He throws the chisel against the wall.
A person, not yet visible, partly dead, partly alive, glued to the stone,
trying to escape the rough material: a statue, still unfinished.
The night is quiet and peaceful, for the stars above the Hidden Valley are seldom veiled.
And yet, without peace he must linger in Imladris.
His mind is restless.
An old darkness is moving.
Nay, it is not the darkness of old, of Utumno, of Angamando,
nor the malice of Sauro the abhorred.
It is a movement in his own mind.
Movement is consequence, and result is action.
What we did, resulted in agony.
The fruits of spilled blood created an abyss, deeper than the encircling oceans,
silent like the paces of a cat and waiting, ever waiting to move again...
Ráolor looks at the half-finished statue, unable to continue the work.
Abandon it? Never.
But still: failing to continue.
He lowers the hammer.
Her face. The moment he saw her, he knew.
He remembered Norliriel's gaze on that day.
Six thousand years ago, Havens of Sirion.
How could he ever look into those eyes again?
Ai! He who failed to stop the carnage.
He who dropped his arms in order to wrestle with bare hands
with Lord Macalaurë 's vanguard –
his then closest friends.
In vain: terrible the Oath of Fëanáro was, and powerful the Doom of the Noldor.
How could he tell her – he who opposed his own Lord, he who broke his oath.
In vain: terrible were his wounds, and long and unbearably loud the silence after the battle.
He who lay there, buried under the dead, his mind benighted.
Ráolor beholds his hands.
The hands of a slayer.
Used to warfare and weaponry.
They remember how it felt smashing light doriathrim armour.
He remembers how they trembled, stained in blood, when everything was over.
Kinslayer...
Endless years have passed by. Andavë yá – long ago...
And yet, small things can cause great movement of mind.
Old woes can be awakened again.
Norliriel knows it. He remembers her reaction.
She perceived the short flash of horror in his eyes.
Sublime is her mind, ever graceful her bearing.
She who lived in bliss – in Ondolindë, fairest of cities in Valariandë of old.
It was taken from her – and the Mouths of Sirion were taken from her.
How could she ever forget?
How could she ever forgive?
A dark cloud shadows a friendship...
Ráolor takes the chisel again.
Never forget!
He raises the hammer.
At this instant, a strange picture shows up in his mind:
Standing before Námo, he is wearing a white raiment.
There are two blemishes on it: a red and a black one.
The Fëanturi never ask, for they know. One is for Doriath, one is for Sirion.
There will be no third blemish! This is all he thinks, all he feels at that very moment.
The hammer falls, striking the chisel.
Iron cuts through stone.
When a sculptor finds himself unable to use words anymore,
hammer and chisel become his words and his phrases.
Slowly, the statue becomes clear.
It shows two elves.
One of them is on his knees, raising both hands to the other as if asking forgiveness.
