The Final Battle. 2/? : So It Begins
Who : Aredhel, Fingon, Argon, Finrod, and a lot more people. Notable cameos are Gimli and Legolas.
Fandom : Silmarillion
Word Count : 1717
Rating : PG
Prompted by : shapesofbirds for choosing the icon (still that infamous meme).
fanfic100 promt: 001. Beginnings.
Author note : In continuation of this, in which Aredhel is stirred, things start to look bad, and the Eldar start talking about real issues.
When the Dusk of the World came nigh, a soft rain was pouring upon Valinor. Nienna looked at the sky, and then at her ward, and there was something new in the curtain of her unnumbered tears. On the bed of cushions, so soft it was almost impossible to describe, Ar-Feinel, the White Lady of the Noldor, lay, almost prostrate.
It had taken everything for her to let them take her to Nienna's home on the Western Wall. Argon had pleaded, Turgon had negociated, her father Fingolfin had ordered her to obey, Fingon had raged and pressed, but to no avail. In the end, it was Finrod Felgund himself who had convinced her, with soothing words and gentleness that were only equalled by his wisdom.
“Ireth,” he said, quietly, “You cannot lay prostrate here until the end of times. You cannot fade, Ireth.”
She had given her no reply.
“Ireth,” he said, quieter, “Tyelkormo was my friend, do you recall? He and I hunted much in these same woods, and I loved him well.”
She stirred, a little, which was better than nothing, perhaps.
“I saw him in Nargothrond, Ireth.”
That was enough to pique her interest, and so she listened. Finrod told her everything: the tale of how the two brothers visited, the inflamatory words, the oath he had taken with the House of Barahir, and his final, deadly march to Angband. Finrod was gentle and spared her details of his passing, but by the time he was done, Aredhel was sitting up and listening intently.
“He did all that, Ingoldo?” Her tone was quiet, horrified.
“He did all that, Ireth.” Finrod's tone was final, uncompromising.
She bit her lip, then, and new tears started to fall. It was a strange emotion, that. A mix of rage and disbelieve, horror and denial, and the want for an explanation, the complete refusal to believe that her beloved had done what they said he did. But she also knew Ingoldo, and how fair he was in his probity, and how true he had been to her brothers in all things. She remembered his bravery on the Helcaraxe, in that time where she was grieving secretly for the unexpected betrayal, and she nodded, eyes closing.
“Let Lady Nienna heal you, Ireth,” he pleaded, then. “You deserve the rest, until the end of time has come.”
Until the end of time has come.
And then... and then, maybe. She would see him again, and maybe at least she would have answers. She nodded, eyes closed, and when Fingon himself came to carry her there, scooping up his little sister with worried tenderness and a heart full of hatred for the sons of Feanor.
And so there, she lay, in the comforting place made by the Valie, so long ago for her grandmother`s care. It was fitting by many ways that the place be used again, that the girl who had loved a son of Feanor and been broken by it be resting in a place where Feanor`s mother herself had faded.
And so Aredhel rested. The moons waxed and waned, the suns rose and set, but she ever remained, eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting. She wanted explanations, she wanted to see him, she hated him and loved him, and sometimes the whole family all at once. Sometimes, Argon came and sat with her. He sung quiet, sad songs of the earth and held her hand. Sometimes it was Fingon who came, and just looked at her in heavily worried silence. Sometimes it was Turgon, who sighed heavily and looked at her as if he wanted to tell her something, but could not.
And then the Earth shook, and for a moment, fear gripped the hearts of the Eldar in Tirion and in Araman. The Earth shook, and a veil of darkness seemed for a moment to rise and fall, like a pulsing hand on the nape of the world's neck. Aredhel, in her silent prostration, shivered as the sky grew darker despite the brightness of the Sun. Nienna sat by her, a hand on her hair, and whispered something unintelligible in a tongue older than Arda herself. The hand in her hair trembled, and Aredhel stirred to look at the Valie.
“Lady,” she asked, tiredly but with respectful concern. “What ails you?”
Nienna cried, and her tears fell on Aredhel`s face, soothing and wizening all at once.
“The Door of the Night was shattered,” she replied, quietly.
And in her heart, Aredhel felt shame, for millenias of confusion, anger, regret and sadness had not been enough to quench her need for hope.
