In the maelstrom of memories and regret that is my life, there has never been space for tenderness. The sword does not stop to think of love before it stikes. The hammer pauses not to pity the steel before it falls. And since the breaking of Beleriand I have given way to none, slowed for none, turned back for none.
Nor pity nor love nor fond memory of the past can move me from my course. I will not rest until the Black Foe and his servants are driven from these shores. I will not rest until I find the one who slew my father and brother and give him a taste of my revenge. I am an Exile: unforgiven, unloved, forgotten. Yet I have come through flame and death and still I live; weary but not overcome, broken but unbowed.
Ever have the hammer and anvil been my anchor. When night falls upon my mind, the glow of the forge drives away the impending madness. There is a strange satisfaction in the smithing itself; not that I do not take pride in the finished work, but the means is far more beloved to me than the end.
To fight; to take up sword and spear against the foe; to stand resolute beside one's comrades in arms as waves of orcs dash against the ranks like waves against stone; I can do no less when the Enemy has taken from me all I ever loved. I think of Sirion, and Menegroth, and Alqualondë before I was born, and the memory of my deeds and the deeds of my forebears fills me with bitterness and regret. There was nothing to be gained from such bloodshed, and much to be lost - and so we lost all for an Oath we could never fulfill.
Long have I steeled myself against the whispers inside my head that mock, and threaten, and berate me for the past. It is easier not to feel at all, and set bars of steel about my heart that it may never break again. Easier by far to project indifference, sarcasm, and cruelty than to lose oneself in the void of regret. So long have I lived in the darkness - it is strange that I should be drawn toward the light even now.
A light - a star from the West - constant reminder of the blood we shed in vain. A Silmaril ever out of reach, gleaming like a mockery of the misdeeds of the Noldor and my own failings. The Sindar call it Gil-Estel, the Star of Hope, but I name it Él-Ambar, the Star of Doom. For the jewels three which we sought shall never be found until Arda be broken and remade.
And yet - another light has now invaded my life, a light which I neither sought nor desired. Strange how some things can be forgotten, and the weight of the past is lessened when borne in company. Stranger still the feeling that I have found a friend in this Annunghil - as unexpected as a star which springs forth in absolute darkness. Aptly named indeed, Star of the West, though his company is both welcome and frustrating. If you had asked me in my youth whether I would have befriended a follower of Nolofinwë and a soldier of Ondolindë, I would have responded with a sneer and several curses. Yet now I begin to realise such prejudice is folly, and pride is ill-suited to the last remnants of the Noldor upon these shores. We must rally together under one banner and fight to the last; for where would we be if divided against the Enemy who seeks to divide us?
