Bits of Elven Glass by Himring

Prologue

In Formenos

It is pitch-dark in Feanor’s workshop in Formenos.  The windows have been shuttered and barred ever since its master departed south to Valmar. The heavy oaken door is locked, and even Curufinwe is not allowed to enter in Feanor’s absence. The light of the Trees, dimmed by distance this far north, does not filter in.

Shuttered, barred, locked—but even that is not enough. Built into an interior wall, surrounded by layers and layers of masonry, the workshop contains an inner chamber sealed tightly with a door of steel and an intricate locking mechanism only Feanor can undo. Through the hairline crack surrounding the door, bright white light leaks, not much of it, just the suspicion of a star, but it would still draw the eyes of all if anyone were here to see.

That is where the Silmarils are kept, of course. Much, much fainter, in an out-of-the-way corner of the workshop at the back of a dusty shelf, there is also a tiny glow of green, perhaps only visible because the workshop is otherwise so dark.

Suddenly, impossibly, it seems darker still. Soon after, a thunderous blow strikes the gate of Formenos, so loud that it overpowers the sense of hearing. The thick walls shudder as destruction makes its way into the heart of Formenos.

The tiny green glow is extinguished.