It was then that she stirred and moved to see her brothers. Broken though she may be, she loved them, and the thought of a new peril stirred her loyalties once more.
“I must see my father and brothers,” she told Nienna, quietly. “They will not stand idle.”
And indeed, they did not. In Valinor, Finarfin sat on the seat of the Noldorin High King in quiet and sober splendor. His robes were impeccable and his eyes were steady. Aredhel could not sit in the Council's chambers, but she put her ear to the door and closed her eyes.
“We must march at once,” she heard her father say, brash and angry. “We must defeat the hand of Morgoth before his forces rise again.” In the throng of the clappings and the discussions, she could hear Fingon agree. He rose, and the cling of his unsheathed sword made her close her eyes in grief. “I will lead the host, Father, and fight them again. The sons of the House of Fingolfin know no fear.” And then, Argon roared in approval and supported his brother.
She did not hear Turgon's voice, and she well knew why. He was more cautious, more reflected, and probably thought there was a need to prepare the battle with care before engaging the Ennemy once more.
The voice which spoke then was quiet, thoughtful, and feminine. “My cousins are brave beyond words,” the voice said, “but their courage will serve us little if we do not know where to strike.” It had and could only be Galadriel, who had always managed to sneak into the places where only men were allowed. “The Mortoranon has been sent asunder. Already, Sauron's shadow stirs in the remains of the world, and the Enemy's host is unseen, but likely gathering as we speak. The world of man is divided and has long forgotten that we exist. The Naugrim hide in their caves, waiting to renew the world.” Here, there were some sneers and the sound of a heavy object against wood. “What of it? We cannot strike alone.”
Another voice was heard, then, and it was not Eldarin, Aredhel could have sworn to it. “You speak well, Lady Galadriel. Given leave, I will go to the Mountains of Solitude and the Caverns of Baruk-Khazad, and wake my brothers once more.”
Another voice, again, this one, Sindarin without doubt, but unknown. “And I with you,” he said, sternly.
The Council room was silent, and another voice raised itself. “I will go with you, Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas of Mirkwood,” and here, Aredhel knew the voice well, Finrod the Hewer of Caves, Felagund, well loved of dwarves and men.
“Then so be it, my son,” she heard her uncle Finarfin say. “Who will go to the sons of Men?”
Another voice rose, one she did not know. “I will,” and it was commanding and strong, like that of a king long weathered to ruling. “It is fitting for Elrond Half-Elven to go,” Fingolfin observed, thoughtfully. “Who will go with him?” There was a long silence, and finally, Turgon's calm voice rose. “I will go with him,” he said, quietly. “In the name of my beloved Idril.”
There were agreements and more talking, and she could hear Fingon grumbling things about bravery that smelled of impatience and anger. She waited in the hall for the council doors to open, then, patiently, and when they did, she rose.
There were pleasantries and courtesies, and Turgon barely greeted her before he slunk away under her saddened gaze. Argon celebrated her, though, embracing her and holding her much longer than protocol allowed, and Fingon's face brightened when he saw her, into a loving smile. Her father kissed her hair and left, almost absently - he seemed heavier with worry than he had ever been.
“I thought you were sick with sadness,” Argon said, wryly.
“Even the ill hear news when they reach the ears of Nienna,” she replied, almost teasing. She was better than she had been in a very long time, and it was eerily surprising, perhaps. She hoped she would not have to explain her sudden rise in hope.
“Walk with us, sister,” Fingon asked, offering her his arm. Argon went at her other side side, walking companionably as Aredhel slipped her arm in her older brother's. Perhaps he would tell her why Turgon was acting the way he ways, she mused.
“I have had word of Tulkas,” he said, at long last. “These news are most concerning.”
Aredhel nodded, inviting him to continue.
“It is said that Manwe himself did not expect this to happen,” he went on, somberly. Aredhel stopped in her tracks, stumbling into Argon, and both looked at Fingon with immense disbelief.
“It is not the worst of it,” Fingon went on. “Mandos himself confirmed that these were mere guesses, and that he had not expected his words to come to realization so vividly.”
“Eru,” Argon gasped. “What - what does this mean?”
Aredhel did not say anything for a bit, too concerned by the implications. “It means that when we go into battle, we may lose,” she gasped, after a moment, and hope was crushed. She understood why Nienna's hand was shaking, suddenly.
