Finrod put down his sandwich, and unclipped the jewelled fastenings from six braids one after the other, placing all the clips in a neat pile. Then he shook his hair out into a golden cloud that glinted in the sunlight, stood up, kicked off his boots, and danced joyfully in a wild circle in the grass around the picnic in the sunlight, avoiding the shadow of the walls of Mandos. Orodreth laughed and began to hum a merry tune for him to dance to.

“I think he’s pleased,” Celebrían said, giggling.

“Pleased? Pleased?” Finrod cried, still dancing wildly and gracefully among a cloud of golden hair. “There are no words in tongues of Elves or Men to express my delight! I may have to devise an entirely new language!”

He returned to pull Celebrimbor to his feet and into the dance. Celebrimbor got up resolutely, and with an air of careful concentration joined Finrod in twirling in a very graceful manner for one who had only regained his body that morning, his long dark hair, already loose, following him like a shadow.

*******************************************************

I wanted to paint this scene from Many Meetings: The Night is Passing for some time, and now I have. The background is my attempt at a Halls of Mandos that looks different to each person, with the small back door through which re-embodied elves leave. (The front gate is much larger, and always open, but nobody leaves that way.)

Owl

Part 1 – After Her Death

Finwion lies next to Finwë, his soft baby snores and occasional movements the only thing breaking the silence of his bedchamber, lit by the silvery light of Telperion. Finwë knows he has a bassinet for his son to sleep in at the foot of the bed, but Finwion’s warm little body is such a comfort in his grief that he cannot bear to let him go, even as his tears soak into his soft, downy hair.

He cannot cry forever. His thoughts drift from his ever present sorrow to contemplate the pins and needles plaguing his arm. His son may be small but he is a healthy baby and his arm is in an awkward position beneath him. He shifts in an attempt to get more comfortable. Finwion stirs and emits a wail of discontent at being jostled, but Finwë is quick to stand and gather him up to gently bounce in an attempt to stave off any waterworks. He holds Finwion in one arm as he quietly attempts to get feeling back in the other.

In all honesty, he is glad for the distraction from his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Finwion,” he coos quietly, in the hopes that his voice might soothe him, “I did not mean to wake you!”

He takes Finwion over to the window, in the hopes that the silver light which usually fascinates his son will help to calm him. It is futile, and Finwion’s cries only grow louder.

Finwë then tries the mobile above the bassinet, the dangling shapes and mirrors usually able to bring absolute joy from his baby, who loves to try to grasp them with fat fists, but it is no use.

He casts his eyes around the room, and stops when he sees it, lying innocently in Finwion’s cot.

It is a soft, stuffed owl, about as large as his infant son. The owl is stitched from soft fabric, and is slightly worn from Finwion’s clumsy baby love. Finwë knows it very well by now. He watched Míriel stitch it early on in her pregnancy, before she was too tired to lift her needle. They were so happy then, their world filled with nothing but joy at the thought of the bright life they would be bringing into the world. Finwë remembers excitedly pressing his hands to her swollen belly, already able to feel the heat of the tiny spark of fëa within her. Before that tiny spark grew to a roaring flame that consumed her whole.

Finwë holds that flame in his arms now, and the heat of his soul still grows with every passing day. Sometimes Finwë wonders if his son’s fëa will ever stop increasing, or if it will one day reach an inferno that consumes everything it touches like it engulfed Míriel.

He attempts to shake off the morbid thoughts, and turns his attention to his wailing son once more. Picking up the owl, he shifts Finwion to a more comfortable position and presents him with the toy.

The reaction is almost magical. Finwion does not immediately silence, but he latches on to the owl and his sobs begin to quieten. Finwë lies him down on the bed again, and watches Finwion curl against the toy. He cannot help but chuckle as he watches a fluffy wing find its place in Finwion’s mouth for him to gently gum on.

“That’s going to need a wash soon,” he mutters quietly to himself, suddenly exhausted.

Finwë closes the heavy curtains to darken the room once more, then climbs back into bed as carefully as possible, slotting himself around Finwion’s warmth. He is still not yet used to the softness of his bed after the centuries of sleeping on rougher things, first in Cuivienen, then on the Great Journey. But he finds himself drifting off rather quickly, sped by the soft snuffling of his son.

