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Turgon finds a rhythm easily. The click of the shucking knife twisting and releasing echoes the soft clatter of the beads Elenwë always wore in her long, fair hair - and oh, he remembers their sensuous rustling as she tossed her head, writhing beneath his circling fingers and the slow, deep thrusts of his tongue.
The tang of the open shell is reminiscent of her sweet salinity, that essence into which he dove with such eagerness over and over, drenching himself in her, wallowing in her brine. How she had moaned and shivered, thighs clenching around his head, the bright pearl of her blooming as she came undone!
Turgon lifts the oysters to his lips over and over, cupping them in his trembling hands as he had cupped Elenwë's soft curves, opening her to taste and delight. Each sweet-salty morsel only makes him want another, smooth and plump and tender - like Elenwë - on his tongue.
He sips and slurps and weeps, soaking himself in the salt of his yearning. Wishing to drown.
Turgon stacks the empty oystershells into rough walls and towers. He pounds his lonely fists on the shell-cluttered tabletop, and the weight of his grief brings the battlements down.