Blood-Rivers of Alqualondë (June 254, TA) - [One-Shot]
Apr 25, 2018 15:37:06 GMT -5
Post by Odothel on Apr 25, 2018 15:37:06 GMT -5
Golden eyes peered up at the sky, a canopy of black velvet with swirls of deep blues and glittering gems of stars. Odothel stood upon the crest of the hill, the Halls of the Elvenking below her, delved deep into the rock in winding tunnels. The training rings were at her back, and she faced now East, toward the Long Lake, toward Lake Town, toward Erebor, the home of the dwarves.
Blinking, and shimmering, the starlight filtered down, casting silver light upon the darkened grasses and the empty training rings, and turning Odothel’s pale skin to silver. Their familiar light, their familiar place in the sky, brought peace to her spirit. The wind whispered through high boughs, bright green in sunlight, deep and blue-hued under the blanket of night. Against her ear it passed, carrying with it voices of ghosts singing. Odothel gasped, the breath sharp and full of dread, looking around to confirm none were singing about her. The hill was empty save for her small, lithe figure; none but the elven guard peppered the outskirts of the grassy mount, and though they had marked her coming, for she was but an elfling of four summers now, now they were facing outward to the forest on watch. Silent.
This was how it started; this was how it always started. She looked once more upward to the sky, the stars now different. Strange, yet familiar. Many nights her visions twisted that which she could see. The ones that frightened her, the ones Odothel dreaded. “Baw,” she pleaded quiet and mournful, though there was none to heed her plea. No.
It was too late; the dark forest was gone around her, instead high, white-stoned walls ahead, arches and towers behind, lamps of golden light mirroring the shimmer of the stars. Perhaps the sun. They were brilliant and gold, silver in places like ribbons. The grey-blue of the sea washed upon the stone and wood of the docks like muted thunder, steady. The laughing call of gulls, white-feathered and large, sang and rang as the birds swept and dove amongst the darkness.
If this was all she saw, Odothel would not have minded, for images like these were blessed and within her blood as well. Alqualondë. Her grandfather had explained what she saw, spoken of what he could remember of his home, though ever pain hanged in his eye at its thought. The pearls of the sea were embedded into the stone walls, glittering in the starlight and moonlight.
The Swanhaven.
Her eyes, though far, far away in a different land, beheld the bobbing prows of bowed necks and sterns like feathers. The rigging for the furled white sails rang like bells in the cool breeze that swept in from the water.
Odothel could hear screaming, and silver horns lifting calls of their own into the night air, overtaking the sound of singing and brightness. Turning behind, to spy the shore, she looked up, a sail and spar above her, the night calm despite the horrible din from the shore. To her side, a woman.
Her silver hair was like moonlight in threads, large eyes bluer than a morning sky. Odothel knew her; she saw her every time this vision came, and the young elfling had memorized her heart-shaped face, the high cheekbones, and fair, full lips. Her néþa-túratta, her aunt. It was her grandfather’s sister, for long ago it seemed now the images had been explained to her, first by her Túratta, grandfather, in short words, then by her Atta, father, in longer ones.
Odothel wished to cry out, to warn her, and yet, there was nothing that she could do. Her calls had years ago proven too real to be heard by those she now could see, for though this dream—this vision—was true, it was a different sort of reality.
The vision turned, back once more toward the shore and the city of white brick and pearl that looked now red in the darkness.
“Túratta!”
It was meant to be her own voice, the tone made from the same music of light and stars. The world moved forward, the same distance as one hurried step. White hands, pale and creamy, reached into the night toward a man upon the shore. He held in hand a bow, his quiver nearly empty. His silver hair gleamed the same as the woman she had just seen, his face and brow elegant in much of the same lines.
The picture shifted, as if Odothel was looking now to the city beyond the docks. The calls of men, in both a language she did not understand and one she knew. That of her people, those known as the Teleri, the elves that tamed seas. That bright city seemed more red now than white, so thick the blood seemed to be upon the stone.
Odothel felt the chill crawl through her limbs, her stuttered breath hardly managing to fill her lungs. She wished to close her eyes, to cover her ears, and yet the elfling knew the vision would not disappear. It would engulf her anyway, drowning her as if caught in the very water she loved.
