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Once your voice would have drowned out the rolling of the waves. You would have had the strength to scream until it was all over, until your words went out along with your life.
If I weren't too tired to live, and even to die...
It's too late to go back. Perhaps you already knew when the words of the Oath filled the air, not remembering when you started using your voice to promise blood and destruction. Even then you didn't think you were doomed to survive just so you could utter a lament again and again.
All the others may have already known that they, too, would burn in the flames they set - only you were not allowed to meet the fate they had conceived in gore.
It was not for Ilúvatar's pity.
Perhaps you and your father and all who followed you ceased to deserve to live when your swords stained Alqualondë with blood. Had you been assigned the same fate as his brothers, you might have rejoiced, even knowing you would never see the light again.
Now, even under the sun that burns every part of you but your voice, the darkness seems thicker than that which enveloped Valinor the day it all fell.
This is the only future that awaits you. That, or a death you still can't bring yourself to reach.
Perhaps in Mandos you would at least get oblivion. And you cannot let it happen. Your faults are too heavy for you to allow yourself to forget them.
You swore to live only to remember.
And as much as it hurts, you hope your gift is enough to tell what still haunts your dreams.
All those years of blood and suffering cannot be erased. Pouring into the world what they left you, with no one to listen, no one to understand, won't save you.
But someone has to know, to remember what has turned to ruins - even just the seagulls that hoot and moan above you.
Bodies strong and full of life, that should never have known scars. Proud smiles destined to last forever. Skillful hands to create, not to kill.
How did you come to this?
Repenting no longer serves any purpose. And it's not just the burns on your hand that remind you of this, but the nights when the way Russandol[1] looked at you before fleeing scorches you through your dreams, and you wake up screaming.
You are certain that the shadow in his eyes has invaded you now, but you will not give in to the call of the sea as he has given in to that of fire. You are not yet worthy to be free.
All the weight of blood you shed must fall on you now. If you haven't joined your family yet, it's just to pay your price. The last battle will come and your voice - the voice your mother gave you to sing of life and glory, not to speak a promise of death - will be consumed before you can obtain a forgiveness you have long ceased to desire.
But you will still sing. You will remember Russandol's strength even if he didn't make him stay. You will remember Tyelkormo's pride [2] even though it only hastened his end. You will grieve the Telvo[3]'s ashes, Carnistir[4]'s last gaze, turned to secret regrets, the smile on Pityo[5]'s face as he fell, and Tyelperinquar[6]'s name on Curvo[7]'s last breath.
Your words and your dreams are the only way you will ever see them again. They may find peace - but you can't let that happen to you.
Your only hope that at least your sons are safe - that they are reunited with their family, with those who saved Endórë[8] instead of scarring it, and that they get the life they deserve, healing from their wounds in a reborn world . Your only prayer is that your nephew will return home before it is too late, and that the light in the sky, however dim compared to that of the Trees, will be enough to bring comfort to your mother. Sometimes you still wonder if they miss you.
But their disgust is something you can never face. You can't go looking for them, even if they are all you have left.
You can only stand here, sing an eulogy to the broken beauty and love, and let your tears merge with the tide.
Father, why have you condemned us?