Bad.
Bad bad bad.
I always knew we were, even before Alqualondë, even before the blood and betrayal and fire; and before Atar and Tyelkormo and Carnistir and Atarinkë and Ambarussa and I went crazy. Makalaurë is bad too, just not crazy. Not crazy enough that he never minded, not numb. I always knew I was bad, but now I have proof.
The silmarils know. They burn my flesh with their holy light and I am as a nocturnal creature before their brilliance. They hurt me so I do not have to - for penance, I suppose. I deserve to hurt. I should be dead, but being dead is easy. Everlasting Dark! Oh god.
Brothers all gone, except the Mighty Singer. The little songbird, the artist; maybe that is what kept him from this. Not that crazy.
My new sword is in my hands, but it is not what I said anymore. It's been an age since the mountain and my cousin, my brother, my hand. I am confused. Left-handed sword feels natural now, an extension of myself, but sharper and guiltless under the sun. I cannot blame the blade for Sirion and Doriath. I cannot blame anyone but them for them dying, either. My brothers deserved it.
I do not want this. Findekáno did me a disservice.
Do I deserve it too? Yes. I do not feel bad about what I have done, I am just bad. Makalaurë is eaten up, fading on the edge of the water and slipping out of time to pay in pain for every child, every woman and man and probably every orc, too. Since I am bad anyway, there is no point in repenting. He always was too empathetic.
Empathetic. Pathetic.
I could have been a poet. Is that what kept him from being like us?
He wants to pay for his crimes. I do not. I do not want my only little brother, my only sane brother, to hurt.
Sword and clatter of cutting steel. No, Maitimo! But I want to help him. I dare you to convince me not to help you, Makalaurë. I do.
He tries, little artist. Words can't stop this left-handed sword my Curufinwë (not Atar, ha ha) made when he was crazy but not too much. The metal slides in flesh, but do not mourn for the loss of this frail, constricting form and the pain that it brings. My head hurts. I slip in it as I stumble over his body.
Red.
Kinslayer four times over in the end; mercy killer, but it is still funny that in trying to save my Makalaurë I have become the worst of us. Or maybe I was always crazier.
Be at peace, songbird. No pain for you.
And since I am selfish and bad, none for me either.
I could have been a poet.