#genuary2025

[emyn-arnens]

Of Building and Hewing

@arafinwean-week day 1: Eärwen, family, pre-Darkening | AO3

Finrod did not build castles in the sand so much as he dug, little fingers plunging deep into the sand, digging down to where it was damp and dark, burrowing tunnels with his fingertips and molding pillars of sand, his brow furrowed in concentration as he followed a design only he knew. As he dug, the sand shifted and fell, and a pillar buckled beneath the weight of the sand, then another, and his creation collapsed.

He frowned. 

Eärwen stroked a loose curl from his forehead. “Try again, Ingoldo. You will get it right.”

“I will get better,” he said with the grave certainty of children.

“Of course you will,” Eärwen said, brushing his cheek with her knuckles.

(Later, when he returns and bears himself like a king and speaks of caverns and a kingdom hewn beneath the earth and his cousins who drove him like a beggar from his own city into a place beneath the ground darker still, she will realize. But he will not dig again, nor suffer to be led into the dark sea caves that dot the coastline.)

— — —

Angrod labored long over his castle—if a castle it was. Eärwen might have called it a fortress or a keep, but the Eldar had as yet no words for such things. It was tall and wide, with walls built thickly, the sand packed tightly—a thing of strength rather than beauty. 

“Is it a castle?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“A palace or a mansion?”

He frowned. “No. I cannot name it. But I had to build it.”

She stroked his hair. “Whatever it is, it shall withstand many waves.”

(She will realize, later, when Angrod returns and his hands are stronger than she remembers, and he speaks of a watch upon the North and flames in the night that burned the snows, and a fortress that he tore down with his own hands, just as he had built it.)

— — —

Aegnor did not build but sat staring over the sea, his eyes round and wistful. Of all her children, he most enjoyed the stories she wove of the land over the sea and the people and creatures who lived upon it—of mansions over the sea and under the sea, and of halls filled with people that were not Elves but something akin.

(Aegnor does not return. When Finrod returns, he speaks for his brother and tells of the halls of Bëor, hidden amongst the pine forests of the North, and of the Wise-woman whose hand Aegnor clasped in the darkness and whom he followed over the hills of Dorthonion and into the mansions of Mandos, never to leave.)

— — —

Galadriel did not merely build; she perfected. One castle after another grew beneath her small hands, each bigger than the last but none big enough, nor grand enough, nor beautiful enough. 

“How beautiful!” Eärwen exclaimed, pointing to the shell-crusted turrets of one castle.

Galadriel eyed the castle scornfully. “No, not yet.” She cast her gaze to the other castles, each a variation upon the last, but with something more—a taller pinnacle, a lacework of shells, a coronet of towers. And she cast them down with a sweep of her arm and began again. 

(When at last her daughter returns from over the Sea, she speaks of the kingdoms she left behind her, each mightier than the last, and of how she shaped them beneath her hands and made them fairer than the last, but none so mighty nor so fair as to endure.)

[fictionfromthevoid]

One-shot | ACD! Sherlock Holmes - Late Night Labwork

Fandom: ACD Sherlock Holmes (original stories)

Characters: Sherlock Holmes & Dr. Watson

Relationship: QPR (queerplatonic relationship), but you can interpret this one-shot however you want to.

Warnings: Mention of War, Bombs, gunshots and death; mention of PTSD

A/N: Inspired by these tags I saw under this post.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of gunshots roared through the hot Afghan air. My comrades, one after the other, went down. Hit by bullets and other projectiles. Bombs were exploding around me. The air was filled with horrible screams as young men were shredded into pieces by shrapnel. Ducked down in the trench, I tried my best to shoot as many enemies as possible, trying to ignore the unbelievable suffering around me, but I knew it was hopeless. They were too many. We were all going to die.

*Clink*

Suddenly everything was quiet. I shot up in what I later realised was my bed. Adrenaline and Cortisol rushed through my bloodstream. Chest heaving and covered in cold sweat I had no idea what was going on or where I was there was only one thing on my mind.

