Just a tiny little piece of writing. Bit angsty, I'm afraid, but well... It is Silmarillion we're talking about.
The city of ghosts
Long time ago, in another life, there was a city standing proudly on the hill, splendid and glorious in the light of the Trees. It was filled with joy and laughter, with little pleasantries and small grieves of everyday life, bustling with lives of merchants, craftsmen, loremasters, smiths, sculptors and elves of various skills.
It fell into darkness, but the darkness was defeated. New light comes and goes above the once mighty walls and buildings, but no joy nor laughter can be heard. The city is dead. No Noldo wishes to live there, having but empty houses as company; to walk down the abandoned streets and recall those who are now gone, possibly forever.
The Noldor who followed Finarfin live closer to the sea. They build new homes and palaces of great beauty, with wide streets and fountains and market places. Despite being carefully planned, their new city is painfully small, but they do their best not to see it. They carry on with their lives in the marred bliss of the Blessed Realm, trying to forget the terror of darkness and the grief of the lost.
The city of Tuna stands above them, a grim witness of the Doom.
Please tel me what you think.