Myth

It proved to be a gentleman of an afternoon. The fallow gold rays of a sun disillusioned by harsh words exchanged with the brooding storm clouds, who had dispersed and sulked off like a child with a slapped hand at a sweet shop, bore itself with all the haughtiness and self-aggrandizing manner. Not unlike the mannerism of a purebred Siamese cat, as it bore itself with a noble carriage to a recently vacated chair. The sun cast itself like a fallow gold tomcat through the laced curtains, creating a stippled, kaleidoscope-like pattern upon the worn mahogany floorboards. A mischievous wind was in flight, more joyous than the russet swallows that swooped and intertwined amongst the stippled canopy of the immense antediluvian trees in the wood, and as heedless as a toddling babe evading its mother's reaching grasp. It swept recklessly through the burnished blue tipped grass, making waves and boisterous patterns like golden silt on the bed of a prominent river. It seized the boughs of the towering old trees and deprived them of their jade brood, sending the young leaves in acrobatic spirals and dives, and tousled their polished tips, to reveal the luminous silver of their undersides. It doubled and twisted back on itself, always to vex a new thing of nature. It tapped an inquisitive finger upon the wind chimes that drowsed on the window ledge, not unlike a fussy merchant inspecting a rival peddler's wares.

The wind chimes roused and sang a song of forgetful joy, its tiny brass bells and muti-hued seashells engaging its partner in a sprightly dance. They had collected the seashells on the beach, Fëanor's first sight of the ocean. It had been a cold and blustery afternoon, and not even the sun cared to awake on this day. The breathless void of the sea was wantonly rousted out, as an ill-omened wind hailed from the east. It swept recklessly through the sea, seizing the waves in such a fury that the once lulled sea roiled from cerulean-jade to the hue of stealthy shadows, with faint wisps of the ebon of fresh-spilled oil. The wind roiled and skimmed over the waves, glassy silver and cerulean waters merged and distorted so faultily, it simply became a miasma of sound and color, naught more. Great bundles of pallid foam, rather like the lathered salvia of a primordial beast, perched upon the precipitous crests of the waves.

The waves heaved and roiled, arching, then toppling, thunderous with supremacy and wrath. It doubled and twisted back on itself, pallid hands clutching at the dusky sands, claiming broken shells and the unwary beach-goer's toes in a cold wash of a whisper, that begged and cajoled "Come away with me." Fëanor had shrilled her raucous jaybird laughter, as the sea surged to tug playfully at her toes, and it seemed that the sea shared in her laughter. Later that evening, she watched with her dark, solemn eyes as her mother threaded the shells with bright spools of yarn, and took the bells from her antique rocking horse's harness. Fëanor once adored the sound of the shells and the bells, which reminded her of the laughter of the sea. Often, it was not her mother's voice as she read aloud a favorite bedtime tale, but rather the jangle of the wind chimes that lulled her into the realms of slumber. Now, with each shift of the wind, the shells and bells grated together, the rasp of bone upon bone. The sigh of death.

Fëanor slumbered with death. The shells no longer brought her tidings of worlds unknown to her from her sister, the west wind, but rang out in sharp, raucous bursts, like the raven of a long-dead poet, speaking only in senseless riddles and war cries. Troubled, her brow furrowed, and her long locks swept like a dark tide over the blank face of the pillow. Death shifted in fitful sleep, and drew her arms even more steadfastly about him, his own forehead crumpling into a guise of displeasure. Absently, she inclined her head, and gifted his bare shoulder with a kiss, and then withdrew her lips, which tingled and pulsated with a latent heat-not unlike the sensation one experiences when they have sampled particularly spicy and exotic staples; lips aflame with the intensity of this young warrior's fighting spirit and strong desire for life.

Fëanor cast her gaze to the elegant curve of the jade balcony, where the cherry tree drowsed and nodded its branches like an old man slumbering, his drowsing head dropping and swaying in unseen rhythm to his dreams. Drawing her hand lightly along the length of her beloved warrior's arm, she attempted to draw herself erect, A sudden change stopped her, a hunger, she knew it was the same hunger she'd seen in those other, beautiful, loam-hued eyes the night before, banished every thought except satiation. She saw through the warrior prince, every strain of magic in her body leapt to his ravenous gaze and begged for him to discover them like gold in the hills. Black desire and blind rapture seized him, thrilled him, and coerced her into their waiting outstretched arms. With the Devil's strength, Death enfolded her in his mad embrace. When she showed signs of defiance, even going so far as to draw away, his eyes hardened and the warrior ensnared her will, drawing her forth, until his hands sought and found his lover. He feasted on this spellbound power with all the vigor of a starving thrall upon a fine banquet. He heard Fëanor sigh, soft as the wind, and felt her arms reach up to clutch his shoulders lightly. Slowly, beauty reappeared in the two companion's world again. As if waking from a nightmare to find a dream stretched alongside them.

When the young warrior's breathing had returned to an even melody, she stirred again, and this time succeeded in unsnarling herself from his now slack grasp. Bare feet curled reluctant toes to them, as they meet the chill stone floor. Silent and swift as a black cat's shadow, Fëanor donned her crimson kimono, acrawl with the shimmering golden-scaled dragons of her rank, that took to slight wing across the crimson silk expanse of her kimono. Crossing to her wardrobe, Fëanor flung wide the double-binary doors, awakening the small ebon cricket imprisoned in the ironwork cricket cage with gold leaves. The cricket chirped a few reprimanding bars as she hoisted the cage upwards, holding it aloft as she opened the small compartment beneath it. From it, she removed a silver dragon bracelet, and deftly put it on, its shimmering length starting at her upper arm and winding an indolent pathway down the length of her arm, until at last it came to a halt, its noble, tapered head resting upon the bit of copper flesh just after the elbow. It's many faceted eyes, fashioned and cut from only the purist, untarnished rubies, flashed in the pale light.

Only then, when she was thusly adorned, did she open the larger drawers once meant to hold clothing. Now, only the cold gleam of swords shimmered in the muted light cast from the hanging paper lanterns. She took only a moment to make her selection. Swiftly as a thought flies across the mind, her chosen weapons rested in her hands; Lúthien and its companion, Elenwë. These clever swords had ebon leather armbands, with silver imprints of a rearing dragon upon them, while the blades themselves were as jagged as a lightening bolt, and swept back clear to the elbows.

So it was that, at length, she stole out onto the balcony, and from there, onto the low hanging bough of the cherry tree. Long had this tree provided her with a spot for meditation, reading, or searching the moon's face for its secrets. Fëanor leaned into the comforting crook of the tree, eyes closed as the pink petals fell like kisses upon her upturned face. Faster. And faster. Fëanor frowned, and opened her eyes, for no breeze stirred to cause such a cascade of rare beauty. She watched in horrified fascination as the petals turned from the delicate pink blush of a maiden, to a deep crimson, so that they seemed to smolder from within. They grew in hue and intensity, until they began to black and curl upon themselves, fluttering down to litter the ground helplessly, like broken winged birds.

With a shake of her head, much like the shake one gives themselves as they hover between the realm of slumber and wakefulness, Fëanor placed a steadying hand on the bark of her old companion. And hand that came away unusually warm, and coated with the wet shine of spilled blood. It was then that she heard the deep, pulsing thrum that those of her Order alone could hear. The Seal, the gate to the other world, had been broken. And demons poured into this once pure land.

Author’s Note: This story is dedicated with much love for, but no patience with, those who cannot see the warrior within themselves. It is also dedicated with much love to my own warrior. He knows who he is.