Author's note: Thanks to Scarlett for translating, Dawn Felagund for beta reading and Darth Fingon for suggesting a Telerin name.
Of course, Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien.
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We're walking north. Helcaraxë is still far away. We have a long, endless march ahead of us. Full with peril. But I do not think about the future, I do not think ahead.
I think of her. I see her eyes before I fall asleep. Her face invades my dreams. I can hear her voice in the whisper of the wind. And I wonder – will I forget her someday? Or will every day be filled with memory?
When I close my eyes I can see her quite clearly, as if she were standing in front of me. Young as a flower that has just began to blossom. Her silver, wavy hair reaching her waist. Her face soft, lovely, as if an artist sculpted it. Her eyes the colour of the night sky, so deeply blue they would turn purple in the light of fire.
I dreamt of her last night. And the night before. And the night before that. Every time I remember her, it's as if a knife is ripping my heart apart and some invisible hand is suffocating me, it won't let me breathe. I lower my eyes to the ground, not wanting anyone to see my tears. I don't want them to think I'm weak. But as days go by, I wonder if it matters what anyone thinks anymore.
I wish I could turn back time. I would give anything to be able to erase the past and see her smile. But now I'm on my way to Middle-earth and I'm never coming back. Damned, as everyone travelling with me. Tainted with crime and blood.
Elláriel. How many times have I whispered her name since we've departed? Quietly, so quietly that it melted with the night shadows in which I hide. I imagine her standing in the wind while her hair flutters like a silver waterfall; walking on the beach barefoot, her feet sinking into the damp sand while the sea washes over them; looking up towards the sky and greeting seagulls with a smile.
We're stopping; it's time for a rest. But I don't want to go to sleep, I'm afraid of sleep. I'm afraid I'll see her in my sleep again. Tomorrow will be another day, but it won't bring anything new and the night won't take away the past; the memories will still be here. And as I watch the stars, distant and cold, I think about the morning. My dreams are most intense just before morning. But some nights – not often – there are no dreams. I wish I could remain forever waking from one of those nights: in those few short moments in which my mind is still empty, in which I haven't remembered the past yet.
I am a murderer. I close my eyes and the images from that terrible, bloody night come on their own, unwanted, they won't go away. Alqualondë. Screaming. Fighting. Sound of steel. Death. I rush to the harbour with a sword in my hand. In a fraction of a second I see movement in an unlit back alley. A few dark shadows race towards me. In a flash I turn and raise my sword to defend myself and lower it on the first figure that dives out of the darkness towards me. But...
But as my sword stabs my assailant, I realize in horror that it's not the enemy attacking me, but three girls running away from the fighting towards the security of their homes. Petrified, I watch the crimson stain getting wider and soaking her white dress. I extend my hand as if I could turn back time with that movement and stop the blood that is taking the life out of her. The girl stumbles and another catches her as she falls, crying her name out. I cannot move, my arm starts to shake and the blade drops on stony ground with a sharp clatter. A mute cry of agony tears through my body. NO!!!
In that moment, I wished one of her own, one of the Teleri, would come and hack me where I stand. But friends who had been running with me towards the docks came back for me and, wasting no time to ask why I stopped, dragged me away with them. The last thing I saw, as I looked behind, was the light in her blue eyes, fading.
I wish I'd never heard Fëanor's poisonous words that had blinded me; that they hadn't bewitched me and turned me into a murderer; that they hadn't defiled my hands; and, most of all, that I could turn back time. But I can't. I must move on, knowing that every day in front of me is just a part of a well deserved punishment; death would be a relief, a salvation I do not deserve. I have to live with what I've done, every minute, every hour, each and every day. I don't know what awaits me or how long I'm going to live. But I do know I'll remember her as long as there's enough strength in me to draw my last breath.