#silmarili

He sits clad in white on a cushioned thrown. Were in his youth he grasped a long sword now he clutches at jeweled bracelets. Were in his youth his clothes would be covered in grass stains, from sitting in camp fires with all his realm, now they are covered in fine dust from his halls.

His robes should be stained black from piles of vanquished foe, but instead those hated Noldo lead the fight against darkness. An invisible cage protects us from death, yet the shame it brings is tenfold for we do nothing but pray that the peace will hold.

Thingol with his shinning silver strands, has pushed his family away. How many nephews and old friends will he loose before this madness passes? First, he drove Eöl away. The old forest twisted him, but in his youth he was a sweet boy and so very shy. There was a time when the scariest thing was to talk to a girl. Oh, but Thingol pushed him away. Eöl couldn't stand the inactivity. Then there was Celeborn. Young naive Celeborn, the king could do no wrong in his eyes,adult Celeborn saw the flaws. He couldn't stand the discrimination and hatred against his bride. Then Lady Agripa, his oldest friend. They woke together on Cunivens shores and worked as equals for many yen, building up the Sindar into a pride full people. Yet Thingol met Melian and forgot that Agripa existed, it broke her soul. There was Arvyra and Daeron and all his trusted Captains all gone from his heart because of pure unyielding stubbornness.

Working for him has become a monumental task. The diplomats are struggling to keep relations with the Dwarves peaceful. The army is severly underpaid, even the secretaries pay for ink and quills from their pockets. Thingol listens to no advisor and his once fair judgment has become cruel punishment.

Each of them took to himself a Silmaril, for they said: 'Since one is lost to us, and but two remain, and we two alone of our brothers, so is it plain that fate would have us share the heirlooms of our father.'

Maedhros Maglor

Earendil and Elwing

The Earth will turn as it hides you in it’s gaze glittering with shining light The Earth will turn as it carries you; surely someday, we will meet and it will carry the two of us

-Carrying you-

This is a continuation of a fic I started ages ago. I’ll post it here soon, but before that, I just wanted to write some fresh, new stuff. So this is a continuation, but it can hopefully also work as a one-shot. Slightly AU-ish, no slash. Melkor’s POV. However, be warned – Melkor can get pretty disturbing and violent. And he also lies. A lot.

This particular piece deals with the immediate aftermath of the ‘Thieves Quarrel’.

Now illustrated with the gif Melkor disappears in light!

                                                         ...

As I am sitting in my throne room, nothing seems to happen. Only memories dance with life in my head, as if I am already dead. So, I will continue.

Continue? Continue with what? With memories. Yes, from the time when I knew life and, somehow, knowing life in that time was connected to windy landscapes and a clear deep blue sky.

The Artist was then still alive, somewhere. But he is not important anymore, being dead in the time and place in which I speak.

I look up, and I am not anymore in my throne room. The sky is deep blue, but it is a night sky and full of possibility. Under such a sky one can easily fall asleep even in the dead cold of the windy landscape. As I'm laying there, the spectacle of light and battle in the distance – that line of flame that merged with the line of the horizon - suddenly becomes cold-white and still. So far away it is, the bright middle-ground between the sky and the earth.

I look at my hands and they are black as charcoal – like that brilliant Varda's dress so long ago – a permanent shadow became attached to my hands. Like the face of the Artist, who lived and died without anyone being able to discern the features of his face. That deep shadow!

The line of the horizon now hurries towards me. Three hundred of them there are. And yet the light grows paler as they approach me. By the time they make a circle around me, they are all as ash. They prostrate themselves before me, their fiery hairs flickering, they themselves blacker than the gentle night sky. However, they all lift their eyes from the ground, just for a second, to look at Them, lovely as they are.

Loveliness! Loveliness incarnate! Oh, they had to look.

Some of them look into my eyes for the first time and they don't look away. Even more, after hesitating a little, they lift their heads and chests higher, as if unconscious of their insolence.

At first I am glad, and try to meet their gaze, but in their eyes I just meet Their reflection as if I am surrounded with six hundred Moons.

I cannot avert my gaze from the eyes of the one that’s laying right before me, and I think that even my eyes then reflect the beauty that is in his eyes. Two flouting spheres of light that seem (to my eyes, which can discern such things) to be floating heads of flowers, consisting of only three petals.