Disclaimer: All characters mentioned in this story belong to Tolkien. I own nothing.

I do not know how long I have wandered along the shore. My people, if I still have any right to count myself among them, have long since sailed into the West. To Aman. Ah, how I miss the Blessed Realm, that we forsook in our pride and folly!

I wonder if any of my kin that died here have yet been granted release from Namo's halls, to rejoin Life. Almost all my cousins, all six of my brothers and my hated-and-loved father were killed in our war against the Dark One, and the essentially fruitless attempts to regain the Silmarils. As more time has passed, I wonder if the struggle we put up for the sake of the holy jewels was worth the price we all paid in the end. For when my sole remaining brother and I did finally regain two of the Silmarils, at the end of the First Age, we found that we could not endure contact with them. It drove Maedhros into utter madness, and he slew himself, casting himself, and the silmaril he held, into a fiery chasm. Left alone, I inwardly cursed the jewel that I held. Never wishing to see again the bauble that had cost me everything, I cast it into Ulmo's domain, where it could no longer tempt anyone. I would change the events that brought me to those desperate straits, if I could, but none in Arda can alter the past.

As the Ages have passed, I have watched the world change drastically. The existence of the Eldar has passed into legend, and the Secondborn have long since lost the tales of their true origins. New religions have arisen, with new Powers, and the Valar have been forgotten. Middle-Earth is truly the realm of the Mortals, now, and I believe I am the only remaining Elda who has not faded, though I do not understand why. Long have I wished for an end to my suffering, even if that end is death. But Namo does not call, so I travel on, wearily. I hunt or fish for whatever sustenance I require, since I do not wish to interact with anyone. I often see mortals on the beaches, or nearby, but I am never approached. I have oft heard them refer to me as homeless. It is in fact, true, but they would never believe that I have been homeless since before the birth of their ancestors! Occasionally, as the years have passed, I have caught glimpses of young men in whom I see resemblance to my former fosterling, Elros. I never linger over long after these sightings- I do not wish to be reminded.

The loneliness of exile is painful, but it is only what I have earned. On nights when the grief and regret overwhelm me, I find solace in song, though I ensure I am never overheard. My only audience in these times is seabirds. I sing the Noldolante, the story of my people's downfall, for the most part. Yet sometimes, when memories cross my mind, I sing songs I wrote in Aman, before the madness took the Noldor, and I remember how glorious those times were, and always bitterly remember what fools we were-I was- to allow those times to be cast away. These thoughts sometimes lead to more hopeful ones, and I entertain ideas of building a vessel of some kind, setting sail into the west, and begging for forgiveness from the Valar for my crimes. To be permitted to return reunite with my poor, abandoned mother, to reconcile with my Uncles and cousins, to see again my living foster-son, Elrond... I shake my head.

I cannot allow these tempting thoughts to ensnare me. I lost my chance at forgiveness when I allowed Maedhros to persuade me to steal the remaining Silmarils from the Maia Eonwe's keeping. No matter how many times I have damned the Oath since, I cannot attempt to repent now. Were I to procure a vessel and set sail into the West, I have no doubt Osse would drag me under to drown, and I would have no chance of finding the Straight Road. Reaching Valinor by way of Mandos would bring me home, I supposed, but I doubt that I would be given a second chance in Life, considering my accursed actions in this life.

So, for better or for worse, this is my lot now: to wander the shores of Middle-Earth alone, with guilt my only companion, until Time itself draws to a close, and Dagor Dagorath comes. If I still live when those dark days come, I have resolved to do whatever I can to aid the forces of Light, whether that be aiding the Secondborn or my own people. Perhaps, when I have accomplished that, perhaps then I will be forgiven for my sins and crimes. I begin to sing the Noldolante again, as I continue my trek along the coast. Alone.

The End