Chapter Text
[p1] What am I to say? This chapter starts with the best, and crawls down to the worst.
[p4] Whoever wrote this was almost too kind, but yes. The phrasing of Maedhros's letter had been, at least, diplomatic. Not that it absolves us of anything.
There are no words— even my death would not be enough of a comment, far from it. (And I would not put this on you, I'm afraid that you'd worry, you had always pitied the vilest of creatures, spiders lacking legs, drying worms and other filth. So there is a risk that you would mourn me, and I will not put this upon you. And regardless, I shall not, no unless it could change anything. And it cannot.)
There is no amount of pain that can answer that.
And yet, the story ends well. It always does, all the ages end well eventually. I am glad— no, that is a lie. I try to be glad for all the good things that happen to the world. I would never wish for anyone else to end up like us.
Though Thauron being dead, or whatever has befallen him, is deeply satisfying. When I say "anyone else", I mean anyone among the Children of Eru — which, honestly, is a title I no longer deserve.
And some Maiar, who I feel almost should be included in this, via familial or friendly bonds — or via wearing themselves more raggedly than some Men even, or being more insufferable— I digress again, to avoid the matter. Regardless, I hold your friend in high respect, and I am saying that not only because you will, I think, show him these writings.
[p7] That you kept this sentence in here— I am at loss of words. Thank you, but this is far from enough of a reply.
And if you — if this seems factual to you, I wholly agree.
How insane, how undeserved it was. I would— I would rip my heart out for either of you if I could, but my heart is chained, and who can cut it free? Hearts are difficult things, more difficult than hands.
I talk and talk and words are cheap, and I had talked much before and then— I kept going back into the Darkness.
And now you are finally leaving for home, and he's gone.
(To be honest, I would rip out my heart just to get rid of this chain. I hate it, it's just a couple of words as some say, but I loathe it more than I loathe Morgoth himself. He is, at least, gone. And it is just asleep.)
[p16] Those words are beautiful. If it wasn't an affront to both Eonwë and your father, I'd put them to music. Please, give Eonwë my compliments at some point, he is a better poet that I thought, and I did think of him highly already. (Or don't if you think he'd be too offended.)
[p29] I am so glad that you will be joined with them soon. All of you deserve it.
[p35] I said it in a less poetic way, but this phrasing is definitely more appropriate to be read by children and those strange little Men who are in theory not children, but seem no less innocent than them. (I am aware what some of them have done, yes. Still I am quite certain they do not know some of the words that had been used in our conversation that night.)
Wait. How did this conversation end up in the book? I did not relate it to anyone.
…I had been sure you were both asleep. I would not use such words in front of children, regardless of— everything.
The Star of High Hope… What a fitting name. Hope, blind hope against all odds and reason, but not for us, it would burn us— maybe still I should call it hope, because hope is supposed to be blind, but after all we had done— and yet, it still shines. And your little Estel is a king now, and I know you would say that there is more hope than grief in everything that came with it — even for you personally, not just for the Men and their kingdom — and I will not call you unwise or naive for this.
I will call you better than I can ever hope to be. Because you are. It shows in this and in many other things. Despite all the horrors of First Age, and Second, and the recent ones, you kept hoping — and you won. This is how it is, how it should be.
And yet, I cannot look at the Star of Hope and not feel the urge for murder.
I wish I could say something less painful to you — but this is what I am. And maybe knowing what I am will help you.
This is what I am, even when it's sleeping in the back of my head, as it is for most of the time. I cannot kill it, I tried, and nothing worked, I keep trying and nothing can kill it. You can't kill darkness, it keeps eating the light and spewing it back as more shadows.
[p44] This suggests that we were called by Eonwë too, but we knew well that his "all the Elves" didn't include us. We'd been banished for the Oath and how could this have changed?
The Valar could not remove it, this at least should be obvious to everyone. They cannot.
[p45] All right. Technically Eonwë did say that. But still, it seemed to make no sense.
[p48] Maybe it should be explicitly noted that Maedhros's greatest fear was not losing the jewels, but Manwë treating him the same as Morgoth had. Weren't they, after all, brothers? It feels absurd now —is absurd — but then, with the terror in his eyes, and the land itself breaking all around and reminding us how mighty the Valar are, it seemed a very rational concern.
