#sirion

Пока что у меня только промежуточный этап.

By the Sirion

not my art but my commission.

But now I wonder if he would have preferred pearls.

He grew up in Sirion, right next to the ocean.

His line was blessed by Ulmo.

And, most importantly, his brother was king of an island. He must have had pearls in abundance.

Thanks to @zealouswerewolfcollector and @starspray for the tag to revisit something older. In the spirit of Tolkien Gen Week, for which I have not managed anything new, have a little Elrond and Elros, happy in Sirion, from last year's Scribbles and Drabbles.

The Havens of Sirion are a magical place to be a child. The markets teem with Men and Elves in a babbling tangle; the storytellers’ stalls are enticing and warm. At every corner is an eating place offering simple foods from one of a hundred villages, and the alleys are always full of wonderful smells. The fingers of the river run through the city, laughing and whispering, collecting wonders as they make for the Sea. On the docks and in the chandleries there are new songs, strange tools to be explored, and the sharp smells of rope, canvas, and tar. The marshes offer up their reedy secrets to a careful observer, and the bees in the flax-fields and gardens bumble and hum. But it is the shore that sings most to the little ones: the great stretch of sand spilled under the glimmering sky. Elrond and Elros hop from rock to rock along the waterline, dipping their toes into tidepools to tease the lurking crabs. They shape small boats out of driftwood and little rafts of reeds, then float them in the shelter of the breakwater: adventure-seeking in this quiet corner of the sea. They race their fellows in the tumbling surf, slinging seaweed at each other’s shoulders, laughing and shrieking until their raucous cries rival those of the circling gulls. On starry nights, they lie on their backs in the sand, watching the sky turn above them, wheeling in its ancient and mysterious dance. The fire sparks and crackles. Someone begins a sailor’s tune, or a lament from Gondolin, or a fine harvest song from Brethil, and their small voices fill the air, dipping and rising. They sing their hopes into the night, those sweet-voiced, dreamy children, at the edge of the known world, of the ageless, numinous Sea.   

Also on AO3.

2004 Daihatsu Sirion

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