'Danger' I was in danger. 'I need to survive'

I jumped to my feet and examined my surroundings. It was dark, I could barely make out a thing. Slowly the realization crept in. I was in my bedroom, at Baker Street. The war was over, at least for me. I was at home.

Letting out a sigh of relief I dropped back down onto the edge of my bed. Head in my hands and blood rushing in my ears I tried to calm myself down but as soon as I closed my eyes I was back in that trench in Afghanistan.

I desperately longed for Holmes's presence. I didn't necessarily need to talk about this, I just needed him to be there. Simply sitting in the same room as him, while he smoked his pipe, or tinkered with some experiment would be enough to soothe my tormented soul.

But it was the middle of the night, Holmes was probably asleep and I couldn't possibly bring myself to just knock on his bedroom door, wake him up and ask him to... - well pointlessly sit in the living room with me. Tears leaked from my eyes and dropped to the floor below me when -

*Clink*

There was the sound that woke me, again. It came from the living room. 'Is someone in there? Are we being robbed?' Panic threatened to seize my body a second time tonight.

*Clink* *clink* *clink*

No, that was the sound of glass clinking. Holmes! No doubt engaged in some chemical experiment. It wasn't unusual for him to be up in the middle of the night doing research or, very much to my annoyance, playing the violin, shooting the walls or whatever other shenanigans he could come up with. These unusual habits of his were often the subject of my anger or mockery, but that night, I was eternally grateful for them.

I slipped into my dressing gown and made my way to the living room. Upon my entrance, Holmes looked up from his lab equipment and gave me an apologetic smile.

"Ah dear fellow, so sorry to wake you"

"Nonsense. My dream was ... not pleasant" I answered although he had undoubtedly deduced that by now from my constitution.

"I see", he nodded. "Then perhaps you might assist me with this experiment? An extra pair of hands would be most welcome."

I gladly accepted the offer and he got up to get me a chair and a glass of water. I emptied it in one go and so my friend went back to the kitchen and this time brought the whole jug which he placed on the table among his various other chemicals. Pouring me another glass he eyed me carefully.

I can only imagine how I must have looked at that moment. Face covered and hair soaked in cold sweat with hands shaking so much that I could barely hold the glass of water without spilling it all.

However, he didn't say a word and neither did I. Trying to find excuses for my appearance would have been pointless. He had seen me like this countless times before.

Summoned to my bedside by my screams of terror, frantically shaking me awake, ripping me from the nightmare and sitting with me in the light of a candle until the gruesome images in my mind faded.

Still, with a tilt of his head and an expectant rise of his eyebrow, Holmes silently asked me if I wanted to talk. When I shook my head his attention returned to his chemicals.

He assigned me to stir various mixtures and monitor the temperature of numerous boiling liquids. All things where I wouldn't have to hold and therefore couldn't break anything. Tasks suitable for my trembling hands.

We took to work in silence. Holmes' presence keeping me anchored to reality and distracting me from the horrid images still vividly present in my brain.

Sitting here in our living room, next to Holmes working on an experiment I didn't understand a thing about, had exactly the soothing effect on my frayed nerves I hoped it would.

Slowly the shadows lifted from my soul. I could finally breathe again without that terrible feeling of constriction in my chest. Soon my heart rate returned back to normal and the cold sweat on my body began to dry. When my friend noticed, I was getting chilly in the process he wordlessly got up, fetched a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

Wrapped up cosily, I adjusted the flame of a bunsen burner heating an to me unknown liquid in a vial.

In moments like this, I was beyond grateful to have Holmes by my side. I knew that I could have talked to him, anytime, had I wanted to. He wouldn't necessarily have been the best with comforting words, but he would have listened and he would have understood. But I didn't need to. This was enough.

We sat together in silence even long after the experiment was finished. Holmes in his usual armchair and me on the sofa. He tinkered with his pipe, absentmindedly plucked his violin or simply sat there lost in thought, while I soaked in, the calming atmosphere of 221B and the company of my friend.