Her great-grandfather called to her. “Cast off,” his voice like bells rang to her there, on the bobbing ship. Odothel’s heart clenched, she knew what was next. “What are you lingering for? Cast—”
A flash in the moonlight, the sheen of metal beneath a blanket of crimson liquid, the screams from the ship, an elf with long red hair that licked like flames in the wind. His face bent in fury, as salient as the blade that he ripped from the broken, bleeding form of the elf of moonlit hair. Now the picture was moving quickly, away form the spar and sail and toward the dock once more.
Odothel’s lips trembled and grimaced, water coming into her eyes with heat as unrelenting as the force of Noldorian fighters upon the streets of the Swanhaven’s city. “Atta-túratta,” she whispered as she always did, her voice carrying into the night as she stood yet upon the hill above Thranduil’s halls. The elfling shut her eyes, intrinsic for the grief of her heart and horrors playing out before her. The vision seemed clearer, closer; Odothel thought she could smell the salt of the air as the winds moaned from a false sea behind her.
“Famaráto!” Her néþa-túratta’s voice called, a gasp of horror, mingled with grief, with something different that young Odothel could not make out. Love? Yearning? The name was familiar upon her aunt’s lips, though, none of Odothel’s own family would tell her who he was.
The ellon with flaming hair froze, looking first down to the slumped form of the man with silvery hair, then toward her néþa-túratta, toward her. He looked stricken the way she herself felt watching, awakened as if from a dream. Odothel crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself as tightly as her eyes were pressed closed, drawing in and holding yet in her lungs the breath she had taken as she squatted to the ground and attempted to make herself small. The worst was yet coming.
The words of those whose eyes she wore began to shriek, slinging curses as arrows. High upon the wall behind the elf with the sword was perched one of matching shade, bow drawn, face wet and contorted in sorrow. He looked as if he belonged there, a sentinel left as part of the wall itself. Odothel wanted to look away, but no matter how she moved, the picture stayed the same.
The young elfling braced herself; the end of the vision was coming, and with it freedom. And yet, the escape of this nightmare came with great crescendo. It came suddenly, though no longer unexpectedly. A pain speared her, the small of her back and through to her stomach. Odothel sobbed, losing at once the breath she had been holding.
It was as if she were looking down, the tip of a blade protruding from her middle, blood running hot in rivers to pool upon the docks. The vision began to swim, then at once fell.
She felt as if she could feel the sticky, warm liquid seeping into the cloth of her dress, and the young elfling’s eyes were forced to see a boot fall before her nose, an elf making way down the docks toward the redhead yet standing over her atta-túratta whose bow was now stained a mix of red and brown.
The world began to fade, though one last defiant curse lifted from the lips of her host, the one she shared sight with. “They will remember. They will see!” The words now were uttered in strain, breathy and waning as tide. It was enough, however, to make the booted-elf turn. His hair was silver-white, face angled and sharp, light eyes colder than snowfall and ice, and a smirk upon his thin lips.
“I am counting on it.” His voice like steel, low and chilled to match his ghostly eyes.
The vision of Alqualondë cleared, and Odothel once more dared to open her eyes. The pain of her stomach was gone, fleeting as the vision, and the elfling gasped to refill her lungs as she looked about. There was a hand upon her shoulder, firm, though gentle, and the stars overhead were once more her own.
She lifted her golden eyes, happy once more to see the world through her own gaze, and saw looking down upon her a guard with golden helm and hair like fresh-baked rolls. Odothel sniffled, though the guard’s eyes were kind.
“Come, little one,” he hummed to her. He lifted her into his arms and began to carry her back toward The Great Gate. “Your grandfather will be looking for you. It is all right, your vision is done.”
Meekly, Odothel nodded. It was done, yet, not done. It could be days, or weeks, months, or years before she saw once more the blood-rivers of Alqualondë, yet return those sights would. One last sniff she drew, setting her small head against the guard’s chill armor, dark hair falling like a curtain down his back.
This time she willed the sights to change, and there in gleaming morning was the very city she had just seen, streets full of elves and joy. Once more, Swanhaven was filled with laughter and music, as it had always been meant to be.
