I own nothing.
It is dark outside, but it has been dark for untold ages now, and the longing for a light stronger than that of torch or candle has eased to a dull ache in Elemmírë's heart. No longer does it scream like a burning brand, or a bird at the slaughterhouse.
What do I remember? Silver and gold light intermingling, bright and beautiful, and what to say of them? What does Elemmírë Lelyë of the Vanyar say?
She taps her fingers against the table, runs her opposite hand through her tangle of blonde curls. The candle flickers, and Elemmírë draws her hands away to cup the flame, almost hoping to be burned. She is trying to write a song, and the pain of flame upon her skin would perhaps provide enough of a jolt to send inspiration to her. Elemmírë has often found pain to be a catalyst for inspiration.
The Trees, withering, dying.
Finwë, slain in Formenos.
The Oath.
The blood spilled at Alqualondë.
Hours come and go, or perhaps it is years, for all that Elemmírë knows in this fathomless dark. Her brothers come into the room and say that their parents wish to speak with her, but she waves them away. Her sister comes next, and Elemmírë snaps at her to leave, I'm busy, Laurien, can't you see that?
The Noldorin King, slain by the fallen Vala. His first son, his second son, and all of their children, fighting, killing, shedding the blood of the Swan-Elves in their ships. Elemmírë imagines them, imagines one she knew well (or thought she did), and wonders at the gentle minstrel, who was able to hide his fierceness so well. How swift was your fall, my young friend.
Elemmírë casts her eyes out the window (Mother says she should close the curtains, there's nothing to see outside, and Elemmírë sometimes wishes she had) and sees darkness. Nothing but darkness, broken by torches. Shadows moving in the darkness, the shapes of Elves.
She growls in frustration, throws down her quill (upsetting the inkwell in the process), and rakes her palm across the candle flame.
Pain erupts in her long palm as a red stripe wells up on her skin. The pain seeps up her arm, and Elemmírë remembers with renewed freshness the pain she had felt before. Elemmírë recalls her pain, unlocks her sorrow. At last, she has words in her mind, with which to write the lyrics of the requiem.
(The words are shakily written, and in places barely legible, but when she takes up her lute and sings, all who hear her weep. Pain is the antidote to forgetfulness, she says.)