All Hues and Honeys by Dawn Felagund

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Lighthouse

Why Elwing kept the Silmaril. A perfect drabble for Lockdown Instadrabbling, for the prompt: lighthouse, waters, light, glass.


Elwing situated the Silmaril in the lampstand, closed her eyes, and drew the shroud away. Bright enough on its own, now ensconced within chiseled glass, the Silmaril coruscated like a bucket of stars.

Descending the lighthouse steps two at a time, she rushed to the pounding verge of the sea to admire her handiwork. Across the waters, a glimmering path stretched into the utmost West: an invitation.

Or a summons. Home. Come home. Amid the tempests and cruel vagaries of the sea, at least now there was a beacon. Home. You are not forgotten. We need you here.

Come home.


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