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'Tis ya boi, Maglor Kánafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion
The fire was a song in his blood, the ashes a bitter remnant of once-glorious deeds. His entire family had succumbed to the flickering flames entwined with their very bloodline.
Telufinwë first, burnt to nothing by a fire needlessly lit. He was the price of turning back too soon, of abandoning a fate that they had condemned themselves to.
Fëanáro was second, consumed by his very own fiery spirit, for which he had been named. Spirit of fire, Míriel had called him, and that was his downfall.
Then came Turcafinwë and his brothers Morifinwë and Curufinwë, brought down by their burning wrath.
Pityafinwë, thrown to the Third Kinslaying like fuel on a fire.
Nelyafinwë, the first to be born but the last to perish in a desperate, final battle, determined to see their quest to the bitter end.
Until there was only him left. Kánafinwë.
He waited for his end. It did not come.
The silmaril burned him with a light too holy and bright, but it did not end him.
The taste of smoke and ashes in his dreams frayed the edges of his fëa, but he did not fade.
He sang to the ocean to quell the flames that churned in his veins until there was nothing left but a cold void.
He stayed Kánafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion, the last of the Dispossessed, he whose voice echoes over the ocean.
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