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aearwenThis is the result of a plot bunny that worried me, munched down on my ankle, pushed me into writing over 1000 words of a short story - only to decide it wanted to fit itself into a double-drabble instead. What I'm gonna do with the 1000+ words of short story is anybody's guess; at this point, I could turn it into a piece of original fiction, as I've not touched on anything that clearly belongs to Tolkien's legendarium. OK, so if someone were really literate on the descriptions of the setting, they might be able to noodle out exactly where this is taking place - but it would be only with circumstancial evidence.
I may just do that.
In the meanwhile, however, enjoy:
It sat, as it always had – as it would until the walls crumbled and the world ended.
Covered with dust that long ago used to be a fine silk cloth, it nestled into the depression carved into the pedestal. It had once sat upon another pedestal, known another home. It no longer mattered; that place no longer existed, just as this place no longer mattered to anyone.
Once treasured, it had been a well-kept secret from all but those who had ruled the land, or those who had long ago left these shores. Ages it had now been since anyone had braved the narrow spiral stairs to the tiny, circular room. Ages since the narrow casement windows had let in fresh, clean air.
In the depths of the polished stone, visions of places and times and peoples long vanished from this world swirled without purpose. From time to time, echoes of a long-extinguished fire would erupt, but the perfect sphere was merely an agent, unaffected by either the echo or anything else it demonstrated. Visions of beauty, cruelty, war and happiness danced in its dark depths.
But it had always been the fate of the last palantir to be forgotten.
I may just do that.
In the meanwhile, however, enjoy:
It sat, as it always had – as it would until the walls crumbled and the world ended.
Covered with dust that long ago used to be a fine silk cloth, it nestled into the depression carved into the pedestal. It had once sat upon another pedestal, known another home. It no longer mattered; that place no longer existed, just as this place no longer mattered to anyone.
Once treasured, it had been a well-kept secret from all but those who had ruled the land, or those who had long ago left these shores. Ages it had now been since anyone had braved the narrow spiral stairs to the tiny, circular room. Ages since the narrow casement windows had let in fresh, clean air.
In the depths of the polished stone, visions of places and times and peoples long vanished from this world swirled without purpose. From time to time, echoes of a long-extinguished fire would erupt, but the perfect sphere was merely an agent, unaffected by either the echo or anything else it demonstrated. Visions of beauty, cruelty, war and happiness danced in its dark depths.
But it had always been the fate of the last palantir to be forgotten.
