He could smell the scent of burning flesh as his body caught, but he could barely feel the heat of the fire as it raced up his once glorious hair, nor feel pain as his skin charred. He saw nothing; thankfully, he closed his eyes to welcome oblivion. His spirit fled his body just before he smashed into the jagged rocks at the bottom of the cleft. Amongst the stones there grew a proud flower, tall and straight amongst the twisted weeds, but fire consumed it and it withered. But next to it there was another flower, miraculously untouched by the flames. His burnt hand came to rest, crushing it. For there would be no more Golden Flowers, and no more golden lords to rule over them. Vanwa Aennoio vanwa. Laurëlótë cántana. Emmë nyénuvar lin laurëlótë. But no number of tears can quench fire.