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The smell of smoke is too strong, as if your body and spirit were burning. The fatal blow of the ax still echoes in your mind, repeating itself over and over again.
You wish you didn't have to see how far you've sunk into madness.
You should have understood from the start that you were doomed. You should have known before the fiery venomous words even left the Counsellor's lips, the moment your cousin greedily clutched a crown that wasn't meant for him. Your father had understood.
But if no one heeded his warnings, who could ever listen to you?
And now the white Ninquelótë[1], the only glimmer of hope in this now irreversibly gangrenous land, has fallen victim to your madness. You already know that, before your existence has come to an end, taking you away from a present that you never wanted to live through, you will fall with it.
The false splendor that surrounds you and imprisons you is destined to be erased by the hand of the Valar. The fact that you didn't want all this will not save you. You did nothing to stop it.
You almost long for the moment of punishment. It would be more bearable than continuing to watch.
Yet your husband - your enemy - smiles as he observes the branches consumed by the flames. He smiles like he did when he took your name and your life from you, when he tore you apart for the first time.
You can't help but wonder if, the day Eru's fury hits you, he will finally stop smiling. Perhaps this will give you some comfort.
It's too late now. You all will have to pay - you too will have to pay for not stopping what is happening, for not being able to stop it in the first place. There is no more forgiveness. Not for the splendid, shining, rotting Númenórë[2].
And you can only watch and cry in silence, waiting for the moment the wounds your pride has inflicted will be avenged.