A Different Kind of Heaven [ Silmarillion ] 1

Epilogue

Author's Note: A last hurrah.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

Fëanáro hunched over three, four inch jewels on his desk. Three dozen candles and a raging fire nearby lit the dark room. A forge, whose embers slumbered from lack of use, still provided strong heat. Fëanáro's face was littered with beads of sweat, but whether this came from concentration or the overabundance of heat, he couldn't tell. Not that he bothered thinking about it.

All his thought was bent upon the jewels before him. He tapped away with his tools. The silima he’d managed to forge had begun to cool, and could not now be mended much. And yet they still didn't seem quite complete.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

His face, flushed, was drawn in frustration and concentration. He paused in his movements, stared at his tool, and then hurled it furiously across the forge. Fëanáro pushed away the dark strands of hair that now lay plastered against his face.

He picked up one of the jewels. It felt cool in his palm. A tiny bit of light remained enclosed in each of these, but it barely mattered. Closing his eyes, Fëanáro gripped it tightly and bent all his thought upon it. He could feel its make-up, could see the brilliance of the composition. He opened his eyes and grabbed the other two in his other hand. With bowed head, he tried to calm down by remembering what he could of his mother’s face.

Dark silver hair…cool silver eyes…pale skin of porcelain...lips the color of peonies…

Suddenly he felt warmth in his hands. He opened his eyes in shock. As he did so, he found himself short of breath. A steady pain surged through him, beginning in his chest but spreading to his arms and hands where the jewels still sat. He gripped them even tighter. He shouted as another, sharper pain tore through his body and he clamped his eyes shut.

When he opened them, what he found made him nearly cry. He looked down at the jewels in his hands. The tiny smouldering glow that had been encased in each now shone unadulterated. He stared at them in wonder and let them fall from his hands back onto the table while he stood away by a foot. He gave a short laugh and then grinned.

Fëanáro had done it. He had finally done it. As he looked at the shining jewels sitting on the desk, on top of blueprints and amongst metal tools and pencils and charcoal, be couldn't speak.

He had only felt a rush like that once in his life, but back then it had not been painful. When he had first lain with Nerdanel, and their fëar had embraced and entered into each other… only then had he felt that way. This time… this time there had been no replacement for what had left him. No. The silmarils…

Silmarils.

It sounded so right as it entered his brilliant mind. Another smile crept onto his face. He knew then, he knew he would never be able to create their equal. The Silmarils could not be made anew. Three they were now, and three they would always be. From then until the end of the world, which Fëanáro doubted would ever come.

He looked over to the right where his seven Palantíri sat on display. At one point he would've called those his greatest masterpieces… but now he had matched himself yet again. He grinned. Oh how he loved the competition with his own genius. And now he had reached his greatest potential yet.

All it had cost was a part of his soul.

Author's Note:

There we have it, folks!

They're here!

All aboard the feels train!

In an hour or two I am going to post the last part of this story...and...

The Prologue for A Different Kind of Purgatory!

See you there!