–

Thanks to @alackofghosts as always for inspo stuff, and to @nixiegenesis and @acommonanomaly for reading this over to check for any infant behaviour inaccuracies. @nathair-nimhe this is me finally writing you a fic 🙂

This is going to be part of a series of fics about feanor’s early childhood, set around his stuffed owl.

Can’t Live With ‘em, Can’t Time Travel without ‘em.

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

dearmandos:

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

Number five seemed to be the most popular, so here’s a snippet from that:

This is not the throne room in Tirion.

Or, rather, it is, but it’s the throne room as he remembers it, not the throne room he was recently shown after his release from the halls of Mandos. Fingolfin can’t help but relax a bit. It’s a dream or a vision of some sort, surely, but it’s a comforting one.

He smiles at the faces he sees around him. Some of them are still in Mandos. Some he has hesitated to speak to. But now here they all are, disturbed by whatever politics are current today, but blissfully safe.

And there is his father, on the throne.

Fingolfin’s breath catches.

The familiar words, the words that have haunted his dreams, roll down. The issue at hand: Feanor’s desire to leave Valinor and his words against the Valar.

Fingolfin knows his part. He knows what he is supposed to say. He is supposed to call for the restraining of Feanor and to disparage Feanor’s loyalty to their father. He is supposed to drive in the final wedge. He has had this dream before.

He waits a moment for the words to come forth against his will, but nothing happens. His father’s eyes merely remain fixed on him.

Fingolfin has many words he would say to his brother – yes, brother – and more than a few might be unkind, but he has to admit that his long ago remark had been unjust. Feanor’s loyalty to the Valar is questionable at best, but having seen him grieve their father, there can be no doubt about Feanor’s honor and loyalty to him.

He had wondered, on the Ice, what might have happened if he hadn’t said those words. If he had offered any other, lesser, insult. If he had kept his own counsel. If, if, if.

So he says instead, “I have heard much rumor about my brother’s views on these matters, but I confess that we have not spoken plainly of the matter face to face. I would be sure I know his views fully before I respond to them.”

And then Feanor strides in, dressed for war, or at least the closest approximation Aman raised elves could imagine.

Keep reading

At @wijopat and @below-et-almost‘s request, here’s some more:

The fire of his brother’s words is nearly irresistible, but Fingolfin does his best to resist anyway. He can only afford to lend half his attention to Feanor’s words. The rest he must devote to figuring out how he will respond.

If this is a dream or a vision, it might not matter, but –

He can feel his bond to his wife, as of yet unstrained. He can feel the power of Feanor’s words as an almost physical force. He can see a crack in the floor that he does not think he ever noticed before.

It occurs to him that this might not be a dream, and if there is any chance it is not, then it matters.

Weiterlesen

I love it ❤ Feanor’s goals are so cute… That was unexpected. But Feanor having way less problems with adapting his old life fits quite well. On the other hand he only lived a few weeks in Beleriand – so he may never got used to the Sindarin names?

Hitting Fingolfin back would indeed endanger all his plans. With all of his Family and the Silmaril beeing in Tirion (not in Formenos) they would be far safer. I doubt Morgoth would fight the Valar directly.

I would love to hear what they do to prevent all that shit that had happened without loosing their yet unborn family members (as Fingolfin asks himself)!

(Fingon calls Feanor ‘Uncle Feanor’ – not ‘Uncle Feanaro’. is he a time-traveller too?)

*smacks forehead*

No, that was just a typo on my part. I’m so used to typing Feanor that I didn’t catch that.

I’m glad you liked it! Not sure yet if I’m going to continue it.

So apparently I am going to continue this!

Although after this update, you might wish I hadn’t.

Fingolfin’s explanation doesn’t end up explaining much at all, so Fingon ends up drawing his own conclusions. Given the circumstances, those conclusions cause enough concern that he goes to Maedhros, who goes to his brothers, and soon the rumor mill in the city is fairly certain that Fingolfin and Feanor, tentative allies, are now at each other’s throats again.

“Relax,” Feanor tells him. They’re meeting in Feanor’s office this time, and Fingolfin is pretty sure some of his nephews are lurking protectively outside the door. “The Valar aren’t going to exile you over a few punches.”

“And if they do?” Fingolfin says wearily from his seat.

Feanor shrugs, still pacing restlessly. “Then events are one step closer to being back on track, and we’ll have a better idea what will happen next.”

Fingolfin stares at him for a long moment. “I hate you,” he said flatly.

