Thirty Day Character Challenge: Feanor by eris_of_imladris

Prompt 8

Prompt 8: The Mirror Cliche. Authors are often discouraged from describing their characters by having them look at their reflection in a mirror (or a pool, or a puddle, or whatever). For this one exercise, we want you to embrace the mirror cliche! Write a scene where your character sees their reflection. What do they see? What do they feel as they see it?

The tilted glass mirror allowed him to see exactly how he looked. His robes were a rich crimson, his favorite color, bright and bold and capable of drawing attention. He wondered if it would still be his favorite color if his mother lived, if he had not had to piece her together from the clothes she made for him while she lived, or if he was able to see her smile and pride in him on her face rather than on the tapestries she wove for him.

This set of robes was his favorite. The sides were lined with gold, a fine pattern resembling the leaves of autumn falling down only to sweep up the other sleeve, a never-ending cycle and a beautiful wish from a mother to a son. He ran his fingers over the stitches, wishing he could thank her for the robes, for knowing that this day would come with her exceptional foresight and making sure he would be attired as a king when he was prepared to reveal his greatest invention to the world.

The three Silmarils glowed like fruits of the great Trees atop his brow, their shining white light magnificent and ever-changing, ever-so-often resolving into a many-pointed star that would be his sigil from now on. The gems glowed brightly against his ink-black hair, as silver and bright as he imagined his mother’s hair, dark and light come together in a beautiful image. It didn’t hurt that he was fair of face, and had a noble brow and piercing, keen blue eyes like his father’s, nor did it hurt that he was tall - an inch or two shorter than Fingolfin, which made him want to experiment with minor forms of stretching tortures - but he knew no one would notice his height, of all things, when he had created the greatest gems known to Valinor, gems that could capture the light of the Trees in their magnificent form.

Aside from the Silmarils, he wore no other jewels, letting the three speak for themselves. And speak they did - long had the idea to create them whispered in the recesses of his mind, and now he was free to share them with the rest of the Eldar, free to show that something that came from his mind could be beautiful like this, untainted, untaintable even.

He drew a brush through his hair, the black strands flowing through the silver tines, and grinned to himself. His reflection was everything he had ever wanted to be - a king - and now, with his Silmarils in hand, nothing would be able to stand between him and the respect and love he craved, and never again would it be a weakness.

He was deliberately late to dinner - well, perhaps not late, but late for him. He always showed up early, some part of him needing to check that he could still sit by his father’s right hand, that Fingolfin or Indis or anyone else had not wormed their way into the place that was his. But this time, he had no need to doubt, or to fear. He had no need to let the baser thoughts contaminate his mind, for he had proven now that he was the most pure, the most skilled, and the most suitable to follow in his father’s footsteps.