ASOIAF: House Elros

Elros stared at the object in the chest, his breath caught in his throat. The jewel glowed softly, its light a dance of silver and white, pure and unblemished. It seemed alive, a beacon of untouchable beauty that outshone every gem he had ever seen—even the treasures of Númenor paled in comparison.

He couldn't look away. The light seemed to call to him, to stir something deep within his very soul. Slowly, almost without realizing it, Elros reached out a hand toward the gem, his fingers trembling.

As soon as his skin made contact with the jewel, pain lanced through him. A searing heat burned his hand, and he cried out, recoiling from the chest. The pain lingered, and he clutched his hand, now red and blistered.

The girl gasped, her eyes wide with alarm. She rushed forward, slamming the chest shut with a protective ferocity. She placed the banner of House Fëanor back inside, locked the chest, and spun toward him with an expression of anger and indignation.

Elros held up his uninjured hand, trying to show that he meant no harm. "I didn't know," he said softly, though he knew she couldn't understand his words. His tone and expression would have to carry the apology.

For a moment, she stood there, her body tense, her glare sharp. But then her features softened as she noticed the burns on his hand. She let out a sigh, her anger melting into a mix of frustration and concern.

Elros nodded at her, an attempt at reassurance. He stepped back, giving her space. She seemed to relax further, though she still cradled the locked chest in her arms as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Without another word, the two of them began walking back toward the great hall. The journey was quiet, the weight of the discovery hanging heavily between them. The girl kept the chest clutched tightly to her chest, her gaze downcast as if lost in thought.

When they arrived at the hall, she rushed inside and disappeared into the room that she was kept at before, the door shutting firmly behind her. Elros considered knocking, but he thought better of it. Whatever the jewel was, it clearly meant a great deal to her, and pressing the issue now would only cause more tension.

Instead, he sighed and made his way to his own corner of the hall. He sat down on his bed, his burned hand still throbbing, and let his thoughts wander.

The image of the jewel burned in his mind. Its light, its beauty—it was unmistakable. He turned his hand over, looking at the red marks that marred his palm. The pain seemed almost insignificant compared to the truth dawning upon him.

The silver and white glow, the unbearable beauty, and its connection to the House of Fëanor... Only one thing in the histories of the world matched such a description.

"A Silmaril," Elros whispered to himself, his voice barely audible.

The very thought sent a shiver down his spine. The Silmarils, the legendary jewels crafted by Fëanor himself during the First Age, were said to hold the light of the Two Trees of Valinor. They were the cause of wars, of kinslaying, of tragedy and triumph. And they were all thought to have been lost—one cast into the sea, another into the earth, and the last taken into the sky.

How could one be here, on this small, desolate island? How could it have found its way into the hands of a girl who spoke a language he didn't understand?

His thoughts spiraled as he sat there, his mind racing with possibilities. The Silmarils were more than mere treasures. They were symbols of power, of history, of the eternal conflict between light and shadow. And now, one of them was here, within his reach—though clearly beyond his touch.

Elros looked down at his burned hand, the marks vivid against his pale skin. The Silmaril had rejected him, and he knew why. These jewels were holy, unmarred by the darkness of the world. Only those of pure heart and purpose could wield them without harm.

He stood and retrieved a strip of clean cloth from his belongings. Carefully, he wrapped the burn, wincing slightly as the fabric pressed against the tender skin.

Sitting down in one of the large wooden chairs in the great hall, he stared at the door to the girl's room. He could still picture her face when she held the chest, the way she hugged the banner to herself, as if drawing strength from it.

The girl was connected to the House of Fëanor. He was certain of it. Perhaps not directly—few, if any, of that house were said to have survived the First Age—but the connection was there, woven into her very being.

Elros leaned back in the chair, his mind heavy with questions.

What did the girl know about the Silmaril? What was her purpose? And why had fate brought them together on this lonely isle?

As the fire in the great hall crackled softly, Elros sat in silence, his thoughts a storm of wonder and uncertainty. Somewhere in the night, the Silmaril glowed faintly in its chest, a reminder of a past long gone—and a future yet to unfold.