The Colors of FireThe fire engulfed the building, as he looked up and laughed. “Don’t you love the irony of this, darling?”“The irony of what? That you just destroyed everything we’ve ever worked for, just so that you can see the pretty little colors that you like,” she said. She was staring at the building, restrained from running into it only by the knowledge that it was already too late.“But dear, don’t you see? You always told me that I had no business doing art. That the colors meant nothing. So I gave up on it! But here… Here I can see all those lovely colors again. Even if I can’t see colors, they’re so alive,” he laughed again.She trembled as he spoke. “But you knew I simply wanted you to do something you had a good chance of actually doing well in! A colorblind artist is going to have difficulties doing anything, making any money. You knew that.”“But I was doing good. I was making money. But you told
To Battle, Or Not“Uncle?”Turgon turned from his spot by the window to look at his nephew. “Yes?”“They say that you have decided to not go to the battle.” Maeglin replied, twisting his hand in his shirt.Turgon laughed. “Were you looking forward to ruling in my absence that much?”“What? No! It’s just, why aren’t you going?” Maeglin looked nervous. “I mean, he’s the only one of your siblings left.”Turgon paused. “Yes. He is.”Though neither elf said Fingon’s name, it was obvious to everyone in Gondolin that Fingon had preoccupied Turgon’s thoughts since the first whispers of the planned battle had come.“Is it because you are still angry at him?” Maeglin asked.“No. Yes,” Turgon said. “I am angry at him, but I don’t want to leave you alone here to rule.”“You wouldn’t be. I already told Idril. If you go, I go with you.” Maeglin s
Ghost WriterHe was sitting there, writing his story still.It was sad, the way that there was never enough written and he would be here forever writing. Writing his last letter to his wife, the one that was never sent.She had died a few years later, lingering and broken hearted, unable to deal with the way she had never heard back from her long lost husband.She had never known he was dead. But out of love for her, he had lingered to try and send her a letter.And now there was no way for him to join her.
Collector of Jewels“My lord, your father,” the advisor began.“Enough!” Ar-Zimrathôn turned from the window, where he had been polishing a jewel, and looked at his advisor. “Perhaps my father was out of his mind when he chose his name, or perhaps he was influenced by some ill spirit. Perhaps he even lies now cursed by Eru for his choice of a name. But he was my father.”“So you will repeat his mistakes? I have been your friend since you were a boy, and I don’t want to see you doomed.”“I will not be doomed. What can they do to us for refusing to use the elves’ language? It will be fine. Anyways, I will use one of their names too. Tar-Hostamir, isn’t it a lovely name?” He turned back to his jewel, which glittered red as the sun hit it.“Sarcasm does not suit you, though yes, “Collector of Jewels” is a good name in both languages for you.”“You’ve always been gifted with languages, my fri