picture_prompt_fun | Microcard A: The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings

Title: Uinen's Aid
Fandom: The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Character: Uinen, Elwing
Length: 1211 words
Rating: T
Warnings: none
Picture: Special picture #10

At the Havens of Sirion, Uinen hears the voices of her people raised in grief and anger. (They are all her people, they who have come to dwell by the Sea and love it.) But the Fëanorians do not want ships this time; Uinen can do nothing to help her people or harm her foes. The wind shrieks with her anger, and her waves beat against the shore.

And then, a flash of silver-white falling--

Uinen feels the splash, as a body hits the water and sinks below the surface. She feels and hears the Silmaril, the song of the imperishable Light within it resounding through the waves.

Suddenly Ulmo’s presence is moving through the waters, his power surrounding her; her hair sways with the sudden motion of the waves. His presence touches her reassuringly in passing.

A flash of silver-white rises upward, shedding sparkling droplets of water. A grey-white gull flutters through the night air, lit by the Silmaril that still hangs about her neck. She beats her wings frantically back toward the shore, fluttering and circling with despairing cries, like a bird whose nest is threatened.

The Havens of Sirion are ablaze with fire. Finally the bird turns westward, toward the open sea.

Ulmo’s presence is gone from the waters. The seagull has found the wind; her bird’s body knows what to do. She rises higher, her small form fading into the darkness. But the Silmaril still shines like a beacon. Uinen follows her, gliding through the dark waves as the bird soars through the sky.

For hours the seagull flies, while the stars slowly wheel above her and the pale moon rises. She is wearying now; Uinen can tell by the jerky movements of her wings. There is nothing below her but miles of dark ocean.

Uinen dives, far below the surface. She finds a group of rocks and coaxes them upward, coaxes the sea-water down and around. A little island stands there, where no island was before. Barely more than a rough cluster of rocks, but it will do.

Uinen tilts her head back to look upward. Only one bird is flying through the night sky. “Here,” she calls softly. “Fly here.” She does not know whether the seagull can hear her; her wings are barely moving now, only the force of her will keeping her aloft against exhaustion. Before long, the seagull falters and falls in a streak of silver light. Uinen raises her hands and catches her.

The bird lies still in her hands, but Uinen can feel her heart beating through her feathers. She sets the bird down gently on the rocks. The Silmaril’s warmth gradually dries her feathers, keeping off the ocean’s chill. Uinen raises the windward rocks a little higher, to keep the splashing of spray off her.

After some time, the seagull recovers enough to sit up. She stands on one leg, buries her beak in her feathers, and sleeps the sleep of exhaustion. Uinen perches on the rocks next to her and waits for morning.

The seagull wakes up a little past dawn. She untucks her beak, ruffles her feathers to settle them. She sees Uinen then and startles, fluttering backward.

“Don’t be afraid,” Uinen says. She is in one of her favored forms when she chooses to take a body: Elf-shaped from the waist up, scattered with iridescent scales, and with a powerful finned tail.

The bird tries to speak but only produces a hoarse croak. Of course, she must be thirsty, and there is nothing to drink here for one who is not a fish. Uinen bends, gathers seawater in her hands, and sings softly over it. The water ripples, clearing as it turns to fresh. Uinen offers it to the bird, but she backs up, her feathers pressed close to her body in alarm. Uinen pours the water into a hollow of the rock; after a few moments, the bird patters closer on webbed feet and dips her head to drink.

Uinen idly brushes salt from her hands. The seagull must be hungry too, she thinks. Better for her to eat and regain her strength. Uinen cares for all the creatures of her domain, but it is their nature to kill each other for food, and she does not grieve over it. She pulls a fish from the ocean and kills it with a single quick touch. She lays it on the rock beside the gull.

The seagull gives her a look of dismay. “I know you don’t want to eat it raw,” Uinen says, “but not even I can make trees grow on a barren rock. Any wood I have is driftwood or the bones of ships, soaked through and half-rotten. I have nothing which will burn.”

The seagull regards the fish for a moment. Then she begins to peck it apart with grim determination, gulping down the raw flesh. She eats the fish down to the bare bones, then takes another long drink of water. Uinen waits, idly flipping her tail against the rocks.

The seagull ruffles her feathers and settles them down again. “Who are you?”

“I am Uinen.”

“Círdan speaks of you--”

“I am a friend to your people, Elwing. Eärendil calls upon me when he sets sail upon the sea.”

“Eärendil!” she says with sudden eagerness. “Where is he?”

Uinen raises her hand and points westward. “He is returning, though not soon enough.”

“I must go to him,” the seagull says. Uinen has never seen a bird with such an expression of determination. “Tell me how to find him.”

“He is still far from here,” Uinen warns here. “You will not reach him before nightfall. The winds are with him, but against you.” She can feel the approaching storm, the winds driving from the West. The sky is already grey, the waves lashing against the rocks. The winds are in Manwë’s domain, not hers, and there is little she can do to shield Elwing from them.

“Nevertheless,” the seagull says. “I will go.”

Uinen sighs. “Then I will guide you to his ship, and give you what aid I can.”

“Tell me first,” the bird says in sudden anguish. “Our children--”

Uinen shakes her head in regret. “I do not know,” she says. “I cannot tell, unless they go upon the sea.”

The seagull bows her head. When she raises it again, Uinen can see in her eyes the memory of the Havens in flames. “If there is nothing for us to the East,” she says, “then we will go West, to seek the Valar’s help for Middle-earth.”

“West,” Uinen echoes thoughtfully. Despite herself, her eyes are drawn to the shining jewel around the bird’s neck. Did not Námo himself say that the fates of Arda lay locked within them? With the Silmaril, perhaps--if Uinen helps sing them through the Shadowy Isles-- “I will guide you to Eärendil,” she says. After that, they will see.

The bird takes another long drink of water. “I am ready,” she says.

“Follow me,” Uinen tells her. She dives gracefully off the rock into the water, her flippered tail breaking the surface to show where she is.

The bird springs aloft and takes to the air, her wings beating strongly towards the West.

Title: Summer on the Withywindle
Fandom: The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien
Character: Goldberry
Length: 200
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Picture: Special picture #11

Goldberry lies cradled in the river water, drifting among the reflections of sky and trees. Her loose hair twines among the reflected willow-branches. It is a lazy summer day, hot and still, and even Old Man Willow is asleep.

Most of the wild creatures are hiding in burrows or shady places to escape the heat, but the birds are twittering to each other in the river-reeds on the bank. Goldberry thinks of going to join their conversation, but she is not certain she wants to leave the coolness of the river.

There! Something lands on the river, shattering the reflections. It is a duck, who quacks and waggles his tail with a self-satisfied air. His webbed feet move rapidly beneath the surface as he paddles back and forth. Goldberry cannot resist a mischievous impulse: diving down, she glides silently through the river water and grabs his foot.

Startled, the duck bursts away and settles down again a few feet away, quacking indignantly. Goldberry breaks the surface, laughing, so the duck will see there is nothing to fear.

A feather is left drifting on the water. Goldberry captures it, admiring the blue-green iridescence. Perhaps Tom will want it for his hat.