When There Was Light Part 2
Cold Comfort
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Perfect and smooth, eternal and light, all that are beautiful and mighty are now residing on his palm. Transfixing his gaze on the magnificent, bright jewel, Dior's breath was caught, as always, by its cold and hallowed beauty. The greatest work, all mine….
So many had suffered, died and sinned for it, yet the Silmaril shines, unmarred by the horrors committed in its name, untainted by the years of its captivity at Angband. If he is of the poetic type, he would have the greatest bards compose songs to sing of its innocent radiance. Regrettably the weight of statecraft had drained him of the little taste he had for literature and prose, better to spend his waking moments on repairing the shambling border defense than squandering his attention to compose exquisite eulogies to wilting blossoms and passing seasons.
How mirthless, wretched we are….holed up in our caves, counting the days when we will fall…our faith failing
He had watched Grandfather ensnared by this beautiful gem. Abandoning all kingly responsibilities and statecraft to his advisors, even to his lofty, otherworldly queen, Elu Thingol only had his wintry blue eyes and rapt attentions for this wondrous jewel. And now his grandson possessed it, and in it he found the secret. Inside the faceted gem there was a Song, mellifluous and entrancing, ethereal to the listener, embracing him in the soothing streams of melody like a mother with her tender arms enclosing her darling child in unconditional love, providing safety and keeping the darkness at bay.
Dior bathed in the brilliance of the light, so calming and innocent, and the Song comforted him. Visions of yore danced in his mind, throwing him back to the Springs he had spent in Tol Galen, floating on calm water of deep azure pond, of his parents' joyful laughter, and of Nimloth, from an age ago were she was a carefree maid running through the moors, alive and winsome, with fragrant white flowers braided to her wild dark curls haphazardly as an afterthought. Delighted by the gentle breezes, she would dance to its rhythms with silvery laughter; her pale skirt swirled around her ankles in concentric circles like flower petals, the white blossoms falling from her to the grassy knoll like fat droplets of rains.
Nimloth worried now. There were no longer flowers in her tresses but luminous pearls and sparkling sapphires befitting a queen of a mighty race. His children played quietly. Prim and properly garbed in princely silks, they hovered at the corner of the royal chamber under the vigilant gaze of their nannies, always compliant and not bothersome, fast to skittle out of the way at the first appearance of a sigh. Not a bother at all. It was hard to look at them. His wife's smooth forehead now has a constant furrow from worrying; her eyes resigned to the eventual sorrows. So the dreams and reality blurred. Desolation is his solace.
Dior now slept with the Silmaril on his chest, clutching the jewel possessively with his right fist, just like Thingol did before he met his gruesome fate. He dreamed of an elf with trailing raven dark hair, with eyes so luminous that they appeared to be made of light, yet he had a mellifluous voice that charmed the sorrows and pains away. The king of Doriath questioned in his respites, his hands caressed the Nauglimir tenderly, Who are you? Why am I so entangled in your melodies that I am loathed to separate from you to spend time with my children, my people?
Enchantments shrouded him, an answer to his question. The Elf sang the Song. His exquisite face peered up at Dior. Ruby red lips curled up in an enigmatic smile.
He sank deeper, beguiled by the web of delightful musical notes, of a constant world where he can relish in the brilliant light, free to soar above, to reach the apex of the sky and touch the glittering stars. He dreamed he was immersed under the cool water of the pond next to his childhood home, playing hide and seek with his mother, ensconced in the tangle of weeds and algae, his hands and feet stiff from long hours in the water – oh wait, a warm, large strong hand stroked his bare back tenderly, providing the physical comfort he sorely craved. Dior looked back to stare at the intruder, an uninvited guest to his watery kingdom - he saw a beautiful elf of elegant, handsome mien, eyes as dark as the black jets from the earth and dark hair rich and velvety soft. The brightness of his spirit almost blinded him. Sighing in perfect contentment, Dior greedily caressed the jewel; he will never let it go. He craved these addicting dreams, of trysting with this mysterious and beguiling Elf, of the soothing comfort unfailingly provided and brazenly appreciated back.
He frequently laid himself on his sumptuous silk bed, with his fair hair so like Thingol's own fanned out, wearied from his lords' demands, demanding his attentions, concessions, treaties, border defenses…
Dior didn't hear the elf in the jewel laughed contemptuously at him. They all fall inevitably in the end to their own unspoken desires, down to their ruins. The Song had changed. The King was oblivious to the new theme, lost in his weariness; his vitality sapped little by little by the drudgery of kingship and hopelessness of being cornered and caged.
After another round of futile council meeting debating on the subject of the Silmaril's future and keeping, Dior wandered aimlessly, prowling the cavernous passageways with his brow furrowed slightly, and his drained mind eager to lose the frustrations of unable to rein in his councilors' heated words and petty squabbles.
He remembered his grandmother on the festival for his majority birthday - bedecked in grand, magnificent jewels, she smiled tenderly at him and said, in all her glory - To you who have everything, I bequeath you wisdom. Thus he tried to abide by her gift, thus he hoped to excel and overcame adversaries by it, and to be worthy.
Outside Menegroth it's dead winter. Dior could smell the crisp scent of fresh snowflakes that randomly drifted from the darken forest to the caves, bringing the touch of winter to the realm of caves.
Then he heard some odd noises, the roar of thousand drums, and the beating of steady, strong footsteps on the ground. Soldiers' footsteps. Then silence, like the dead winter outside - then silence was destroyed by nightmarish screams and shrieks.
He could not hear his children's cries. There were harsh shouts coming from the corridors. The palace is a dreamscape to him. He glided as if he's walking on the waters of a misty lake, the euphoria of a man too drunk on poppies harvested by the rough Easterlings. Where is the jewel? Did a thief steal it from the Lord of Doriath under his nose? Where is he?
He saw his face on the fey and fell faces of vengeful Noldorin Princes and Lords swarming into his gleaming hall like bloodhounds. Crimson blood splattered on their shining armors and drenched their terrible faces as they charged like fiends into the ranks of his desperate guards, cleaving through effortlessly.
Ah…everywhere, in the tall, majestic, red-haired elf with one hand, the raven haired elf with voice rivaling his Ainu Grandmother…and that fierce elf with a harsh face, Caranthir?…and Curufin? And especially Curufin. The same bright fey eyes, the same cruel, luscious lips…
Then Curufin smiled.
The harsh taste of Celegorm's lethal blade on his chest woke him up to the harsh reality.
