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Autumn Voices

Beta: None Rating: PG
Disclaimer: No characters in this belong to me.
Summary: Two drabbles and one double-drabble on the theme Autumn. Silmarillion based.

He hated snow and winters, ice stretching like a blanket of death over the land, but autumn, he loved. Grasses paled to brown and yellow, the heather faded from purple to a dull blue and the trees… the trees burnt of gold and reds and copper in the chill invigorating air.

This was his time, the time after summer had faded but before death, frozen and warm, blazing fire and the first crisp ice on water. Stars, burning against the deep sky. Flame and stars, fire and ice. He smiled, picking up a few of the auburn oak leaves. Russandol.

She had grown to hate this season more than others. Leaves the colour of blood reminded her of years past, of bad choices and of love. What had the season been when she had lost them? Winter, her heart whispered, it was winter when they fell, autumn when you turned from them.

She crushed the leaves under her feet, despising the broken sounds as they snapped under her feet. Fire… his spirit had been full of fire, burning her. She had no fire left, only emptiness as she stared at the colours around her. She hated autumn most of all.

Miriel - Dubble Drabble
Leaves fell to the ground where once she had lain, where once she had rested and sought healing, where once she had died. Then no leaves fell in the gardens of Lorien, no blazing colours kissed the land. It had been spring then, in more ways than one. Today the ground was scattered with windblown leaves and golden grasses. Even Lorien had changed.

Lovingly she touched the fallen leaves, so bright in colour and shade. Never had she managed to weave or create in such colours when she had last lived. These days she did, colours used for death and destruction, fire and blood, not for beauty, never for peace.

The air was cool around her, a reminder of how the world changed as years passed. She could remember a time when it was always warm here; the fires of their spirits burning brighter then than they did now, brightest of all shone Fëanáro, her son. She sighed and rose again, starting her long walk back to the halls of weaving. Fëanáro’s time was gone; the fires had faded, lingering only in the colour of autumn. She felt at home here. Autumn had been hers long before it first came.