Both his father's long, powerful hands were closed upon his own, which themselves were clenched around the cool polished stone; and its light still shone through their bones and their flesh. Their hands glowed red. When he was a child, the first time he had held one of his father's cold stars in his hand, he had yelped in surprise at seeing the cold blue light filtering through his crimson hands, and Feanor had laughed, telling him that it was only because of the blood that flowed in his veins, under his flesh. But the child had wondered greatly, and kept the gem in his palm for a long time, opening and closing his fist around it so that the light was in turn snow-like white and blazing red.
Feanor's hands were cold. His father's hands had always been warm, hot sometimes, burning with a strange fever when working that was not due to the fire of the forges; at times handling red-hot metals without the protective layers of a glove, their heat matching its. But now his great hands closed upon his son's were cold, as if those of a corpse: though for their crimson shade it could be told that the blood of life flowed through them still. Maglor stared at the red rays of light piercing both their flesh and bones, like knives or arrows, yet he felt no physical pain at the impalement. When the light of Laurelin or Telperion fell upon a wall, shadows could be made upon this wall by a raised hand, shadows upon the ground the fanciful shapes of bodies and buildings, created by an abscence of light due to the barrier of flesh and bones. Even thin layers of cloth could stop their gentle rays of silver and gold But if the Silmarils' light was soft and white, it pierced through all four of their hands without being diminished. It was as if it was not his flesh anymore which was more solid than the etheral beams, but the rays of pale light which were more tangible, more present, more real.
And the jewels seemed to shine even brighter than before, his father's hands blazing a cruder, harsher shade of red; and he knew that his own underneath them did too.
That day, he dreamt of music.
He did not want the music, but the music wanted him, and he could not run and there were no chains to break. He could not stop singing, could not stop playing, torrents of notes and words rushing through his mind during Laurelin and Telperion, tumbling upon him and oppressing his chest if he did not yield them a voice. Darkness all around.
He had had dreams of music before, but never had they been so intense, so strong, so fierce and furious as if it sought to engulf him in its sheer power.
The Silmarils shone in the darkness, three beacons that called out to him with their changing light, their strange shifting radiance that came alive with his own thoughts, with his own music; and he followed as they beckoned to him, reflections of his needs and wants that led him blindly through the endless moors.
