Light play. by Urloth

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Light play.

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It was perhaps the very worst thing that could happen to him when he was in such a state. Fëanáro stared bleakly, madness three breaths away, at the circlet that held the silmarilli. Then he closed his eyes against the sight of two of the shining stones and a large hunk of crude coal which was cradled in the right positioned setting.

After exile to Formenos and the further humiliation of the Valar’s summons with their arrogant assumption that he would bring the silmarilli with him; now someone had snuck into his quarters and stolen one of the gems.

It was clearly a taunt, or perhaps punishment for not bringing the silmarilli before the unwashed masses when the Valar expected it. After all why not take all three? Why replace the one taken with a lump of coal?

Fëanáro swallowed roughly, feeling an aching weight in his throat he had not experienced since childhood. His head was pounding and he could barely think through the roaring of blood in his ears. t was simply too much; it was the final pebble that causes a rock slide in a quarry.

He gripped the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles whitened then jerked when hands slid over his own and gently unbent his fingers.

“Father,” he greeted, glancing at Finwë whose dark eyes were not on the silmarilli but instead Fëanáro’s hands as Finwë gently massaged each finger back from stinging numbness.

“The thief shall be caught and punished, your sons are diligent in their searching,” Finwë rumbled, finally looking at the gems with the darkness of his eyes pulling inwards in reaction.

Fëanáro was still fascinated by the changes that dark and light caused, especially in his father. Formenos did not receive the light of the trees, its cradling hills provided a wall against both the silver and the gold.

In this environment of eternal shadows, the blackness of Finwë and Tyelkormo’s eyes had spread out till no white sclera was visible. Their keen sight in these conditions was almost terrifyingly acute.

“I should go find them,” Fëanáro sighed, “instead of sitting here and –“

“Not an option,” his father cut him off, “you searched all of yesterday and rose early to search more, thoroughly terrifying the villages down below us. You will rest today and return to searching tomorrow.” It was the order of a king. Finwë might have chosen to be exiled but he was still King, no matter where he chose to reside. Fëanáro nodded though it cost him. He could argue with his father but not his king.

Finwë lightly squeezed his hands then leaned in to kiss his forehead. Fëanáro braced himself then remembered he was alone and had no one he had to be strong for; Nerdenal had abandoned them. His sons were away. He leaned into the offered embrace, resting his head on Finwë’s shoulder like he was his father’s lone child once more.

“It is not so much the theft I think, as the message that is hurting the most…” he mumbled into the lavender scented cloth of his father’s robe, eyes sliding half closed as Finwë’s reassuring hum rumbled from his chest into Fëanaro’s.

“And the fact they used coal,” he added in disgust.

There was a giggle.

Fëanáro thought he had imagined it at first but Finwë looked about for the sound as well, focusing on the diadem.

Another giggle though it were more a chime… or perhaps a series of rapid clinking noises.

In their settings the silmarilli were vibrating together alongside the piece of coal. It was the piece of coal that was making the most noises.

“Coal does not clink,” he said dumbly, trying to process what he was seeing. He had never seen the silmarilli move before of their own accord. They always pulsed at the touch, as if they had their own hearts somewhere deep and obscured by all their light. But never more than that.

The silmarilli stopped vibrating and the light they were casting across the room suddenly cooled in what could only be…

Surprise?

If he were the sort of man to gape his jaw might have dropped open but he was not. He simply set his jaw and stared hard at his greatest creations.

He was more than aware that the silmarili had emotions. They were not sentient in a way that he could prove but he knew that they could ‘feel’ in a limited sense. He had flashes of insight from time to time; flickers of barely there love and affection when he placed them upon his head.

A feeling of irritation and of being smothered after Yavanna had hallowed them.

“Finwion look,” Finwë whispered, “the lump of coal…”

The lump of coal had lost its uneven sides and was gaining facets. Then those facets began to lighten until suddenly they were looking at the missing third silmarill.

Suddenly all silmarilli chimed together loudly and he thought of nothing so much as his sons as children, when they had completed some sort of prank or project, giggling together in a group and terribly pleased with themselves.

“I am going mad,” Fëanáro declared, “I have become as mad as my detractors claim.”

