Author's Note: A 100-word drabble-poem, random and quite fun.
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