“I know,” Feanor says with far too much cheer. “Which reminds me.” He goes to the elaborate safe in the wall and after a moment of visible hesitance wrenches the already slightly ajar door open. The light of the Silmarils gleams forth.

Feanor dumps them in a bag that somehow manages to hide that light and then turns and holds them out expectantly towards Fingolfin.

Keep reading

Fingolfin had thought he had seen Feanor desperate last time. It is nothing compared to Feanor now.

He had thought to find his brother stirring up the people. Instead, he finds him outside Celegorm’s sick room, drawing up plans to depart immediately.

“We’re not ready yet,” he protests immediately. “It takes time to prepare an army, Celegorm’s not even fully healed yet – “

Feanor slams him against the wall. “Time. What time do you imagine we have?” he snarls. “With two hands you promised but with one hand you gave. Do you think I never saw that part of the tapestry in all my long years in Mandos?”

Suddenly Feanor’s grip is the only thing keeping him upright. “Ungoliant,” he breathes.

Keep reading

Can’t Live With ‘em, Can’t Time Travel without ‘em.

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

Number five seemed to be the most popular, so here’s a snippet from that:

This is not the throne room in Tirion.

Or, rather, it is, but it’s the throne room as he remembers it, not the throne room he was recently shown after his release from the halls of Mandos. Fingolfin can’t help but relax a bit. It’s a dream or a vision of some sort, surely, but it’s a comforting one.

He smiles at the faces he sees around him. Some of them are still in Mandos. Some he has hesitated to speak to. But now here they all are, disturbed by whatever politics are current today, but blissfully safe.

And there is his father, on the throne.

Fingolfin’s breath catches.

The familiar words, the words that have haunted his dreams, roll down. The issue at hand: Feanor’s desire to leave Valinor and his words against the Valar.

Fingolfin knows his part. He knows what he is supposed to say. He is supposed to call for the restraining of Feanor and to disparage Feanor’s loyalty to their father. He is supposed to drive in the final wedge. He has had this dream before.

He waits a moment for the words to come forth against his will, but nothing happens. His father’s eyes merely remain fixed on him.

Fingolfin has many words he would say to his brother – yes, brother – and more than a few might be unkind, but he has to admit that his long ago remark had been unjust. Feanor’s loyalty to the Valar is questionable at best, but having seen him grieve their father, there can be no doubt about Feanor’s honor and loyalty to him.

He had wondered, on the Ice, what might have happened if he hadn’t said those words. If he had offered any other, lesser, insult. If he had kept his own counsel. If, if, if.

So he says instead, “I have heard much rumor about my brother’s views on these matters, but I confess that we have not spoken plainly of the matter face to face. I would be sure I know his views fully before I respond to them.”

And then Feanor strides in, dressed for war, or at least the closest approximation Aman raised elves could imagine.

Keep reading

At @wijopat and @below-et-almost‘s request, here’s some more:

The fire of his brother’s words is nearly irresistible, but Fingolfin does his best to resist anyway. He can only afford to lend half his attention to Feanor’s words. The rest he must devote to figuring out how he will respond.

If this is a dream or a vision, it might not matter, but –

He can feel his bond to his wife, as of yet unstrained. He can feel the power of Feanor’s words as an almost physical force. He can see a crack in the floor that he does not think he ever noticed before.

It occurs to him that this might not be a dream, and if there is any chance it is not, then it matters.

Keep reading

I love everything about this!

And None Can Release Us

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

Part One

It’s common knowledge that none of them die at the Nirnaeth.

Common knowledge is wrong. Amrod dies there.

This passes unnoticed from everyone who is not among their family or followers for two reasons. One, it’s extremely easy to mistake Amras for him at a distance.

Two, people do, actually still see Amrod. Still hear him, even. They just don’t see him touching things anymore.

Amras is there when he dies. He goes charging forward, screaming, and then when he reaches his twin, he nearly gets killed himself because he does a double take.

Amrod is there on the ground, blood pooled around him.

Amrod is standing above his own body, looking down in confusion.

Not sure what else to do, Amras grabs the body and continues the retreat with it. His guard covers him. Amrod follows along. He can’t fight, they discover quickly, but he works quite well as a distraction.

When they meet up with the others, Maedhros is in full grim commander mode, and Maglor is desperately trying to force some life back into him. “Look,” Maglor tells him, “the Ambarussa are here. We all made it out. Not all is lost.” And he tries to clap Amrod on the shoulder.

