All That Was Not Lost to the Fire by Isilme_among_the_stars  

Still, They Shine

The musings of an emancipated Noldorin thrall at the end of the War of Wrath

These lights were born, like us, long years ago across the sea. Like us, they have not survived exile unchanged.

I have not counted the years I spent in the dark, whipped into unwilling servitude for want of ores to feed Morgoth’s endlessly ravenous war machine. But I have measured my hope against the lamp’s glow and begged it to never fade.

Liberty is a strange cloak to put on after so long spent stitching the pattern of independence secretly into the lining of thralldom, unseen yet unforgotten. Slave’s habits remain woven into the fabric of the freedom I wear.

Light spills from my scarred hands. A blue, crystalline mist that illuminates every pit and spot of rust in the tarnished chain. Still, it shines. This gift from the craftsman turned cruel, the fearless turned fey, a beacon that saved my sanity from the darkness he led me into.

A dozen such lamps remain among the once-thralls. On the night his eldest reclaim the tree-light jewels, rumour of the ruin forged of those once valiant men diffuses in horrified whispers. Dark truths are told by the light spilling from symbols of their nobility, refusing to be dimmed.

Still, they shine.