Fragments discarded by Pengolodh by AdmirableMonster  

She died

She became a bird

The light went out of the hill the cottage the tower. 

The Silmaril was taken

Elwing of Doriath was the heart of the Havens of Sirion.  When the refugees from Gondolin trooped weary into that place, the first thing we they saw was the light of the Silmaril, shining white and kind across a muddy dirt road. She was young and angry, and I once heard her complain about everyone wanting her damn nightlight, why shouldn’t it be hers?

She got on better with Dírhavel than with me.  She liked Men.  She left them all to burn when the Sons of Fëanor came. She left her own children

My mother

Elrond and Elros were sons of her noble line.  They were very young at the time of the attack on the Havens.  The Lady Elwing refused to treat with kinslayers demanding a blood price.  She was stubborn and headstrong and did not have the right to deny them on behalf of the whole counsel, but she could only look at them and see the monsters of her childhood.  They were monsters They were monsters.

They never taught me how to write about something like this.  Perhaps Dírhavel would be able to sing about it.  His stories mattered, mine are nothing but a chronicle.  I am not Pengolodh.  Eärendil’s mother named me that, because I was the only one left. 

I am always the only one left, and I cannot tell this story.  I don’t even know what happened, and I was there.

Thus began the last and cruelest slaying of Elf by Elf.

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