His hand goes right through.

“About that,” Amras says.

Keep reading

Part Two:

To understand what happens next, you must first understand this:

Elured and Elurin’s first memory of the sons of Feanor is of three of them making their father scream, and then the dreadful silence that followed. They remember being carried roughly through the halls to a blood spattered man who brusquely decided their fate.

They do not have context for this memory. They remember their father wearing a shining gem, but no one spoke to them of messengers or coming war. Even after it was over, few spoke to them of it. They have fragmented whispers of those determined to justify their part in a second kinslaying. They have Curufin’s desperate rant to Celegorm about the importance of finding the jewel so they can help Feanor. They know of the Oath, and they know it hurts them and that it’s likely why none of Feanor’s sons can fully die, and they know their parents are dead, and they know all of these events are related, but no one has ever quite laid all the pieces out for them.

Keep reading

Part Three:

This is what you must understand about Sirion:

Elwing is a young queen. She has strength and skill, but she has not grown into the fullness of them yet. She is so very young, especially by elven standards, so she leans on her councillors and everyone thinks it probably for the best.

This is what you must understand about the councilors:

They are not, mostly, bad men. That does not mean they always do what is right.

Keep reading

Part Four:

Amras feels stretched, and though he won’t admit to it, in pain. The Music of the world rages against him, at the wrongness that warps around him. It comes on suddenly. Curufin theorizes that having a living twin delayed the effect and that now that Amrod is dead, this protection is gone.

“Doesn’t that mean it’ll hit us sooner?” Celegorm asks.

The dead all look at each other and don’t answer.

“Do you think we’ll start to lose ourselves like the houseless spirits?” Amras asks quietly.

“Probably,” Caranthir says.

Curufin smiles grimly. “At least we’ll have the Oath.”

Keep reading

Part Five:

When the host from Aman arrives, Maedhros suggests that perhaps Elrond and Elros would be better of with Gil-Galad.

“Because things went so well the last time we tried something like that,” Elurin says flatly.

That’s pretty much the end of it.

Keep reading

To Catch a Falling Star

sweetteaanddragons:

sweetteaanddragons:

naryaflame:

cycas:

sweetteaanddragons:

mainecoon76:

sweetteaanddragons:

Belladonna Took has had quite the satisfactory adventure. She has at last seen the sea, just as she wished to, and so perhaps tomorrow she should return home.

Just at the moment, however, she has nothing better to do than lie in the sand and look up at the stars. Her favorite is the Evening Star; she has always loved the stories attached to it.

For a moment, it almost looks as if it is getting larger, but she shakes off this fancy with a laugh.

Except it quickly becomes increasingly obvious that this is not just an illusion. The star is getting larger – and, presumably, closer.

Belladonna pushes herself up onto her elbows and her eyes grow wide. It’s quite close now, so close that she rolls to one side and puts her arms up over her face, as if that will do anything in the face of whatever is happening.

Sand sprays up into her face. Belladonna tentatively cracks her eyes open.

There’s a pretty little piece of jewelry in the sand beside her. A white gem blazes in the center of it.

Keep reading

This is perfect! What happened to Earendil, though? *bites nails*

The way I see it, one of three things had to have happened: Earendil threw it down deliberately, he let it fall accidentally, or one of the two happened while he was battling something.

I can’t think of any reason why the first would happen. He might forgive Maglor someday, but that’s a far cry from throwing the gem down to help him fulfill his Oath. Which of the second two it is really depends on whether this is a hobbit story that happens to have elves in it, or an Elf story that happens to have a hobbit in it.

So here’s my take on both, and you can pick your poison. Before writing these, I was rather inclined to the first, being rather hobbitish myself; now I’m rather fond of the second.

Keep reading

OMG the SECOND ONE.

I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXTTTTT!!!!!

The second one is great – I would love to know what happens! 🙂

The elvish story it is! Although this bit honestly works with either.

There’s a brief bit of elvish in here that I used an online translator for. If it’s done improperly, feel free to correct me.

…

Elrond is used to odd travelers turning up on his doorstep. After having a reborn Glorfindel show up, he doubts any group can surprise him again. So while he has not been expecting Belladonna Took to show up with someone who walks with the grace of an elf but keeps themselves hidden in a ragged cloak, he is not at all startled by it.

