Author's Note: A 100-word drabble-poem, random and quite fun.
Promise
On a day
in spring (such
spring as there can be
in a place which knows
no
winter), Fëanor
went to Nerdanel
with a flower in hand
and a promise on his lips.
The flower was white
and pink, pale as his brow
and flushed as his
cheek -- the promise (ah!
such promises as these
invincible children make!)
was of passion
unending, and of fire,
and great deeds and
wonderful, and yet love.
What could she do, beautiful wise child?
She took the flower
from his hand,
the promise from his
lips,
even knowing that
he would mean
sorrow.