Hope is a weapon by Fiamma Galathon  

Hope is a weapon,

~~~

Some scholars say that the First Age was the Age of Despair, of Wrath. Of the greatest dying in the most nonsensical ways, of an unending slaughter of the Children by a rogue Ainu. Most of those scholars had never been there , never walked upon the bloodied soil of Beleriand, never crossed blades with an orc that still had a shade of light flickering in their eyes, even horribly twisted. 

It could not be the Age of Despair, nor of Wrath. Nobody would have survived then, had they given up to those. 

The First Age was the age of Hope. 

~~~

Hope is a skill,

~~~

Finrod, Nóm, Felagund, they called him. Bright, golden Finrod, Finrod Adan-friend, Finrod Felakgundu. 

He had been known for his optimism, the way his words could always slither in like a snake and make somebody feel lighter. He wielded his estel like a craftsman wields their hammer.

Not even in the dark dungeons it faltered, it just…changed goal. He no longer hoped for his life, or the war won, or anything but for his companions to survive. 

Estel , fixed belief, unlikely to fail into despair. 

And bright, skilled Finrod, armed with his body alone, ripped out the throat of the wolf.

~~~

Hope is a plant you care for,

~~~

Glorfindel buried another seed into the ground, Gondolin quiet at this hour of the night. 

After the Unnumbered Tears, they all had precious little hope left. They would die, the sand in the hourglass of Doom running low already, and he could taste it on his tongue with the soot from the battle.

But not yet.

He buried another seed, whispering sweet blessings to that acorn. Maybe he would see it as a great old oak. Maybe not. 

But with every leaf the tiny thing would sprout, he would take heart. 

Glorfindel hoped it shall grow big, that tiny thing.

~~~

Or kill.

~~~

Turgon watched his family wither, steadily whittled down. He watched his city darken, the pristine white of the walls slowly covered by soot of the enemy. 

He watched his daughter bloom, and could only taste fear. 

The Doom hung over them. 

The Enemy poisoned the lands. Crops were scarce. Trees in Tumladen fell ill.

He liked to imagine himself as a tree.

That tree hadn’t been watered for centuries, now. By what? The imminent destruction of all he had worked for? Of all he had, once? 

No, Turgon’s tree was losing leaves, branches, and bark. 

There wasn’t hope left for him.

~~~

Hope is a discipline,

~~~

Maedhros stood on the walls of Himring, still as a statue.

Like clockwork, every day, a vigil. 

Glaring at Thangorodrim, daring Morgoth to move. 

His hope was sharp, uncomfortable, dressed in blood and death. It was stored in the battle plans, meticulous, as accurate as possible. It was in the strength of his blade, of his reputation. 

It was his own, no matter what some days made him think. It was hope that came from his own heart, and wasn’t just the reflection of Fingon in the blade of his soul. 

A bloody, bloodied thing, this hope. But his own.

~~~

Something you choose,

~~~

Everything boiled down to choices, in the end. Always the crossroads, wasn’t it.

Maglor sat on a boulder, watching the night flow by.

Four times kinslayer. Oath-breaker. Damned, Doomed, evil.

And yet. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to do as his brother had done, and rid the world of the stain of his existence. 

The stars still shone overhead, Gil-Estel so bright between its older berethen. 

Estel.

Well, Maglor definitely didn’t have estel anymore, couldn’t have it. 

He inhaled the salty air, and grit his teeth.

Well, then. Amdir was his only other choice, wasn’t it. 

That, or death.

~~~

Hard to stop looking for,

~~~

Beyond the mountains, the legend said. Beyond the Sea, in the West. 

There was something there. Bëor was only one of the many in his family who would try to find it, finally grasp what the legends talked about. 

He personally wasn’t really sold on the idea that there was something Beyond the Sea. But the March West, well, that was what he believed. 

Because there might not be anything, and the earth might be even round, all they know, and they would go for countless generations chasing the Sun, but. But every step forward meant something. 

Westward laid hope.

~~~

Easy to lose.

~~~

Celegorm watched the plains burn, smoke clawing at his throat. 

Nothing. Nothing remained. 

Himlad was burnt and lost. His plains, his hunting territory. 

Dragons. Morgoth, the motherfucker , had dragons. 

In one swoop they lost a third of their armies and most civilian settlements in the north. 

He watched the flames lick the sky, black smoke curling into the clouds, and slowly, ever so slowly felt the noose of the Oath tighten.

Their plans went up in flames. Their pace went up in flames. 

Like his father and brother had gone up in flames. 

Like everything would soon burn to ash.

