Fic: Tributary - Chapter 3

Tributary
Fandom: The Silmarillion, Hayao Miyazaki's Spirited Away
Rating: PG13/T
Warnings: Mild child abuse/child endangerment, underage employment
Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon (pre-relationship), Fëanor/Nerdanel (background), other minor background relationships
Characters:Fingon, Maedhros, Círdan, Fingolfin, Anairë, Turgon, Aredhel, Fëanor, Caranthir, Maglor, Celegorm, Ambarussa, Nerdanel, Curufin, Curufin's Wife, Thranduil, Thranduil's Wife, Hildifons Took, Isengar Took, Rog (Tolkien), Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Original Genderqueer Character(s)
Word Count: 34,139
Summary: Tributary: noun; a river or stream flowing into a larger river or lake.

Moving to another town can be difficult, especially when you're just a kid. Leaving everything you know behind - friends, classmates, teachers, the nice guy at the ice cream shop who sometimes snuck you an extra scoop - is scary, even if you know the place you're moving to.

For Findecáno, son of Ñolofinwë and Anairë, brother of Turucáno and Írissë, it's going to be even harder.

Dropped into a dangerous and treacherous world of spirits and magic, he doesn't know which way to turn, or even who he can trust, but he has to keep his feet under him in order to stay ahead of the great Sorcerer and save his family.

He went in the door. The room was a hallway, he saw, full of pipes with wheels on them. It was hot, and full of steam, which made sense, it being a boiler room and all. The hall opened up into a warmly-lit room, he saw. There were two people, going back and forth across the doorway, with shovels – coal? They were small, but obviously fully-grown. No more than three feet in height, maybe less, with dark curly hair and skin the same color as the coal they carted. They looked like brothers. Neither wore shirts, and the muscles of their backs and their arms were really impressive.

He edged closer, his heart beating as fast as a rabbit’s. He peered into the room – along with the two short men, there was another, seated up in a booth-like thing. He was also shirtless, and had silver hair, though he did not look old at all. As Findecáno watched, though, the markings like tattoos on his skin moved, peeling up and operating various levers and switches, picking up a bundle of herbs and putting them in the strangely-shaped mortar and pestle he was using with his real hands. They didn’t look like shadows, but rather like actual ink, flowing across empty space.( Read more... )