A/N: This is a oneshot based on a story that I am planing on writing sometime in the next 20 or so years. *rolls eyes* I debated the wisdom of posting a oneshot without a real back story, but decided to in the end. If that bothers you, don't read until a longer story with the same name appears in my stories. If you hate reading WIPs, then you'll have to wait even longer. Sorry.
I don't know how long I've been here. Many years have passed since Morgoth chained me; left me here. The pain of my never ending wounds has become a dull ache now, too many years have passed and I am now used to it. Just like I'm used to the silence. Just like I've accepted the fact that no one will ever find me. Over the years in silence, my thoughts have always been of my family. I have realized, mourned for and come to terms with most of the things I did by now. If I had only accepted my half-brothers instead of hated, I wouldn't be here. My father wouldn't be dead. My son's wouldn't be dead or suffering alone. My brother and his family wouldn't be dead. I want my father to come and release me. To tell me that all is forgiven and take me home. I want a second chance, though I know I do not deserve one.
Voices break into my morbid thoughts and my head snaps up. Someone has found this place. My heart contracts, then loosens. They are only children, most likely here on a dare. Children will not brave the dark and the dead to find me. Although I know it is hopeless, I try to
call out to them. Call to them to find me; to save me. My voice echoes and bounces off the dungeon walls and then returns to me. My own voice is working against me. Desperately, I fight the chains holding me, but it is hopeless. The voices fade away and all is silent once again. I allow my head to drop to my chest and I allow the tears to finally break through. Ada, will you not come for me? Will you leave me here to suffer for all eternity?
*Annoyance warning up ahead! You might want to stop reading*
Upon Taniquetil, Manwë looked to the east; stern and ever attendent. On his face was an expression of concern as if he could hear the calls of a broken soul; of broken souls. Unseen by the world he watched on and unseen by all, a slow tear rolled down his cheek. Years passed and he finally made his decision. "Send for Námo" was his whisper. Curufinwë Fëanäro had waited long enough...
