Profit Still, If Bird or Devil - by Vladazhael
The dream came to Celegorm at the winter solstice – a timely gift of hope and anticipation, one that renewed in him a fire too long quenched. It might have been a vision from powers greater than he, were there yet any who would deign to aid him.
In the dream he saw an eagle alike in appearance to his favorite hunting bird, yet not the same; this one was possessed of a special quality he could not quite place, but knew as clearly as anything. The dream-eagle circled above him incessantly, mocking him with its refusal to return to his side, and he would have ignored its foolish games but for the glint of something it carried. He both yearned and dreaded to know what shined so brightly.
It could only be one thing.
A Silmaril. The Silmaril.
Even in the dream, freed from the confines of flesh, his breath caught. It was the one – the very same one that wild-man's traitorous consort had worn so boldly upon her breast. It was the one so very close to his grasp, yet denied him still by upstarts frolicking in the woods.
Much as she had been... Enough of the light and shadow of Lúthien's being had haunted him long ago that the very suggestion of her betrayal now brought a new wave of revulsion. To think that she denied him, only to be taken to wed by some filthy mortal brat, no more worthy of her hand than any beast rutting in the shadows of Melian's stagnant domain – it was not to be borne. He had allowed too much in not seeking her out sooner, for revenge or what fate may come, and now she was beyond his reach, beyond the world of flesh and blood and oaths to fulfill.
But the eagle spoke inside his head. It spoke of lineage, of inheritance, of the Silmaril as an heirloom passed down to children undeserving of its brilliance. They lurked still beneath the trees of Doriath, Lúthien's mongrel scion and his brood. They kept from him was was rightfully his, and they knew not why! For no bedtime story told in the caves could make them understand the light they possessed; no tale, dusted off and brought out for special occasions and history lessons, could teach them what it felt like to have the last light of the Trees taken, and held away still.
In time – how much, he could not have said; but long enough – the eagle drifted down closer to him, its burden sparkling ever more brilliantly in the midday sun. Not just the jewel itself, but the Nauglamír in full glory – a prize clutched in black talons, brought forth once more from the hands of the unworthy. It was almost close enough now... Celegorm reached up to receive it, and the bird turned and caught a high breeze, and soared once more into the air above, far beyond his grasp. It spoke to him no more; but it laughed.
If the bird sought to spur his resolve with its taunting, it had succeeded beyond reckoning. Whether by the dream's will or his own, he came awake, knowing nothing he had not known already, but with fresh wounds nonetheless, and new purpose. He would have it back. The Silmarils, all of them, belonged in nobler hands. His family's legacy – his father's legacy – would be dimmed no more by Lúthien's ill-bred clan and its machinations. If they would not yield what was not theirs, he would take it by force.
Though dawn's light had not yet graced the skies, Celegorm burst forth from his chambers and set out to find his brothers. They would not be happy at being roused so early after the night's festivities to share his gift, but no matter - there was work to be done.
Title from “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
