Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all except for a pen drive and many black marble notebooks.
Authoress' Note: Hello to whomever might be reading this. I was going through all the things I have written and posted and written andnot posted etc, etc, when I realized that I had noTolkien fanfiction. This is patently ridiculous because Tolkienwas my first love and introduced me to fantasy. Since I did not really want to hop on the bandwagon and write a Lord of the Rings fic, I decided that the amazing Silmarillion would be excellent for this venue. I.E., the Requiem series. Please enjoy...
Requiem: The Ghosts of Flowers
Mandos sits on his throne; silent, brooding, melancholy.
Eternal.
He lifts his silver eyes to gaze upon the newest dweller in his Hall. It is a Teleri elf-maiden, little more than a child. While she lived by the sea in Alqualondë, her name was Daeglin, Shadow-Gleam, for her dark shining eyes. Her ebony hair is still bedecked with a crown of ghostly flowers. Their whiteness and purity are marred by blood, stained by those crimson tears of pain.
Yet, even as he watches, the dark, rusty streaks fade from her pale clothing; her ivory skin is now fresh and clean; the blossoms in her hair are once again the immaculate hue of new-fallen snow. The gaping wounds in her spirit's body seal themselves, erasing all marks caused by the sharp, bright blades of the company of Fëanor.
She had been slain by one of her own kind, an elf, seeking to steal her father's white swan-ship. He had cut her down after he had slit her father's throat. The father and daughter had been of the first few to die in the Kinslaying.
Mandos looks down at his hands and thinks.
He thinks on the evil of life, that an elf could willingly slay another.
He thinks on the cruelty of life, that an elfling might die without ever having truly lived.
He thinks on the futility of life, that all the Elder Children of Ilúvatar might live eternally with hearts dead from sorrow.
He thinks on all this, but he does not cry.
Mandos never cries. Never has he shed a tear, not for all the grief, all the heartache, all the misery, or the lives of any or all who have entered his Hall. His eyes are silver now, the entire surfaces glazed with the mercury of unshed tears that he has never spilled, never allowed to fall.
Mandos raises his head; the slender form of the Teleri elfling is no longer visible. It has faded back into the mists and fogs of the Eternal Hall.
Mandos leans back in his throne.
He sits; silent, brooding, melancholy.
Eternal.
Please review, because Seri likes reviews;
please don't flame,
because one flame in a lifetime is quite enough for Seri, thank you very much,
and she doesn't like flames.
Flames burn.
Unless they're silly, stupid little flames;
then I show them to my friends and we laugh about them together.