As I am sitting in a great hall, I can hear the songs being sung of ages long past, of wars so great they changed the world for ever. And I remember.
The minstrels, they sing of the battles, of valiant deeds. They describe the heroes of times long gone and praise those that perished. But they do not talk of the days after those great battles. They carefully evade singing on how those that survive have to pick up the bits and pieces that are left behind. They do not sing how they have to live with the losses.
But I remember. I remember how it was.
Wars were fought before I was born, wars will be fought after I am gone. Somehow it angers me that those who live today only hear the songs of victory, of the dead, while none hear of the sadness of those that survive. There is no heroism in war. There is only pain.
I will not bore you with naming all those that I lost, some were Kings, heroes they call them, others were what they would in hindsight at least consider sinful if not evil, and some were just ordinary people with extraordinary lives. Some of them were part of my family, others were not but they were perhaps nearer to my heart than many that were. Some of their tales are now part of the lays the bards sing, others are entirely unknown to history, as I am.
They were all important to me.
None are left now that remember them for whom they really were. Brothers before they were warriors, sons before they were heroes, fathers before they were ghosts. Larger than life they have become now. Too big for ordinary words, only suited for the minstrel's songs.
And I remain, alone. For who wants to hear that one of those heroes would always leave the doors of the cupboards open when he took something out? Whom can I tell how irrationally angry another got when I would disturb him when writing a letter, a task he found more difficult and terrifying than any battle? How a third would absentmindedly fiddle with a lock of his hair when he was worried, or how the focus that he could muster when he was playing music could make me stop and watch with awe and jealousy?
I cannot tell those stories. Those that love the songs would not accept them. There are none left who really knew the elves behind the heroes.
I cannot tell how I had to comfort their families. Nor can I tell how I had to make sure the harvest was not lost when returning weary and wounded from the battlefield. I cannot tell how I had to lead legion after legion, hundreds, thousands of men to their deaths over the ages in service of the King, to make sure that those devastated families would continue to survive, would remain free. How I questioned myself if it was worth the price, this freedom. I cannot tell anyone how it pained me each time when I had to go to another widow, another orphan to tell them the sorrowful news. If anything in my long life broke my faith, it was facing their tears. I cannot tell to anyone how often I cursed the Valar at those times. Though I sometimes wonder if they heard me and that this is why I am still alive and suffering while all others have gone.
Thus I silently remember and think of that what is best forgotten, for which the minstrels have no words. There is no heroism after war, only pain.