“Cease your dramatics,” his father cast him a look half amused, half unamused, a particular expression that only Finwë could adequately display, “I saw it as well. Did you know they could do this?”

“No or I wouldn’t have wasted my time tearing myself to shreds about this,” Fëanáro was torn between pure pleasure, pride and fascination at his creations, and terrible anger.

“What else can they do, I wonder,” his father seemed unconcerned and fascinated.

As if to answer him, the centre silmaril dulled, faded away and seemed to have been replaced by a sphere of tawny marble.

“And you?” Finwë looked to the left set silmaril.

With what could only be hesitancy, the left silmaril dimmed, flickered and became a hunk of granite… granite carved in a shape suspiciously similar to the silmaril and far too bright to be common rock.

The illusion flickered away immediately.

Embarrassment

Fëanáro blinked at the complexity of the emotion that the left silmaril’s scintillations held.

Finwë only rumbled in amusement and tapped a finger against one of the facets.

“Ah I see. You are a slower learner then your siblings. Try again. Practice makes perfect after all.”

Carefully the silmaril became granite beneath his finger again.

“A little duller,” Finwë suggested serenely, “and if you are to be granite, why not try a cube shape? It is the little details that make an illusion perfect.”

It dulled beneath his finger, losing its un-granite like lustre whilst the shape of it seemed to stretch.

“That is one of the most lopsided cubes I have ever seen,” Fëanáro said before he could help himself, “straighten up the lines of that top surface and make sure that all your sides are parallel.”

Tentatively the shape became far more cuboid, enough that Fëanáro did not feel like twitching when he looked at it though its imperfections still niggled.

It did not niggle as much as the knowledge that he was talking to the Silmarilli, this silmaril in particular as though they were alive.

“Very good, practice makes perfect though. You shall have to keep this up until you have it right,” Finwë beamed over at him, “there are times when the creations take my breath away my son, but I do not think this can be beaten.”

“Father please do not encourage the silmarilli to do this again,” Fëanáro protested, attempting not to beam back at him, especially at the praise “the once was stressful enough.”

“Ah but now you know what they are doing,” Finwë countered, face still serene as he stroked the facet of the granite-silmaril until it lost its illusion and glowed warmly under his touch. The other two silmarilli flickered back to their rightful appearances and keened in Fëanáro’s mind with want until Finwë bestowed touches to them as well.

Fëanáro stood in awe, overwhelmed with amazement as he sometimes could be at the things his father could do and make seem like they were the easiest things in the world.

Like taming silmarilli.

“Now once more,” Finwë coaxed, watching silma become coal, marble and granite.

Fëanáro reached out and touched them, splaying his fingers over the silmarilli one by one.

Like before the coal had the right roughness though he wondered why he had not noticed that it did not stain his fingers when it was touched. The marble was cold and smooth but had the distinct throbbing beneath it he associated with his creations. The granite appearing one was clearly trying its hardest but he could feel the impressions of the silmaril’s facets beneath the granite shape.

“Very good,” he murmured and felt a flicker of warmth from them; felt the simaril beneath his hand become more rocklike, the cuboid shape become solid, “just practice and remember the little details.”

“Varda’s tits!” Fëanáro turned sharply along with Finwë to see Curufinwë and Canistir staring in horror at the diadem.

“There has been another theft? Right under our noses?!”

Coal, granite and marble slipped away to become silma, and the silmarilli chimed together in amusement and delight.

-

It was the whining of a lost dog that woke the one called Erevir by those that had first found it when it had come to flesh. Those people were now the people of the Greenwood  and a long way away from where Erevir was now.

Erevir: the lonely jewel; Just one of many names now the Silmaril had spent time in the world.

All alone in the lonely desert just above Harad; Just one of many destinations now the Silmaril could travel where it wished.

The dog stood just outside of the light cast by the Silmaril’s body. With no one in the desert for miles up on miles, Erevir had shed its usual constraints, lighting up the mountainous sand-dunes all around it and casting deep shadows into their crevasses.

It was a well fed looking canine, coat well maintained and glossy with a jaunty red cord collaring its neck. It was no pampered pet though, well-muscled and whipcord thin it was clearly a working animal. Its eyes though, were dulled and it splayed out its right back leg, where Erevir could see the arrow that had wounded it.

