally he stood, and we went about looking for a good trail to follow. Ingo skipped around, probably making too much noise, but thoroughly enjoying himself as he began recognizing the presence of different animals in the undergrowth. Kano refrained from humming for once as he crouched over a broken twig and examined the ground around it.

After a few minutes of searching, and not finding anything, Nelyo grabbed my elbow and pulled me over. He pointed to a spot of brush on the ground, where the branches were parted oddly. Bending down, I peaked between the twigs and spotted the subject of his excitement. A nest, with a small pile of greenish yellow eggs inside.

Then, my cousin knelt beside me and pointed at something mixed in with the twigs. A couple of beautifully colored, orange brown feathers. A pheasant’s nest.

“How lucky!” I whispered, “Do you think it’s nearby?”

Nelyo shrugged, gingerly picking up the feathers and sticking them in his pocket. “I don’t know, I think I can make out a bit of a trail though.”

Fëanor must have heard our excited whispers, because he moved over to us after helping Ingo fix a stuck cloak pin.

“A good find!” He said, patting his son on the back as he leaned down to examine the nest with us. “I don’t know if I would have spotted that myself, Nelyo.”

His son beamed with quiet pride.

Fëanor stood then, tapping his chin. He glanced at Ingo and Kano who were both picking at the undergrowth across the clearing.

“Why don’t we separate into groups,” He suggested, to my surprise. Kano looked up, listening curiously.

“Nelyo, Finno, why don’t you both go looking for that pheasant? I know you’re excited about it, and you’ll move faster without having to worry about the others,” Fëanor explained. His message was clear--this was a good trail, but would require a bit more skill to pursue. We’d have a much better chance of finding and catching our prey without having to worry about Ingo’s lack of experience.

He turned to his second son, “Kano, would you like to go with them?”

Kano shook his head. “No, I think I’d rather stay and keep looking.” He seemed nervous about the idea of going off without his father, and in hindsight I don’t blame him.

Fëanor went over to where he'd tied his horse, and pulled a map out of one of the saddlebags. He hadn’t used it on our way here, likely having memorized the route. Returning, he handed the map to me.

“You’ll certainly need this, I won’t have you getting lost out there.” He handed me the map, and I unraveled it. It didn’t cover the whole of Aman, just this area, with the forest, a few of the Pelóri on the east side, and the river we had followed cutting through the middle. My uncle pointed out our location, tapping the parchment with a finger.

Nelyo took the map from me, turning to glance back at the nest he’d found. “We’ll be going southeast, I think.”

His father nodded, “It ought to be nearby, but don’t follow too far. If you lose the trail or can’t find it after a few hours, come right back.”

“Will do,” I said. We planned to return to Tirion that night, so we didn’t have time for a longer excursion. Nelyo walked over to our horses, and retrieved our bows, quivers, and hunting knives.

“I wanna go!” Ingo said, dancing up to us, some flowers gathered in one hand. “Where are you going?”

“We’ve found a pheasant trail,” I explained, “But it’s boring stuff, I’m sure you won’t like it. We’ll probably be walking for several hours, and we can’t do any dancing or singing on the way.”

Ingo frowned, “Well that doesn’t sound particularly exciting.”

Fëanor smiled, patting his small nephew on the head, “That’s why I’m having the older boys go, in the meantime we can stay here and do something fun.”

Ingo’s large blue eyes lit up, “Really? You can help me gather flowers!”

Before Fëanor could reply, Ingo grabbed his uncle's hand and pulled him away with surprising strength.

“When we’re done, I’ll braid some into your hair!” Ingo said happily as they crossed the clearing.

Fëanor looked back at us, and gave us a wave to let us know we could off on our own.

Nelyo turned to me and grinned. “We’re off then!”
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