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This will be a collection of fics, commissioned art, and gapfillers to flesh out events within my Dark Prince/Magnificat...
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Anthology for short pieces set in or associated with Rohan. Most of these either feature Eowyn or draw on the material on...
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New experiences broaden the mind —trauma and the impossible crack it wide open. A quiet summer holiday, the hint...
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Shoutbox

Karlmir Stonewain
11/15/18 10:47 am
Snow is in tonight's forecast. Bah! It's too early for snow. Time for a sequel to "Islands of Warmth in a Sea of Cold."
Naledi
11/14/18 10:49 pm
Oops - meant to say, please DM me with your email address!
Naledi
11/14/18 10:48 pm
Can those of you who want to be involved DM me and I'll send out a group email. Cheeky and Ziggy - I know I did have your emails, but I doubt I've still got them.
Naledi
11/14/18 10:46 pm
Yay for everyone joining in with the advent calendar (*waves to Cheeky*). It's probably time we got this show on the road.
Spiced Wine
11/13/18 10:42 pm
And it will still feel like a last-minute rush!
Spiced Wine
11/13/18 10:41 pm
I do not believe we’re already thinking of Christmas. Yet here I am ordering pressies, buying cards, making sure I have addresses...
NelyafinweFeanorion
11/12/18 02:03 am
YAY!!!
Narya
11/11/18 11:12 pm
Cheeky! Hi! Hope you're well :D and never mind putting up with, we need you to provide crazy plot tangles and lighten things up!
cheekybeak
11/11/18 06:56 pm
Hi there, I’m happy to do the advent story again as long as you can put up with my ridiculousness disrupting your attempts at a more somber mood :-)
Gabriel
11/11/18 04:45 am
"Grins"
Shout Archive


The Downside of Paradise by arafinwean

[Reviews - 3]   Printer
Table of Contents

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I.
Broken is a strange word, made of ribbons and pieced together with rusted metal and savage words. It rings through holy places with an air of pity about it that Celebrimbor laughs when he hears it spoken upon his return.

After all the Exiled Noldor never broke, and that, perhaps, is why they are dangerous.

II.

His mother is a flurry of motion in blues and greens. Pacing back and forth as she waits for him.

It only takes her a moment to see and before he can think of what to say to her (‘I’m sorry,’) she has him wrapped in a bone crushing embrace.

“My son,” she says, and it feels like coming home.

III.

There are those who would see him return to the smithy, and, by a stroke of bad luck, Aulë is among them.

“Why?” Celebrimbor says, voice laced with distaste for the Ainu in front of him, “So I may join you at your forge once again? So that I can create wonders and follow in my grandfather’s footsteps once more?” He laughs then, a bright, wild thing that would have frightened a lesser being.

“It’s too late for that it seems. Now be gone Aulë, friend of my father and grandfather, we’ve nothing more to speak of.”

IV.

There is little that escapes his notice these days. Whether it is simply the quirk of an eyebrow or the ornate decorations on the pillar he passes while on his way to the market. He notices everything and the whispers about him do not pass him by. They resound of pity or hate and set his teeth on edge as he walks between the stall lines clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

He does not need pity, though he might deserve their hate.

V.

Once, in rage and pain and hate, he thought that his fathers’ family never returning to Arda would be a blessing.

Now he just misses them.

VI.
The sound of a hammer hitting metal fills the air next to his mothers’ home. So intent is he on his work, he doesn’t notice the way she calls for him or the grin that threatens to spilt her face when she finds him in the forge that once belonged to his father.

She brings him a meal later and shakes him out of his stupor with the smell of spiced wine and chicken.

“Your favourite,” she says, and stifles a laugh as he blinks owlishly in confusion, “Come now, you’ve been here all day, surely you haven’t lost track of the time?” It’s a rhetorical question he knows, his own father often lost days while hidden away in the forge, the fact his son seems to have inherited this trait doesn’t seem to bother her.

He wonders if she’s heard of his working habits in Eregion. She must have, he thinks, he was dead for several millennia after all.

“I was busy,” is all he says, taking a long draught of the wine his mother brought. She laughs then, shaking her head and putting the tray in her hands onto an empty work bench.

“I can see,” she muses, eyeing the eight unfinished brooches next to him, “Are those for your fathers family?”

“Yes,” he says after a long pause, “They are.”
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