Keep reading

Meanwhile, in Mandos:

Earendil didn’t consider himself to be a particularly rebellious person, current plot to defy the Valar notwithstanding. But as rebellious as he was sure tracking down Feanor and his sons in order to engineer a breakout would look if he were caught, it wasn’t defiance fueling him.

It was the far more familiar emotion of desperation.

Keep reading

This is amazing! Belladonna is great, and everyone else too – though I’m kind of upset at Mandos’ treatment of the Feanorians, especially Celebrimbor.

(I liked the first version too, actually, but it’s REALLY embarassing for Eärendil. I feel more sorry for him than for 2nd version’s.)

nonasuch:

all right. so. this is a Harry Potter AU, in rambly and abbreviated form.

this is a version of events where, on the morning of November 1st, 1981, the police are called to a house in Surrey.

when they arrive, a large man with a red face and a moustache is waiting for them, brandishing a baby.

to be more accurate: he is brandishing a basket. the basket contains a baby.

he tells the police that his wife found the basket on their doorstep that morning. “Gave her the shock of her life,” he says, with a chuckle that does not seem the least bit sincere.

the police officers have a lot of questions about this, but the man does not have any useful answers. his wife, he tells them, is not in any shape to be interviewed. “she’s been poorly,” he says, “and we’ve got a baby of our own to worry about, keeping us up at all hours.”

the baby in the basket seems to be about a year old. he is cheerful, seems healthy aside from a cut on his forehead, with a crooked sticking plaster on it. he has startlingly green eyes.

there is no identifying information in the basket, except for a torn scrap of paper with ‘his name is Harry’ on it in a delicate hand.

there it nothing else to be done, it seems. the officers take baby Harry, and leave.

one of them comes back a few days later for a follow-up interview with the woman who found the baby. she seems a little fragile, and her own baby, in the next room, keeps up a constant shrieking tantrum the whole time the officer is there. “I’m sorry,” the woman says, with a brittle smile. “this has all been a bit much. I recently lost my sister, you see.”

Keep reading

✢ Miriel

vardasvapors:

a good memory that makes them smile

“Oh, well you will think I am bragging, but very happy it was. Do you know the relief of warmth that comes with the lighting of a fire in the woods under the stars? ‘Twas a far greater relief on the Great Journey after the Cracking – that was what we called the wars in the north that broke the land when Cuivienen was lost, before we knew what they were. The winds changed and blew bitter cold, and the hides and weaves of hair we clad ourselves in could not hold together against it, and hampered us when we walked, and trying to tie them together still left gaps that the wind cut through as freezing as ever. We warmed ourselves with the speed of the hunt, and with the cooking fires after, and with sleep wrapped in one another’s arms, and lamented that the heat of our own blood could be only so poorly trapped.

It was on one of these feasts that I found in my share a bone so hard that it seemed it would not split for the marrow no matter how hard I pounded it. But when I used my knife to try to pry it open instead, it slipped and broke of a shard of bone – long and narrow, and very sharp! That was how we made our first stone knives, from discovering which stones could chip at the edges of others. I am not sure what I was thinking at first, but I picked up the shard of bone and carved at it until it was fine and smooth, pointed at one end and notched at the other, and when I pierced the edge of my furs with it, it slipped through easily, all the way from tip to end – I saw the end vanish from one side of the fur as it emerged on the other, and all in a flash it seemed I could see the trail the movement of the bone left in the air, and how good it would be if that trail was solid, and not mere air!

But well, I wanted to show everyone at once, so I did not test it or tell of it first. I jumped up before the songs and storytelling could start and tore a handful of my hair out – it was even rarer then for the Noldor to have silver hair, and it caught the starlight most dangerously and inconveniently when I went hunting, but everyone around the fire could see it. I held up my wrap and tied my hair fast to the end of the bone, and wove it in and out – a simple and clumsy stitch, to be sure – until the edges of the fur that lay along my sides held together tight, with not a gap for the wind to bite through, and did not slip nor loosen, even when I held my arms over my head and spun and danced as fast as I might. Quite an uproar it was! Everyone was clamoring to lay hold of a bone, and plucking out each other’s hair, to try it themselves. These days we have thread, and woven cloth, and embroidering, and we say it is an art of women, and only fit for certain temperaments. But for many wheelings of the stars after that feast, every time we stopped to rest and eat, there was not a single elf who did not sit around the fire to sew. That at least, is one thing I am quite glad to remind anyone of.”

