Silmarillion Writers' Guild Clash of the Titans

Excerpt from "The Unbearable Smugness of Being (Fëanor)"

by IgnobleBard

"Asshat," Melkor mumbled.

"Name calling is the riposte of a tiny mind," Fëanor huffed.

"Smug prick," Melkor rejoined.

"Yeah? Well so's your old man," Fëanor countered with considerably less eloquence than was his wont.

"Tell me about it," Melkor sighed. "Nothing I ever did was good enough for him."

"Try having a half-brother who goes all noble on you when you're trying to keep the Valar from stealing your jewels."

Melkor gave a snide chuckle, "Couldn't protect your jewels, huh? No wonder you were unmanned."

"You are so immature," Fëanor sniffed.

"Hey, you set 'em up, I'm gonna knock 'em down," Melkor laughed. "Grow a sense of humor, why don'tcha."

"If you're going to be a putz I'm not going to talk to you anymore," Fëanor said crossly.

"Fine by me, no skin off my nose."

"Considering you don't have skin."

"I thought you weren't talking."

"I'm not. That was my last comment."

"Except for the comment you just made."

More galling even than his banishment at the hands of the Valar was it for Fëanor to speak not in the face of this most obvious attempt to get him to break his word, but speak not he did.

Thus fell a silence of time out of mind.

"Oh, come on," Melkor finally spoke, "give me a break here, we both got a raw deal."

"We sure did. If I had known I was going to have to share a void with you, I'd have pitched all three of those stones into the sea to begin with," Fëanor groused.

"I can swim," Melkor said cavalierly.

"You are working my last nerve here," Fëanor growled.

"What are you gonna do about it, Elf boy?" Melkor challenged.

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Excerpt from "The Power and the Passion"

by Spiced Wine

Glorfindel opened his mind to those who stood there, allowed them to see a flow of vivid images, and they were silent, absorbing, seeing at the last, the son of Sauron hand the Silmaril to Glorfindel, who walked into Fos Almir, the Bath of Flame.

Without a word Fëanor stepped past Glorfindel and strode toward the watching Valar. They did not move, eyes high and cold as frost-rimed glass. He stopped before Námo, whom had proclaimed the Doom of the Noldor, the Doom which Fëanor had both wrought and defied – and his blow caught the Doomsman of the Valar straight across his jaw.

Fingolfin had wounded Morgoth. Mandos certainly felt this. His head snapped to one side, and even as rage leapt into his timeless eyes, Fëanor struck him again, then felt himself being dragged back as power burned against his skin, an impulse to destroy him which was as suddenly checked as Glorfindel spoke.

"It is not the will of our father, Ilúvatar, that thou touch Fëanor, not he nor any. The souls within the Timeless Halls will come forth. Thou wilt no longer be the weigher of the worth of the Elves fëar, Námo. But because there are some who need time to weigh their own souls and lives acts, Lord Irmo and Lady Estë shall watch over them. This the One wills."

Frustrated wrath and unbelief beat in waves from the Vala. Fëanor felt the arms about him, sensed his sons and heard their voices, but his eyes remained locked on those of Námo.

"What made any of thee believe you could judge me?" He burned fire back at their stainless chill, and then, scornfully, he laughed.

Excerpt from "Shadow and Flame"

by Esteliel

Glorfindel felt it before he saw it. The very air itself shuddered around it, as if its presence overwhelmed even the foundations of Arda. It scorched the air Glorfindel breathed. It cleaved the rock upon which he stood.

And then he saw.

Fire, and at its heart, a shadow. A roar was in his ears, and when he raised his sword before him – the sword his father had given him; the sword his father had commissioned from Fëanor's forges against all dislikes and family feuds – it wavered before him, the air rippling from the heat.

Glorfindel had long since learned that war did not make heroes. His first glimpse of what these weapons could do – had in truth been crafted to do – had been at the havens of Alqualondë. Gentle, red-tinted waves had lapped against the quay, and rivulets of blood had dried in the streets. Where once fish had been gutted and sold, now the corpses of Teleri lay, eyes as lifeless and cold as that of butchered animals, their bodies slashed open by the weapons he had dreamed to raise against the dark enemy's forces.