Nonetheless, he kept a close eye on me. I noticed his glances, assessing whether I was reasonably alright and if I had everything I needed. Occasionally, I flashed him reassuring smiles to indicate that I was indeed feeling better.

A warm fuzzy feeling had found its way into my chest. Coexisting with the heightened anxiety that still lingered from my nightmare. And when the first beams of sunlight finally illuminated our little home again even the last shadows lifted from my mind.

Holmes noticing my improved mood got up from his chair. "I think I will make us some tea. What do you think Watson?" I nodded in approval.

"Holmes" I called out just before he was out of the door of the living room, "Thank you".

My friend answered with a knowing nod and a gentle smile and with that, he left the living room.

[heymanateewrites]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 15/15 Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Peter Parker/ Gwen Stacy, Peter Parker & Curt Connors, Gwen Stacy & Curt Connors Characters: Peter Parker, Gwen Stacy, Original Symbiote Character(s) (Marvel), Symbiote, Curt Connors, Rajit Ratha, May Parker (Spider-Man) Additional Tags: Oscorp (Marvel), Canon Disabled Character, Science Experiments, Dubious Science, mentor and apprentice, Blood and Violence, Hurt and humor, Not as much Spider-Man as you might think, Horror, Body Horror, Humor, Humorous Ending, The summary really sums it up Summary:

What if Dr. Curtis “Curt” Connors had gained a Symbiote rather than turning himself into The Lizard?

(No beta, completed)

[emyn-arnens]

Silver-queen

Prompt: Celebrían for @arafinwean-week

Summary: It is difficult, sometimes, to be the daughter of one of the greatest Elves who has ever lived.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.4k

Peering up at the lacework of birch branches above her, Celebrían lay upon the grass and pondered the syllables of her name, rolling them across her tongue like water. Silver-queen. She imagined the silver-boled mellyrn her mother had said grew in Aman, so much mightier and fairer than the birches that bent overhead. The mellyrn, she thought, tall and towering and glinting in the Tree-light, crowned with boughs of gold, ought to be called queens.

Not Celebrían, who ran with muddy feet through the forests skirting the Nenuial, branches and twigs snagging at her dress. Not Celebrían, who could name more of the harts and hinds she had befriended in the forests than the minor nobles who had followed her mother and father over the mountains. Not Celebrían, who knew better how to coax a fox from its den or charm the birds down from the trees than how to incline her head at just the right angle to show respect but not deference.

A wet nose pressed into the cup of her hand, and Celebrían reached absentmindedly to stroke Cebril’s fur. Satisfied, Cebril pressed warm against Celebrían’s side, thumping her tail.

Celebrían rolled a loose lock of hair between her fingers, considering the silver strands that had fallen out of the crown her mother had woven her hair into that morning. “Am I to be a queen?” Celebrían asked of the trees overhead, but really to her father, who sat next to her twining green branches together.

“Only if you wish to be,” he said.

Read the rest on AO3.

[emyn-arnens]

Like the Birds of the Shore

Eärwen | G | 1k | @arafinwean-week day 1: Eärwen + family | AO3

When word comes from the returning Exiles that her sons have died, Eärwen already knows. For a century, she has felt the splintering in her spirit, and for a century she has denied its meaning.

Were she one of the Noldor, she might pour her grief into a craft. In Tirion, Nerdanel sculpts and Anairë builds. Tirion brims with sculptures and cenotaphs of their sons as they hew their grief from stone, pulling forth veins of sorrow and regret.

Eärwen is neither a sculptor nor a builder. She is a lace-maker and a weaver, and even then her craft is a shadow of Míriel’s, unrefined and coarse by the standards of the Noldor. She has never woven lace for mastery, though, only for the enjoyment of doing so.

But she has not turned to the craft since Nerwen left, since she found that her hands do not follow the thoughts of her mind and her fingers do not flit among the threads as they once did, when she and Nerwen bent their heads together and laughed at the travails of the Noldorin court.

