1. Children of fire
(Do not fear, little one. We know this hurts. But do not fear. Wait. It will soon be over. Sit here, quietly, and watch the flames. Look. They are beautiful, are they not ? Look at their dance. Is it not enthralling ?)
The fire rises around him. Red flames are leaping up, reaching up to touch him. Caress him. He sits on the wooden floor, his knees drawn before him, his back bent. Curling, trying to turn himself into a tight ball of flesh, so that the flames cannot reach him. Curling up like a frightened child. But then he lingered here to come back to her.
(You will find her. Just wait until the fire comes to you, and allows you to flee. Then you will pass into darkness. But you will rise again, and she shall be here, and she shall hold you tight, as she always did, when we were children.)
He should lower his head, and the sphere would be complete. But he cannot tear his gaze from the fire. They have always been like that, moth-like children, always drawn to the light, burning their fragile wings.
The fire crawls closer. Heavy clouds of smoke rise, surround him, and yet cannot veil the raging flames. He watches their wrathful dance ; they rise and fall, are torn and then suddenly sway, bright, yellow blue red, sparks, crackling, crackling, crack ! ling !
He rocks silently to and fro.
(Do not fear. It will soon be over. One last flame, and you will go. You are not Fated ; we are. In the end, we shall envy you.)
(You will soon be free. Your flesh will burn swiftly, whereas we shall linger in agony. Ours will be a long, slow, painful burning. Burnt from the inside. Burnt by the memory of a greater fire, burnt by what fire remains in us. Burnt, until we have to seek the quenching of our fire ; until the fury of battle blows it out ; until the Sea drowns it ; until the Earth's fires extinguish the white flame of our soul.)
(Do not fear. Flesh may be burnt, but you shall be clothed again. There will be no healing for our souls.)
(Do not fear the fire, our kinsman. This terror does not become us. We always burned. We were those strange children, eaten up from the inside, with white, flaming, eyes. We were born burnt alive.)
And, then, suddenly, the fire, possessive father, is unleashed, and rushes towards him.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.