Please post some on the CB! 

TOPTOPTOPTOP!!!!!

Certainly.  Only problem is that very few people know the Silmarillion here, and that's what I wr.  But, since you asked-

Here's one that I wrote a couple of months ago.  

and the fire and the rose are one

I watch Maitimo as he moves his forefinger over the map- from Hithlum
to Doriath, to Himlad and the plains beyond. "East Beleriand," he
murmurs, then raises his head suddenly and says sharply, "That's where
we plan to go."

"Would that be you and your brothers' plan," I say quietly, "or yours?"

"Both,"
and he shrugs a little, laughing more briefly than I would like.
"Plenty of room there, enough to be rid of each others' presences for a
while, and it's far enough away from here- and Doriath. Of course," he
adds quickly, "I mean to keep a close eye on all of them."

"I certainly hope you do," I say, turning to face the window. "They take after your father."

"Of course we do. We are
his sons, Alatáriel. You must remember this." They are, and perhaps too
much so. Even in Maitimo, who is so much like his mother, there remains
that Fëanorian arrogance, Fëanorian incorrigibility, Fëanorian cruelty.
I fear for our future in Beleriand and relations with Elwë, quite
honestly. I hated their father- hated as only a Ñoldo can hate- and now
that he is dead, I had hoped to escape his shadow.

He's watching me intently. "Alatáriel," he says. "Where do you plan to go?"

I
let my fingers trail across the windowsill, then drop limply to my
side. "I do not know," I say at last. "I will stay with Findaráto. He
wants lands in the south, near the sea."

He nods. "The soil there is fertile."

"And
Doriath," I continue. "Most assuredly Doriath. I think it would be wise
to stay there- you know, and speak for our kin if trouble arises. You
know as well as I do that that is well within the realm of the possible.
And I want Elwë to know that not all of our kin are mad." I have let
loose there more than I would have liked to, but Maitimo is strangely
unperturbed.

"Yes. I see." Then, unexpectedly, "Alatáriel, it is not a matter of if trouble arises but when
it does. You know how my brothers are…and I too really. You must be
bewildered," he laughs wearily, "to see me playing the diplomat in these
past weeks and months. It won't last. I am still his son. I know
Findecáno, for one, looks forward to a period of peace and brotherhood. I
will take the peace and leave the brotherhood, if I may. All I can
really hope for at this point is a sort of peaceful separation, a polite
distance with communications kept to the minimum…" He is right, of
course, and speaks with something bewilderingly like humility for one of
Fëanor's sons.

"Your actions over those said months have been remarkably tactful," I tell him. "I do not think we have come again to blows."

"No, but we were never more than a skin away from that," he rejoins. "We won't last."

"Do you think so?" I say softly.

"Yes." He's impatient now, even irritated. "We're divided-"

I laugh bitterly. "Can't deny that."

"-divided," he continues, and with an enemy far greater than we could ever hope to defeat, even unified. We can't stand."

I am beginning to be angry with my cousin's fey imaginings. "I did not come here to hear those words," I tell him sharply. "I- we -
are more than that…Maitimo, I hated your father. I won't listen to him
now, won't believe that he can still rule our lives. I won't give him
that." Maitimo smiles softly, and idly traces the eight-pointed star
carved on the corner of the table.

"Don't you see it, Alatáriel?
Don't you see that he's still among us? His influence is still very
strong, his spirit is alive and well, and as his son, I know this."

"He is not long dead," I protest. "His memory will fade. We will forget him. Those who come after us will forget him."

He
shrugs. "That is as it may be. For this here and now, and I might add,
Alatáriel, that those who come after us will forget us too- for this
here and now, this lifetime, this Age, he is still with us. We owe this-
that we are here, and building a kingdom- to him."

I shake my head. "I do not want to give him that." And I do not.

He
turns away from me, and then swings back to face me suddenly.
"Alatáriel, don't you see that my father is- was- the greatest of our
people?" I do not answer that, and he continues, "You know how he was.
His fire was more than the pride of a mere Ñoldo. It was something more-
primitive, if you will, and striving with the Gods." He pauses, as
though searching for the right words. "He was my father. He was my
beginning, and he will be my consummation. I know this." He looks up at
me. "In a way, he's all we could hope to be. Our glory, as a people, and
our legacy, will be inseparable from his fire. He brought us to this,"
he says, "and it's because of him we'll fall. It is this," he says
almost placidly, joining me by the window, "that he knew, and I knew,
and my brothers knew, when we swore the Oath. Our lives," he says
softly, "are his."

I cannot speak for a while. This is not the one
who laid his crown at my uncle's feet, and begged forgiveness for the
wrongs done to my kin.

This is not the one turned so bewilderingly
conciliatory, willing, as it seemed then, to humble his pride and work
for our unity and good. Of course it's not. This is Maitimo, son of
Fëanáro, born to set Arda alight with his father's fire of vengeance and
his sleepless curse. And this is the son of my mortal enemy, the one
with whom I will never ally myself, and whose words I refuse, absolutely
refuse to accept.

I tell him so. "I will not accept that," I say,
my voice shaking. "I do not take your father as my king. I will not
believe that we cannot make something more of ourselves than his curse."

I
leave him there, still lost in his thoughts, and stroking, stroking the
hilts of his sword. Outside, the air is chill, with icy gusts of wind
tearing at the sparse and stunted trees. The westering sun is sinking
low in the sky and turning lake, hills, town red as fire, red as blood.