Eonwe: ♒
Holding the Silmarils in his hands had felt dangerously elating, Eönwë thought as he observed the now empty chest he had locked them in - he would never admit it, but he was grateful for the sons of Fëanor stealing their family jewels.
The merest contact with those unbelievably shiny and smooth surfaces, lightened up by the light of a thousands sun reflected in a shimmering cloud of glass, had been enough to make him feel the thrall the precedent possessors had fallen to.
In a disturbing flash Eönwë had seen Fëanor’s tender hands manipulate the Silmarils into existence; he had felt the way those calloused and talented hands had cradled them to his chest as he showed their brilliance to his children; he let the churning suspicion of someone stealing his precious treasures dwell in his mind; he had felt Melkor’s impure hands touch them and sickly burn at the contact, but not letting go; he had seen another smith’s hands - Mairon’s - tremble with rage as he forged a glorious crown of iron as their new cradle; he breathed in the scent of blood and burning ships and dying people - every single life that had come to its end in the name of the Silmarils rushed through his mind.
Eönwë closed his eyes and turned his back to the empty chest - yes, he was glad that burden had been taken away from him.