The blood would be gone, her father had said, when they returned there once more together. She would be able to see her great grandfather, her aunt. A family once more. And there, with them at her side, she would sing unto the great sea, and hear the chime of the rigging of the swan ships.
Blinking, and shimmering, the starlight filtered down, casting silver light upon the darkened grasses and the empty training rings, and turning Odothel’s pale skin to silver. Their familiar light, their familiar place in the sky, brought peace to her spirit. The wind whispered through high boughs, bright green in sunlight, deep and blue-hued under the blanket of night. Against her ear it passed, carrying with it voices of ghosts singing. Odothel gasped, the breath sharp and full of dread, looking around to confirm none were singing about her. The hill was empty save for her small, lithe figure; none but the elven guard peppered the outskirts of the grassy mount, and though they had marked her coming, for she was but an elfling of four summers now, now they were facing outward to the forest on watch. Silent.
This was how it started; this was how it always started. She looked once more upward to the sky, the stars now different. Strange, yet familiar. Many nights her visions twisted that which she could see. The ones that frightened her, the ones Odothel dreaded. “Baw,” she pleaded quiet and mournful, though there was none to heed her plea. No.
It was too late; the dark forest was gone around her, instead high, white-stoned walls ahead, arches and towers behind, lamps of golden light mirroring the shimmer of the stars. Perhaps the sun. They were brilliant and gold, silver in places like ribbons. The grey-blue of the sea washed upon the stone and wood of the docks like muted thunder, steady. The laughing call of gulls, white-feathered and large, sang and rang as the birds swept and dove amongst the darkness.
If this was all she saw, Odothel would not have minded, for images like these were blessed and within her blood as well. Alqualondë. Her grandfather had explained what she saw, spoken of what he could remember of his home, though ever pain hanged in his eye at its thought. The pearls of the sea were embedded into the stone walls, glittering in the starlight and moonlight.
The Swanhaven.
Her eyes, though far, far away in a different land, beheld the bobbing prows of bowed necks and sterns like feathers. The rigging for the furled white sails rang like bells in the cool breeze that swept in from the water.
Odothel could hear screaming, and silver horns lifting calls of their own into the night air, overtaking the sound of singing and brightness. Turning behind, to spy the shore, she looked up, a sail and spar above her, the night calm despite the horrible din from the shore. To her side, a woman.
Her silver hair was like moonlight in threads, large eyes bluer than a morning sky. Odothel knew her; she saw her every time this vision came, and the young elfling had memorized her heart-shaped face, the high cheekbones, and fair, full lips. Her néþa-túratta, her aunt. It was her grandfather’s sister, for long ago it seemed now the images had been explained to her, first by her Túratta, grandfather, in short words, then by her Atta, father, in longer ones.
Odothel wished to cry out, to warn her, and yet, there was nothing that she could do. Her calls had years ago proven too real to be heard by those she now could see, for though this dream—this vision—was true, it was a different sort of reality.
The vision turned, back once more toward the shore and the city of white brick and pearl that looked now red in the darkness.
“Túratta!”
It was meant to be her own voice, the tone made from the same music of light and stars. The world moved forward, the same distance as one hurried step. White hands, pale and creamy, reached into the night toward a man upon the shore. He held in hand a bow, his quiver nearly empty. His silver hair gleamed the same as the woman she had just seen, his face and brow elegant in much of the same lines.
The picture shifted, as if Odothel was looking now to the city beyond the docks. The calls of men, in both a language she did not understand and one she knew. That of her people, those known as the Teleri, the elves that tamed seas. That bright city seemed more red now than white, so thick the blood seemed to be upon the stone.
Odothel felt the chill crawl through her limbs, her stuttered breath hardly managing to fill her lungs. She wished to close her eyes, to cover her ears, and yet the elfling knew the vision would not disappear. It would engulf her anyway, drowning her as if caught in the very water she loved.