It is just as well that she cannot set her hand to lace-weaving, for lace is too delicate a vessel for the raw grief that pours forth from her. There is no thread she could weave that is dark enough to tell the tale of her sorrow. 

And so Eärwen sets foot upon the shoreline where her people were slain, and she casts her gaze over the pale stretch of sand, seeking. Like the shorebirds, she hunts among the sands, turning over rocks and shells, peering into pools, searching beneath tangles of seaweed.

She collects. She constructs. She consecrates.

She gathers pale stones from the shoreline and places them into piles, facing east, and builds. Like the little castles in the sand she once built with her children—Finrod, who delighted in building castles of both beauty and mathematical precision; Angrod and Aegnor who liked rather to build an impenetrable fortress and see how long it could outlast the waves; and Galadriel who sat stubbornly apart, working single-mindedly upon her own castle—she places memories of her sons and their families upon the shoreline.

For Angamaitë, her iron-fisted son, she stacks the stones closely together, so that there is not a gap between them, just as he built the fortress that became his tomb. She sets upon the top of the cairn a coronet of round stones and tucks swan feathers in between them, the one touch of beauty she will allow, to mark him as the son of the Swan-maiden.

For Aikanáro, the fell fire, she gathers flame-colored coral from the shoreline and sails a skiff out onto the bay to gather the red algae that floats in great mats upon the surface and the red dulse that grows in deep forests beneath. When she surfaces, gasping to refill her lungs, the dulse lies like flames in her palm, and she swallows down the bitterness of her foresight. She places the coral about the base of the cairn and tucks the algae and dulse in the crevices between the stones, where they flutter in the breeze, a memory of fire.

For Eldalótë, the Elven-flower, slain in the same firestorm that took her sons, Eärwen forms a small bowl with the stones and fills it with water. She walks beneath the silver willows of Lórien and gathers lotuses and lilies from the pools and lakes, brimming with blossoms and sunken stars, that spread at their feet. She places her harvest in the bowl of water and weeps for the woman who followed her son across the Ice into death.

For Findaráto, her golden son, she builds a cairn of stones the color of the westering sun and sets within the crevices pearls she has gathered from the Bay of Eldamar, diving deep into its clear waters, and emeralds that Finrod left for her as parting gift, both apology and the farewell he could not bring himself to speak. She cups water in her hands and lets it trickle over the stones, washing them clean as she could not clean and dress her son’s body, bloodied and rent with many wounds. 

For Artaresto, soft-tongued and gentle-hearted, she builds a cairn sculpted of soft sand, ringed in pale stones to guard it from the lapping waves. And for Finduilas, whom she has never met but whom the returned name her great-granddaughter and of whom come tales of surpassing sorrow, she builds a cairn of pure white stones and dresses them in tears-of-the-sea, and she weeps for the great-granddaughter she never knew. 

When she is done, Eärwen stands over the cairns and sings the song of parting known to all sea-folk, casting her voice upon the wind. It heeds her bidding and carries her words over the waves, and the Maiar that dwell in the waters take up her song, murmuring in voices like rippling water.

— — —

When Finarfin leaves, clad in golden armor brighter than the face of the sun, the favor of the Valar shining upon his brow, Eärwen picks her way down to the shoreline, where her cairns stand sheltered under the lee of a sea cliff, and watches the departure of the Host, trembling even as she draws her swan-cloak tighter about her. The words she had not been able to voice, stunned into silence at the sight of her husband garbed as one of the Maiar and heralded by ringing trumpets, are still stuck in her throat. Had she the heart to voice the words, she would have told him to come back to her, for she could not bear the grief of another taken forever by Middle-earth, could not bear to stack a pile of stones for him. 

But she thinks he knows, though he had spoken no words as he pressed his lips to her brow in farewell.

The winds tug at her swan-cloak as she watches the departure of the host, surrounded by her cairns.

In the middle of the line of cairns lies an untouched pile of stones, not yet arranged into a cairn. 

And Eärwen waits for a daughter who has not yet turned her heart to home.