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Long ago, he was certain about his family, certain about taking the Silmarils back no matter the cost, certain about their bloody deeds.

Now, he can only think about the Doom, and all his songs are terrible and magnificent and sad, like his entire family once was. He can’t stop remembering that his people and his last brother and himself are condemned to suffering.

He doesn’t want those cursed, brilliant jewels, but Maedhros – because Maitimo is a cruel joke, Nelyafinwë is an insult to his uncles’ prole and Russandol hurts – tells him that nothing remains for them.

He's right.

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Makalaurë once knew what was right and what was wrong, but Aman was so much easier and black-and-white in that always sweet past.

Beleriand is home to monsters in the most beautiful skins, to families that he hates and loves in same amounts, to terrible massacres made in name of cursed jewels and to bloody battles ragging for entire decades.

In Aman, there was right and there was wrong, but he prefers to believe that none of those ideals exist in the other side of the wide sea, because, if they do exist, his family and himself would be wrong.

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Fëanáro worked, worked and worked in his Silmarils. He endured the bitter months of complex projects that didn’t make sense to another soul, the dangerous tests to discover how the light would be transformed into something solid and the brutal attacks of ragging despair when something went terribly wrong.

He was a creator for making a lot of unimaginable things that changed Aman, but he was an unmatchable genius for creating his loved jewels.

After the unnumbered painful punches of fear that it would be truly impossible, Fëanáro could smile and show to them all that he could do it.

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Maedhros smiles widely while watching he and Elrond do something very stupid, laughs silently when Maglor plays a complex song in Quenya to sindar elves and seems completely cheerful when there is no disaster coming with the storms.

But Elros knows how to distinguish a fake, gelid smile of a real, warm one, perceives the traits of numbness in a distant laugh and doesn’t miss the ephemeral glimpse of exhaustion inside all that happiness.

He would be cursed if he abandoned Maedhros to be eaten alive by the sadness in his heart, but how save someone that is already condemned?

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Once, a soldier boy tried to explain how the time was to the mortals to an elf before a battle. He said that their lives were like the days, and said that no day come back, even if we desperately urge to revive it.

It made sense, and when the soldier boy died – or, at least, was presumed dead because no one could find him, or his corpse, anywhere –, the said elf repeated those words aloud and thought that the lives of the mortals were more like a brief count that goes to five and ends without a further explanation.

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Makalaurë takes the crown graciously when Maitimo disappears, an indifferent smile and empty eyes trying to find a familiar face among all those strangers.

He wants to scream until his elder brother – older, more prepared to ruling and simply more – has some mercy and come back, he wants to cry until there is an entire ocean and Morgoth drown in his bitter tears.

It’s better to don’t think about what is happening with Maitimo in Angband, Makalaurë tells himself. He will go mad if he does, and he has a kingdom to build and five younger brothers to look after.

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Their brother is now Maedhros, Lord of Himdring and distant enough to be one of Varda’s stars, untouchable to everyone and deadly cold. He is sharp words, blunt glares and glacial hatred and it’s like to lose him again.

Because once he was Nelyafinwë Maitimo: caring, laughful big brother that would held them high when they were little and would help them to hide their misdeeds from their angry parents.

Sometimes, however, he cracks in a reluctant smile and the world is just tender when it happens. It’s like to have their brother again, even if just for some seconds.

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She waits for her husband.

He never is in one of the ships and all elves say that Makalaurë is missing since the end of the War, in the First Age. Still, their home is prepared for the day they will reunite and she can’t wait.

Years pass, most of the those who went away in that dreadful night come back and her husband's still lost, lost for the history’s track.

Nothing is worse than the pity, and sometimes she can’t help but hate him, not knowing that he wants to come back, but can’t because it won’t feel right.

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They are brothers deeper than just in heart and nothing will stay between them, not today and not in any day. They are nights awake sharing their worst secrets and loud, cheerful laughs echoing for their father’s halls for the eternity. They are childish and strangely rough and they are happy.

They are brothers in blood and no one forgets it, no one lets them forget it, but the feeling is less like endless trust moving their bones to hugs and more like old sorrows always suffocating. They are hidden scars and old sorrows, and it easier to stay silent.

