Brittle. Brittle. Brittle.
…Yet unmarred by imperfection, polished in sweeps by gentle fingers, untested by battle. The chilling touch of glass eased her woes, settling her spirit better than even the cold drift over the Lhune could.
It turned her mind’s eye back to days lost to yore. To beauty, snuffed out in flame; to snapping strings, and molten whips; to towers that fall, and shatter… Shatter… Shatter…
Not unlike mesmerizing mirrors – for all their beauty, they break swifter than any city or peoples, no matter how cherished they may be. Blissfully unaware of their own fragility and complacency, until it is too late, and they shatter… Shatter… Shatter…
She found herself oft there, beneath a forgotten gazebo upon flowering outskirts of Celondim–tucked away, withdrawn from chatter and chiding; simply overlooking the sweeping river, and the gentle flicker of lights from Falathlorn’s homesteads across. Her only companions–a brush, enchanted silver ink, and a budding longing for home.
It was quite a marvel, she was told time and time again – whether Quenyan or Sindarin, the ink and metal-tipped, swan-feather cared little; so long as the Moon gleamed overhead, and the Stars twinkled alight, her enchanted inscriptions would caress and bend the metal frames of the mirrors, and allow her to write upon them effortlessly, malleable and soft as they became. An art not too far removed from shaping pastries while they were still soft of dough; or coaxing metal while it still flourished with molten heat. The letters, too, glimmered with a moonlit sheen, oft reflecting upon her pale, mournful visage.
‘May heart find hearth, and heart find home.'
As deft fingers brushed the final letter, her countenance sank into wistfulness–wistfulness, that dragged her sea-brushed hues into the very mirror of her making.
Her eyes went wide, for no reflection of Moon, nor Star, nor herself she saw – but the flicker of flame, and an immense arch of pure silver rising above it against the coming night.
“I…–“ Her trembling fingers reached out to touch the glass, yet she stayed her hand and breath both – as against the flicker of crimson, a gleam of silver-white strode. A winged helmet of a decorated Captain, and one her childhood knew all too well.
“F… Father…”
Her chest sank with gladness and dread both, and her palm curled into a fist soon thereafter. The soft, warm pooling of tears soon began to cloud her eyes, and her throat grew dry and tight for air – even the half-smile she dared to see swiftly turned to horror, as above the helmet of white, valiant and true beneath the Fifth Gate of Gondolin, a plume of ash, smoke and flame arose.
It walked with undeterred steps, and the ground shook afore them; behind it trailed a molten whip, its crack deafening and harsh… And its eyes, like two embers within a rising mountain of dread.
“No… No skirmish is this–they’ve–they’ve found the Secret Way! Fly! Fly fast and–no!” As she cried out with lungs choking with bitterness, she pleadingly held out her hand.
She knew it too well… Now, yet not back then.
The measure of a Balrog.
Yet even as her tears cast from her burning cheeks, and as her fingers touched the glass, the harsh snap of a whip collided against it – and in fear and dread she recoiled, screaming out in horror, as the Gate of Silver collapsed all about them, and turned to shatter… Shatter… Shatter…
When finally her courage returned to her, and her burning eyes dared open, through the haze of tears she faced her dread – nothingness. Where her fingers had reached through the mirror, now a fractured glass bled with tears and blood. Her fingers – cut, yet far worse were the shuddering cuts of memory that tattered her spirit into ribbons, and her breath, into sobs.
Casting the broken mirror aside, she wept, and under the moonlight, unknowingly she had made her first enchantment East of Beleriand… For weal, or for woe. Memory-glass, or Soul-mirror, it would be later called across the havens of Celondim, through no words lacking commendation and enthusiasm – neither of which she felt, nor shared.
For in the mirror’s reflection that day, she only espied her own sorrow and soul…
And found it brittle.
Brittle. Brittle. Brittle.
