The Final Entry

 The sky glows strangely tonight. A color that does not belong to it. Its not from starlight, nor sunrise, nor is it from the moon. There’s this still quiet across the plain. The silence is thick as if waiting for something to break. I am writing because I remember too much, and the memory will not leave me. Perhaps this is what it means to be old among our people but not in years, instead in mind.

I remember the Trees as if it were yesterday. 

I was young when they died, but what is considered “young” for us? Maybe younger is really a word for not having as much wisdom. I was not supposed to be here. I’ve stated before that I am a witness and not a warrior. I joined, not out of loyalty or vengeance, but because the stillness that followed the death of the trees was too much to bear. Fingolfin offered motion. Purpose. Even if it was madness. Maybe we all needed a lie to lean on. He only ever looks at the fire ahead, and there is one now. I feel it. 

Morgoth has unleashed something unnatural. There is a heat roaming the earth. The birds have stopped singing. A scout passed by our camp muttering of flameing rivers 

I am still not a warrior. I carry no sword. I hold on only to memory.

But still, I will not flee. Because even if the fire takes us, I was there when the Light lived. I saw it touch water, leaves, and skin. I saw the beauty of the world before the first death. That is something Morgoth can never take from me.

If you find this, know that I was afraid.

But I stayed.

Because someone must remember what the dark is not.