When I read Tolkien my mind always fills up with images that stand very vivid in my imagination; and I find I need to get them out and down on paper. The world and the people Tolkien created are so very numerous and different from each other that, at the moment, I cannot see how this source of inspiration should ever run dry. At the same time it is also a magnificent way to practice and hone my skills with a pencil or a brush. It is quite a gift he has left for his readers.

There are many bitter partings in Tolkien’s works. Actually there is a lot of bitterness in general within families, between kindreds, and between races. I find it interesting and rather telling of just how disturbed and emotionally unstable Finwë’s family was by the fact that so many of the wives of Finwë’s line parted from their husbands by choice: Indis, Nerdanel, Anairë, the wives of the married sons of Fëanor... In my story “Raven Hair and Silver Eyes,” I tell of the relationship between Fingolfin and Anairë from the time they met until she finally left him. (Raven hair and silver eyes is how she refers to Fingolfin throughout the story.) Below is the scene which describes why she finally left him.

e did not know the truth until too late. We did not know that the fell Fëanor had started the fight himself. We did not know that we were slaying our Telerin neighbors all because of a spoiled eldest son’s tantrum at not being given the ships he had requested of the Teleri. We did not know we had doomed ourselves by our rash actions until it was too late. Raven hair and silver eyes were stained with the blood of our sea-faring kin.

The Valar interceded once again, with words of doom for all who failed to sue for pardon and turn back now, and promises of death and worse for all who continued on. I looked on my dearest friend in the arms of her husband, her broken fëa and her inconsolable sobs at the slaughter of her people and kin. I saw her husband Arafinwë, golden hair and silver eyes, come into his own and the fullness of his wisdom, face down his brothers and children with words of loathing and disgust. I watched him and much of his following turn back and begin the slow guilty trudge back to Tirion, though none of them had so much as raised a bow or sword in the fray.

I stood before my husband and children, unable to find any words to convey my shame and anger at what they had done. They stared back at me as they cleansed their blood-stained hands, slimy wet swords, and bloody spent arrows. I looked on the five of them - raven hair and silver eyes - then I turned my back and walked away.

My favorite character?

Beleg Cúthalion, since the very first time I read “Of Túrin Turambar”. I remember uttering, “Oh, Jesus, no!” shocked, when I reached the moment of Beleg’s death. He has always been my most important muse and the endless source of inspiration, no matter how many other characters come around and give me a nudge to write.

Why Beleg? It is hard for me to explain. I could say he is valiant, honest, noble, caring, independent, strong, loyal, wise, etc. etc., but actually, I cannot really say why I totally fell in love with him. I guess he was the missing piece I was searching for in the universe created by J.R.R. Tolkien, and when I found him, everything suddenly started to make sense.

He was the main reason behind my first, pitiful to be entirely frank, attempt to read (or rather to decipher) The Lays of Beleriand. All right, you can laugh now… I really do not mind. He makes me feel I have something to return to when I doubt that I still have anything to say or do in the fandom. And, believe it or not, I always have this strange, but very nice feeling that he is beside me when I sit at my desk and read or write. Does it sound familiar? I am going to bet it does.

Well, Beleg simply is the one I have chosen. And to honor him, a long time ago I wrote the following:

I wish I could be a bow in your hands. I would be strong with your might; I would be deadly with your skill. I wish to feel your fingertips on my curve and to reward you with a gentle rustle of the bowstring against your perfect ear.

I wish I could be a quill in your fingers. I would be precise and eloquent with your knowledge, and convey your thoughts with my subtle marks on a piece of parchment. I would love to brush your noble eyebrows when you wonder what to write.

I wish I could be a ray of sunshine. I would playfully dance with your hair, marveling at its color. I would place a warm kiss on your face in the morning when you take a deep breath greeting a new day.

I wish I could be a shield for that hated weapon to strike me. I would shelter you with my plane. I would be a target for all the menace so you can enjoy a lazy walk under the great trees.

But I am an ordinary nobody, with this one advantage: I can try to bring you back to life with my unfitting words.

This is a dream that will never come true, but who said we could not have such dreams?

Robinka

f I stayed beside you, love would lead me, not wisdom," said Beleg. "My heart warns me that we should return to Doriath."

"Nonetheless, I will not go there," said Túrin.

~~*~~

We have come to the end.

The choice is mine to make, and nothing you say or do now will make me change my mind. You shake your head in disbelief...? Yes, you heard me correctly. Do not treat me as if I were a stubborn boy. I will not return, whether you approve of it or not.

If our feet are not meant to follow the same road again, let us say, ill fate, my friend. Will you not shake my hand?

Fare thee well. You may say I am a fool, but I am not the only one.

A question that recurs is: Why did Melian just leave Middle-earth after Thingol’s death. Perhaps because enough is, after all, enough.

hen the seamstress saw the Queen was distracted she said: “Your Majesty?”

Melian shook off the distraction, “Nothing… a disturbance … Yes, the darker fabric is better.”

