A Rather Chaotic Revision of The Fellowship

~Four~

Why is it that what is ours has been denied from us, stolen and wrested from our rightful grasp time and time without heed? Why are we destined to fail our Oaths we swore in madness?

Morifinwë's teeth gritted like scraping boulders; a fire roaring in his veins, a shard of ice embedded in his soul. What was this game the Valar were playing? What madness did they see in his release, shipping him off to what ends? Havoc wreaked and realms lost? They must be fools.

For the seventh time that night he wrested his eyes from that disgraceful star, the beacon of his failures. Caranthir slumped his head to face the dirt, something filthy and impure. Something just like himself.

A prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck betrayed a peeping, watchful hobbit by the name Pippin. Morifinwë huffed and straightened; he didn't need mortals that could barely touch his own knees biting at his heels in worry.

"Are you all right?" came the voice of Pippin, cutting through his thoughts despite Caranthir's 'efforts.'

Caranthir stayed in his hunched seat, letting himself sink into the ground like it was his own coffin. Although he and his brothers had always, unanimously kept to cremation . . . seeing the fates of Fëanáro . . . and of course Pityafinwë. He shuddered as he finally admitted this to himself. They couldn't fake, ignore the incident like it hadn't happened. But they had. In the first age, at least.

"I am feeling well, Peregrin Took," he mumbled. "No need to interrogate me."

Pippin chewed on his lower lip. "You look a bit worn down. In the Shire-- I mean, where me and my folks live-- there's-- or there was, at least-- there nice old fellow that'd pop in from time to time, speak kindly and make fireworks and all that. And he always seemed to come when there was trouble, or something really important around the corner. He could get anyone into a good mood." His voice trailed off wistfully, and he cast an innocent face to the sky. Morifinwë kept his own gaze in the dirt.

"Sounds like a . . . nice person," he said. Looking to the hobbit curiously, he added, "but what in Arda are 'fireworks?'"

Pippin chuckled softly. "Can I even explain them? They're like magic fire, they shoot up to the sky and flare into beautiful colors and spirals on their very own accord. Once Merry and I found a dragon-shaped one, that swarmed over the whole field we were in before bursting into a million scarlet sparks, and gave mister Bilbo Baggins-- Frodo's uncle, you see-- quite the scare." He grinned toothily, often the sign of mischief among juveniles. "Of course, Gandalf had us doing the party dishes for the rest of the night. Nobody touches his fireworks."

"Gandalf was the old man that came to the Shire?" Caranthir asked. "Curious . . ."

Pippin made a look, one Caranthir had seen many times in his life: the annoyed scowl customary from his 'dear realatives,' (although this list sometimes would include Maitimo and Makalaurë) especially the pathetic children of Finarfin. What had he done now?

Morifinwë sighed and fingered the ends of his cloak. The garment was frayed and ragged, and not the best cover for cold nights in Eriador, as Strider's map had so conveniently labelled the place. This Rivendell had better have coats . . .

And the night passed in silence. Morifinwë brooded and growled at the stars, and Peregrin Took hunched himself nervously against a tree. When it came time to wake Strider, he took watch, and Pippin fell immediately asleep. Morifinwë slumped restlessly against a tree, praying for it all to go away . . .

~

Morning came before he was ready, chasing back the stars and filling the sky with swirls of vibrant color. Caranthir lifted his head wearily, and in turn the hobbits stirred from rest, some less easier than others.