It is strange.
There are times when I see visions of something I can only think is what could have been. I see the walls of Gondolin burning. I see the ash of the funeral pyre of the House of Elwë dust the southern plains.
Or perhaps these may still yet come to be truth, and our doom has only been a little delayed, Morgoth's victory put off a while. I do not know. Irissë's son rides with Caranthir now. The truth is always that I do not know what will become of us.
My husband and I leave Doriath because it is time to move on. Crossing over the mountains into Eregion, where Tyelperinquar is said to dwell, working his own hungry fires.
The Enemy did attack, sooner than I could have said. The host of Doriath was still miles away when battle was joined, and that tale has been told elsewhere – the fall of Fingon High King and the breaking of the alliance Maedhros worked so hard to beat into being.
There is one curious dream I remember. I don't know if it should give me hope or sorrow. I do sense that it is true.
After the battle they called Unnumbered Tears, when the dust settled and the ash cleared, as they searched for the bodies of their dead, they found them.
They fought together and fell together, and lay side by side, her head resting on his shoulder where she'd fallen, the fingers of their hands intertwined between them.
The grieving was long, and bitter, and loud, but I believe it was lost to them. They were running in the green hills of some hereafter, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing only for each other; full of joy and youth and life.