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His days were a succession of try again and try again and try again, his days were a succession of rage and hatred and bone-deep numbness.

Maedhros kept raising stubbornly when everything was just ashes and blood inside his mouth, put himself back on his feet proudly when the world seemed to become a sea drowning him and hiding his body.

But why? Why should he deny his own desires, or the emptiness where once they lived inside his chest, and keep trying again even when there was nothing left?

He jumped, and no blame could make him regret it.

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There’s nothing left, nothing at all. No helpless faith, no childish dreams, no undying hopes. Only them and the realization that everything they did, believing it was for a greater role or for making their dead father proud, was terrible and meaningless.

And when you look to Maglor, you will see that there’s no one in those eyes, an empty body moving even without a soul inside.

Maedhros is worse than his brother: an immortal, cold flame raising and burning everything to ashes with its fury, with its grief.

Two brothers, two monsters, realizing that it was all for nothing.

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Sometimes, he admires Melian in all her terrifying perfection and smartness, sometimes he fears her more than Morgoth. In most of time, he’s a king blinded by a merciless enchant, doomed to love more than anyone should.

He can’t breathe, he can’t think. She is everywhere at once, and so there’s an eternal night in Doriath because of his queen and her thick, confusing shadows. Or, at least, is how he sees it all.

Someone will see that the mighty Elu Thingol is helpless in the iron hand hidden by a velvet glove that Melian has, some needs to see.

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The Silmaril burning his hand is a prove of failure, and Maedhros never accepted failure. Not in the innocent Aman when he worked harder than anyone to be a good heir to his father and not in the bloody Beleriand when some lives depended of his decisions.

But everyone died, and the jewel burns and burns and burns. The pain is enough to make him desire to cut his hand off, but the failure is worse, so much worse that he can’t think in nothing more than I’m sorry.

For good or for bad, Maedhros jumps, and it finally ends.

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They say that Findekáno’s father is the most valiant and most powerful of the kings, they say he’ll be forever remembered and that his sacrifice will not be in vain.

But, on the end of the day, all those loud praises and loud songs don’t bring Nolofinwë back, and he can’t rule as his father did, he can’t use his crown and sit in his throne and pretend everything is going perfectly.

His world is falling apart, and Findekáno wants his family back, wants his old life back. No kingship could replace memories, no kingship could replace all of this.

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Amairë hols Findárato the tightest she can when he camos back from the Halls, warm tears dripping from her eyes like a translucent waterfall. He is so different now: haunted eyes and shaking hands, sharp words and an endless amount of sadness.

Bit by bit, day by day, they begin to rebuild and to remember. She listens to the histories of battles, loses, joys and tragedies, and even the tale about Beren, Lúthien and how her most beloved died is told. He’s not his old self, but Aman is not the same as well, so fewer things could be fairer.

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The mean elves who wore eight pointed stars abandoned them in the forest, but Doriath was their home, nothing could hurt a couple of princes here. So, Eluréd and Elurín wandered, young and unafraid and waiting for someone come to rescue them.

No one ever came, and they tried to survive as miserably as it was possible, but the old forest was no longer safe after Queen Melian went back to her true land. Dark creatures were as hungry as they were, and there was so much blood in that moonless night when those two lost boys were finally caught.

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Makalaurë remembers his father saying my son, be careful if you truly desire to be a musician, for they will always say all singers lie with worried eyes sparkling and a gentle smile. He was so young then, a mere boy desiring to be the greatest, the best.

Sometimes, on the darkest and quietest nights, it’s difficult to not wonder if all the people who listened half-heartedly to his words believed on them or if they dismissed the phrases as a simple minstrel’s fallacy. He wonders if someone believes that his family smiled often, had real emotions, were truly alive.

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Fëanáro’s work is beautiful and perfect, and Varda wants the delightful jewels for herself. To make it sparkling stars in the sky or to make a crown or to simply have. The cause of the need is unimportant, as is the urge screaming in her ears: she can’t own it.

Fëanáro’s work is beautiful and perfect and addictive, and Melkor desperately needs the jewels for himself. There’s nothing more astonishing and faultless than the Silmarils and the glory in the light, and its creator is unimportant, a minor annoyance and a tool. He can’t have it, but he will anyway.

