Silmarillion Writers' Guild Through the Ages

Excerpt from "No Justice to Yourself"

by Oshun

Erestor suspected he had changed little on any fundamental level. The world instead had transformed itself around him, from his unsettled youth, to rebellion, flight, and his decision at last to return to where it had all begun. He immediately recognized the Great Hall of the Noldor upon entering its grand foyer. The feeling of awe he had experienced as a child at its soaring vaulted ceilings, marble busts and statues, swept over him anew. He recalled how his father, in a voice husky with affection, had always referred to it as Finwë's Palace.

* * * *

The main audience chamber overflowed with nobles, courtiers, and servants, male and female, ancients and many far younger than Erestor himself, judging by their demeanor. Achingly familiar to him, the hall, once seeming suited to its purpose, now struck him as ostentatious and old-fashioned. ‘Too many years living with Elrond's disdain for grandness,' he thought.

A string quintet sawed away in a corner, their music almost obscured by the chattering around them. Although the musicians might be considered superior by the general standards of Middle-earth, Erestor mused that his friend Lindir would be more than welcome in Tirion if was this was best they had to offer.

He leaned toward Elrond and murmured, "The music was better before . . ."

"Ai, I've heard that a thousand times from others," Celebrian said with a forced jocularity. "Everything was better before you left, right? But if it was perfect then, why were you all so anxious to leave?"

Erestor didn't answer, recognizing the question as a rhetorical one. He didn't need to tell her that those who fled were the flower of the Noldor, leaving behind them a grieving, diminished minority, barely a tenth of their people.

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Excerpt from "Touch of a Vanished Hand"

by elfscribe

Elrond inclined his head but did not offer his hand. "I am Elrond, son of Eärendil, the Mariner," he said. "My lord Ereinion Gil-galad has sent me to learn your tidings."

The men at Elendil's side looked startled and there was a chorus of gasps: "Elrond!" "Tar-Minyatur's brother!" "Could it be?"

"My lord," Elendil said, and for a moment swayed uncertainly before going down on one knee, head bowed. "Forgive me, but this is akin to suddenly meeting a legend in the flesh."

"Do I appear so ancient, then?" Elrond said. His lips quirked.

"Nay, more's the wonder," Elendil replied.

Elrond rubbed his chin, musing,"Elendil, son of Amandil. A lord of Andúnië?"

"Aye," Elendil said.

"Then we are kin from afar," Elrond said, "through Silmariën, great-great granddaughter of my brother, Elros."

"That is so," Elendil said. "I'm impressed you know the bloodlines of our family."

"I have maintained some accounting of my brother's get," Elrond replied.

Elendil raised those star-lit eyes, and in them were many questions. Elrond felt a shiver of recognition. His heart hardened with an almost audible snick, like a key turning in a lock.

"Save your obeisance for the King," Elrond said. "I am but his errand-boy."

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"An Old Story"

by Szilvi

An Old Story by Szilvi

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Excerpt from "Left Behind"

by Isil Elensar

Chapter 1 - Final Parting

Geliriel 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.”

Chapter 2 - Parting of Fates

Tuveran stood alone on the pier. Upon the grey ship were his grandmother, uncle, and beloved twin sister. They had grown weary of Middle-earth and chose to sail to Aman. Tears welled up, blurring his sight, but he kept his eyes upon the ship as it slowly sailed into the west. Wiping away the tears, he lifted his hand in a gesture of parting. And with his keen eyesight, he saw his family return the gesture, and before the sun obscured his vision, he saw his sister smiling. Tuveran smiled as well. Being left behind did not mean losing hope.

Chapter 3 - Sorrow & Hope

The boat reached the far shore of the Celebrant, and Tuveran was lifted carefully into a cart. At a whispered command, they stopped as his eyes locked on his children. There was anger mixed with sorrow in Melannen’s eyes, tempered only by the love and hope of his daughter, Siladwen. He could see that both wanted to follow him, especially his son, even to Aman. But they had to stay. They had their lives ahead of them. In order to heal, he had to leave them behind. Raising his hand, he called out to them:

“I love you, my children.”

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Excerpt from "The Ghost in the Garden"

by Dawn Felagund

It was an Elf: that was her first panicked thought. An Elf--a male Elf--made of mist, of mist congealed and swirling like silver blood, with silver hair borne aloft upon the mist in absence of the wind, and its eyes--its eyes were the only part of it not made of mist. Nay, they were black and empty as the shadows that collected thick beneath the trees, unblinking, yet seeing. Despite every bit of logic that spoke against it, Galadriel knew that the thing saw her as clearly as she saw it.

Her lips fell open to question it--what are you?--but her throat was paralyzed, and she could only stare.

It felt like hours but by the pounding of her heart, Galadriel knew that it was less than a dozen heartbeats before the thing--the mist-Elf--began to melt back into the haze that wrapped the bases of the trees. Its hair caught and blurred, tendrils unraveled and made non-descript; its shapely torso sagged into a gray clump; its fingers spread and grew webbed and then became indistinct from the haze around it. A delicate leaf-shaped ear was smudged into the rest of the mist, and its nose collapsed, and soon, there were only two burning black eyes remaining. Then the mist rushed to fill them and they, too, were gone.

