Unhappy Was the Lot
Rated: PG-13
A/N: Some of the small details in this fic are based on information from The War of the Jewels. The title is taken directly from Tolkien himself. Thanks to Magical Maeve for the beta.
The Sea. He was close now.
A bitter salt tang reached his lips, borne on the cold wind that blustered between the hills which sheltered the lands behind from their blast. He was moving through a defile, a long wound cloven in the hills, as if an axe had descended from the heavens in some far-off time. To his right, a sheer cliff face rose many fathoms above his head, and still the land towered upwards from the point where it ended until it was lost in a mantle of cloud. If his guess was correct, this was a shoulder of Mount Taras. To his left were foothills, less lofty, but to an old man, unscalable nonetheless. He continued his labouring climb up the stony slope, as the merciless wind buffeted him. Its chill fingers pierced his cloak, numbing him to the bone.
The leagues between Doriath and the coast had been immeasurable and lonely, travelled by none in these darkening days when the power of the North grew ever greater. For long he had toiled among the pathless foothills of Ered Wethrin, keeping to the southern face of that range. At the pass over Amon Darthir, he spared his former home not even a second glance. There was no one left who would welcome him to his former home. His family were all gone. The people he had once ruled believed him capable of treason. They had already shunned them the previous year when he was but newly released from Angband.
And they were a subjugated people now. He could no longer bear to look upon them.
He’d gone on, passing the defiled waters of Ivrin, and so through lands that had lain deserted since the fall of Nargothrond at the least, if indeed ever anyone had lived here. He knew that beyond the hills in Nevrast, the lands had been uninhabited since Turgon’s day, long before Men had ever crossed into Beleriand.
Turgon.
The bitter edges of his mind turned the name as if it was an enemy’s sword. Glancing around at the surrounding hills, he found them every bit as unforgiving as the heights of the Echoriath, as if they too would refuse him succour. His laugh was a harsh bark that cracked against the encroaching walls of rock. If Turgon hadn’t turned against him, he might have some hope left. If Gondolin hadn’t been barred against him, he would not have wrought ruin in Brethil. He would not have gone on to Thingol - evil would come of that meeting too. So his heart had foreboded as the Nauglamír changed hands. Turgon had only to open his heart and all could have been avoided.
He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on his staff and breathing hard. He was completely and utterly alone in the hard world now. Out of the distant past resounded an echo of his brother’s parting words to Turgon: “From you and me a new star shall arise.”
No new star had been seen. The firmament twinkled as it ever had, feeble and distant, covered in the mists of Morgoth. Beyond his reach. No new hero had arisen to challenge the power of the North or to gather forces against it. His own son might have been such a one, but Morgoth had taken care of that possibility with his curse. Huor was dead; his wife had vanished. No new star would rise.
He sighed and pressed onwards up the slope. Not much longer now. As he advanced, a low rumbling as of distant thunder reached his ears, like the vague threat of an impending summer storm that would batter the green fields with its hail and lightning. He was getting close now; his journey was coming to an end, and he was nearly spent. The leagues had been long and harsh to one of his age, but he had faced them with the steadfastness that had earned him the name Thalion. He kept on now through sheer force of will. Only a little further and all would be over. He would soon need no reserve of strength.
The sky above him was full of racing clouds, their tattered edges fluttering like the torn banners of a defeated army before they are finally trodden into the wrack of battle. A sudden gust rent the veil asunder, and the sun showed its pitiless face for a moment. There was no warmth to be found in its wintry rays, and the light blinded him. It merely served to cast into greater detail the harshness of the surrounding hills, revealing the cracks in the cliff face as battle scars.
He still remembered crying out in hope that the day for Morgoth’s defeat would come again. Aurë entuluva! He no longer had any hope of seeing that day. It had been washed from him by the blood that flowed from the severed orc arms, blood that had burned like poison. Twenty-eight years’ worth of chill winds, the ice pellets and hail that rained from the northern sky had scoured his heart clean of it. Any last shred that might have remained had been torn from him the night Morwen died. The sharp rain that had stung his face had swept it away as he sat beside her body beneath the stone that marked his son’s grave.
He was coming closer to his goal. The rumble had turned into an endless rhythmic crashing. The salt burned more harshly into his lips. The sloping path rose more sharply, and cracks crossed the stone, making the way treacherous. If he stumbled, so be it. He’d just get up and hobble forward again.
