The Small and Secret Things by Dawn Felagund

Irrational

Today is Friday the 13th, and today's word deals with a phobia more irrational than most (and phobias are inherently irrational). So today's tribble--exactly 300 words--deals with what appears at first glance to be borne of paranoia and irrationality, a misgiving that leads to the creation of the Silmarils. This idea is expressed in The Silmarillion:

In that time were made those things that afterwards were most renowned of all the works of the Elves. For Fëanor, being come to his full might, was filled with a new thought, or it may be that some shadow of foreknowledge came to him of the doom that drew near; and he pondered how the light of the Trees, the glory of the Blessed Realm, might be preserved imperishable.

It happened more and more these days: He awakened, a cry choked in his throat parched as though filled with sand, his heart dashing itself too fast against his ribcage

the Light save the Light!

and the bedclothes screwed up in his fists. Beside him, Nerdanel shifted and

madness

called softly, "Fëanáro? Are you well?" her brow creased in that way of hers usually reserved for when the boys scraped their knees or bruised one another in anger. He nodded. Of course. Of course he was well. This recurring

fear
darkness

nightmare was but another relic of an overdriven mind too busy lately with eccentric thoughts. To capture light--well, more precisely, Light, as in the Light of the Trees--was nothing new; he and Nelyo had been debating it for years. But it would be a feat extraordinary

in which his heart shall rest

and would require great effort, and in the languor of years as a husband and father, watching his sons grow and content to sleep late with his wife wrapped in his arms, he'd never hastened to achieve it. But now, something shifted, something deep in the

dark

unknown realms of the world, and as animals become strange in the charged air before a coming

apocalypse

storm, so Fëanáro was suddenly crazed with the idea of it, of capturing and preserving

saving

the Light of the Trees in something tangible and he could almost feel them in his fist, his hand closed tight upon them, and his mind began to click busily despite the indecent hour, and he answered Nerdanel in as normal a voice as possible, "I am

gone mad

well; no worries," so that she would drop back to sleep, so that he could begin as soon as possible

before it was too late.

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

triskaidekaphobia tris-ky-dek-uh-FOH-bee-uh, noun:

A morbid fear of the number 13 or the date Friday the 13th.

Triskaidekaphobia is from Greek treiskaideka, triskaideka, thirteen (treis, three + kai, and + deka, ten) + phobos, fear.