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As magic, there’s fear and angriness in the streets. Those great people live long and live well in their blessed island, but they’re not satisfied. They crave for more than someone should or will have.

Still, there’s fear and general angriness in the streets, and everyone whispers about the king who didn’t desire to die and became weak and terribly old while ruling, keeping his son as prince even when he was too close to death.

Some say that this can’t be good, but many crave for the eternity. It’s the beginning of the end of Númenor and its kings.

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She knows that end is here, knocking at their doors, but there’s nothing that Tar-Míriel can do for her people, not with the beast talking for evryone who wants to hear in the middle of the most violent storm, and, in those times, all will hear.

The end is finally here, waiting for the command from greater powers, and all the Queen can do is to sit alone in her rich chambers and watch the world's shattering bit by bit. All her attempts failed and meaningless.

If she ever knew hate, there’s hatred in her heart every time Tar-Mairon speaks.

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Indis and her children fill the palace with loud laughs and endless joy and delightful wonder, and Finwë is no longer a pale shadow of himself, consumed by a merciless sadness and a screaming despair, but a proud, wise man who leads the mighty Noldor very gracefully.

Still, Fëanáro has a sharp eye and he doesn’t miss how the Queen is unhappy in beautiful Tirion, how his half-siblings are almost exhausted in the brutal court, how his father looks suffocated in the routine.

There’s a piece missing, a threat whispering and a ghost wandering, and the name is Míriel Serindë.

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Thingol wears Felagund’s necklace with pride, the jewel’s beauty making him greater and fairer. You wonder if he remembers the pain in Húrin’s face when he brought it.

The price for this luxury was too high, you think. Artanis’ brother killed while helping their daughter and her beloved, the shattering and suffering of a family by Morgoth’s hands, the agony of a father and husband on losing all his children and wife to the Enemy.

You wonder if he remembers how Húrin was tired and defeated after seeing the fall of Morwen, Lalaith, Niënor and Túrin, after being the last.

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You saw Númenórë’s modest beginning, saw the way those mortals, full of dreams and hopes for the future, built a home even after the War and created the foundations of an ocean’s jewel.

You met Elros Tar-Minyatur, before he was a mighty, great king, in the shores, salt on his hair and sunburns on his skin. It’s easy to recall the face of a young man who didn’t care about immortality, who had everything he could’ve wanted here and who was able to create his own destiny.

But the House of Elros rebels and all your friend are truly lost.

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You dream of lights that will not be lit again for unnumbered ages, you dream of a brutal bloodshed among perfect peace, you dream of almost endless pain. It’s impossible to known what is going to happen, but there’s night for those didn’t cross the Sea for the first time: no stars, no hope, all is fear.

The air is still and tormented, and the frigidity within your heart grows colder and colder; the darkness thicker and thicker. Something great is screaming across the ocean, and you hope that it stays here it should stay, far away from your people.

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They say Arakáno is too young to understand the type of tension growing or to play the brutal games from grandfather’s court. He's not the naive boy they claim, but it’s good to be unimportant sometimes.

With the world almost falling apart by the shattering in the House of Finwë, being an useless youngest son means that there is no need of waiting the day everything will begin to burn suddenly, or not so suddenly at all for those who pay attention.

Arakáno pays attention, and he asks himself if pretending that everything is perfect will make the situation better.

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Haleth laughs loud, fights bravely, loses too much, wins in the cruelest ways, shoulders the world for nothing and would bargain with Morgoth to keep them safe.

Carnistir isn’t sure that he likes those traits enough or more than is safe, because it’d be scandalous to love woman like her being an elf lord like him and it’d be stupid to love someone who is a shooting star in all that matters.

After all is said and all is done, Haleth’ll die too early for Carnistir give her his heart: she’s fast and beautiful and doomed.

Like a shooting star.

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His sons brought her back at a cold night while ragging, mourning and breaking for seeing their beloved mother destroyed like this.

Elrond tried to cure Celebrían until he felt numb to his bones, tried everything that he could imagine that would help her terrified heart and desolated soul, but it was useless and childish: she was beyond any type of salvation in this land cursed by wars and beasts and shattered dreams.

