Four Times Nelyo by Robinka

The wind carries the skull-squeezing hiss of boiling water and the fluttering laments of the sails, once white, that are rapidly losing their battle. The waves and flames, like greedy hands, crash proud masts and pull them beneath the roaring hell, into the calm abyss.

Where I stand, at the point of no return, frozen by the heat blazing straight in my face, I can feel their fierceness, yet no word of regret slips out between my clenched teeth. The smoke stings my eyes; I swallow the tears that can soothe neither my scorched throat nor my spirit on fire.

I owe and own nothing, even my life, of which I was in charge for as long as I care to remember. Twilight wreathes me as I look around and try to learn to breathe fresh air again.

They claim I discarded what was not mine. How can they be right? This inheritance of blood that belonged solely to me, only I could give away freely, without remorse, to atone for the hard truth. They yell at me that I provoked anarchy heedless of their protests.

I am dispossessed, and now I wonder whether I will still possess their hearts.

With my brothers, allies, and desires gone, I embrace the scorching heart of Arda and hold it close to my own, for within its ever-blazing core I seek hope and deliverance. I let it burn away my remorse and the bitter remembrance of my grave and unpardonable deeds. As my exhausted, forever-marred body turns to ashes, I feel the power that rekindles my spirit and raises it to a sublime state of purification and forgiveness.

Have no fear, stranger passing by. Dry your eyes. The hissing flames cannot harm me. Nothing is more elemental to the son of a self-consumed fire.

There are many things that have remained the same, just as I remember them. Especially in Valinor, where time is of no importance and the memories of my kind are cherished for elsewhere we are only ghosts of the distant past. The softness of the grass underneath my palms, the mellow light of the early afternoon, the rich taste of the wine, and the mischievous glint in Fingon's eyes when I look upon him – everything seems the same, though the tingling in my right hand is somewhat new to me.

Nothing is forgotten – even I, one of the damned.