Leaflets by Raksha The Demon

Glitter (Elrond)

In a lodge set deep beneath the trees of Eregion, I am attended by the stranger who holds sway in the Jewel-Smiths’ court.  As my King’s herald, I came to meet the mysterious Elf and hear his words.    

It disturbs me not a little to see how my distant kinsman Celebrimbor fairly dotes upon this Annatar, holding him high in his councils.  Celebrimbor treats Annatar as if the other were a brother long lost.  That in itself is not so odd; save that Annatar has no kin that he has ever mentioned. 

 And now, Celebrimbor and his folk have retired for the night.   I would have also retired, after we sang the evensong to Elbereth.  But Annatar asked to speak to me here, before the hearth. A harmless request.   So why do I shiver?   His words are kindly.  Annatar offers me friendship, and more:  the priceless allure of knowledge.  I am not so much a Noldo that the crafts of the Jewel-Smiths tempt me unduly, yet Annatar speaks of ancient lore and tidings from the Blessed Realm itself, messages from my lost sire and the mother that flew to him.   

“And I can give thee even greater wisdom in medicine and herb-lore than thou hast already, Eärendilion,” Annatar says.  He puts a graceful, firm hand on my shoulder, drawing me slightly towards him.  He must have heard that I am a student, when time permits, of the healing art. Few know that it is a passion of mine.    

“Drink with me,” he says, extending a golden cup.  The words are courteously spoken but they sound like a command, however gentle.  I look up into Annatar’s proud face and remind myself that the only one in Middle-earth who may command me is my King.    

I am drawn to just the sight of him; I who have not yet felt bodily love towards any, male nor female.  I do not think that I have ever seen a fairer Elf than this Annatar.   He is raven-haired, taller than even my well-remembered uncle Maedhros, with brilliant eyes of gold-flecked grey that pull my heart and mind to him.    

When I hear Annatar’s voice; when I behold the majesty of his face and the glory of his eyes, I yearn to accept the gifts he graciously would give me.   Would my hand burn if he clasped it?  I lean forward.   

Yet as I look upon him, I feel another, different kind of sight that sometimes takes me, coming from the back of my head into my eyes.   I realize that I must resist the lure of this Elf.  For I detect a spirit within him that does not match the beauty of his form. Those gold-grey eyes veil a thing that stalks me, slavering in greed, a will that would snap me up as Carcharoth once consumed my longfather Beren’s hand.   Ugliness and foulness!   

Barely veiling my own horror, I step back.  “Thank you; but no,” I manage to say with some semblance of dignity.  “I am weary, and crave the fresh air before I seek my rest.”   

I walk away, close the door behind me, and go outside, gulping the cool air of early autumn.  My steps turn into a run through the holly-trees and pines.  Finally, I come to a clearing where I stop to catch my breath.  I raise my head and see, high above me, the Silmaril borne by my father, its silvery light clear in the cloudless heavens.    

“Not all that glitters is gold,” I announce, the words sounding strange but fitting.  I will sleep under the stars this night.   

Chapter End Notes