So, when his wonderful wife sailed to the Undying Lands, he told himself it was for her good – it was – and urged that it could last forever.

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It should be disturbing to see the ugly scars crawling over his body, to see the blunt stump where once his hand existed, to see the numbness turning his eyes dark instead of the bright blue illuminated by joy.

However, to notice the marks from the war and from his survival is not frightful or terrifying. A twisted, dark part of his mind wonders if his mother would sculpt him like he is now, but the terrible is to perceive how his heart is not the same, how drastically the chaos in Beleriand changed his morals, his beliefs, his actions.

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The elf is amazingly polite, with kingly manners, though his Sindarin is more complex and ancient than everything Bilbo has ever heard. In his long and happy years in Rivendell, he’s never met someone like this stranger.

He introduces himself as Gaerdir, son of Agarwaen with sorrowful eyes, and his sadness is even deeper after Bilbo says that his ship to Valinor parts in some days.

It’s hard to understand why someone’d be sad talking about the Immortal Lands.

“The problem, Master Hobbit, is that elves have longs lives” Gaerdir answered when asked about his grief, “and even longer memories”.

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Between wars and massacres and losing everything, he stopped to feel clean.

Maedhros can feel the thick blood, the viscous mud, the general filth, on his skin and deeper than only skin, closer to his anxious heart. It doesn’t matter how many times he tries to wash the sensation away with hot water and soap, it crawls through his body and creeps in like a hungry worm searching for putrid flesh.

He rubs and rubs and rubs until his skin burns and bleeds, but it’s completely useless, and Maedhros is anything but clean: a mess of sins and mistakes and misdeeds.

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Maitimo was born in unruly happiness, in relief and in greatness. The firstborn of the brilliant Fëanáro and the oldest grandson of the beloved Finwë. Fewer children were more celebrated than him in the blissful innocence of Unmarred Aman so great was the joy of the Noldor in this day.

Maedhros died in disgrace, sadness and despair; died after breaking every people that he ever touched and after being broken by the hateful crowd who saw his unnumbered sins. Jumped in the hottest fires he could find and could never regret it, no matter how selfish and terrible it was.

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They both, Makalaurë and she, were born in the most brilliant period of the Eldar: full of greatness, power and happiness.

Still, the time passed slowly and Aman, the Unmarred, was more marred day by day, mistake by mistake. They were watching the decay of a civilization in first hand, but it was difficult to care when the quarrels of their parents were just rumors, and the youth made their veins true fire.

They were in love when everything was burning and falling apart very subtly, but she watched alone the rebirth of their civilization, while he was far away.

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Perhaps, if the situation were more joyful and less terrible, Findekáno would have loved the golden light illuminating the vast sky – so alike Laurelin that made his soul ache and yet weaker than the Tree –, but it was not, and so he wouldn’t love it, though the beauty and the glory couldn’t be denied.

It was the cruel proof of their spectacular fall in this land forgotten by all graces and of their bloody mistakes where the inconstant shadow of Telperion felt more like coming home and less like a loss of innocence.

The first sunrise was beautiful and dreadful.

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Tyelkormo was logical and cold, always had been since the childhood. Maybe he should fear the feeling of his mind running away from his iron grip because it made him no more than an irreverent and uncontrollable beast, but he couldn’t feel fear of something that was always a part of the puzzle.

If he was becoming mad, and he was, at least Tyelkormo wasn’t becoming irrational. Cruel and fallen to hatred and cunning.

Take Nargothrond for himself and his brother, kidnap Lúthien, give the order to disappear with the crying twins, kill Dior.

Madness, but logic all the same.

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Telperinquar thinks too much about the doom for those who ran away from Aman, the deeds of dead families and his grandfather’s shadow over him. He's brilliant and the tool you need, a foul for believing blindly in all your words.

It’s, however, so hard to not desire him. The delightful smiles shining in his handsome face, the almost childish eagerness to learn what you need to share, the eyes clouded by a legacy too heavy for his shoulders bear, the precise hands working in what will be your greatest weapons.

Yes, you want too much: the world and him.

