Work Text:
The Silmaril melted away in the fires of the earth.
It is no longer there; its power diffused into the heart of Arda. The piece of its maker that was trapped within was released, and the soul of the one who bore it down into its unmaking was set free.
But the earth remembered.
Some of that power dissipated into the soil, and great flowers and trees grew up, up, into the sky, reaching for the Star of High Hope that was their kin.
Some of that power escaped into the air, and echoes of song floated along the breezes, guiding lost travelers always, always to the sea.
Some of that power vanished into the waters, and shone upon pearls brighter and more beautiful than any seen before.
And some of that power was carried down, down, down into the forges of the world itself, and with time and pressure and heat was reshaped into something resembling its former self.
The Silmaril was not found in the mines deep below the Lonely Mountain. But a spark of its power did travel there, and settled into an ordinary gem, and by the skilled hands of the dwarves who delved there was made into a jewel worthy of a king.
The Arkenstone, the heart of the mountain: it remembers what once it was, the blood that was spilled for it, the power it wielded. Its echoes linger, like mournful songs carried along by sea-breezes.
The Arkenstone is not the Silmaril. It is not the same jewel for which Oaths were sworn and kin were slain. But it remembers. And those who hold it feel that history in their hands, and some part of them remembers, too.

lferion Fri 24 Oct 2025 08:00PM UTC
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