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Excerpt from "Kinslayer"

by Russandol

When brought to his presence the prideful visitor did not bow, did not offer any gesture of respect or obeisance whatsoever.

‘Dismiss the guards,’ he snarled instead.

Manwë bristled at this unbelievable presumption.

‘How dare you give orders here?’ he roared. The room shook with his wrath, making Varda’s crystal bead lamps tinkle loudly. He was most proud of the humbling effect this trick usually had on impudent petitioners. Most disappointingly, the Elf before him did not even flinch.

‘Just like you not to recognise one of your kin,’ he chuckled darkly.

‘Námo?’ cried Manwë, disbelieving. He stepped down from his throne to have a better look.

The man threw his hood back with a sweep of his forearm. At a first glance he looked like one of the Noldor, but all his features were somehow distorted: his lips too full, his ears too pointy, his cheekbones too high, his almond-shaped eyes too narrow and their inner light too bright, a sign that his body contained within one of the mightiest beings in the whole of Eä.

‘Greetings.’ The Elder Fëantur now bowed slightly, in mock deference.

‘What brings you here in this guise?’ queried Manwë, as he admiringly caressed the man’s silky hair and kneaded the hard muscle in his arms. ‘I can see you are making great progress towards creating the hröa for the reborn Children.’

‘Yes, I am. Ouch, that hurt!’ Manwë stopped his probing and pinching reluctantly. ‘But of late I have run into some technical difficulties,’ confessed Námo grudgingly, ‘and I direly need your help. Urgently.’

He put forward his hands, which so far had remained hidden inside the wide sleeves of his black robe. The fingers were unnaturally long and wriggled continuously, almost like tentacles. Manwë gasped and studied them warily, unable to completely mask his revulsion."

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Excerpt from "Kin No More"

by Ellie

The king of the Tatyai beamed proudly. "Forgive me for drawing comparisons between the Noldor and the Tatyai –I understand that you have heard many since your arrival and few of them favorable to the Noldor. I must ask you: would a high prince of the Noldor ever deign to serve strangers in need as my son has? I have heard little to suggest that any but perhaps one or two of the sons of Finwë would ever have considered such a thing."

"There are many forms of hospitality which one can show to strangers," Arafinwë carefully replied. "And there are many ways in which one can render aid to those in need of assistance. I think that the true test of one's character cannot be made until situations present themselves. I also have noted that the pride of the Noldor is something of which the Tatyai have not yet cleansed themselves. Perhaps in many ways, we are not so different after all."

King Sulwë smiled in concession. "Very true and well said. I see your tongue is of the Noldor even if your appearance is not.

"In Ennorath, it is necessary for all to work together to see to the survival of all our race. This does not appear to be the case in Valinor where the Minyai, the Noldor, and the Nelyai live in separate realms and in opposition to each other. At least the Noldor are in opposition to the others. How many betrayals have the Noldor committed since they have been in Ennorath? And they were also disdainful toward the Nelyai whom they slew in order to steal from them. The sons of Finwë have exemplified this self-serving haughtiness since their arrival here with their further division of the Noldor by establishing independent realms, and their failure to help each other in need. Some stayed in hidden cities, only coming forth when it pleased them and others slew fellow elves trying to acquire ridiculous jewels – the works of Curufinwë's hands! Obviously living in Valinor with the Belain has done the Noldor little good!"

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Excerpt from "Chosen"

by Pandemonium_213

The pillar now guttered with formless fire, and silence reigned in the Hall of Song. He flung sharp spears of his thought toward his two allies who stood by his powerful brother, the one who had been chosen, impaling them with his fury.

I believed you supported me!

The one who had asked so much of the waters of his beloved did not answer, deflecting his outrage with passive fluidity. The one who had asked so much of the substances of the world -- the stones, the gems, the minerals, the one whose mind was so like his own, turned away in shame.

Something within him snapped. With binary speed, the blinding love he had poured into that cherished island changed to hate. He became fire, brilliant to behold but consuming, devouring, and so his kindred turned from him. He lifted his voice, more powerful than any gathered around him, and opened the gates to Arda, shooting through the gaping maw as a storm of flame and leaving the others behind, the last notes of his thought rebounding in the Hall of Song, now reverberating with jagged dissonance:

If I cannot have her, neither can you.