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They are trapped inside those high, white walls and living within the most beautiful prison, hidden in the mountain, letting the world just be around them. They’re nothing and nothing at all as their kin spill blood in name of freedom and light.

It’s the war someone needs to fight in ragging outside – the memories tainted with blood of a heavy sacrifice for their lives burdening their shoulders – and the calm, safe peace that they can have for thousands of years inside. It’s a choice, a dangerous one, and it’s easier to be, not to act.

They’re a ghost story.

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This is the end, the very end. Your entire life converging to that hysterical moment, the moment you raise Ringil to the meaningless fight without a second of hesitation and your voice makes Angband’s walls shake, your eyes glistening like stars and your hands firm around your sword.

You’re a fearless child, all teeth and harsh laughs while dueling, as graceful and calm as a dancer. Your journey in Middle Earth, full of joys and tragedies as it was, ends now and here, facing Morgoth with more bravery than you thought you had.

In this bittersweet end, you’re no failure.

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Once, in an easier world before the Children, Ilmarë held Eönwë’s hand and they climbed a tree together, laughing weightlessly, bearing no heavy burden, for her Queen had no duties and his King was as delighted to live here as they were.

He was light and strength and golden like Laurelin, his smiles all childish innocence and blind kindness. She herself was unstoppable and free and powerful like Telperion, soft words and even softer gestures. They were tender fingers and true, quick laughs, climbing Yavanna’s highest tree.

Now, Eönwe looks like he’s chocking on mistakes and Ilmarë is just tired.

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Melian holds Artanis’ pale hands in hers firmly and dares to hope about their future, knowing better than everyone it’s foolish and meaningless to do so.

Still, even shouldering this burden in deep silence, she lingers in this always young freedom screaming inside her chest and gazes the stars hopefully in the darkest nights, letting her beautiful lover lead her with such devotion.

They have a hunter’s heart, Artanis says recklessly, a wide smile on her face. They have a hunter’s heart and a hunter’s mouth that seek, in the most hidden valleys, the happiness denied in their lives before.

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I’m sorry, so sorry, my son.

When I first defied the Enemy, the price seemed surprisingly little; easy to pay, to endure unshaken by grief. What was the agony of my beloved family compared to the pain of all families that existed? It had to be done, and the price was little.

I saw it all, and, in the end, it wasn’t little. I saw your mother’s silent pain, your sister’s destiny, your own despair. I did nothing, for there was nothing to be done.

I’m so sorry, my son, because I doomed you to such curse for being steadfast.

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You weren’t there when your grandsons came to the Undying Lands.

Your surviving son never dismissed you or Elwing clearly, but neither had forgiven the neglect. It’d be better if none appeared to kill a joyful reunion.

Anyway, you saw them from your endless vigil, a set of kingly twins with too weak smiles, coming like something was missing, like everything was wrong. For what you heard, it was the daughter, Arwen Undómiel, who would never cross the sea herself.

Elladan and Elrohir, however, came and the happiness in his son’s face was priceless, even if you couldn’t share it.

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Maybe the worst part is that they still follow you, loyal and resolute until their very ends. You pretend to know the violent path and bear hopes like corporeal, pitiless burdens.

I fight for Lord Maedhros of Himring, some of them declare proudly when asked and others boldly dare to wear your eight-pointed star colored with the shades of forestal fires. You smile like it doesn’t hurt to see so many people dying for nothing.

Sometimes you foolishly hope that they’re just as broken as you’re: disillusioned and bitter with life. Sometimes you pray for them and their hopeful hearts.

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So maybe you still love him, though none shall ever know this. He is a cursed monster, gruesome and terrible, a tale told to make unruly children behave.

Yes, your love had not died when he ran away, fire within his heart and doom heavy on his shoulders. It lived and agonized and kicked, protesting about your sorrow and lack of justice until everything was dulled to ashes and grayness.

Who would love such a beast? Who would a man with hands covered by his kin’s blood so shamelessly? You, for what matters; you and a cluster of scattered women.

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Turambar.

The name sounds like a sardonic joke, or maybe like the last desperate scream of a man who was never lord of his own destiny.

He was called Túrin, in the language of his people, by his mother, stark mother whose presence is everywhere and not here at all. Valiant, she named him, telling the tale of a dark future beyond vision. Truth is, this’s not about valiance anymore.