She did not have to rush the seamstress who wanted to ply her needle. Soon she was able to sit quietly and deal with the disturbance to the Girdle she kept
‘Goodbye mother, I still love you.’
around Doriath. Protection for everything except
‘Goodbye Luthien, daughter, love’
what she loved most. She knew that Luthien leaving with Beren would bring, and her heart began to break.

Years later when Thingol died under the axes of the Dwarves without her even talking mind to mind, the breaking was completed. She had obeyed the Valar, what they told her in dream. Let her loved ones be destroyed so their deeds would rebound to the glory of Iluvartar’s creation. Now she could journey home and forget.

When I first read The Lord of the Rings, I did not realize that the second-hand copy I had managed to procure was an early, unauthorized American edition that did not include the Appendices. I had been drawn immediately to the story of the Elves and in numerous re-readings gleaned every nuance about their history that I could from the main text. It was some five or six years before I bought an edition that contained the Appendices. So, it is easy to imagine how excited I was to discover The Silmarillion, many years later, with its magnificent and heartbreaking stories.

This submission is a double drabble (200 words). Celebrimbor’s mother is forced to part with her only son. Selection lifted from my collection of drabbles and ficlets, It Gives A Lovely Light.

  will never forget the last night I saw my son. Tyelperinquar had plopped himself onto to the dusty, cold marble floor of what had once been our home in Tirion. His face red and smeared with tears and soot, he squalled as his father moved back and forth across the room and around me, tossing seemingly random articles of clothing onto our bed. We had brought little that would be useful with us from Formenos and Curufinwë rummaged frantically in closets and cupboards long unexamined.

"Curvo, stop it! Listen to me. Look at me." We both ignored the crying child.

"Are you going to say that you will come? If that is what you want to say I will listen. Otherwise, if you refuse to help me at least get out of my way."

If I had guessed his father would actually take Tyelpo with him I could have scooped our child up into my arms and fled into the darkness. Instead I thought only of the loss of his father's love. I might have hidden, perhaps delaying Curufinwë until he was forced to leave without my baby, my only son. I curse myself when I think of it.

Ah, Curufin and Celebrimbor. One is possibly the most hated son of Feanor, known among readers- unfortunately- for being a true villain. The other, his son, is one who denounces his father and yet still meets a tragic end. On the surface of it, the two don’t seem to have had much of a relationship. Indeed, I’ve seen many people dismiss it as since Curufin was such a jerk (to them, anyway) and Celebrimbor had sense enough to quit when he did, the two probably didn’t get along very well.

On the surface of it, quicksand probably looks like normal sand too.

…Okay, bad example. What I’m trying to say is that appearances are, well, often misleading, and often cause people to miss things. I for one wrote this piece because as I grew to love the two, I realized something didn’t fit. All we’re given is a line about how Celebrimbor chooses to stay in Nargothrond and then there’s this awkward silence until he reappears with the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Curufin, meanwhile, goes off and dies in Doriath.

Now, I suppose there could have been a lot of love lost between them… but what if they didn’t have a sour relationship? Both had heck of a lot in common after all, and Celebrimbor was Curufin’s only child (and probably got spoilt rotten by his doting grandparents and great-grandparents). Celebrimbor also did come with his father out of Aman, choosing to leave his mother behind.

So what if, instead of a cold hatred, repulsion, and indifference, there was just what there normally is? Doubts, misunderstandings, and harsh words unmeant, with a stubborn but loving father and a resolute but uncertain son regretting their decisions for the rest of their lives.

Thus I, who have always loved family dynamics in the Silmarillion, decided to explore this oddity, and came up with something… sadder, yet better than I’d expected.

urufin finished putting in the last of his clothing into a brown, tough-skinned bag as he remembered the events of the previous hours. Another smile played about his lips, but it held none of the mockery of the one he had given Orodreth. Alas, son of Finarfin. You do not know exactly how true your words are.

None assembled there would- except, perhaps, the remainder of the people who had once allied themselves with himself and Celegorm. He had seen the conflicting emotions in their eyes, had glimpsed the pain, the fear, the disgust mingling with torn loyalty…

Footsteps sounded behind him. Curufin straightened as he pulled the ties of his satchel, and recognized the steps as his son’s.

“Tyelperinquar, have you packed?” he asked without turning around.

There was a short silence and suddenly, with a searing twist in his heart, Curufin knew what his son was about to do. His hands slowly fell away from the drawstrings.

“Father, I shall not be leaving with you and Uncle.” There was a tremor in Celebrimbor’s voice, although it carried well across the large room.

Curufin closed his eyes briefly, willing down the angry, bitter words that swiftly rose to his lips. Then, hoisting his bag onto his shoulders, he turned and walked up to his immobile son. He raised his hand to touch Celebrimbor’s face but froze in disbelief when he saw him flinch. Does he believe that I, who have never struck him, will do so now?

---

Celebrimbor looks up to find his father stock still, hand still in the air. There is a flash of bewildered hurt in his sire’s eyes before it disappears and Curufin lowers his arm.

“You will always remain my son,” he says quietly before leaving the room and Celebrimbor in silence.

