Author's note : Those who haven't read the Silmarillion will probably have no clue of what is going on.
Disclaimer : I own nothing.
The star in the Ocean
By Le Chat Noir
He sat on a rock on the shore, and looked at the Silmaril in his hand, and wondered how it could have been that from such a beautiful thing, so pure, so bright, could have come so much ill and despair. The jewel wrought from his father's talent, from a genius's hands, with all the love and care he knew his father could put into his work. The greatest of Noldor, whose spirit was of fire and never to be equalled … and whose soul had never left the Halls of Mandos. Why had he died ? Because of this. Because of this little flower of stars that laid burning his palm.
It shone. It shone with an incredible light. The mixed rays of Telperion and Laurelin, the Trees of Valinor, silver and gold, of leaf immortal. And, to him to whose eyes had been bestowed the gift of witnessing their splendour before their fall, it seemed that the only thing their stay upon Morgoth's forehead had done was to render their light even more brilliant … more poignant.
The Sun was setting westwards, and the sky bloody. The waves on the beach, of white sand.
So many deaths, for nothing more than those three jewels, who were said to contain the fate of Arda. The last reminders of the glory of the Age of the Trees, Age that ended with the spear of Morgoth. The Death of the Trees. The Oath. The Flee from Valinor. Alqualondë. Losgar. He closed his eyes, but was quickly forced to open them again, so great was the power of the Silmaril, that he could not not watch it, devour it with his gaze, hating it and desiring it at the same time, and tortured by the tearing pain on his hand.
How many deads ? Countless. Finwë, Fëanor, Angrod and Aegnor, the Telerin and their white ships, and Thingol, and Eluchil, Elured and Elurin, and so many others … and six. For he was the last, he was the last of seven brothers. The cursed House of Fëanor, doomed to Eternal Darkness. Maedhros the Tall. Celegorm the Fair. Caranthir the Dark. Curufin the Sly. And Amrod and Amras, the twins, the hunters, always laughing and jesting. Who was he ? Maglor. Maglor the Singer, Maglor the Musician, Maglor the Minstrel. Maybe he should have died too. Maybe he should have followed suit to the last of his kin and thrown himself into the yawning pit of roaring fire. Maybe. Or maybe Eru had decided upon another Fate for him.
Gil Estel was rising in the dark. The Star of Hope ? But another Silmaril, those gems of unnatural beauty and unstoppable fatality.
What had they done ? Sworn to regain what was theirs, disregarding all the laws of Valinor, sworn to take revenge for the High King's death, to slay Morgoth, the Greatest of Valar. A hopeless war. But in their foolishness and pride they had believed themselves capable of all … all. And now what were they ? Ghosts. To their own people, memories of crimes and slaughter. All their feats and exploits forgotten. They were all dead. Dead. Even Maedhros, the brother he had held dearest to his heart. The one, who after his torments on the Thangorodrim, no elf or man could have slain in single combat. Finally fallen at his own hand, fallen after having at last accomplished what he had promised his father he would do.
One Silmaril in the sky, one down in the heart of Arda, and one resting there, in his palm, with crucifying pain. They were all dead. All gone. Lost to the scythe.
Swiftly, he rose, and slowly walked the few meters that separated him from the sea, feeling the sand under his bare feet. For a few seconds, he stood with his feet in the water, absolutely motionless but for the soft flapping of his cloak in the wind. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he threw the gem into the indifferent waters. Gleaming like a star it described a graceful curve before touching the calm surface and sinking into the profound depths.
He threw his head back, shutting his eyes, and laughed softly to the wind.
And now, now shall I declare War to the Skies, the Earth and the Ocean itself.