Chapter Text
His raven-dark hair glimmered in the moonlight, a mirror to the night sky. Sparse stars cast a silvery glow over the quiet world. Another night unfolded in restless wakefulness. Barefoot, he descended the polished granite stairs pursuing a familiar scent, his flowing nightgown trailing behind him like a spectral veil. Dried tears marked his cheeks, while fresh ones shimmered hesitantly in the corners of his eyes, refusing to cascade.
Dreams prevented him from sleeping—vivid yet fleeting, dissipating like morning mist upon awakening. Names and faces blurred, but the emotions endured: a profound, aching emptiness tinged with a poignant solitude, perhaps melancholy.
Annatar claimed to comprehend this state intimately.
The air in the dusky chamber gradually filled with the fragrance of steaming peppermint. He closed his eyes, allowing the aroma to carry him back to his childhood in Aman, eons ago...
He concealed himself amidst the statues while grandmother Nerdanel searched for him, yet Huan unfailingly found him first, guided by the lingering scent of grass on his feet. Uncle Tyelkormo's flowing golden locks danced as he merrily tossed him aloft, while the resonant strains of uncle Makalaurë's harp filled the halls with lively melodies. Towering like a mountain in his childhood memories, uncle Maitimo graciously handed him the cookies that sat tantalizingly out of reach on the heavy steel table. Uncle Carnistir's hearty mirth swiftly transformed to vexation at the merest hint of provocation, and the Ambarussa twins teased him by restricting his indulgence in treats, prompting him to tearfully summon his grandfather, who always came to his aid.
His grandfather mirrored his father in everything, though he smiled far less, except for their shared moments in the smithy—where smiles were abundant. Despite his small hands struggling to wield proper tools, his eagerness to join their crafting sessions led them to fashion a miniature silver hammer, so delicate it posed no risk of harm. Frustrated by his impossibility of crafting with the tiny hammer, he wept, clinging to his grandfather's legs. Indeed, he was a coddled child, the sole heir of the household.
And they were happy.
Yet those days had become distant memories and he slowly comprehended that pain walked alongside happiness as a constant shadow.
He matured into a glorious elf, possessing a rebellious spirit, born into power within a house of kings. Torment was no stranger to a Fëanorian such as he. The tumultuous tapestry of tragedies he traversed molded him—forging his steadfastness, resilience, pride, leadership, and ultimately, his solitude.
One by one, they fell, and when he realized it, he was all alone.