Fic a Day, Day 28 - Aulë
Aug. 28th, 2020 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grundyscribblingTitle: Aulë
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: Anariel's almost done meeting the Valar.
Word Count: 1265
Note: Sorry, there should have been more, but my concentration just shattered with the news about Chadwick Boseman. This is as good as it gets tonight.
Anariel took a deep breath.
Her Valarin tour of Aman continued. She would have happily stayed longer with Yavanna. But she wanted to get home sometime this year – and she wanted to have an answer about her grandfather before she did.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the Valar. They just had a different understanding of time and urgency. And she felt like if she didn’t make a point of getting the question settled immediately, it could well take an Age or two.
After Aulë, there would only be Ulmo, Manwë, and Varda.
Unfortunately, Aulë was apparently in the middle of a project, so she was just going to have to brave his workshop. Which, by the sound of it, had quite a few Aulendil in residence at the moment.
There were times it was a disadvantage to be so distinctive. It made slipping discreetly in and out maddeningly difficult.
But she wasn’t going to get home any faster dawdling outside the door. (Also, if she stood here long enough, she would probably end up talking to more people than she wanted.)
She didn’t bother opening the full workshop door – the smaller, elf-size section of it was more than enough.
Much of the noise ceased as her entrance was noted. She could hear whispers – far enough away for the speakers to think themselves out of earshot – starting. She’d have blamed the Slayer for enhancing elven hearing, but these days she couldn’t rightly say what was the Slayer and what might be aftereffects of her choice.
Her senses told her beyond doubt that Aulë was in his personal studio, at the other end of a workshop long enough that it could have comfortably held one of the larger passenger aircraft in California. A chuckle in the back of her head told her that her host had noticed her presence – and was curious about aircraft not made by her sister.
She strode the length of hall as if unaware that nearly every set of eyes in it had turned to her, and privately noting those few that had not.
She breathed slightly easier when she had a door between her and the mainly Noldorin crowd in the outer workshop. Conversation – once again, not quiet enough that she couldn’t hear it – resumed with a vengeance.
“Aircraft hangar, eh? Marvelous space. Marvelous device! But I don’t think my mate would like them.”
Aulë had assumed a more or less elven form – though with a beard. If one pictured a dwarf who had through some twist of fate ended up somewhat taller than the average elf, that would be about right.
“Probably not,” Anariel agreed. “They weren’t the best thing for the air. And the land had to be specially prepared for them. Yavanna definitely wouldn’t have approved of that part.”
Actually, she had a rather vivid mental picture of Ents storming LAX to rip up the runways and let nature take back what Men had claimed with concrete and tarmac.
Aulë chuckled.
“An interesting world, this California. Not so unlike our own, if Men and Elves had made other choices. Or perhaps like what ours may be in time.”
Anariel said nothing. There were several technologies of California she wouldn’t be sorry to see Arda skip.
“But enough of possibilities and other worlds,” Aulë said with a wave. “What do you have in mind now that you have no more need for armor?”
Anariel shrugged.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said.
She doubted he really wanted to hear about what she had in mind as a welcome-home for whenever maybe-Granddad Butthead got out.
Aulë gave her a keen look.
“Let me know when I should visit Tirion. I would not mind seeing the prototype, but I definitely expect to view the finished piece. Though I don’t know why you Noldor will insist on constantly antagonizing one another.”
“Not a Noldo,” Anariel pointed out evenly.
“I’m quite certain you have relatives who will strenuously disagree with that. But you didn’t come here to talk about them. Here, you may find this interesting. It’s a new metal I’ve been working on.”
Anariel had no idea whatsoever how long passed before she felt tired enough for Aulë to notice and encourage her to go rest.
He wasn’t quite a mad scientist, but his workshop had something interesting everywhere you looked.
She was relieved to discover that the outer workshop was less populated when she opened the door to make her way out.
The lights were dimmed, most workstations empty.
But one in particular was not – an elf she had noticed on the way in, as much because he hadn’t stared like the rest.
Might as well hang for the sheep as for the fleece…
“What are you working on?”
He jumped – though he pulled his hands clear of his work when he did.
“I- Princess!”
He’d attempted Quenya, but she recognized the accent – older Lindarin, before modern Sindarin. Almost… yes, like Grandfather on the rare occasions he indulged her or Grandmother.
