By Rhyselle

Thranduil smiled graciously as he dismissed the court to the festivities celebrating the end of the War, and retired from the brilliantly lit throne room.  Using the passage reserved for members of the royal family between the great hall and their private quarters, he nevertheless maintained his mask of pleasure until he had achieved his rooms. 

Dismissing his valet to the celebrations, the Woodland King sank down into a chair before the fire and buried his face in his hands.  He dragged in a deep breath, then allowed himself to release the grief that he'd repressed over the days since he had stood with Celeborn amid the ashes of the southern forest, hearing the song of the Eagles, neither believing at first that the long fight was over.  Tears slipped between his fingers and marked the silk of his ornate robes, and his shoulders shook.

Delayed

(exactly 100 words)

Eärendil stood at the prow of the Vingilot, staring at the silhouette of a tower on the moonlit horizon.  So close and yet so far.  He felt an unexplained sense of urgency rise up in his heart.  He could not wait for the dawn winds to drive them into the harbor.  He had to get home. 

He hurried below, to where his crew were drawing the golden oars from where they'd been stowed, and claimed one.

When he finally raced up the tower's stairs, he was greeted by the high, twin wails of his newborn sons.

Whilst musing about my 100 words for the day, it occurred to me that it would be nice to have a new NaQua icon just for this year.  So I opened my trusty Paint.Net open source program (get it free from http://getpaint.net) and spent the last little bit making the icon.

Go ahead and right click on the pic to grab it, or you can download it from Photobucket.com at http://s423.photobucket.com/albums/pp318/Rhyselle/?action=view&current=NaQuaWriMo2009Icon2.png

(exactly 100 words)

"Look, Atto! It's Master Cirdan!"  Eärendil ducked under the lower edge of the sail and scrambled to the bow of Tuor's clinker-built pinnace.  He eagerly leaned over the prow.  "Oh, Look how his ship gleams in the sun! I want to sail one just like it when I grow up, Atto!"

"You'll have to build it first, little one," Tuor indulgently told him from the stern, guiding their small vessel towards the elven ship.

Eärendil nodded vigorously.  "I'm going to build the very best ship in the world! And I'm going to sail it where nobody has sailed before!"

 

Bedtime

(exactly 100 words)

The gates to the Havens opened before the band of refugees, welcoming those who fled from lost Gondolin.  Eärendil, head nodding with exhaustion, leaned against his father's shoulder as they passed within the walls.  "Atto, is it much further?" he asked sleepily.

"Not far," Tuor told him, heading for the guesthouse the gate warden had pointed out.

"Good." Eärendil yawned.  "I want to say hello to the sea and Lord Ulmo."

"Time enough for that in the morning," Idril told him firmly. "Go back to sleep."

Tucked into a real bed, the sound of waves for a lullaby, Eärendil did.

Waiting in Alqualondë
(exactly 100 words) 

"And then," Elwing said, "I watched him out of sight, until I could no longer see the gleam of the Silmaril moving up the pass into Valinor."

"And then you came here!" piped up the youngest child of her Telerin host.

She smiled, although her eyes were still dark with grief.  "Aye, little one.  I did." Elwing turned towards the window that faced the Calacirya, as had become her habit.  Where was her husband?  Would he return to her or would she be doomed to spend what might be left of her life grieving on the bejeweled shores of Aman?

Eärendil placed an ungloved hand against the broad silvery white trunk, and the papery bark crackled under the pressure of long fingers.  He looked up, his eyes following the height of the ancient birch up to where the first branches extended from the main bole, then dropped his gaze to meet Cirdan's eyes. "This one." 

"Are you sure?" the Shipwright asked, standing bundled against the bitter winter wind, his beard and hair blowing in a tangle about his face.

"Aye, I am sure. It's as if Yavanna created it just for this purpose; to become the keel for my Vingilot."

I find myself looking for the youngling whom I carried on my back through the Eagle's Cleft as we escaped from betrayed Gondolin.

Instead, I now see a man, the image of his father; eyes as grey as the sea, flaxen hair caught by the salt-laden breeze as he stares out over the waves.

All too soon, he has become too old for my wishes to safely hold him home. He hears the call of Ulmo and Ossë.

Perhaps his wife will be strong enough to keep him ashore at her side, but I fear the sea is stronger.