It’s about hoping – there’s nothing to do but hope – that the curse wouldn’t follow him, hoping he could change something.

If Túrin didn’t believe, death would become the only escape.

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Nimloth tells her husband stories about the people he’ll never know.

She speaks about Daeron’s haunting eyes, Beleg’s wide smirk and Mablung’s quick laugh. Thingol’s vibrancy, Melian’s cleverness and how the entire House of Elmo filled those beautiful halls with merriment feature her endless tales.

Dior’s young – painfully young, she reminds herself sometimes – and more than just hungry, a lonely son of legends and nostalgia, living in legacy as much as living real life. His childish curiosity is never-ending and Nimloth wishes she had stories about his father’s people as well, to fill the gaps where only empty names live.

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When they reached Middle Earth’s beaches, at the northeast near Lindon, Elendil kneeled on the sand and swore to serve her as his queen until his last day.

It’d have been easy to simply ignore the last scion of Elros’ House, a woman who couldn’t hold her position and was overthrew by her mad husband. He was loved, he was powerful, he was the reason some of Númenor had survived.

And he bent his knees on the harsh ground, saying the old words of coronation from before Quenya was banned and times were grim.

Míriel put the crown on, triumphant.

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Estë looked into this man’s not-so-hopeful-anymore eyes and gave a him a woeful, apologetic smile before announcing.

“She’s in Mandos now.”

Finwë opened his mouth and then closed it, a thousand emotions crossing his face just for his expression settle in nothing at all. There wasn’t even the smallest hint of anything in him, only a vague wrongness in his movements.

Fëanáro was playing with some of her Maiar, forbidden to see his mother’s corpse and to listen his father’s conversation. He seemed older than a one-year-old elf.

“Your help meant much, my Lady,” the Noldorin King muttered and left.

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Arafinwë can almost regret shaking his brother until Nolo wakes up. Almost.

"Can I sleep here?" he asks softly, and doesn't say: I dreamed you died, I dreamed Melkor's foot crushed your neck, I dreamed you became a martyr, I dreamed you wounded him seven times.

"Aren't you too old for this, Ara?" Nolo replies, but lets him lie with him anyway, voice faltering for the exhaustion. Even then, his brother is solid and truthful, truly unbreakable.

Unbreakable, see, Melkor? Unbreakable.

"Don't do anything stupid, promise?" The word prophecy is heavy between them.

"Promise."

(Nolofinwë is such a good liar.)

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Elrond knows History won’t paint his brother in this light, but Elros is vicious.

“Greatness isn’t a synonym for goodness,” he comments, eyes glistening and smirk sharp as a knife. He’ll become a legend and a myth, not a cautionary tale.

But then, it’s always been Elros’ destiny, mortality mingled with greatness and blue blood. The soul of a starved conqueror was their parents’ gift for him, an ugly creature that shines so goldenly and so beautifully under the Sun.

“And obedience now doesn’t mean obedience forever.”

When Númenor drowns, Elrond doesn’t say his brother had doomed it long ago.

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Aracáno had never been bright among his blazing family. He was solemn and uninterested, watching, with apathetic eyes, those noble, arrogant Noldor destroy themselves.

That was why he was so surprised to see them here, by his side, kneeling on the bloody mud and terrified, shocked to see him die after saving a battle that was supposed to be a massacre in epic proportions. It'd have been amusing if he weren't bleeding and trashing and dying. In the end, everything tasted of sweet irony.

"Why?" His father asked, and Aracáno wasn't alive enough to answer because I am your son.

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The water didn’t reach higher than Elwing’s ankles when Eärendil found her, that same boyish grin gleaming and generous streaks of paint smudging his face. She laughed in delight at the scene, satisfied with it.

“So, you have some sense of humor,” he half-accused and half-teased, feigned offense dripping from his lips, making him appear greatly insulted.

“My dear husband, we’ve been married for four thousand years and more: I am baffled and affronted that it took you this long to discover my vein for both arts and comedy,” She replied, smirking slightly at Eärendil.

“Very funny, Elwing, very funny.”

