A Pearl Fitting [One-Shot] [Year 1 of the First Age]

Ruivo gasped, and he is eyes flew open, breathing out, a dense foggy mist passing by lips in the brisk winter air. His face shrouded in the mist of his own making, and Ruivo stared through it. “Námo,” he whispered, feeling that the mist was his fëa leaving, hovering above his hröa for a final moment before they split, and he wondered if he would feel the rending as the parts of him were divided. Ruivo waited, and breathed out. Another cloud of mist hung above.

Then a light; faint and silver began to shine, and Ruivo heard the grasses of the Ard-galen waving in the breeze. A deep silence fell over the landscape in a moment, which made Ruivo realize that before had not been silent. There were others laying nearby. Elves wounded, and elves tending to the wounded. The headwaters of the River Sirion trickled not far off, but water, grass, and wind now drowned to silence the voices.

“Námo?” Ruivo asked into the silence, believing for certain now that he was waiting. He felt the hand of healer come against his forehead, but even she was not looking down at him, but was watching the waving grass and the distant light of silver growing in the sky. Brighter than sky diamonds, even the stars seemed to grow dim in comparison. Brightness flourished and then sprouted, an orb; a silver flower; began to creep over the horizon, and all who looked upon it knew the light of Telperion shone again. Different; but again.

The grasses muttered on Ard-galen, and in the far off, Fingolfin, stepped from ice unto dry land. His weary company gazing up into the silver light; while yet upon the grinding ice an elf nis screamed, and an infant inhaled breath of glistening mist.

The wash of cold light fell against fine snowflakes which melted on the fire of Ruivo’s skin, and he pulled himself in agonies to sitting. The healer aside him let out a wheezing gasp, a sob; “They’ve not forsaken us.” And other mutterings went up around them. “Praise Elentari!” “It is the work of Aulë.” Names of the Valar began to slip past the lips of elves in exile. Elves who had left Aman in rebellion, kinslaying, and fire.

Ruivo rubbed his eye. He felt fresh bandages wrapped about his head, and a throb above the other eye where the boot had struck him. His face ached. Swollen, torn, but the silver orb rising in the sky made his heart skip. So in awe, he could scarcely breathe.

“A pearl fitting set among the stars,” the elf whispered and he lifted his hand toward it, pinching his fingers as if he could grasp and roll it between them like a sea gem. The wind blew cold, willing away the burning sensation in the corner of his eye, but his vision felt blurred. Dizzy, his sight troubled him, and the orb reflected against his hand; strands of silver which seemed to peel off and drift into nothingness. Phantom vision.


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Day after day, the orb came; and the elves recognized the sky driver as Tilion. Tilion. Lovers of silver, no fairer light would ever they see; and each elf mourned the loss when when dipping below the western horizon, they would be left again in only starlight. Starlight and waiting, for news of Fëanáro and his sons, and for Tilion to rise again.

On the seventh day the sky began to glow with light beyond silver. Colors; hazy purple turning to pinks, reds, and oranges, and then gold. A light brighter; too bright to gaze upon as Laurelin’s flower showed her face, driven by Arien, and news of the battle was silent, though the elves felt the new lights bore hope for them all.

Then there was the rustling of grass to the north, and the white breaths of the runner. Ruivo turned his face and saw again Erinquanóro. Paler than the setting orb seemed the youth who had run on errand from the field of battle, and some rose to their feet to meet him. Erinquanóro’s cloud grey eyes, hollow, caught sight of Ruivo where he sat, as morning light fell upon the purple bruise on his temple. Staring, and then he turned away while a thousand questions went up. Erinquanóro shook his head, raising his hand to still them all.

“The battle is victory,” Erinquanóro began, and his face hardened, “But the High King is dead. Fëanáro is slain.”