Summary: This story is about the one time the longest Sindarin poem was ever performed, and about the man who composed it. There is not much known about him except that he lived at the Mouth of Sirion, nearing the end of the First Age.
For the first chapter I would like to thank jjjanimefan1, the rest is "unbeataed".

Any sort of feedback would be much appreciated, but most importantly: enjoy!

Narn i Chín Húrin

Dírhavel

All who now tread the white streets of Arvernien seemed fair and glowing. The children of Doriath and the refugees of Gondolin shined still, bearing either the first light of the Stars or the power of the Trees.
The strength of the Silmaril that was taken from Melkor, seemed to disperse among them, radiate through them, as all were strong in mind and in body. Even the Edain, the Secondborn, seemed to live longer and healthier here than at any other place of Arda.
And if a sense of fear, a strange foreboding of darkness yet to come, was sometimes upon them, they denied it even to themselves. All wished to believe the horrors were over, all wished to heal by the Sea and live happily and in peace.
All save the restless mariners who yearned for the mystery of the distant blue horizon and could not linger on these shores for long. Amongst them was Earendil, son of Tuor leading not only elves who were filled with longing towards Aman, but some of the pure-hearted men who befriended the grandson of Beren.

And thus the Sea that tied them to the Mouth of Sirion with its soft sounds, clear smell and promises of peace, also lured them away and kept them on their guard, for on the distant shores, nameless shadows still lurked.
Every now and then a ship would leave with the tide to seek adventures and glory. And the ones that returned told many tales indeed, tales of heroism and triumph.
News would arrive that Earendil and his companions, Erellont, Aerandir and Falathar had slain the beast of Morgoth, Ungoliant the Great. Tales would speak of their strength and victory and yet Tuor's son remained wise and humble.

From the mainland different news came day by day; news of death and loss and horror, news of illness and darkness, but not many heeded them, not many believed them. In the light of the Silmaril, all seemed to grow and prosper, glory seemed to last forever and darkness was but a distant memory. save for the ones who sailed the Sea, for the ones who sought that darkness in hope of victory and conquer.

One child of the Edain however, had no such desire in his heart. Here the calm sound of the waves crushing, the warmth of the day and gentleness of the night caressed his soul and he did not wish to leave. His heart was never gladdened when hearing of battles from afar and doubts ate him constantly. He had little faith in the glory of the Noldor and even less trust in the existing peace.
His mind looked not towards the future, but into the depth of history. Ever he sought knowledge of the time before his birth, ever he listened to the tales of the land, and especially tales of men before him.
When the mariners would arrive, he would listen to their stories, but share not their triumphant thoughts. At their welcoming feasts he often warned them that war was far from over, that the peace could not last. The mariners did not find his company to their liking, for instead of praising their success, he deemed their adventures foolish. He often reminded them that the Feanorians were still alive, that they had to be prepared to protect what's theirs should the brothers come to fulfill their oath.
They did not heed his words and soon started to avoid his company. The murder and loss were too recent of a memory in their heart and their soul refused to be reminded of them. They refused to accept the truth that the pain would arise yet again and that their sorrows would deepen still.

He did not mind the solitude, but the lack of respect and fear that all of them were headed towards a bitter end did grieve his soul. If not for Earendil himself, who still held him in high regard, he would not have had any company.
All his attention was absorbed by scrolls and dark stories and pain. He would rarely come out by daylight; rather he spent all his time inside his small house by the sea. How he occupied himself there, the people knew not. He was tired like old men, unfriendly, grumpy and cynical. He cared for none and had no family or friends or guests. If he talked to anyone, it was the Mariner, but he visited him rarely as the tumult of Earendil's house bothered him.
And though he was young, his soul aged fast, as if he were rushing towards an early end.