Her great-grandfather called to her. “Cast off,” his voice like bells rang to her there, on the bobbing ship. Odothel’s heart clenched, she knew what was next. “What are you lingering for? Cast—”
A flash in the moonlight, the sheen of metal beneath a blanket of crimson liquid, the screams from the ship, an elf with long red hair that licked like flames in the wind. His face bent in fury, as salient as the blade that he ripped from the broken, bleeding form of the elf of moonlit hair. Now the picture was moving quickly, away form the spar and sail and toward the dock once more.
Odothel’s lips trembled and grimaced, water coming into her eyes with heat as unrelenting as the force of Noldorian fighters upon the streets of the Swanhaven’s city. “Atta-túratta,” she whispered as she always did, her voice carrying into the night as she stood yet upon the hill above Thranduil’s halls. The elfling shut her eyes, intrinsic for the grief of her heart and horrors playing out before her. The vision seemed clearer, closer; Odothel thought she could smell the salt of the air as the winds moaned from a false sea behind her.
“Famaráto!” Her néþa-túratta’s voice called, a gasp of horror, mingled with grief, with something different that young Odothel could not make out. Love? Yearning? The name was familiar upon her aunt’s lips, though, none of Odothel’s own family would tell her who he was.
The ellon with flaming hair froze, looking first down to the slumped form of the man with silvery hair, then toward her néþa-túratta, toward her. He looked stricken the way she herself felt watching, awakened as if from a dream. Odothel crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself as tightly as her eyes were pressed closed, drawing in and holding yet in her lungs the breath she had taken as she squatted to the ground and attempted to make herself small. The worst was yet coming.
The words of those whose eyes she wore began to shriek, slinging curses as arrows. High upon the wall behind the elf with the sword was perched one of matching shade, bow drawn, face wet and contorted in sorrow. He looked as if he belonged there, a sentinel left as part of the wall itself. Odothel wanted to look away, but no matter how she moved, the picture stayed the same.
The young elfling braced herself; the end of the vision was coming, and with it freedom. And yet, the escape of this nightmare came with great crescendo. It came suddenly, though no longer unexpectedly. A pain speared her, the small of her back and through to her stomach. Odothel sobbed, losing at once the breath she had been holding.
It was as if she were looking down, the tip of a blade protruding from her middle, blood running hot in rivers to pool upon the docks. The vision began to swim, then at once fell.
She felt as if she could feel the sticky, warm liquid seeping into the cloth of her dress, and the young elfling’s eyes were forced to see a boot fall before her nose, an elf making way down the docks toward the redhead yet standing over her atta-túratta whose bow was now stained a mix of red and brown.
The world began to fade, though one last defiant curse lifted from the lips of her host, the one she shared sight with. “They will remember. They will see!” The words now were uttered in strain, breathy and waning as tide. It was enough, however, to make the booted-elf turn. His hair was silver-white, face angled and sharp, light eyes colder than snowfall and ice, and a smirk upon his thin lips.
“I am counting on it.” His voice like steel, low and chilled to match his ghostly eyes.
The vision of Alqualondë cleared, and Odothel once more dared to open her eyes. The pain of her stomach was gone, fleeting as the vision, and the elfling gasped to refill her lungs as she looked about. There was a hand upon her shoulder, firm, though gentle, and the stars overhead were once more her own.
She lifted her golden eyes, happy once more to see the world through her own gaze, and saw looking down upon her a guard with golden helm and hair like fresh-baked rolls. Odothel sniffled, though the guard’s eyes were kind.
“Come, little one,” he hummed to her. He lifted her into his arms and began to carry her back toward The Great Gate. “Your grandfather will be looking for you. It is all right, your vision is done.”
Meekly, Odothel nodded. It was done, yet, not done. It could be days, or weeks, months, or years before she saw once more the blood-rivers of Alqualondë, yet return those sights would. One last sniff she drew, setting her small head against the guard’s chill armor, dark hair falling like a curtain down his back.
This time she willed the sights to change, and there in gleaming morning was the very city she had just seen, streets full of elves and joy. Once more, Swanhaven was filled with laughter and music, as it had always been meant to be.
The blood would be gone, her father had said, when they returned there once more together. She would be able to see her great grandfather, her aunt. A family once more. And there, with them at her side, she would sing unto the great sea, and hear the chime of the rigging of the swan ships.