“No need for titles here, friend.”
She’d guessed right when she switched to Iathrin. The smith beamed at her.
“I would not wish to explain to the King or to Lord Eöl that I forgot my courtesies,” he replied.
“Lord Eöl?” she asked in bemusement.
“I was his apprentice, before he married,” he explained, and foundered slightly as he was unsure what to substitute for ‘princess’.
“I’m Anariel,” she said, trying not to let the amusement show. “And you are?”
“Faran, my lady,” he replied. “And I’ve made something for you, my- Anariel.”
He handed her a plain wooden box.
She opened it to find what looked at first sight to be a metal hair clasp in the shape of a many-rayed sun. But on closer inspection, those rays looked rather sharp – yes, it was a throwing star.
She grinned.
“This is lovely. But are you sure?”
“It was made for you! Though the metal isn’t quite right – I expected your hair to be like Princess Galadriel’s, but now that I see it, it’s more Prince Finrod,” Faran told her slightly fretfully. “It may blend in rather than stand out.”
“It’s marvelous,” Anariel said firmly. “And I don’t see how you could be expected to guess what color my hair was. Or even know to make it in the first place.”
“Many here have been working on things meant to catch your eye, with the hopes of presenting them to you,” Faran explained. “It’s been the talk of the hall for days.”
She didn’t mean to hear, but she caught his thought anyway – the Noldor, knowing her reputation as a warrior, had nearly all hit on the idea of weapons, but they had made rather predictable knives or swords. He had known perfectly well she had two swords made by Maeglin and couldn’t see what use she could possibly have for a lesser blade.
It would probably be better not to share her philosophy that a girl could never have too many weapons or shoes.
And maybe she was picking sides, but Faran was also one of the few Lindar here at the moment, and the Noldorin smiths – none of whom were named Fëanor or Mahtan – were a bit arrogant about the Sindar.
Her lips quirked.
It sounded rather as if her new hair clip was going to mean considerable bragging rights for Master Faran. And as she’d be on her way to Taniquetil, he’d be free to tell the story however he liked.
“It is well-thought and well-made,” Anariel said. “I shall be happy to wear it.”
Rating: FR13
Crossover: LotR/Silmarillion
Summary: Anariel's almost done meeting the Valar.
Word Count: 1265
Note: Sorry, there should have been more, but my concentration just shattered with the news about Chadwick Boseman. This is as good as it gets tonight.
Anariel took a deep breath.
Her Valarin tour of Aman continued. She would have happily stayed longer with Yavanna. But she wanted to get home sometime this year – and she wanted to have an answer about her grandfather before she did.
It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the Valar. They just had a different understanding of time and urgency. And she felt like if she didn’t make a point of getting the question settled immediately, it could well take an Age or two.
After Aulë, there would only be Ulmo, Manwë, and Varda.
Unfortunately, Aulë was apparently in the middle of a project, so she was just going to have to brave his workshop. Which, by the sound of it, had quite a few Aulendil in residence at the moment.
There were times it was a disadvantage to be so distinctive. It made slipping discreetly in and out maddeningly difficult.
But she wasn’t going to get home any faster dawdling outside the door. (Also, if she stood here long enough, she would probably end up talking to more people than she wanted.)
She didn’t bother opening the full workshop door – the smaller, elf-size section of it was more than enough.
Much of the noise ceased as her entrance was noted. She could hear whispers – far enough away for the speakers to think themselves out of earshot – starting. She’d have blamed the Slayer for enhancing elven hearing, but these days she couldn’t rightly say what was the Slayer and what might be aftereffects of her choice.
Her senses told her beyond doubt that Aulë was in his personal studio, at the other end of a workshop long enough that it could have comfortably held one of the larger passenger aircraft in California. A chuckle in the back of her head told her that her host had noticed her presence – and was curious about aircraft not made by her sister.
She strode the length of hall as if unaware that nearly every set of eyes in it had turned to her, and privately noting those few that had not.
She breathed slightly easier when she had a door between her and the mainly Noldorin crowd in the outer workshop. Conversation – once again, not quiet enough that she couldn’t hear it – resumed with a vengeance.
“Aircraft hangar, eh? Marvelous space. Marvelous device! But I don’t think my mate would like them.”