⌆ for Galadriel, but only if you feel like it!

vardasvapors:

a story about their family/home life

“With so nimble a mind, Estel, there is little doubt that you shall win great favor by picking gifts as apt as this one for your future allies. It has been long since I have seen the bright berries and dark leaves of Eregion, the Land of Holly. I had heard they had nearly died out in that land, fading, like many things.

Will I remember? They were my daughter’s delight, in her childhood when the first stones of Ost-in-Edhil were laid amid our cottages in the wilds before the gate of Khazad-dum of old. She loved them because they were bright even in the dark of winter, and under the snow. Fitting, for her! But no doubt you have heard many a tale of her in your old home. But I remember clearest when she was still mine. My husband and I do not sit remembering often, now. Happy! Too happy and too busy to dwell unduly upon what was lost to me, my brothers, my cousins, my teacher. Each day different from the last, each day my lord and I began a new work, each day the stones of our towers reached higher, each day our daughter brought us some new pleasure of parenthood that we could not have imagined, and our family and home and people grew together all at once. Do you know what delight it is to build a home of your own? Perhaps you shall, in the north kingdom: my granddaughter must know it in her span of time.

Time! Time was different then. How fast did my daughter grow! How fast our city! Our works, and our arts! How busy was my family! Curious – things changed so much, so fast that the time never dragged, yet never did it slip by unnoticed as it does now. So much was done that the time seemed much more full than it seems now, yet it weighed one down so little. Curious – that the holly remains little changed all the year, yet in my memory never does it seem to stand so still as the falling golden leaves.”

Your Celegorm/Oromë is hands down the best in the fandom, so I vote for that! Thanks for writing some seriously incredible stories over the years. I’ve missed your work and I’m glad you’re getting back to fanfic for a while (also congrats on finishing the manuscript! that’s so awesome!)

imindhowwelayinjune:

Anon, you are the absolute kindest. Thank you so much for your lovely words and for encouraging me to think about this long abandoned OTP!

There is no room for pride in the Hunt. There is no room for arrogance lest it cloud a Hunter’s vision and block up a Hunter’s ears; there is no room for egos lest the horses founder upon them.

Orome knows this and chooses his hunters accordingly. Humility, savvy, wariness, patience, poise.

“Hail, Vala,” says the Boy, silver-haired and wearing his pride on his strong young shoulders, in his fierce bright eyes, glinting between his teeth. “I am son of Feanaro, grandson of Finwe. I am third of my house and strongest of it.” He tosses his head. “Fairest, too. I would be a Hunter. Teach me, O Lord.” He smiles, and the challenge of it subtly changes the space between them. “If you think you can.”

Orome does.

–

There are no favorites in the Hunt. Orome, who saw the first days of the Eldar and will eventually see the last, who loves all who follow him and takes no pets nor particulars, knows this well.

“Look, Lord!” says the silver-haired Hunter, blood streaking his bare chest as he raises his arms in victory, in brilliant joy. “For you, I have done this! For you I have killed. Are you proud?”

Orome is.

–

There is no leaving the Hunt, not when the greatest gifts have been given and the greatest trust bestowed. There is no walking back from the lessons of the forest, this all Hunters know.

“Please, Orome,” says the Warrior softly. “Do not hate me for doing what I must.” Huan, at his feet, is silent. Orome looks down at them both and knows the scent of regret, sharp as fresh blood in the air.

“Orome,” says the Warrior, still fierce, still fair, no longer his. “Do not be angry. I will be back one day.” He reaches up, his palms open, his lips parted. His mouth is hot and tastes of pride. “Tell me you will not forget me. Tell me I can come back.”

Orome does.

–

There is no room for forgiveness in Orome’s heart, just as there are no second chances in the Hunt. A spear ill-thrown throws open the door to accident and pain and there is no unthrowing it, no forgiveness in a boar’s tusks or a hind’s striking hooves.

And there is no place in the forest for a Hunter who has become a killer. No place in Orome’s heart for one who has betrayed him so.

“Hail,” says the spirit, fragile and thin and silvered still. “I am no one, born of nothing, knowing naught.” It laughs, or weeps. “I do not know who I am or where I am or why. But I know you, Hunter, and that I love you. Tell me why that is.”

And Orome, who has broken the rules a thousand times for Celegorm the Fair, breaks them one more time.