The sun had slipped behind the clouds once again, and the wind fell. The way grew dim before his eyes, and yet he welcomed the darkness. Still he laboured on up the last lap until the path ended abruptly. He found himself on a high headland that thrust outwards from the foot of the mountain. In milder season might have been green and flowering. The hills were behind him now; indeed the whole of the world seemed to be at his back. He was overlooking a wide, dark expanse of water, broken only by the jagged ridges of the waves. Belegaer. The Great Sea. To the right breakers roared up and crashed on a rocky strand, hissing as they receded into the depths once again. Directly in front, however, the waves broke against the face of a cliff. Above, the sky extended out into the distance, a mirror image of the grey waters below, and at the horizon where the two met at last, the delimitation could scarcely be discerned.
If he were to follow the edge of the cape around the feet of the mountain, he knew he might look upon Turgon’s deserted courts at Vinyamar. He had no desire to see their fair terraces which had endured the years undefiled by the servants of the Enemy. All he wanted was before him now.
He leaned out slightly. The height made his head spin, but he let fall his staff. He would no longer need it. Slowly it tipped end over end over end until it was lost in the depths. He stood and listened to the breakers, letting their pounding swell until it filled all his mind. The hissing that accompanied each wave reminded him of something. As he stood there straining ears and memory, it came to him.
“Serech,” he muttered to himself.
As he did so, he leaned out further, until he could no longer retain his balance. Like a stone, he plummeted into the depths.
The freezing water closed over his head, searing like a thousand knife-strokes and numbing him to the core. Soon he would feel nothing. He opened his eyes, and they stung with salt. His lungs burned for lack of air. At last his mouth opened, gasping for air but all about him was brine that choked and seared. His sight was dimming. All about him was a murky blur which was fast becoming a monochrome that reminded him of something.
In the moment before all went black, a pair of grey eyes appeared before his face. Behind were the vague shapes of two more, a man and a woman. In his head he seemed to hear a sound he hadn’t heard for a lifetime - a young child’s bubbling laughter. But all his being was concentrated on the eyes. Bright eyes with an Elven light to them, unconquered still and welcoming him home.
Eledhwen.
A/N: Some of the small details in this fic are based on information from The War of the Jewels. The title is taken directly from Tolkien himself. Thanks to Magical Maeve for the beta.
The Sea. He was close now.
A bitter salt tang reached his lips, borne on the cold wind that blustered between the hills which sheltered the lands behind from their blast. He was moving through a defile, a long wound cloven in the hills, as if an axe had descended from the heavens in some far-off time. To his right, a sheer cliff face rose many fathoms above his head, and still the land towered upwards from the point where it ended until it was lost in a mantle of cloud. If his guess was correct, this was a shoulder of Mount Taras. To his left were foothills, less lofty, but to an old man, unscalable nonetheless. He continued his labouring climb up the stony slope, as the merciless wind buffeted him. Its chill fingers pierced his cloak, numbing him to the bone.
The leagues between Doriath and the coast had been immeasurable and lonely, travelled by none in these darkening days when the power of the North grew ever greater. For long he had toiled among the pathless foothills of Ered Wethrin, keeping to the southern face of that range. At the pass over Amon Darthir, he spared his former home not even a second glance. There was no one left who would welcome him to his former home. His family were all gone. The people he had once ruled believed him capable of treason. They had already shunned them the previous year when he was but newly released from Angband.
And they were a subjugated people now. He could no longer bear to look upon them.
He’d gone on, passing the defiled waters of Ivrin, and so through lands that had lain deserted since the fall of Nargothrond at the least, if indeed ever anyone had lived here. He knew that beyond the hills in Nevrast, the lands had been uninhabited since Turgon’s day, long before Men had ever crossed into Beleriand.
Turgon.
The bitter edges of his mind turned the name as if it was an enemy’s sword. Glancing around at the surrounding hills, he found them every bit as unforgiving as the heights of the Echoriath, as if they too would refuse him succour. His laugh was a harsh bark that cracked against the encroaching walls of rock. If Turgon hadn’t turned against him, he might have some hope left. If Gondolin hadn’t been barred against him, he would not have wrought ruin in Brethil. He would not have gone on to Thingol - evil would come of that meeting too. So his heart had foreboded as the Nauglamír changed hands. Turgon had only to open his heart and all could have been avoided.
