Weaver of Gloom by Flora-lass

It is untrue, what your books tell of me.

For though I consume, I do not destroy.

And I am a Creator!

I make my own thread, and spin webs of shadow and Unlight.

I wrought my way up mighty Hyarmentir, at the bidding of the Blackheart

And fashioned a rope-ladder strong enough to bear him!

Unfair it seems, that the one who gave my spirit shape

Now fears me, and finds me hideous.

Even the Treelight and the gems of the Noldor

Only produced more gloom.

He denied me the Silmarils which were my due;

And the Demons with their flaming whips

Cut him loose from my net.

Within the echoes of his great cry

My own cries were lost

As they took his side and tore my craft asunder.

Had I sufficient light

I could weave a bridge out of this darkness.

My work would rival that of the dreadful Valar -

those they call the Weaver and the Maker -

names which should by rights be mine.

But there can never be enough

To fill the hollow at the heart of me.

Once, before the World, it might have been otherwise.

But I know my fate:

To devour myself in a torment of hunger.

A void unmade, again part of the Void from which I came.

I, and my offspring, loathed and unlamented

Until the end of time.

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