We cringed at the thought of Alqualonde because there, amid the quailing lamps of the wharfs and the fires of Feanáro's torches, some had seen. And we would not forget.
Northward, after, we marched with Nolofinwe, whom we took as king. But when the shadow Lord boomed his prophecy from the mountain, we bowed beneath its weight. Some host of us drew aside then, no longer wishful of exile. Deeply as it hurt us to rend our people, some of us simply could not leave these shores. And others of us, after Alqualonde, simply could not stay. Once we had all possessed will over our doom, but no longer.
And there at last by the shore, he and I embraced in farewell. My palms on either side of his dear face held him ever in my sight as he was in my mind, each time I closed my eyes after that endless night.
"I was among them, Mama. I ki..." his voice broke, and he could not continue. No matter: I would not hear it.
"No, speak no more, sweetling," I told him. "Keep your confessions, so I may ever see you as I did at your birth: my promise and blessing, never touched by darkness." My tears bathed his neck. "You are mine."
He watched me leave, I who had promised always to protect him: I left him. The north wind burned my face with frozen tears.
I retreated with the host of Arafinwe, trudged long back down the shore to Eldamar, guided by the fires of Alqualonde in the distance and by the map in my heart. We could all feel, as two edges of a wound growing wider, the pain of our separation. And I knew that this wound was mortal for our people, yet we hadn't the skill to salve it. I knew that everyone in our host felt agony equal to mine, yet shared pain was little balm.
Nienna came forth to receive us at Tirion, there in the darkness. She did not reproach us, not even the ones of us with red hands. (You could have come back, my son. See? You could have come home, even then.) She soothed us with forgiveness, but the streets of Tirion lay darkened still, and quiet. Despite the familiar trappings, it was not our home. And though we had eschewed the journey of our brethren, we found ourselves changed even so from the life we had known.
We saw the infant Isil rise, and I wondered if my child saw its same. However it shone in the uttermost East, I knew that I faced terrifying solitude, my lord lost among the ruins of Haven, my child to the ruin of our people. Was this pale eye meant as balm for my own endless night? If so, it failed. Even the warmth of Anar that followed could not melt the fire-born chill of my heart.
And ever has it been so.
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AN: Written for September 2008 ALEC ( .com/a_l_e_c/ ), where its title was "Sundered." Many thanks to the GoI/LC folks for the touch-ups, especially Darth, who got me straight on the Quenya variants of those tricksy elf names and had some feedback on the title. I think this piece reads a little pretentious, but I guess that's the way my mind's eye sees Tolkien's elves, sometimes.