Not Enough to Break [One-Shot] [Year 1498 of the Trees]
Mar 21, 2019 14:37:16 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Mar 21, 2019 14:37:16 GMT -5
At Eithel Sirion, near the end of Dagor-nuin-Giliath
“Á mene cata tesse!” The voice of the High King cried out in the darkness beneath the pinpricks of stars glinting. Flank them!
Staggering from the Fens of Serech came the Fëanorians, where orc fresh slain, groaning and screeching; and the voices of wounded elves moaned, while others bid Fëanáro’s rallying call to meet him on the edge of the marshland.
“My King!” Ruivo called, and he stumbled through knee deep water, gasping, and a trail of blood leaked from his mouth. His side was torn, bleeding, and as he drew upon the trampled grass, he fell by the feet of Fëanáro, a hand clutching the boot of the Noldóran, the High King of the Noldor.
Molten steel eyes burned upon the flame haired elf.
“I must...” Ruivo gritted. “I go with you,” Ruivo gritted, though he bore the sweat of fever and infection upon his brow from previous injuries unhealed. The bandage which had been wrapped about his head was lost somewhere in the dark waters, his wound half healed though torn again around the edges where shield had splintered against his face. His hair hung, ragged, wet, limp, but he bore armor bent armor upon his breast. His sword slipped from his coarse hand and fell in the grass.
“Then rise to your feet, and do so,” the fey elf King answered.
“The light has failed, there is nothing left,” Ruivo mourned, and his speech had slipped to lyrical Telerin halfway through his thought. Fëanáro grimaced, then laughed, and his laugh bordered the edges of insanity.
“I’ll die beside you,” Ruivo coughed. He had come this far for the gems stolen; he had lost everything but even Ruivo knew the King was filled with fire and madness for want of restitution of the Silmarils.
“Your death wish will only slow us,” Fëanáro growled hotly, and he kicked his boot from Ruivo’s grasp.
Ruivo fell to earth in a heap, groaning.
“Cowards! With me!”
“Where are my sons? Cowards, oathbreakers! Flank them, the orcs flee!” The dark elf spun beneath the starlight. The small band of orc which had escaped the fens were fleeing north by the minute but saw none of his brood; only a handful of elves half haggard who had been within earshot. “Erinquanóro!” Fëanáro called, as the slender frame of his grandson came into view. An elfing of only fifty winters, but he bore a sword and armor nonetheless; though his look vacant.
“My King,” Erinquanóro answered.
“Where is Kanafinwë?”
“I do not know,” Erinquanóro answered, and the High King grimaced, and said not another word to him.
“We go, now!” Fëanáro called, a glance cast upon Erinquanóro and also the others, and the creak of metal sounded as armor and swords glinted. The dark haired king took no more time and he made chase with his small company. A handful or two of elves in the dark, though Erinquanóro took only a few steps and lingered, his shoulders slumped. The sudden terror within him that he knew not the place of his father, nor if Kanafinwë had fallen. He turned to glance toward the fen.
“Erinquanóro,” Ruivo hissed from the ground, as his breath came ragged and the youth stood above him, narrow, pale face peering down. Wet, black hair was plastered to Erinquanóro’s face.
“They are not enough to break Angband,” Erinquanóro spoke out loud, brow furrowed, but there were none aside him but Ruivo to hear him speak against the High King. The dark haired youth looked out into the bleak. He had to rally his father, the other sons, lest Fëanáro stood alone in his madness.
“Give to me my...” Ruivo coughed. “Give me my sword. My sword.”
“What use have you for a sword as you lie upon the earth?” Erinquanóro asked. “Would you bolster yourself with it?”
“I will pierce myself upon it,” Ruivo gritted.
Erinquanóro’s eyes narrowed. “Do not speak of it. Did not Miriel lay down her own life and drive us to this insanity? One does not… pierce themselves...” A cursing brood upon the name of his forebear which would have earned him a strike across the face by Fëanáro himself had he heard.
“Please,” Ruivo groaned, gritting his teeth, as he spit blood upon the muddy earth. “The light is gone. There will be no more. There will be no more.” Ruivo was straining to reach his sword and Erinquanóro took three steps and stepped upon the elf’s fingers as they touched the hilt. Then he lifted the metal art into his own hand, staring upon it.
Ruivo was groaning, writing. “Drive it through me,” he demanded. “Drive it through my heart. Through my eye. I deserve not to see even starlight.”
“No,” Erinquanóro answered, disgusted at the thought.
“We’re kinslayers, we are dispossessed, it is no matter,” Ruivo protested and it seemed truth in his mind. What was one more life; and this time one which deserved death.
“I spilled no blood in Alqualondë, Teleri,” Erinquanóro stated accusingly.
“Pierce me,” Ruivo moaned, and his hand was to his belt; searching for his dagger which too had fallen out onto the earth. He could not fight; he had no use left but to die.
“Erinquanóro!” Ruivo demanded, rolling onto his back as he stared up at the inky sky, and the younger elf stood above him. He wondered if he could drag his body back into the fen and drown himself. Ruivo’s hands, grasping to the side found the blade of an orc discarded, grunting he grasped it, letting it cut into his hand as he tried to drag it to him. He would do the deed himself. He would finish it and go to the halls of Námo to join his family.
Then Erinquanóro leaned over him, grimacing still, and Ruivo thought the young elf would comply, yet the son of Kanafinwë merely lifted his boot, and when the heel struck Ruivo’s temple, the starry night went pure black.
Erinquanóro grasped up the weapons and threw them off into the grasses away from the half-blind smith, then ran to seek his father.