When I just started out writing Tolkien Fan Fiction, I explored the roots of the House of Dol Amroth. In Tolkien’s The Lord of The Rings, I could not find a satisfactory answer, and the works Unfinished Tales and The Peoples of Middle-earth filled in those gaps. I recall being fascinated and am still dealing with a plethora of plot bunnies, how such a pairing between elf and man did not make it to the main works? Did it not serve a purpose like Beren and Lúthien could, or Eärendil and Elwing? Mithrellas, Nimrodel’s handmaiden wedded Imrazôr the Númenórean, yet was not pardoned by Mandos to remain with her family. This piece served to answer a question to me what could have possibly gone through her mind when she parted from her family, knowing that she would all out live all them.

This drama is not often explored within fanfic, yet it does tell the tale of those man/elf unions that did not serve a higher purpose. Still this union laid an important foundation for events surrounding the Ring War, however Mithrellas could not ignore the call to return home, and eventually passed into the West or not. Even that is not fully answered. This piece aimed to address the sorrow of a parting and the bitterness that Mithrellas had to deal with knowing so well she would never be reunited with them again beyond the circles of Arda.

his was it. After many pleas, they still did not listen. This choice tears me apart: should I leave my own blood, or join my kin overseas? I feel the pull, but what about Galador and Gilmith? How will they react to my departure?

My love, he understands, even more so: it was his idea that I should leave. Reasoning that I did not deserve the cruelty to watch them die, knowing that it is my greatest fear after loosing my mistress. Who could heal my heart after they would wither and pass away? The grief would be too hard for me to shoulder for generations to come.

My true love is here, fast asleep, but my calling is overseas. This truth is tearing my heart apart and becomes real when he murmurs soft words, whispers I heard so often lulled in my ear. Once more, I drink in the very sight of him and turn around. On my way out, I stop to see my children sleeping, so young compared to my age. I know that if I touch them, I shall never leave. Steeling my will and back, I step into the empty night to sail to Valinor.

Ah, Amrod. Most certainly my favorite of the Feanorians, and also my favorite of the twins (though I do like Amras as well). I wasn't exactly thrilled that Tolkien killed both him and Amras off, but I suppose it was meant to happen. I wrote of Geliriel and her Amrod in Sirion's Gift, a tale of finding true love, even in the face of an Oath sworn, and regretted. This little drabble was my way of showing that even true love can suffer horrible loss. And yet, there is a tiny bit of light in the darkness for Geliriel. For in her heart Amrod will always remain as she knew him: a devoted husband, father, and brother.

eliriel stood on the bank of the Sirion, watching the water as it flowed, and allowing herself to remember. Her tears fell as rain into the water, and she fell to her knees. Here, they were hand-fasted. Here, Amrod promised her love, passion, and fire. Miles away, he died, leaving her behind.

"I miss you."

A gentle wind blew around her, the soft scent of roses carried on that wind. Her tears subsided, and her mind cleared of sadness. She could feel his presence, as if he stood behind her. And she heard his voice saying:

"I love you. Forever."

Like many Tolkien fans, my first exposure to his stories came through the movies. And--sitting in a dark theater many years ago--the first story that compelled me, that made me first feel the sorrow that marks so much of his work, was that of Aragorn and Arwen. Even as an utter newcomer to Middle-earth, I understood what was at stake in their love: No matter what, she would have to give up one whom she loved. In choosing Aragorn, she would be parted from her family. In choosing her family, she would be parted from her beloved. Long after seeing The Fellowship of the Ring, this story haunted me. It haunts me to this day.

Perhaps it is for this reason that the plight of those burdened with a choice of kindreds--or forced to stand by while those whom they love make such a choice--has always compelled me. I wrote "Droplets," a collection of double drabbles about Elrond, for a friend who loved him as her favorite character. But I also wrote "Droplets" to come to terms with my own understanding, and sadness, of Elrond's story.

My admiration for the characters who faced such a plight--Beren and Lúthien, Elrond and Elros, Arwen and Aragorn--is considerable. If I was faced with such a choice, mine would be clear: I would choose my husband, my beloved. But it would not be a choice without sorrow, or without a measure of regret.

hen Elros made his decision, Elrond thought of how many weeks they still had together—many moments, many heartbeats, many walks in the garden. The land will change before my brother dies, he thought, and even then, “dies” and “Elros” were not compatible; they were laughable, side by side like that.

But as the sea wore upon the shore, so Time wore upon Elros, lining his face and touching his hair with silver while Elrond remained youthful, an image they’d once shared. Suddenly, though, looking at Elros, he no longer saw himself; it was like looking into a mirror with a warped glass. Looking at Elros, Elrond felt a leap of fearful disconnect: That is not me!

No, it is him. He is dying.

The sea reshaped the shore, eroded the cliffs where the gulls built their nests, and Elros stood with his gnarled hands in Elrond’s and the ship behind him. The sky was swollen with portends of rain. Even his voice, when he spoke, was malformed by age: “I will see you next year.”

And Elrond let Elros’ hand slip from his without a word. The waves crashed upon the shore; each droplet making infinitesimal erosions—then collapse.

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