Disclaimer: I don’t own Middle-earth, however much I’d like to live there.
The red clay dyed her hands pale pink, like old bloodstains, she thought. Somehow that seemed fitting, though she herself had not been in Alqualondë. Carefully, she molded the clay into the form she wanted. A tangle of arms and legs; smiling faces.
Her sons as children, in another lifetime. All had died for their Oath, except her Macalaurë, who wandered now alone on the shore. So said those who had come across the Sea. They said his laments echoed in the waves, but she never heard them, hard though she listened. Perhaps they could not be heard in Aman...