Message in the Hall of Fire.

It hurt. That message brought to us in the Hall of Fire, it tore a hole in my heart.

Never had I been good at dealing with messages concerning death. I had raged when my father told me Estarfin had been slain. (He was lying, but I knew that not at the time.) I had wanted to go out with the next patrol and slay all I could. I had outwardly accepted the news brought to me when I was riding with my cousins in a Wandering Company, that my father and my Prince were slain in Doriath.  But I had screamed and struck at walls with my fists, collapsing in a flood of tears when alone. And all those other times, during the wars, during the invasion of Eregion, each instance had run me through as if the knowledge were a knife. I wrapped my arms around my waist as if I had been knifed in the gut. I was trembling, ice cold, yet my heart was thundering in my chest. 

Not again! Not another slain.

Not Aearlinn of the Falathrim!

(This picture is of the time Danel and the others were still in Imladris, and so is earlier than Estarfin's previous picture of them in Numenstaya.)