There was a moment of silent consternation between the siblings. At long last, it was Argon who summed it up for the three of them.
“It has begun.”
Fandom : Silmarillion
Word Count : 1717
Rating : PG
Prompted by : shapesofbirds for choosing the icon (still that infamous meme).
fanfic100 promt: 001. Beginnings.
Author note : In continuation of this, in which Aredhel is stirred, things start to look bad, and the Eldar start talking about real issues.
When the Dusk of the World came nigh, a soft rain was pouring upon Valinor. Nienna looked at the sky, and then at her ward, and there was something new in the curtain of her unnumbered tears. On the bed of cushions, so soft it was almost impossible to describe, Ar-Feinel, the White Lady of the Noldor, lay, almost prostrate.
It had taken everything for her to let them take her to Nienna's home on the Western Wall. Argon had pleaded, Turgon had negociated, her father Fingolfin had ordered her to obey, Fingon had raged and pressed, but to no avail. In the end, it was Finrod Felgund himself who had convinced her, with soothing words and gentleness that were only equalled by his wisdom.
“Ireth,” he said, quietly, “You cannot lay prostrate here until the end of times. You cannot fade, Ireth.”
She had given her no reply.
“Ireth,” he said, quieter, “Tyelkormo was my friend, do you recall? He and I hunted much in these same woods, and I loved him well.”
She stirred, a little, which was better than nothing, perhaps.
“I saw him in Nargothrond, Ireth.”
That was enough to pique her interest, and so she listened. Finrod told her everything: the tale of how the two brothers visited, the inflamatory words, the oath he had taken with the House of Barahir, and his final, deadly march to Angband. Finrod was gentle and spared her details of his passing, but by the time he was done, Aredhel was sitting up and listening intently.
“He did all that, Ingoldo?” Her tone was quiet, horrified.
“He did all that, Ireth.” Finrod's tone was final, uncompromising.
She bit her lip, then, and new tears started to fall. It was a strange emotion, that. A mix of rage and disbelieve, horror and denial, and the want for an explanation, the complete refusal to believe that her beloved had done what they said he did. But she also knew Ingoldo, and how fair he was in his probity, and how true he had been to her brothers in all things. She remembered his bravery on the Helcaraxe, in that time where she was grieving secretly for the unexpected betrayal, and she nodded, eyes closing.
“Let Lady Nienna heal you, Ireth,” he pleaded, then. “You deserve the rest, until the end of time has come.”
Until the end of time has come.
And then... and then, maybe. She would see him again, and maybe at least she would have answers. She nodded, eyes closed, and when Fingon himself came to carry her there, scooping up his little sister with worried tenderness and a heart full of hatred for the sons of Feanor.
And so there, she lay, in the comforting place made by the Valie, so long ago for her grandmother`s care. It was fitting by many ways that the place be used again, that the girl who had loved a son of Feanor and been broken by it be resting in a place where Feanor`s mother herself had faded.
And so Aredhel rested. The moons waxed and waned, the suns rose and set, but she ever remained, eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting. She wanted explanations, she wanted to see him, she hated him and loved him, and sometimes the whole family all at once. Sometimes, Argon came and sat with her. He sung quiet, sad songs of the earth and held her hand. Sometimes it was Fingon who came, and just looked at her in heavily worried silence. Sometimes it was Turgon, who sighed heavily and looked at her as if he wanted to tell her something, but could not.
And then the Earth shook, and for a moment, fear gripped the hearts of the Eldar in Tirion and in Araman. The Earth shook, and a veil of darkness seemed for a moment to rise and fall, like a pulsing hand on the nape of the world's neck. Aredhel, in her silent prostration, shivered as the sky grew darker despite the brightness of the Sun. Nienna sat by her, a hand on her hair, and whispered something unintelligible in a tongue older than Arda herself. The hand in her hair trembled, and Aredhel stirred to look at the Valie.
“Lady,” she asked, tiredly but with respectful concern. “What ails you?”
Nienna cried, and her tears fell on Aredhel`s face, soothing and wizening all at once.
“The Door of the Night was shattered,” she replied, quietly.
And in her heart, Aredhel felt shame, for millenias of confusion, anger, regret and sadness had not been enough to quench her need for hope.
It was then that she stirred and moved to see her brothers. Broken though she may be, she loved them, and the thought of a new peril stirred her loyalties once more.
