Thirteen by Dawn Felagund

Fëa

Fëanor makes the Silmarils. Prompt: responsibilities, assemble, substance, fluid

I locked myself in my workshop, beyond the reach of responsibilities, of food to be fixed and messes cleaned and children instructed. Wives loved. Kingdoms sustained. I didn’t answer when they knocked. This—this was larger than love, even for them. The substance of the silima was easy to assemble: three crystalline shells like drained eggs, propped in a row, their tops open like expectant hungry mouths. It was the Light that was difficult, the Light, the retching Light that poured in fluid past my lips, dry and cold and bright and burning, leaving me complete, leaving me hollow.