FANFIC
AN- Inspired by Noldor, a song from Blind Guardian's album Nightfall In Middle-Earth. I'm aware that it doesn't make much sense, but it sort of fell from my fingers.
DISCLAIMER- The people, the places, the genius all belongs to Tolkein. Only the typos are mine.
It was dark… Darker than any night the noldo could remember. It was as if a blanket of ebony lay over the camp, quieting the normal sounds of fellowship and movement. The stars had gone, taken with them the moon. Varda had tucked these gifts against her breast, safe from their damned eyes. There was only silence now, save for the screams. Screams from far away, it seemed, from across the monotone plain of grey tents. Screams that cut through the night as the soldier’s knives had cut through the flesh of their Eldar kin not long before.
This was the source of the screams. This was the silence, the darkness, the shadows in the surrounding woods.
“Kinslayers!” whispered the winds from Manwe’s citadels, “Kinslayers!”
Blood was pouring from carefully scrubbed fingers, staining once white tent flaps and smearing across tear-streaked cheeks. It was washing in great crimson turrets through the minds of the soldiers, flooding them, drowning them; filling their mouths until they could do nothing but scream. Scream, and scream, and scream.
The earth beneath them hissed, bubbled, “Kinslayers!”
That word was written in fiery letters across their bedrolls and the cloaks, imprinted on their armor. The tents were alight with it! It burned the flesh of their backs, and the smell of singed skin would not leave their nostrils. Tormented cries stung the air; sobs of regret struck the very core of elvendom.
“Kinslayers!” wept the Noldo in defeated despair, “Kinslayers!”
They cried for their lords. “Glory, Feanorian! Glory! We are lost! We are drowning! We are burning! We are screaming!” thus beseeched the soldiers, the Noldo, “The darkness comes, Feanorian, the darkness descends! Save us, Feanorian! Help us! Glory, Feanorian! Glory!”
But there was only silence, there, and darkness.
In the tent of the king all was well, all was white and good and prosperous. There were no screams to be heard. There bred Feanorian, in the calm. Madness hushed all the Noldo’s suffering. ‘Forward,’ thought the king, ‘Only forward. Only more!’
And outside the king’s tent the souls of the soldier’s piled atop one another, festering, rotting, reaching and weeping. “Glory, Feanorian! Glory!” they cried. The blood of their kin had soaked them red, and in their veins there was only black. The oath glowed white from the tent of the king. The blood washed away their hope.
The ocean lashed at them warningly, “Kinslayers!”
Darkness, and silence, and pain. And blood. So much blood…
“GLORY, FEANORIAN! GLORY!”
DISCLAIMER- The people, the places, the genius all belongs to Tolkein. Only the typos are mine.
It was dark… Darker than any night the noldo could remember. It was as if a blanket of ebony lay over the camp, quieting the normal sounds of fellowship and movement. The stars had gone, taken with them the moon. Varda had tucked these gifts against her breast, safe from their damned eyes. There was only silence now, save for the screams. Screams from far away, it seemed, from across the monotone plain of grey tents. Screams that cut through the night as the soldier’s knives had cut through the flesh of their Eldar kin not long before.
This was the source of the screams. This was the silence, the darkness, the shadows in the surrounding woods.
“Kinslayers!” whispered the winds from Manwe’s citadels, “Kinslayers!”
Blood was pouring from carefully scrubbed fingers, staining once white tent flaps and smearing across tear-streaked cheeks. It was washing in great crimson turrets through the minds of the soldiers, flooding them, drowning them; filling their mouths until they could do nothing but scream. Scream, and scream, and scream.
The earth beneath them hissed, bubbled, “Kinslayers!”
That word was written in fiery letters across their bedrolls and the cloaks, imprinted on their armor. The tents were alight with it! It burned the flesh of their backs, and the smell of singed skin would not leave their nostrils. Tormented cries stung the air; sobs of regret struck the very core of elvendom.
“Kinslayers!” wept the Noldo in defeated despair, “Kinslayers!”
They cried for their lords. “Glory, Feanorian! Glory! We are lost! We are drowning! We are burning! We are screaming!” thus beseeched the soldiers, the Noldo, “The darkness comes, Feanorian, the darkness descends! Save us, Feanorian! Help us! Glory, Feanorian! Glory!”
But there was only silence, there, and darkness.
In the tent of the king all was well, all was white and good and prosperous. There were no screams to be heard. There bred Feanorian, in the calm. Madness hushed all the Noldo’s suffering. ‘Forward,’ thought the king, ‘Only forward. Only more!’
And outside the king’s tent the souls of the soldier’s piled atop one another, festering, rotting, reaching and weeping. “Glory, Feanorian! Glory!” they cried. The blood of their kin had soaked them red, and in their veins there was only black. The oath glowed white from the tent of the king. The blood washed away their hope.
The ocean lashed at them warningly, “Kinslayers!”
Darkness, and silence, and pain. And blood. So much blood…
“GLORY, FEANORIAN! GLORY!”