[p51] This also was an issue we couldn't solve. It sounds nonsensical, maybe, so let me explain.
It was about the legitimacy, not about the loudness. We didn't, of course, assume that Ilúvatar was unable to hear us. But why would He want to?
Even the stars seemed so distant, and the brightest of them would burn us (we didn't know it yet, but I think that out hearts had always known). Manwë and Varda had abandoned us two, and they had been much closer once, the Valar were always close to the Eldar, even the book mentions it, we were not Men — and Men have lost all they had anyway, or so it is said — what could we have hoped for?
We had sworn our Oath and that was it. The question was only how to minimize the harm done to others — and we failed even in this.
[p61 the last] You phrased it so well (I assume it was you who wrote the last part. It sounds like you.)
Here end both the First Age and my letter (as I will not comment on the later Ages for the reason of not enough knowledge of the events. I was not with Elros and his descendants when they needed someone who could warn them on the dangers of pride and ignoring the Valar; neither was I with Tyelpe when there was an opportunity to fight someone who deserved it, I was not with him the same as I had not been with Maedhros earlier; nor was I even with your friends when they fought against Thauron. I am a coward.)
Here it ends, in hope and in sorrow.
And later the hope turned to blood and grief, and then the world was changed, and later the hope splintered into tiny pieces of a broken kingdom, and yet you rekindled it.
And now the world is left for Men and maybe they'll do better than we had.
I keep dreaming of you and your— your son-in-law, I suppose. Or maybe your great-grandfather. It's hard to tell. I wake up in tears and can't remember why (but those aren't tears of terror or despair, do not worry, and anyway as I have said, I posses no gift of foresight).
Anyway here it ends, resolving to a sixth, always to a sixth, never a proper ending, but how could there be one? How could all the noise we made ever resolve? Music has rules and so does Fate, and those rules cannot be ignored or bent.
And yet, it is said that the world changes for the better, not only diminishes. How? Even disregarding me — the last remnant of the darkness of an Age long gone — how is the world going to heal if every Age turns to evil and sorrow? Maybe there was an answer to it in the texts that have been burned in Sirion (whether burned by us with the city, or by those who should have kept the knowledge safe), but even so, now it only ash remains, buried deep under the water and nobody on this side of the Sea remembers.
And yet, the Star of Hope shines and somehow the world will heal eventually.
I wish I could disappear, but those cursed chains keep me even from fading, it seems, so the best I can do is hide and pretend to be gone.
I wish there was a way— But I can see none. Not even to bring you, or others, any peace.
I would walk a thousand miles; I would walk all around the lands, I would wait another three Ages, or until the End itself — and yet it would not be enough. Nothing can be enough.
The Fate is inescapable and our Oath is irrevocable. Gil Estel shines, but not for me.
So here it ends. The book which began with academic discussions of concepts beyond our understanding, ends in grief and questions with no answer.
And yet, I will keep walking, and singing, and dreaming, and weeping. And dare I say "hoping"? I said so many unforgivable things already, why not add yet another?
So, hoping, maybe. Even though it feels to my heart the same as the Silmaril felt to my hand. No, it I could at least see. The hope is blind — and of course, how could it not be blind when Darkness has swallowed me long ago? I cannot see, I only stumble around in pitch blackness, in a cell that I know to be locked, seeking for a way out among the corpses of those I murdered and lost.
I feel like I know you somewhat, and that you felt guilty for not being able to help me. Please, forgive yourself if you haven't yet. I do forgive you. I have forgiven you years ago already.
Yes I had hoped, at some earlier point, that you may solve it all somehow. How? I have no idea, but your grandparents had managed to do the impossible, so… (I would not mention it even now, but I feel that you know, that you have always known it.) I apologize. It was too heavy a burden even for an adult, and you were just a child, and yet, thankfully, you came out unbroken. Not due to anything I did. I hope that you are at peace now. I am glad that you finally agreed to sail. I dare to read this as a sign that you have eventually healed from what I had put onto you.
I know that what I did is impossible to forgive, but please, at least, forget me.
Be well.
I love you.
Makalaurë Kanafinwë Fëanárion