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"Seven Falls"

by Dawn Felagund

But Melkor also was there, and he came to the house of Fëanor, and there he slew Finwë King of the Noldor before his doors, and spilled the first blood in the Blessed Realm; for Finwë alone had not fled from the horror of the Dark.

…

Fall seven times.
Stand up eight.

…

Ah, with such vigor you pronounce my fall!
Lift your eyes and vow to drive me into dark!
You strike me low and I am slow to rise;
I let your eyes linger long on my blood.
Deep within you this delusion I plant:
Slain I may be by a faint-hearted king!

But what a noble beneficent king!
You believe that yet? Oh, so far to fall!
By fastidious workings, I did plant
In your people's hearts desire for the dark,
Feral, forgott'n lust for the taste of blood.
Dare strike me again! Laughing, I will rise.

In Fëanor's heart, already did I rise;
In Fingolfin's too, fair Noldorin king.
My name pounds in your gentle last-born's blood!
Till I am needless to fulfill your fall
(But how I want to watch your eyes go dark!)
As brother fights brother to brother supplant.

Remember how Yavanna did trees plant
That, on the horizon, made pale light rise?
See now: the horizon roils with dark!
Think you such power shall be quell'd by a king
Whose full might it takes to bring my fourth fall?
Whose bubbling breaths bring the taste of his blood?

In whom fatigue moans with each beat of his blood?
Teeth bared with joy, loosely my feet I plant,
Intentionally, let him force my fall.
Intentionally, even faster I rise!
Till certainty dims the eyes of the king;
Extinguish'd their light with hastening dark.

Our shadows strive against deepening dark
Till I fall the sixth time, slipped in his blood
And rise, laughing, to hear the curse of the king:
"No growing things can your barren hands plant.
Nothing alive from you ever will rise."
Swing, little king! I am waiting to fall!

At my seventh fall, I rise, reap the dark
From a seed fed with lies and blood. I RISE!
Plant my sword in the body of a king.

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Excerpt from "CONTEST: Power Play"

by Fiondil

“We are but Orcs,” Finrod said abjectly, hoping he sounded convincing, but fearing he wasn’t convincing enough.

Sauron shook his head. “I think not.” Then his demeanor changed again and his eyes flamed with remembered starfire as he gazed upon them.... Instinctively, the Elves moved closer, keeping Beren in the center. Finrod never moved as Sauron began to Sing:

“Veils of enchantment will I pierce,
open before my eyes what hidden be,
revealing treachery, uncovering betrayal.
Let this glamour be undone…”

They all found themselves reeling, even Finrod, who regained his senses sooner than the others. Suddenly he began to counter Sauron’s magic with his own Song of Power:

“Let thy singing be stayed, all spells to resist....
Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.
Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power.
Changing and shifting of shape gives us leave
to escape to freedom,
elude snares and broken traps,
the prison ope’d, the chain snapped.”

Backwards and forwards their Songs swayed.... The room brightened to incandescence as the combatants unleashed their spells. From the deepest dungeon to the highest parapet their Songs were felt ...

Softly in the chthonic gloom they heard the birds singing in Nargothrond and the sighing of the sea beyond. And further still unto the West they heard the waves brush the pearl-strewn strands of Eldamar. Many of the Elves held in prison smiled at the images Finrod’s magic evoked.

Then the gloom gathered and the images grew darker, as Sauron sang of night falling on Valinor. Red blood flowed beside the sea where the Noldor slew the Falmari, stealing their swan ships from their lamplit havens. Even as Sauron sang the last note of betrayal and kinslaying, the wind rose to a wail and the wolves howled. There was a rumble of thunder that shook the very foundations of Minas Tirith and a vast roar nearly overwhelmed the Elves and Beren cowering in the hall.

Then, Finrod collapsed.

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Excerpt from "Never Look Back"

by Independence1776

“They honored me enough to make me king.”

I shot upright on the log, nearly overbalancing enough to fall backwards off it. “King? At our age? We barely fought in the war! What experience do you have?”

