He was not, if the Featulin Ivernum could be called 'he', a thing made as what he became. No, the west shores of the Anduin-at-Lorien did not always ring with the ghostly echos of harpsong as can be heard now, nor has there always been old unearthly cries of names long-forgotten. Why, there were days once in the world when the elf-docks were full of life and hope and beauty. The latter they have still, though it is much diminished and there are few minds left that recall the creatures that wrought the paths and crumbling stones, for abandoned they have been since the Fourth Age.
No, upon a once-time centuries before the last Eldar left for the Undying Lands, before the last light of the Golden Woods went out and the ageless King returned to his throne with a mortal-made-elfqueen, before even the fabled stand against Mordor's dark enemy and the great alliance between all the creatures of Middle-earth, there was a name the Featulin Ivernum could be called by.
That name... was Sila-rond.
Chapter 2: Of Maenpaur and Thornereed in the Third Age
'And for the ruler of his dead heart he forged a hundred thousand captured souls, shining like stars, to tie in her hair to match her pale skin, and twined garland-curls of jade-lined mithril upon the crown of her head to keep them there; even the moon paled in envy of her beauty. He kept her hidden from the sun's rays under leaves of forest and glade, for when day broke she shone even more radiant than he and he was a vain being even in love. The greatest of his works he kept for himself, the star-song crystals set into shining moulds upon his brow, and it was their song alone that kept her entranced with him. For even his kindness held cruelty, and his love was cold, and she coveted the painful beauty of all he made.
'But her burning passions ran cold quickly, and her beauty became as a mirror to his; distant and perfect stone, untouchable and maskful of the tumult beneath, her lips gifted only rarely with smiles now. 'Ai!' She laments. Undying was her hate for him and it was ever at odds with her, for as ever she denied it to her ears even the breeze held his name and the beat of her heart sang in time to his songs.' 'I will destroy him, for he has destroyed me,' she thinks, she tells herself. 'Yet I cannot, lest my heart waver and stay my hand and will, while I am near him.'
'So she fled from him through the Blue Mountains and the dales and over the dead red plains of the northern earth and beneath the highest hills and glades of Beriand in the south, knowing all the while he could find her at a moment's thought, and that should she hesitate in her distance that a touch would fell her morale once more.
'But at last the time came that he tired of the hart-hunt as her eyes opened to the truth of him, and withdrew all kindnesses from her presence and ended all farces of affection; and although there was a twisted kind of it in his heart, his love was an exhausting and confusing thing for him, and he soon returned to his other-ways.
'Though deny it he may and despise it she might, the Weaver would time and again set them upon each other in path and choice. Wounds between them were crossed never to heal, for time was not long enough between their desired absences from each other's company and would leave her reeling from whispers of harp-song on the wind bearing his name while he suffered the struggle of his dying soul trying to kindle to life at glimpses and rumors.'
'At last-long he found no color left in the world, and all his work was as ash in his hands. Passionless and dissatisfied he fled out of time and telling for many seasons until his exhausted spirit found new life and new flower. She, freed for this while, carried on in ever-waiting, unwilling to anguish and unhappy at her lack of control over her spirit that cried for him.'
'Return to being he did so come after it had passed enough in days for his soul to renew itself in distant places of silver and glass, and drawn he was to his favored plaything to once again begin anew his hart-hunt. For the doom of his bloodline was heavy upon him, and had twisted his love into shadow, and all his beauty to pain.'
'Finally after many moons had waxed and waned, the ruler of his heart found she remembered the away-times with more fondness; and thus she strove to wrest her heart free from its entrenched adoration of him. 'It is him no longer,' she lies to her spirit. 'Gone is he who stole my breath, whom you pine for! Desist!' Long enough she tells herself thus, and begins to believe it so, and he who was keeper of the un-light star found that at last his favored hart beat no more to the sound of his songs.'
