SEA, SWALLOW ME ✶ The Silmarillion

࿐໋ I

O N E

❛ marble halls ❜
y.t. — 1362

          𝕾ome say the sea is the element of love. An unending plane of rich cerulean and pallid mist, stretching until the edge of the world. Others say it is a body of sorrow, and that the bitter sting of pungent salt water that gnaws at fresh wounds is the wretched obscenity of such astringent melancholy.

    Whether is it the element of love, the embodiment of melancholy, or perhaps something else she has yet to discover, Círamë viewed the ocean as that as a vengeful protector — both a solace and a torrent that have never failed to pick her up, spit her out, and turn her full speed ahead towards the right path.

    Círamë liked to think of the ocean, as a wise teacher. Something she could count on to bring her safe from harm — whether than meant from the Belegaer, Bay of Eldamar, or the rocky shores of Aman and Valinor.

    Now, as Círamë paces outside of her sisters chambers, rubbing the shine of marble tiles into dull looking stone with the bottoms of her leather boots, she wonders what the sea will mean for her niece or nephew.

    Will they love the sea as much as the Falmari often did? It would make sense, the child would be half Famari and half Noldo — a perfect mix of both lovers of the seas and those who preferred dry land. Her three newphews never minded the sea either. Granted, they did not hold the same fondness to the sea as Círamë did, but there was sole devotion there that was present in their day to day lives.

    Whether that be from long walks on the beach picking up glimmering jewels and smooth-edged shells, or sailing around the harbour with Círamë, Ecthelion, and Eärwen in an effort to persuade them into a deep yearning for the waters.

    Círamë wonders if the newest edition to the familt would marvel at the marble walls and intricate mother of pearl inlays as she did when she was a child? Nearly everyone did. And a question of utmost importance — would they like her? Círamë was not particularly disliked by anyone in Alqualondë or in all that she had traveled of Aman. But on the happenstance that they did, Círamë doubted she could live in Alqualondë, or anywhere for that matter, with kin who held any inkling of detest for her.

    Would their hair color be golden like their father, Arafinwë's? Or Eärwen's argent silver? Or perhaps, black like her and her elder brother Ecthelion? And what of their favorite color? For all one knows a deep cerulean, pearl white, or maybe even the incandescent glow of saffron that beamed from Laurelin come the waking hours of forenoon.

    From her left comes a scuffle. Breaking Círamë out of her spirling trance as she shakes herself from her rhythmic pacing. Pausing mid-step she looks up to catch the eyes of her brother.

    "Do you delight in making me dizzy?" Ecthelion says, strolling past her as he moves to sit in one of the azure embroidered chairs placed directly in front of the door to his elder sisters chambers, no doubt set in place for his and Círamë convenience.

    Ecthelion gently lowers himself into the chair, lined with thousands of petite ornate pearls, and finds that despite his previous assumption on the chairs, they are quite comfortable. Perhaps made of a velvet or silk.

   Círamë waves him off, resuming her methodical pacing the short corridor, and stopping short at the arches that trail away from her sisters quarters.