He shrugged and ran his hands through his hair. “Enough, I suppose. Andor won’t be inhabitable for years, so I have time to learn. And I guess that our mortal lineage from all the Houses of the Edain makes me acceptable-- barely-- to the remnants of each. Which could be why I was chosen instead of one of their leaders.”

“Is that what the meeting--”

Elros nodded. “I wish you would have been there. Elrond, even Gil-galad attended, along with the lords of the Eldar and the Edain. You were the only notable who wasn’t.”

“Notable? How am I notable? Being one of the last of the House of Fëanor?”

“By virtue of who our biological parents are. The Elder King wondered where you were.”

“If he wants to talk to me, he can find me. I have no desire to converse with him. And I was not ordered to be there.”

“Which is why no one is upset.”

“Save for you.”

Elros stood up, facing me. “I want you to be happy for me! But you can’t manage to ignore your misery long enough to even congratulate me.” Before I could respond, he shoved me, sending me into the pile of rotting leaves behind the log. I landed on my back and by the time I regained my breath, Elros was no longer in sight. I heard him crunching leaves as he ran downhill, but I brushed the debris off my clothes and hair and returned to the log.

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Excerpt from "Dark Blood ~ Dark Prince Book III"

by Spiced Wine

The Power whirled and then sprang onto Morgoth's back, one hand in the hair. The twin blades swung back in an effort to strike, but fell from his hands as a dagger scored a vicious cut across his face and took out one eye. He screamed.

Fëanor, Vanimórë, somersaulted, landed neatly, and stalked toward the half-blind Morgoth. The wonderful face shone, his eyes were deadly, and the sword burned in his hand like a solid white flame.

"Thou fool," snarled the twinned voices. "Thou didst forge me as a weapon is forged indeed. Thou didst forge better either of thee knew! Thy spirit wasted itself in Angband, poured into the creation of monstrosities. Vala thou art indeed, Bauglir – but thou art no warrior! And we are!"

The laen penetrated him, sizzling as if it had been pulled white-hot from a forge. A shriek ripped from Morgoth's throat and the flesh of his hands melted as they gripped the burning crystal. He fell to his knees.

Eyes that flickered from purple to diamond stared contemptuously, into the red ones, then they lifted and a smile was deep within them as they looked beyond him.

"Nolofinwë?" He invited. Fingolfin strode forward and looked at the thing which he had battled long ago. He had died in agony, his body ruined, and in despair at his failure and the doom upon the Noldor. A long, desperate battle. But in his dying he had been granted a gift: a vision of Fëanor's face. He stared deep into the terrible eyes and saw fear there.

"How does it feel?" he asked and brought up his sword in salute to his brother – then it came around in an arc of silver and sheared through Morgoth's neck.

Excerpt from "Wind and Fire"

by elfscribe

Fëanor’s eyes grew bright with anger. “So, thou sayest I should have broken my jewels, my greatest treasure, to heal the Trees? Thou asks a greater thing than thou knowest. But wherefore should it fall upon me to make the sacrifice? Who is responsible for this fell deed? He who hath loosed the monster, say I. What art thou doing to right the matter? I choose not to sit idle, bemoaning, wringing my hands while thy kinsman remains unpunished for his atrocities.”

The words stung Manwë as if he had been slapped. The wind increased, whipping their garments into a frenzy. “Thou forgetst thy place, Elda,” he growled.

Fëanor stood proud and defiant against the onslaught. “And what is my place? Under thee, my Lord! As thrall to thy desires and whims? Nay, I have chosen otherwise.”

It could not be borne. Manwë drew himself up to a vast and terrible height. Taking a stride forward, he scooped up air and threw a chilling blast at Fëanor, knocking him down flat upon his face. The Noldo’s helm rolled away from him releasing a spill of inky hair, and he lay with his head turned to the side, hands struggling to find purchase on the ground, and eyes closed tightly against the tumult.

“Unsay thy vile words, son of Finwë!” Manwë roared.

“Thy actions do but prove them,” Fëanor cried above the wind’s squall. “So, thy true face is finally revealed, even as Morgoth once claimed. Thou sayest the Silmarils are my weakness? Those words should scorch thy lips, and thou, THOU knowest why.”

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