“I must see my father and brothers,” she told Nienna, quietly. “They will not stand idle.”
And indeed, they did not. In Valinor, Finarfin sat on the seat of the Noldorin High King in quiet and sober splendor. His robes were impeccable and his eyes were steady. Aredhel could not sit in the Council's chambers, but she put her ear to the door and closed her eyes.
“We must march at once,” she heard her father say, brash and angry. “We must defeat the hand of Morgoth before his forces rise again.” In the throng of the clappings and the discussions, she could hear Fingon agree. He rose, and the cling of his unsheathed sword made her close her eyes in grief. “I will lead the host, Father, and fight them again. The sons of the House of Fingolfin know no fear.” And then, Argon roared in approval and supported his brother.
She did not hear Turgon's voice, and she well knew why. He was more cautious, more reflected, and probably thought there was a need to prepare the battle with care before engaging the Ennemy once more.
The voice which spoke then was quiet, thoughtful, and feminine. “My cousins are brave beyond words,” the voice said, “but their courage will serve us little if we do not know where to strike.” It had and could only be Galadriel, who had always managed to sneak into the places where only men were allowed. “The Mortoranon has been sent asunder. Already, Sauron's shadow stirs in the remains of the world, and the Enemy's host is unseen, but likely gathering as we speak. The world of man is divided and has long forgotten that we exist. The Naugrim hide in their caves, waiting to renew the world.” Here, there were some sneers and the sound of a heavy object against wood. “What of it? We cannot strike alone.”
Another voice was heard, then, and it was not Eldarin, Aredhel could have sworn to it. “You speak well, Lady Galadriel. Given leave, I will go to the Mountains of Solitude and the Caverns of Baruk-Khazad, and wake my brothers once more.”
Another voice, again, this one, Sindarin without doubt, but unknown. “And I with you,” he said, sternly.
The Council room was silent, and another voice raised itself. “I will go with you, Gimli son of Gloin and Legolas of Mirkwood,” and here, Aredhel knew the voice well, Finrod the Hewer of Caves, Felagund, well loved of dwarves and men.
“Then so be it, my son,” she heard her uncle Finarfin say. “Who will go to the sons of Men?”
Another voice rose, one she did not know. “I will,” and it was commanding and strong, like that of a king long weathered to ruling. “It is fitting for Elrond Half-Elven to go,” Fingolfin observed, thoughtfully. “Who will go with him?” There was a long silence, and finally, Turgon's calm voice rose. “I will go with him,” he said, quietly. “In the name of my beloved Idril.”
There were agreements and more talking, and she could hear Fingon grumbling things about bravery that smelled of impatience and anger. She waited in the hall for the council doors to open, then, patiently, and when they did, she rose.
There were pleasantries and courtesies, and Turgon barely greeted her before he slunk away under her saddened gaze. Argon celebrated her, though, embracing her and holding her much longer than protocol allowed, and Fingon's face brightened when he saw her, into a loving smile. Her father kissed her hair and left, almost absently - he seemed heavier with worry than he had ever been.
“I thought you were sick with sadness,” Argon said, wryly.
“Even the ill hear news when they reach the ears of Nienna,” she replied, almost teasing. She was better than she had been in a very long time, and it was eerily surprising, perhaps. She hoped she would not have to explain her sudden rise in hope.
“Walk with us, sister,” Fingon asked, offering her his arm. Argon went at her other side side, walking companionably as Aredhel slipped her arm in her older brother's. Perhaps he would tell her why Turgon was acting the way he ways, she mused.
“I have had word of Tulkas,” he said, at long last. “These news are most concerning.”
Aredhel nodded, inviting him to continue.
“It is said that Manwe himself did not expect this to happen,” he went on, somberly. Aredhel stopped in her tracks, stumbling into Argon, and both looked at Fingon with immense disbelief.
“It is not the worst of it,” Fingon went on. “Mandos himself confirmed that these were mere guesses, and that he had not expected his words to come to realization so vividly.”
“Eru,” Argon gasped. “What - what does this mean?”
Aredhel did not say anything for a bit, too concerned by the implications. “It means that when we go into battle, we may lose,” she gasped, after a moment, and hope was crushed. She understood why Nienna's hand was shaking, suddenly.
There was a moment of silent consternation between the siblings. At long last, it was Argon who summed it up for the three of them.
“It has begun.”