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An arrow shooting straight to find its mark: dashes the Ñoldorin prince. Running up the slopes of slippery ice, hacking and killing as he passes by. Orc upon orc falls without a sound, leaving strakes of black across the ground.
High commander he was named, though none after him came. His wrathful sword flashes with a silver sheen. Deadly he is, though he's alone. And the enemy closes in, sundering him from his kin.
Aid shan't come for this prince, a warrior marred by teeth of lynx. Spear scars he carries as well; like a shooting star his doom befell.
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“I shall lead our people,” Ñolofinwë said.
“Will you?” Anairë replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. He sounded more like his half-brother than ever else. “Then you shall go alone.”
“You could rule as Queen...”
“There shall never be another Queen of the Ñoldor.”
Her voice was hard and unforgiving, and she hurt to see his pained expression. But he had chosen the love for the flame above all reason.
“Findekáno urges me.”
“If thou shall not have a will of thine own, thou shall ever be led by the will of others.”
There were no more goodbyes left for them.
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She runs as she turns, and she laughs as she leaps. The wind blows her braids, swinging in a sweep. No one stays her hand, for Írissë she is called: the fastest runner in the land. She dives and she swims, she hunts and she kills. There is no one whose shoes she could not fill.
Deadly is her bow, swift flies her arrow. She bows to thank the lord of the woods who took the shape of a sparrow. Írissë, Írissë — White Lady and lady of none. There can be no settling down, for her deeds will be known.
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His fingers whiten with his grip. Neither sword nor spear he holds but the windowsill of Barad Eithel’s highest tower. Fingolfin he is in these lands, and Fingolfin he shall cease to be henceforth. No more King, no more unwanted relative, no more unwitting ally. Enough.
All his children but one has forsaken him, and so shall he spare this desperate living. Follow Fëanáro, yes, if not for glory, then for ruin — the same he sees flaring in the horizon. Then, he knows his time has come. Armed and ready he gallops, without looking back, without goodbyes.
It is enough.
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The light of the stars shall be bound to your brow, they said. You shall carry it forth, lighten the Dark, banish evil to the Void. To the Door of Night you must travel every day henceforth. Is there no choice, he had asked. None and none.
This is the price; your inheritance earned in the blood of your kind. He had not asked for this. He never expected to be their liberator — they, who had thrice murdered his people! They, who had killed and dwindled the light of his sire’s House!
Jailor of stars… What prize he had earned!
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Think not of me when I’m gone, dear ones. Think not of the lost hours laying in the sun, flowers in our heads and the sweet scent of Spring. Think not that the river shall miss me, for its waters are swift, and I am as rapidly forgotten.
Think not of what could have been, of “ifs” and “if not’s”. Think nothing of the passing of time, for pass it must, ere shall my spirit be mended. Think nothing of it, my loves.
Think not that I shall miss you — for, if you do, I may not endure the parting.