Morning Mist and Silver Sun by StarSpray

December 27 2020 Instadrabbles

I am posting all the drabbles I wrote for the 12/27/2020 instadrabble session on the SWG Discord as one chapter, though they do not all fit together into a cohesive series. The prompts are below the titles.

Three Cairns
funeral, ambassador, Maia, forsake

There had not been a funeral in Aman since the Darkening, until the Ringbearers came out of the East. Since then twice had gathered ambassadors of Elves and Valar and Maiar, to sing songs of starlight and winding roads, as first Bilbo, and then Frodo and Samwise together were laid to rest atop a small green hill on Tol Eressea. Their graves were marked with cairns of white stones.

Gandalf sat between them, pipe in his mouth, not quite ready yet to forsake all the physical comforts of his old man’s body, and watched the quiet sunrise over the water.

.

Exploration
new-spilled, stumpy, downward, discarded

Rocks and dirt piled up at the bottom of the ravine, some new-spilled down the mountainside, most discarded by the stone giants after their games or battles. Some stumpy trees and shrubs clung to the steep slopes, stubborn and green, spiny and tough, but too few to provide useful holds.

Elured slid downward anyway, Elurin just behind him, sending up a plume of dust. They had not explored this part of the mountains before, and there was a clear bright stream at the bottom, glinting in the sun. It flowed eventually down to Anduin, but it had to begin somewhere.

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Devouring Tales Instead
Courage, manuscript, constraint, campsite

In a corner of Avallone’s great library, someone had erected something like a campsite—if such comforts could be found while camping. A pot of tea and a plate of seed cakes sat between piles of manuscripts pulled without constraint from the lower shelves, half-forgotten by the half-hidden, white-haired hobbit who sat cheerfully devouring tales instead.

Finrod peered over a stack of leather-bound books. “Good afternoon, Master Baggins!”

“Oh! Good afternoon!” Bilbo beamed up at him. “I was just reading about you, as a matter of fact, and your deeds of courage and derring-do and all of it. Very exciting!”

.

Through the Girdle
giggled, thunderclap, wanderings, enchantment

Beren stumbled, breathless, as a thunderclap shook the trees, the wind screaming, rain lashing against his face—and then ceasing, as suddenly as it had begun. In the distance he thought he heard giggling, as though children were playing. And music, wild and breathless, for dancing—or enchantment. He tried to find its source, but always it was just out of reach. Perhaps at last his long wanderings had driven him mad.

He sank to the mossy ground beside the starlit river (though it was day) and closed his eyes. He woke to twilight, and someone singing, sweeter than nightingales.

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Whispers
alcove, remembering, prince, guards

 Finduilas stood shadowed in an alcove, remembering when there had not been guards patrolling the inner roads of Nargothrond. Beyond the gate Huan lay, looking more unhappy than she had ever seen him, while past him Curufin and Celegorm stood in tense, whispered council.

Since Finrod had gone it seemed a chill and a silence seemed to have fallen over the city, and no one from servants to princes dared speak above a whisper. Finduilas fisted her hands in her skirts and headed off to do some whispering of her own, determined to know what her lord cousins were hiding.

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Summons
Tall, wistful, humor, music

Even seated on the side of a dune, the figure was very tall, long legs stretching out over the sand. In his hand was a harp carved of driftwood; its music was wistful and melancholy, blending effortlessly with the soft wash of the waves over pale smooth sand. Gandalf stood for a while, leaning on his staff and listening, Shadowfax grazing calmly behind him. At last the harper looked up.

“Good morning, Maglor!” The humor of his greeting was known to Gandalf alone, but he chuckled anyway. “What are you waiting for? The ship is leaving soon. Come along home!”