Title: Aica (Sharpness)
Fandom: Silmarillion
Challenge: Sharp
Other prompt:
Rating: G
Length: 200
Content notes: N/A
Author notes: Thanks go to Morgynleri & Runa for encouragement & sanity-checking.
Summary: Fingon contemplates sharpness.




Aica, Sharpness: sharp, keen, honed, tuned precisely a half-part higher; an edged voice, bladed, cutting, crafting; a blade fit for purpose (what purpose? What use? Form? Art?) Am I a mind, an eye, an ear percipient, advertent, fitting aught together, taking then apart?

A tongue that wields words as weapons, a wit that hones the words, the tones, the timing all to purpose. Stones, shards, sudden sounds that crack the silence, split the air, tools that bore and prize and prick, etch, engrave, leave lines of bleeding light, ice-edged air, weapons cleaving, reeving, slicing, shaping, making death and life.

What bitter edge, erose, serrated, biting, tearing fea and flesh, more destructive than tooth or claw or blade, this grief, regret, reproach of self for self that will not bend from faith or love or hope, though cut, pierced, trammelled, riven by the pitiless report of horror, sacrilege, atrocity, in hopeless, hateful measure.

How was he less guilty? Less at fault? His blade ran red, his face set East, his heart fast caught even yet on starry points eight-fold. He had chosen harp-string over bow-string: was that now why he lived? His death had been a bludgeon; Return a knife.