Too late, Galadriel stretched out her hand and cried in a thin voice, "Wait!" but it was gone.

Behind her, Celeborn stirred and sat up. Her hair was pushed aside and a kiss was pressed to the nape of her neck. "My love, what disturbs you? The ghosts in the garden?"

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Excerpt from "If Ever a Fruit Ripens"

by Pearl Took

He saw before him in a vision a vast and beautiful city, gleaming with light and power. Before a gate of the city, upon a mound, stood two trees. One glowed like living silver, the other like living gold. The lights of them mingled in a joyful dance. Then, as though drawn upon the sky, images of the trees rose to float against the darkness of a night sky and beneath them two names appeared: Telperion and Laurelin.

On the world below them there appeared a new place; a hill in a cleft between tall mountain-walls and upon it there appeared a city that in his heart Samwise knew to be a city of the Elves.

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Excerpt from "Many Hands"

by Russandol

Hair as red as fresh blood caressed the blade when the warrior bent over it in grief; his touch thrummed with a pulse that would not be slowed by old age or rushed by the fever of sickness, but his voice spoke of doom and regret.


It had been crafted to be wielded by Men; thus it was wrapped away in a clean cloth and did not witness the kinslayings that followed amongst the Eldar. But at last it saw the light again, and was gifted to one of the surviving lords of the Edain, who beheld the silver and gold gleam of its blade and named it Narsil; in his hands the sword forged by Telchar again fought with honour, and it was raised skywards in joy with many others when the Dark Lord Morgoth was defeated by the joint host of Valinor and Ennorath.

Secured in its scabbard, the sword went aboard, onto the creaking planks of the ship that would take them to the Land of Gift, and the hopes of Men were high. For long Narsil rested in the peaceful bliss of Númenor, too precious to be used as a sparring blade, brought forward only at high feasts and the most special occasions. From fathers to sons, it passed for many generations, until it came to the hands of Elendil, heir to the lord of Andúnië, on the day he reached his majority. Slowly there came a shift in its master’s stance, in his grip, and fear quickened his pulse and made his palms sweat, as had happened when his forefathers faced the Dark Lord’s hordes in Beleriand. And when black fumes dimmed the sun and rumours of evil turned into threats and sacrifices, he girt it to his side in preparation against the strife which would not tarry.

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"Choice of the Destiny"

by Szilvi

Choice of the Destiny by Szilvi

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"Sons of the Sea Kings"

by Linda Hoyland

“Why are our people called the Sea Kings, ada?” Eldarion enquired as he walked along the shore at Dol Amroth with his father.

“Our longfathers came to Middle- earth from far across the western seas,” Aragorn explained. “Though even before Númenor was founded, Eärendil built a ship and sailed the oceans. The great Lord of the Waters, Ulmo himself had arisen out of the waves and appeared to Eärendil’s sire, Tuor with wise counsel and warned him that the great city of Gondolin would fall. Tuor went there and wed the King’s daughter, Idril with whom he escaped after the City fell. Afterwards he longed for the sea. One day he built a ship and sailed away with his wife. It is said they reached the Blessed Realm and Ulmo allowed them to remain there for always.

That sounds boring!” exclaimed Eldarion. ”I’d rather sail a ship or play in the sea! Can we go swimming, ada? Look at those big waves! Maybe we will see Lord Ulmo like Tuor did?”

Aragorn laughed. There was no doubt his son was a true scion of the Sea Kings.

In Valinor, Ulmo smiled at this latest son of the line of Tuor.

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"Over the Sea Lies Middle-earth"

by Szilvi

Over the Sea Lies Middle-earth by Szilvi

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Excerpt from "The Inner Light"

by Rhapsody the Bard

Elrond refused to sleep for nights, whereas Elros fell asleep quickly, tired by the daily travel that had become part of their lives. I also remember my lord’s endless singing, soothing the child’s fears and chasing away the demons that haunted him.

All seem to be forgotten, except by me. I remember him still.

I remember our days in Aman where it was considered an honour to serve a prince of Eldalië. How dishonourable were we when we followed them across the ocean, bound by loyalty and faith in their father, proud and valiant son of our deceased King Finwë. Enraged by the betrayal, inflamed by the brutal murder by Morgoth, aye we followed them to the end. And such is my plight today. Soon Elrond will set sail and see whence I came from. Soon he will hear and read what befell us on those confusing days when Lord Fëanor shone as a fierce beacon in the dark that suddenly fell on us. Despite what is told, I have seen it all and lived through it. Written words can be misinterpreted, but real experiences with the hand and eye cannot.

I will not deny that I have killed and murdered, but one should not judge if they have not fought besides me, made the decisions with me, and lived with me through all these ages. For what use is loyalty if it is abandoned so quickly? I have felt the fire of the dragon in my neck, I have seen my fellow comrades being burned to death while my lord and I tried to salvage what we could. I have seen my lordship labour to rescue as many of his people as he could, forgetting about possessions and placing his men, women and children first. We fought long and hard: I will not forsake him.

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