Doriath Aflame by StarSpray

Doriath

Celegorm stalks through the halls, squinting through the thickening smoke. He would not have thought there would be much to burn in stone caves, but the people of Menegroth appear to love their tapestries. Flames lick at the brilliantly colored fabric, eating away at scenes of revelry and beauty.

(He comes upon one depicting three figures standing upon a hill before the Trees, on silver, one dark, one golden, and turns quickly away. He does not want to see Finwë’s face, not here.)

Finally, he comes to the throne room, enormous and echoing. Fountains line the floors, their sculptures smashed and broken, dust and stone shards littering the tiled floor. The blood flows read.

Before the throne stands Dior Eluchíl, young and bold, a blaze of righteous fury, bright enough to blind, though he does not wear the Silmaril. (Where is it?) Celegorm bares his teeth and raises his sword.