11. Reality
Every day, at Már-in-Curulië, he watched her. What life did you live here, he thought silently, as we wandered about Ennor?
For she was not the person his father (and the uncles he once idolized) had told him of: the broken wife, the mother who turned her back, the woman who abandoned her family.
The histories were written by the victors, Celebrimbor mused, flattening a piece of mithril tissue-thin, and on the other side of the sea, he was the victor.
But which person, he wondered later, as twilight flitted about corners like spirits flying from Mandos, truly won here?
For she was not the person his father (and the uncles he once idolized) had told him of: the broken wife, the mother who turned her back, the woman who abandoned her family.
The histories were written by the victors, Celebrimbor mused, flattening a piece of mithril tissue-thin, and on the other side of the sea, he was the victor.
But which person, he wondered later, as twilight flitted about corners like spirits flying from Mandos, truly won here?
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