“Come here…boy,” it tempted, reaching out to it but the dog shielded back.

“Where is your master little one? You are no wild jackal, where is the one who gave you that lovely collar?” Erevir drew itself up and leaned towards the dog, only to have him skitter away completely, hiding behind the bulk of the Silmaril’s horse. The horse which had awoken at the scent of a dog, was a rangy thing bred for crossing desserts, and gave the dog an unimpressed look.

Frowning the Silmaril slid its mind from beyond its head and into the dog’s skull.

‘Right shape but wrong everything else,’ the dog was in agony and utterly confused at the maybe-master before him. The shape was right but Master was warm flesh and this maybe-master was all plants and fire.

Erevir glanced at its arms in bemusement; at the shape of arms made out of silver vines, leaves and flowers through which could be seen the fierce inferno that moved it and gave it life. It had not so much discarded flesh as forgotten to keep inside the flesh what should be hidden. Slowly it dragged the light and heat back into its body.

“Come here,” it coaxed again.

Still the dog would not come.

‘Right flesh but wrong shade…’ the dog tilted his head to the side with a low whine, shaking in the chilled air of the night. The maybe-master was too pale to be his master. Its hair looked too bright as well.

The Silmaril darkened its skin in incremental shades of smoky topaz until it matched, in the dog’s view, the shade of grey he remembered his master having. Erevir’s hair became obsidian, spiralling into tight, springy curls.

The dog yelped abruptly, almost leaping up in delight before remembering its leg and letting out a low mournful wail of pain.

‘Right shape, right flesh, right colour,’ there were other wrong things though. Little things. But now the maybe-master resembled the rest of master’s pack. Maybe the maybe-master was one of the lumpy maybe-masters that master liked to talk to.

Lumpy…?

Oh! Female! The shape of Erevir’s body stretched subtly and gained weight across the hips and chest. Now the dog recognised it, faintly.

Slowly he came creeping forwards, as close to being on his belly as he could be. He shook from the pain in his leg and whined every so often. He was not sure which lumpy maybe-master this was. Was it the one who gave him treats, the one who swatted his tail and played find the stick, or was it the squeaky, angry one?

“Come here boy, good boy,” slowly the dog dragged himself to Erevir’s side. The Silmaril pressed fingers against his wide forehead, soothing the dog’s mind into a stupor so it could drag the dog into its lap and inspect the arrow wound.

The fletching was a distinctive black with a white dot; the sign of well-known raiding tribe.

“Oh dear,” it sighed and ran a soothing hand down the dog’s back when he whined piteously up at it, “I don’t think your master is still alive little one.”

The Silmaril did not quite understand why this tribe tended to wipe out the villages it preyed upon. It seemed like bad economics; what were they going to raid if they kept destroying them?

Erevir had gone to sleep beside its saddlebags which meant they were in reach and it could pull out the small medical pack that it took with it on its journeys.

The dog whined again and then shook himself out of the Silmaril’s enforced stupor enough to wail when his wound was gently prodded and inspected.

“Shhhh,” the Silmaril pressed his mind into stupor again and gripped the arrow. There were no major arteries at risk, and the sooner the arrow removed and the wound dressed then the better. The arrow slid out awkwardly, the barbs at the tip catching the skin and making a mess. Erevir made a face and set about setting the broken bone and stitching the wound closed.

“No more running for you I think,” it sighed at its patient who thought only of his master right now, and how badly his leg was hurting.

“No more master either, you are like me; your master has gone away to a place you cannot reach.”

What happened to animals when they died? Did animals have the same mass of heat, fire and Eru’s love that people so often called a soul? Or were they like Erevir and destined to un-become when they died?

Shivering at the dire thoughts of the day it would be sacrificed to the Valar’s own ends and by the hand of its beloved one, the Silmaril idly patted the dog.

“What shall I do with you then? Shall I take you with me? Tathar was talking about wanting a dog last time I saw him, someone to keep him company when he is on night-watch.” That had been a few years ago now, but things were unlikely to have changed. Due to housing constraints, Tathar lived with his parents still since the barracks were full past comfortable living. Tathar’s mother was not a fan of anything canine.