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There’s Rophen and Allon – their father calls them Arataquen and Alyo smiling, Quenya rolling surely from his tongue – but those names don’t matter, not anymore.

Because a sad, so terribly sad Noldo, offers them a trembling hand and they ignore the blood staining his armor. Children don’t understand that a little kindness doesn’t mean everyone is supposed to be trusted. This, such small gesture born out of childish fear and abandonment, is what changes the world.

There’s Elerondo and Elerossë, children fresh from war and massacre, and the tales will make them Elrond and Elros, immortal lord and mortal king.

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Elemmírë breathed a fierce and loud melody into the flute, engulfing the room in an atmosphere of greatness, of legends. Mittanyarë drowned in the songstress’ tune, but it all disappeared when beautiful Macalaurë Fëanárion raised his voice.

He was so incredibly handsome, a masterpiece in a fair land of great works, though this seemed lesser when compared to his voice, to his passion. She lost herself and her mind in the way his brows were furrowed, in how his lips moved swiftly, in the burning ardor flickering and twirling on his stunning face.

Mittanyarë could’ve chosen a better infatuation, truly.

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Tuor closes his eyes and lets the sea wash his worries away. There’s music inside his head, soft and insistent, and he wants to beg Ulmo just a little more time.

He has grandchildren to meet, a wife to comfort, a son to appease, a daughter-in-law to help. Sirion can thrive without the Herald of the Ocean, but Tuor picks a few select people and tries to drown the song in memories, in the present.

Sometimes it doesn’t work, sometimes Eärendil spends months in a ship with him, sometimes he’s less mortal than he’s prophecy.

It doesn’t matter much now.

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Beren kissed Morwen’s brow, wincing at the sight of his own blood staining her skin. He hadn’t realized his mouth was bleeding.

“Hey little eagle,” he whispered softly, trying to smile his brightest smile for a girl who looked too old and too tired for her eleven years, “keep an eye on little Rían for me, right? She might get lost in the march.”

Morwen nodded, solemn and serious, taking it as duty. Beren wanted to cry.

“Stay close to my mother, little eagle, she won’t let anything happen to both of you.” He knew she didn’t believe on him.

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Eärwen’s city is pale and elegant, shining magnificently under the Trees’ light with its harbor and trustable waters glimmering in silver.

Alqualondë isn’t this half burnt, half shattered ruin. She stares the broken buildings still burning, the redness of the furious waves, the utter numbness in her people’s filthy faces. No, Eärwen’s city can’t be this haunted, hollow, horrifying place.

Corpses swim and rot on glittering docks, but it’s too dark to recognize any of them now. The pale lamps are weak and scarce; they weren’t prepared for this.

She swallows ashes and tears, watching the Noldorin banners in distance.

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“Do you die, my lord?” Andreth’s voice pierces the silence with a blazing intensity; not angry but dangerous and impatient. “Do you die to never return again?”

Findaráto blinks surprised and unable to form a thought. There’s a deep and vicious sense of unfairness circling her, something that is buried in her bones since the birth and earlier. Mortality, he thinks. But it can’t be. It’s a gift.

“You know the answer for this question, Andreth: my people go the Halls of Mandos and can be reincarnated. Eru has said so.”

“Bold of you, then, to assume it’s a reward.”

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Míriel’s world begins without light but the stars above, by a lake that’s a black mirror and a home. The darkness, she thinks boldly, so young and so naïve, is something quite beautiful when it’s not taking them. But the times passes, and Finwë returns, blazing and awed. Everyone listens.

Míriel’s world ends without a light but the Two Trees, useless to warm the covetous chill in her flesh. It’s merciless, she thinks tiredly, having to stay strong when her mind wants is to crumble and never again piece itself together. Finwë always comes, talks, leaves. She can’t listen anymore.

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Arafinwë has flowers to remember them – his lost and broken family – by. Or, rather, he makes a show of the flowers for the hungry eyes of the public and means nothing with it because no descendent of Finwë fits in the eerie softness of the colorful petals. They can love it, the impossible mildness, but not embody it.

After all, they are fire and hatred and bloody rebellion, all of them.

He puts flowers on the memorials and makes long discuses about those who will never return if the Valar’s heart don’t soften. He refuses to think much of it.