~~~

Hope isn’t something to have or to take,

~~~

Andreth looked the elf-lord in the eyes, and smiled. He was indeed similar to his brother, but there was something different in his composure, in the way he looked at the world.

She told him, Nóm the Wise, what she knew. He listened with open heart.

And yet he couldn’t understand . 

She wasn’t telling him she had no hope for the future. She wasn’t trying to convince him that her hope had been taken by the Enemy.

After all, hope just was . It couldn’t be taken, because it wasn’t something you had . It could only be lost, given, or found. 

~~~

If you can’t find it, it’s something you make.

~~~

Haleth scrubbed her hands in the Gelion, her reflection in the water snarling at her. 

She scrubbed her hands harsher. The old hope died screaming on the stockade. The stockade that was now methodically disassembled. 

Disassemble the camp, assemble the camp, build a house, the house burns down, rebuild, rinse, repeat. 

Her reflection snarled at her once more from the river, which was dirty from blood and mud. Haleth snarled back. She was a warrior, not a builder, not a healer to bring hope back to life.

But she would do it. There was nothing a stubborn human cannot accomplish. 

~~~

Make it from willpower, make it from spite,

~~~

Fingolfin struck his spear into the ice, wind howling around him. The food they had would carry them for another four days, no more. 

The mountains on the horizon were looming close now, but not close enough .

He hadn’t come there to surrender now. He wouldn’t surrender now, couldn’t surrender now. 

He took the spite that carried him and folded it back, gritting his teeth. They were close. 

Three more seals. Three more, and they had a chance of reaching land. 

He ignored the way his fingers cramped in the cold, and set himself to wait. 

They would make it. 

~~~

Learn how  to weaponize love in a fight.

~~~

Fingon smiled brightly, leaning over the maps for the Union, Maedhros’ lips twitching just a tiny bit. 

He had faith in their plans. This truly could work, and he could see the brighter future painting itself before his eyes like a tapestry. Only to get this battle just so , and they would be free. 

The most crucial part was collecting the fighting force. He smiled even brighter at that. 

His friends would come when he called, he had no doubt. Well, his allies , but most of them were friends, or children of friends, and family, and kin. 

They would win.

~~~

Hope is a shield,

~~~

Elros was, at heart, an optimist. He didn’t like to be afraid of what the future might bring.

Since he was a tiny child he swaddled his heart in layers of plans, hopes and blind belief that everything will turn out well.

Always the silver lining, as they say. He took that to heart, and clung to the estel that whatever would happen, it would be all right. 

He looked at his twin who was biting his fingernails again, fidgeting from the uncertainty of Gil-galad’s reception of them, and just sighed.

It would be all right, after all, wouldn’t it?

~~~

And a thing to defend.

~~~

Elrond was in heart a realist. He liked to have all the facts and plans for them.

Bowing before the High King he promised to protect him. (No oaths. Never oaths.)

Because the High King meant unity. Unity meant a fighting chance, and that meant they would live to see the land green and the sky blue again.

To keep that hope going, they need the High King. And hope was something to defend with vicious abandon, because in its complete loss laid damnation.

So Elrond bowed before the High King, and learned both how to kill and save lives.

~~~

End in itself,

~~~

Lúthien danced under the boughs of Tol Galen with her husband, finally free. Hope for a better future suffused the air and grass of the green isle, and the birds sung in the trees.

They were alive, both of them, and their fates would not be sundered anymore.

Lúthien didn’t fear death anymore, not when it meant even greater freedom. It would pain her more, that sundering from her parents, but her mother was also from the Beyond. 

And so she twirled with Beren under the ancient green trees, hearing the Melody of Things suffusing the air twinkle with hope.

~~~

And means to an end.

~~~

Eärendil looked to the horizon, where the molten ball of the sun slowly sank into the Sundering Sea, and pursed his lips. The weather seemed to be nice, and everything suggested it would keep.

Hopefully this time the Mists would let them pass through. 

He glanced at his wife, still with feathers in her hair and holding that damned gem.

Hopefully this would be enough to convince the Valar to act. 

He took a deep breath, and steeled himself, arming himself in the purest form of belief he had. 

Besides his hope that this would work, he didn’t have much.

Chapter End Notes

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