“I do not think I will name you though, I find names confusing,” not to mention irritating. They changed often. It was still getting its mind around the fact that Tathar did not want to be called Tathar anymore because it was the name of his childhood. The reasoning did not make sense and making Tathar’s new name, his mother’s name apparently, stick was still a problem.

“What do you think about that? I was planning to go as north as I could but that can wait a decade or two. I would not mind returning home for a while,” the dog flicked his dark gaze up, ears pricked half up to listen to the Silmaril’s voice. When Erevir’s voice trailed away his ears began to droop, as did his eyelids.

The numbing-salve it had put on his wound was working. Now all the dog thought about was finding his master.

The possibility that his master no longer existed did not occur to the dog. He would look, and master would be there, and life would be normal.

Erevir envied him.

What a wonderful world it would be if the Silmaril could wake up with the absolute knowledge that soon, soon it would find mother/father/creator; that it would one day turn a corner of a street or duck behind a tree and there Fëanáro would be.

Gently it ran its fingers between the flopped over ears of the sleeping hound and smothered a curse. The remains of Yavanna's hallowing still flared at the intended profanity, raising red welts all over its skin.

Across its nails ran a pattern of silver vines, leaves and flowers.

It was always the little details!

It smoothed over the designs with the expected pink and white, inspecting the nails from all angles. Had it missed any other details?

It leant back against the sand-dune behind it.

Yes.

It gave itself a proper belly button then gingerly eased the dog off its lap and onto the sand. He would be going nowhere with his leg bound up like that.

Muttering it settled back onto its sleeping pallet and dragged its blanket back over its body.

It occurred to the Silmaril that the dog may have saved… well not its life, since it could not die until the appointed time, but certainly the dog’s arrival had saved it from a considerable amount of pain and suffering.

Who knew who might have come investigating bright light in the middle of the desert?

Above them the stars were shining with the particular harshness that this land gave all things. Erevir lifted a hand in front of its face and very carefully concentrated on it. Slowly the flesh stiffened, became dull and then greyed. Soon a perfect replica of a hand save made of granite seamlessly rose out of its flesh wrist.

It tried to shape the granite into a cube and felt a prompt refusal of the illusion it was casting. Illusions were meant to conceal and cover what was there. A hand was nowhere near a cube and the illusion had trouble fitting cube across the gentle curves of palm and the jut of fingers.

Ah well, what use did it have for making its hand appear as a granite cube?

The Silmaril gave up and let its hand thump down beside it heavily. It smiled, pleased at remembering the weight of granite.

The dog shivered.

Erevir remembered the desert was a cold place at night for those who could not raise their body temperature. It dug out a spare horse blanket and gingerly covered the sleeping animal with it.

The dark spaces between the sand-dunes were impenetrable. It found itself thinking of the un-memories it had of Formenos where it and its equals had been the only light that had not come from fire.

Though that was not quite true was it?

The Silmaril rubbed over the space where a heart should be but instead a fire curved itself into a flower, each of its sixteen petals furling and unfurling consecutively. Each furling caused a vibration which, when felt through the thin skin of its torso, felt similar enough to a heartbeat to trick the uneducated. The fire sat there, paling as it grew in intensity and waited for the day it would break free and consume anything that physically remained of Eru’s work.

It glanced towards its hand again and thought about cubes again. Very reluctantly its hand seemed to swell and the edges of that swelling straightened.

‘Keep them parallel,’ said a small mental refrain. Obligingly it neatened the edges until it was looking at a large cube where its hand should be.

Wait did cubes have nail impressions?

No.

Frowning it smoothed the surfaces and ran its fingers over the end result.

A little too warm for granite but the texture was perfect. So too was the weight. Its wrist was starting to ache at the imagined weight.

Satisfaction was a delicious sensation. It laughed in delight then stopped, feeling as though there was a lack to the sound.

Erevir released the illusion and flexed its hand with a pleased smile. Suitably exhausted from its experimentation it tugged its blanket back up over its shoulders where it had fallen off.

The stars were gleaming a little less unwelcomingly .The dark spaces between those stars made the Silmaril think of eyes for some reason.

It would start back to Greenwood tomorrow.

Give Tathar the dog.

That would have to do for now.