Hope was a very distant memory for him, he'd held it quite highly once... but then his hope had died during the Nirnaeth. Burried under the crushing weight of the thoasands of bodies that made up the Hill of the Slain. What a fool he'd been to ever hope at all.

He'd not imagined he'd feel a spark of it touch him ever again, and though it is faint he can feel some small piece of it stirring within himself. But why? Why now? Butterflies? No, on closer inspection they were not real butterflies. He had become quite adept at seeing through illusions during his lifetime, and he could see that's what they were. But a thing didn't need substance to be beautiful, and they were. They made him think of home. Of the great big butterflies that would flutter about the gardens of Valinor. It is almost enough to make him want to reach out and touch one of them.