The She-Elf.

Diary of Rothlung Blacktowers

16th & 17th of Winterfilth, The She-Elf Reckoning

16th of Winterfilth

Even now, as I write, the anger stirs again beneath my ribs.

The evening had begun in peace. Warmth, laughter, and the smell of Benjenn’s honey-cake in the air. For a time I even felt... content. My hands worked my old armour once more — blackened steel from another life, a simple relic of who I was, of what I had thought lost. It felt right to tend to it again. Like breathing after the battle was done.

Then she spoke.
The she-elf.

Her words were smooth and careful, polished by centuries of speaking above others. She spoke of Gondolin and its fall, of grief older than the bones of our forefathers. Perhaps she meant no harm, yet her voice carried that tone I cannot, no WILL not abide — that distant pity, the kind those bloody firstborn wear like a crown.

I cant recall rising. Only the sound of my gauntlet striking the table, and the words spilling from my mouth before I could stop them. I asked her what it was like — to watch us die. To live forever and look down upon our ashes. To call our suffering beautiful, or fleeting, or whatever word suits their poetry.

She answered. And for a moment even I saw truth in her eyes — a pain that ran deep, older than my bloodline. She spoke of kingdoms fallen, of loved ones lost, of wounds that time itself could not mend. And still I could not stop, I would not stop...they did not deserve it!

Because I have seen what her kind do. I have seen them turn away from men crying for help. I have watched them abandon us, watched as men whimpered like dying dogs at their turn of the cheek, held the fallen as I called for their aid, I have felt their silence like a blade to the heart. Their arrows striking me and my men along with out foe. They deserve no pity, no mercy or remorse, curse them...curse all of them until the end of our tire.

Benjenn tried to calm me — good soul that he is — but reason holds no sway once anger finds its mark. I spat my last words, swore that she might trust my shield though never my heart, and left before the fire swallowed me whole. it is only by his trust in them I even allow my shield to guard them...he'll know...he'll feel how they will abandon us in time.

Now I sit beneath a pale sky, alone with the stink of smoke and steel. Staring at the worthless fire at my feet. My armour lies packed away, no cleaner than when I began. My hands tremble. Not from rage now, but something colder. Regret, perhaps. Or grief.

Was I right to speak? Or have I simply bared the worst of myself before those who might have called me friend?

Her words still echo — “Eternal life does not come with eternal happiness.”
Perhaps that much is true. Perhaps none are free of sorrow, no matter their span of years.

But forgiveness does not come so easily. Not yet. Not ever. Not for their kind.

By bone or by blood, I will walk this road,
though it take me through the fire once more.

17th of Winterfilth

I have kept to myself. The company goes about their tasks — mending gear, sharpening blades, speaking little of what happened. Yet I see the looks. The quiet pity of those who believe they understand. Perhaps they do.

I tell myself I care not. But when the laughter fades and the night grows still, I hear my own words again, and they taste of iron and flame.

And I see her face — calm, distant, unreadable. She spoke of grief and loss as though reciting a song long memorised. Of pain so vast it has no end. But what do they know of endings? What do they know of holding a friend as the light leaves his eyes, and knowing he will never rise again?

They call death a gift.
A gift!

What gift leaves you broken and hollow before your bones grow cold? What mercy lies in the knowing that all you love will fade while they remain untouched by time?

Benjenn would say I am wrong — that all life feeds the hive, that every sorrow serves a purpose. He means it, too. A better man than I’ll ever be. I'll trust him, he has earned that much...

For I was not made for hives, nor for sweetness. I was made for war, and loss, and the long silence after. My brothers are gone. My oaths still stands. My hands still remember the weight of their blood.

I told her she might trust my shield, and I meant it. Duty I can keep. But my heart? That remains my own, and she shall never have it.

Let her kind sing their silver songs beneath their shining trees.
I will drink in the dark, and remember why men were made to die.

We burn quick, but we burn true.

Forgive me Hardoleth of the Bloody Dawn, for I know not if my strengt will see me to the end, but may I die forgotten...I've held my Oath, ive carrier our pain as long as my bones would take me.