Bingo Cards Wanted for Potluck Bingo
Our November-December challenge will be Potluck Bingo, featuring cards created by you! If you'd like to create cards or prompts for cards, we are taking submissions.
Telperion shines brightly through the window of my uncle’s study, though the light seems somehow dull when I look into the eyes that stare eagerly into mine.
"Artanis, my brother-daughter. I thank you for your presence."
"Of course, Uncle Fëanáro. I would not dream of refusing such a request."
A spark of wild joy flickers in his eyes, though his face is calm. "That is well, then," he says. "For I have a great request to make of you." He hands me a glass of wine, which I accept and sip carefully, struck by a sudden unease.
"Then I bid you ask it."
"For years, I have watched you grow into your beauty…" My uncle’s gaze is intense, and I look away and take a drink of wine. It is strong and unlike any I have had before. "You are among the most radiant of our people," he continues. " A great gift has been bestowed to you."
"My beauty?" I scoff. "I can think of greater gifts still."
"I speak not of something so…simple as beauty, Artanis."
"Then what is this gift?"
He leans forward. "Light. You have been given light."
A frown creases my brow. "Have I?"
"Yes." He raises his hand, and I think he means to touch my face, but instead he trails his fingers down my hair. Feeling ill, I sit the goblet upon his desk.
"And…your request, Uncle?" There is a dead, leaden weight in my stomach, for he has in part revealed the nature of his desire.
"A strand, Artanis, of your golden hair—a single strand! Is that so much that I would ask of you? Nay, I think not." And when he says it, it does not sound like much; but in his voice all things sound as he wills them to.
"Uncle…" I begin uneasily.
"Come, what is a lone hair to you? Hmm?" He sounds calm, but his eyes show desperation and…madness?
"What is it to you?" I counter.
His next words come out breathless: "Radiance; light, pure light. Inspiration." In a gesture rare for him, my uncle takes my hands in his, and his grip is nearly crushing. "Such a small thing for you; and the profit shall far outweigh the loss! One strand, Artanis—give me one strand—and with it, I shall work wonders."
Yes, it is madness in his eyes. The ill I feel is physical and may soon rise from the stomach to my throat to his floor.
"What say you?" my uncle asks in a whisper.
I close my eyes, so I do not have to see his. "Nay."
"What?"
"I…nay! I say nay! You shall have not even a single hair."
He springs to his feet, and his anger is a tangible thing. "You would deny me in this simple thing?"
Before I consciously realize I am doing it, I begin to back away. He follows me and takes my face between his hands. He leans down until our noses touch, and I have no choice but to stare into the fire of his eyes.
"Artanis." His breath smells of wine. "Artanis, beautiful, golden brother-daughter, please. I beg this of you."
"I am sorry!" I wish more than anything that my voice were not so high and that I could hide the tears that begin to spill from my eyes. "I am sorry, but I cannot!"
"You can! You can!" His clutch on my head is becoming forceful and tight.
"No!" I writhe in his grasp and despite succeeding in freeing myself, I stumble backwards and fall to the floor.
And the door opens.
It is Ambarussa; which one I cannot ever say. His eyes widen, and I see the scene before him through his eyes: his father, face twisted in anger, hands shaking, and myself, sprawled on the floor and crying.
Then, I realize it is my chance. I pull myself to my feet and scurry past Ambarussa through the door. Once I can no longer hear their soft voices, I break into a run until I am out of the house of Fëanáro.
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