Aulë had assumed a more or less elven form – though with a beard. If one pictured a dwarf who had through some twist of fate ended up somewhat taller than the average elf, that would be about right.
“Probably not,” Anariel agreed. “They weren’t the best thing for the air. And the land had to be specially prepared for them. Yavanna definitely wouldn’t have approved of that part.”
Actually, she had a rather vivid mental picture of Ents storming LAX to rip up the runways and let nature take back what Men had claimed with concrete and tarmac.
Aulë chuckled.
“An interesting world, this California. Not so unlike our own, if Men and Elves had made other choices. Or perhaps like what ours may be in time.”
Anariel said nothing. There were several technologies of California she wouldn’t be sorry to see Arda skip.
“But enough of possibilities and other worlds,” Aulë said with a wave. “What do you have in mind now that you have no more need for armor?”
Anariel shrugged.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said.
She doubted he really wanted to hear about what she had in mind as a welcome-home for whenever maybe-Granddad Butthead got out.
Aulë gave her a keen look.
“Let me know when I should visit Tirion. I would not mind seeing the prototype, but I definitely expect to view the finished piece. Though I don’t know why you Noldor will insist on constantly antagonizing one another.”
“Not a Noldo,” Anariel pointed out evenly.
“I’m quite certain you have relatives who will strenuously disagree with that. But you didn’t come here to talk about them. Here, you may find this interesting. It’s a new metal I’ve been working on.”
---
Anariel had no idea whatsoever how long passed before she felt tired enough for Aulë to notice and encourage her to go rest.
He wasn’t quite a mad scientist, but his workshop had something interesting everywhere you looked.
She was relieved to discover that the outer workshop was less populated when she opened the door to make her way out.
The lights were dimmed, most workstations empty.
But one in particular was not – an elf she had noticed on the way in, as much because he hadn’t stared like the rest.
Might as well hang for the sheep as for the fleece…
“What are you working on?”
He jumped – though he pulled his hands clear of his work when he did.
“I- Princess!”
He’d attempted Quenya, but she recognized the accent – older Lindarin, before modern Sindarin. Almost… yes, like Grandfather on the rare occasions he indulged her or Grandmother.
“No need for titles here, friend.”
She’d guessed right when she switched to Iathrin. The smith beamed at her.
“I would not wish to explain to the King or to Lord Eöl that I forgot my courtesies,” he replied.
“Lord Eöl?” she asked in bemusement.
“I was his apprentice, before he married,” he explained, and foundered slightly as he was unsure what to substitute for ‘princess’.
“I’m Anariel,” she said, trying not to let the amusement show. “And you are?”
“Faran, my lady,” he replied. “And I’ve made something for you, my- Anariel.”
He handed her a plain wooden box.
She opened it to find what looked at first sight to be a metal hair clasp in the shape of a many-rayed sun. But on closer inspection, those rays looked rather sharp – yes, it was a throwing star.
She grinned.
“This is lovely. But are you sure?”
“It was made for you! Though the metal isn’t quite right – I expected your hair to be like Princess Galadriel’s, but now that I see it, it’s more Prince Finrod,” Faran told her slightly fretfully. “It may blend in rather than stand out.”
“It’s marvelous,” Anariel said firmly. “And I don’t see how you could be expected to guess what color my hair was. Or even know to make it in the first place.”
“Many here have been working on things meant to catch your eye, with the hopes of presenting them to you,” Faran explained. “It’s been the talk of the hall for days.”
She didn’t mean to hear, but she caught his thought anyway – the Noldor, knowing her reputation as a warrior, had nearly all hit on the idea of weapons, but they had made rather predictable knives or swords. He had known perfectly well she had two swords made by Maeglin and couldn’t see what use she could possibly have for a lesser blade.
It would probably be better not to share her philosophy that a girl could never have too many weapons or shoes.
And maybe she was picking sides, but Faran was also one of the few Lindar here at the moment, and the Noldorin smiths – none of whom were named Fëanor or Mahtan – were a bit arrogant about the Sindar.
Her lips quirked.
It sounded rather as if her new hair clip was going to mean considerable bragging rights for Master Faran. And as she’d be on her way to Taniquetil, he’d be free to tell the story however he liked.
“It is well-thought and well-made,” Anariel said. “I shall be happy to wear it.”
