In the dark light of memories

A string of forgotten songs, ashes of burned pages. They ring softly in my ears, like echoes of long ago. In them I hear the voices of friends long gone Their songs are my treasures They live in my heart Whether it's the rain or the wind, Their melodies through my window They tell of love They tell of happiness and sadness in my soul. A string of forgotten songs, ashes of burned pages. They remind me they remind me that time passes They may be forgotten by the world but they live in my heart They give me hope and strength They give me hope and strength So let these melodies go on Time can't erase them They'll stay with me forever A string of forgotten songs. The air was filled with a transparent sadness that made Feanaro feel a strange uneasiness that almost made him grit his teeth. He had always admired his second son's talent, but for the past few days, when Kano had suddenly returned from his trip to the city of Taleri, he had been singing nothing but sad odes. What had happened to him that he sang nothing but executioners? Kurufinwe put down the instrument he was twirling in his hands. It seemed that today Lore had decided that it was worth testing his patience to the limit without stopping for a moment. And there was no one at home to make him stop singing. The master tried to drown out the annoying music, to stop paying attention to it, but it only became more ingrained in his brain, filling his mind with bizarre, frightening images. Never before had Kurufinwe seen a sky so dark, so starless, so black with choking smoke, and a land so red with blood, littered with shards of bleached bones, swords, and rusty armor. Instead of rain, ash fell from the sky. Feanaro gasped and gripped the edge of the table, trying to quell the throbbing in his temples and calm his heart. He shouldn't have listened to that song. He couldn't understand what had happened to Kano in Alqualondae, why he had changed so much and started to sing such dark melodies. Curvo's heart clenched with pain and helplessness. He was ready to do his best to understand what was tormenting Macalaurë so much, if he had managed to become so sarcastic and withdrawn. The Master decided to discuss everything with his son. He wanted to find out what was bothering him. Kano had always seemed to be the most impressionable and sensitive of the elves. Creative by nature, often lost in his own thoughts, more passionate about music than anything else. And at the same time the most secretive, preferring to share his secrets with his brothers and cousins rather than his parents, and he had recently become very distant from his father. All the sons had become more and more distant, except perhaps his Atarinkae, but even he had other interests now: his own family and little Telperinkvar, the family favorite. Maybe that was also his fault? But Macalaurë... Feanaro's thoughts returned to Kano. His emotional state bothered him as much as his appearance. He seemed to have grown taller since their last meeting, but at the same time painfully pale, with silver glimmering in his dark hair. Feanaro's hands seemed more accustomed to sword and bow than to the strings of his favorite harp. They were alone at home, and perhaps this time he would answer some questions for him. As soon as their eyes met, he felt like a young and naughty child who had interfered where he shouldn't have. He wanted to make excuses, to try to defend himself, to avoid the overwhelming and all-encompassing judgment, and many other things Kurvo could not understand. He could barely make sense of what Kanafinwe was feeling: it was as if he had come from another time, another world. Straight out of the pages of macabre legends and tales from the shores of Lake Kuivienen and the Great Campaign, which the master had never quite believed. Here in safe Valinor, all those threats seemed like distant horror stories Finwë had told at bedtime when he was a boy. Putting his tools in relative order, Feanaro mustered the courage to speak to his son after all. It was so unlike him! Wasn't the first-born son of the High King of the Noldor known for his determination and stubbornness? Lately, doubts had often arisen in his soul, and there had been growing discord in his family, both with Nerdanel, his sons, his father, and eventually with his siblings. Had there always been such animosity between them? He thought about how things had changed lately. But now everyone went his own way, each with his own ambitions and interests. Feanaro remembered how young and determined he had been. He had always strived for perfection and had been willing to make any sacrifice to achieve his goal. But as the years passed, he began to realize that his determination and stubbornness could hurt and destroy what he was trying so hard to preserve, each time trying to ignore all those conflicting and bitter thoughts. A cool breeze blew through his already disheveled hair as he stepped out of the workshop. Kurufinwe paused at the threshold, wondering where Kano might be now. There were faint echoes of music in the air, conjuring up notes of something bright with sparks of fragile hope in the unbroken darkness. - Ah, Kano! What happened to you? - muttered the master as he decided to make his way to his room in the main house. He knocked on the door of Macalaurë's room, calling softly. But there was only ringing silence. Naro tried again, but again there was no answer. Carefully, he opened the door and looked inside. The atmosphere hadn't changed much: still the same piles of papers on the desk, clothes not too neatly folded, as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere. But something caught his eye. On the floor, bouncing on the walls, were the shards of a broken hand mirror with dried drops of blood on it. The Master shuddered, a shiver ran down his spine, and he looked at his distorted reflection with its network of cracks, stained brown, blackened in the air. Curvo grinned crookedly at his distorted doppelganger. That was how he sometimes felt, or rather how some of the Eldar saw him. After all, he had been abandoned by his own mother! Something he would never do to his own family. He wanted to believe that! Ha! Self-exploration was not a trait of his, but after every time he listened to Lore's music, it seemed to... it brought out some obscure feelings in him, as if it drew something out of the depths of his soul that he had been hiding for centuries. Why on earth should Kano be the only one to do this? Kurufinwe broke from staring at the broken mirror, tried to smooth back with his hand the disheveled post-work hair that climbed into his eyes, and took another look around his son's room. The only change that still caught his eye was the palantir box in the most prominent place. The Master walked over to it and carefully opened it. Strange, why would Laura need a vision stone? In his daily life, he rarely used it unless absolutely necessary. In the dark depths of the slow, heavy swirl of white veins that beckoned to the eye, black, formless shadows flickered now and then, framed by the glow of living red fire. Now and then, they were replaced by distant steep banks, the waves crashing with hiss and fury against the ancient, sharp rocks. Then Feanaro saw the wild, impenetrable, mouldy forests, so different from the forests of Aman. It was as if he could feel the decay and corruption emanating from the teeming swamps. In the distance stretched unknown, mysterious lands, and on the horizon loomed the ghostly snow-capped mountains, hidden in the gloom of the darkest night. Curvo felt his heart slowly fill with awe and wonder at these unfamiliar places. He was used to the beauty and light of Aman, and these dark lands seemed strange and hostile. But at the same time, there was an appealing power that made him want to explore, understand, and master this mysterious world, free of the Valar. Feanaro was sure, knew, that he had to go forward, deep into this mystical darkness of the night, to uncover all its secrets and unravel its mysteries. For it was not only horrors and shadows that the palantir revealed to him. He also saw a crystal-clear, bottomless black sky, in the depths of which sparkled and shimmered unusually bright stars. And a beautiful, clear lake with rippling reflections of starlight. The melodious singing of the relatives spread along the shore, filling the air with a bizarre harmony. Everything around them seemed so unreal and magical, in the underground caverns of an unknown elven city. Kurufinwe was mesmerized by the clatter of tools, the heat of the forges, the shine of metals and gems, and the skill of the lower creatures. He watched eagerly as the intricate patterns were twisted... it seemed that this place would always be in his soul, leaving a mark on him. What was it like there, far from the Valar, without the light of Aman, but with the ever-present threat of the dark forces? Deep inside, Naro knew that this was their old home, the one his father and the others had chosen to leave behind and follow to Valinor. Had they been right then? Would he and his children have been born? And would he have achieved what he had now? Kurufinwe removed his hand from the palantir and ran his fingertips over it one last time. Only now did he notice that the angle of the light had changed considerably. How long had it been since the sight stone had attracted his attention? Why did Kano need a palantir? The master slammed the lid and left the room. What was the point of asking himself these questions when they could be asked of Macalaurë!