He paused for a moment, leaning heavily on his staff and breathing hard. He was completely and utterly alone in the hard world now. Out of the distant past resounded an echo of his brother’s parting words to Turgon: “From you and me a new star shall arise.”
No new star had been seen. The firmament twinkled as it ever had, feeble and distant, covered in the mists of Morgoth. Beyond his reach. No new hero had arisen to challenge the power of the North or to gather forces against it. His own son might have been such a one, but Morgoth had taken care of that possibility with his curse. Huor was dead; his wife had vanished. No new star would rise.
He sighed and pressed onwards up the slope. Not much longer now. As he advanced, a low rumbling as of distant thunder reached his ears, like the vague threat of an impending summer storm that would batter the green fields with its hail and lightning. He was getting close now; his journey was coming to an end, and he was nearly spent. The leagues had been long and harsh to one of his age, but he had faced them with the steadfastness that had earned him the name Thalion. He kept on now through sheer force of will. Only a little further and all would be over. He would soon need no reserve of strength.
The sky above him was full of racing clouds, their tattered edges fluttering like the torn banners of a defeated army before they are finally trodden into the wrack of battle. A sudden gust rent the veil asunder, and the sun showed its pitiless face for a moment. There was no warmth to be found in its wintry rays, and the light blinded him. It merely served to cast into greater detail the harshness of the surrounding hills, revealing the cracks in the cliff face as battle scars.
He still remembered crying out in hope that the day for Morgoth’s defeat would come again. Aurë entuluva! He no longer had any hope of seeing that day. It had been washed from him by the blood that flowed from the severed orc arms, blood that had burned like poison. Twenty-eight years’ worth of chill winds, the ice pellets and hail that rained from the northern sky had scoured his heart clean of it. Any last shred that might have remained had been torn from him the night Morwen died. The sharp rain that had stung his face had swept it away as he sat beside her body beneath the stone that marked his son’s grave.
He was coming closer to his goal. The rumble had turned into an endless rhythmic crashing. The salt burned more harshly into his lips. The sloping path rose more sharply, and cracks crossed the stone, making the way treacherous. If he stumbled, so be it. He’d just get up and hobble forward again.
The sun had slipped behind the clouds once again, and the wind fell. The way grew dim before his eyes, and yet he welcomed the darkness. Still he laboured on up the last lap until the path ended abruptly. He found himself on a high headland that thrust outwards from the foot of the mountain. In milder season might have been green and flowering. The hills were behind him now; indeed the whole of the world seemed to be at his back. He was overlooking a wide, dark expanse of water, broken only by the jagged ridges of the waves. Belegaer. The Great Sea. To the right breakers roared up and crashed on a rocky strand, hissing as they receded into the depths once again. Directly in front, however, the waves broke against the face of a cliff. Above, the sky extended out into the distance, a mirror image of the grey waters below, and at the horizon where the two met at last, the delimitation could scarcely be discerned.
If he were to follow the edge of the cape around the feet of the mountain, he knew he might look upon Turgon’s deserted courts at Vinyamar. He had no desire to see their fair terraces which had endured the years undefiled by the servants of the Enemy. All he wanted was before him now.
He leaned out slightly. The height made his head spin, but he let fall his staff. He would no longer need it. Slowly it tipped end over end over end until it was lost in the depths. He stood and listened to the breakers, letting their pounding swell until it filled all his mind. The hissing that accompanied each wave reminded him of something. As he stood there straining ears and memory, it came to him.
“Serech,” he muttered to himself.
As he did so, he leaned out further, until he could no longer retain his balance. Like a stone, he plummeted into the depths.
The freezing water closed over his head, searing like a thousand knife-strokes and numbing him to the core. Soon he would feel nothing. He opened his eyes, and they stung with salt. His lungs burned for lack of air. At last his mouth opened, gasping for air but all about him was brine that choked and seared. His sight was dimming. All about him was a murky blur which was fast becoming a monochrome that reminded him of something.
In the moment before all went black, a pair of grey eyes appeared before his face. Behind were the vague shapes of two more, a man and a woman. In his head he seemed to hear a sound he hadn’t heard for a lifetime - a young child’s bubbling laughter. But all his being was concentrated on the eyes. Bright eyes with an Elven light to them, unconquered still and welcoming him home.
Eledhwen.