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Summary: none given
Author's Notes: I did my best and I really hope you are happy with the outcome :)
~~~
The skies burn amid the stench of
blood and iron, tangy sea-air and acrid smoke. We have fallen into darkness
but we remain together, un-scattered, united. �
Running between the ships, our torches
high, we search for the dry timber where the flames will leap; only
Maitimo stands aside and we scorn his weakness, calling him our mother�s
son as we once more swear allegiance to our father, suppressing the
fear of where he will lead us. �
We gather, all save the eldest,
to watch the fires of our betrayal, and in the sudden heat my heart
freezes. �
Where is Ambarussa? �
~*~**~*~�
Rumours spoke of the Twin-Lords of
Estolad, tall and handsome with russet hair and cold blue eyes, the
youngest of the Dispossessed.� The youngest was gentle of heart
and fair but spent most his days locked in his study in the dreary stone
keep; the elder, by contrast, was rumoured to be harsh and quick of
temper and it was under him, and his small group of trusted hunters,
that most of the Sindar and Nandor of the great plains had been driven
back into forest and mountain.�
What few knew, a small group of warriors,
the brothers to the north and east and none other, was that there was
only one Lord of the plains: the younger had been the first victim of
their kin on this side of the sea. They kept their secret well, the
shame of a brother slain by either father or one of themselves, and
carefully they had sown rumours of the difference between the twins,
and in particular the self-isolation of the younger.� And so at
feasts the younger came, ever graceful, while the elder shunned festivities
- and in the hunt or battle the elder only led the forces.�
The Twin-Lords - or rather, the surviving
twin - spent little time in the keep. The illusion of the missing brother
was kept by one of his few trusted friends and companions, a cousin
- grandson of Mahtan, who had come with them when the peace shattered.
He was slighter of built than the remaining Ambarussa and his hair was
closer to copper than russet, but aside from that he held enough of
a likeness to play the part as long as he kept his distance from others.
When closeness was required it was Amrod himself who acted his younger
brother, his cold, hard face softening into smiles and laughter in a
skilled mummery of feelings he himself had left behind on a cold night
when the burning of the ships had maimed his soul.�
The lights burnt brightly in the small
library where Maedhros sat, regarding his cousin. �
�He comes and leaves as he pleases.
But he rarely stays away more than a week or two,� Ruscion said, attempting
to break Maedhros� silence. �He is a good Lord in his way.��
�
Maedhros sighed and nodded, draining the wine glass in his hand. �Yet
he leave you to rule from the shadows more often than not, and our thanks
to you for it.�� Standing, he walked over to the window overlooking
the courtyard. �How is my brother?��
Ruscion scratched his ear as he searched
for an answer. �Same as ever,� he answered eventually, his voice
neutral.�
�Prone to rages, in other words,�
Maedhros said dryly, turning his eerie gaze back on his younger cousin.
�And trying to drown himself in wine when he is not bathing in the
blood of his prey.��
Scratching on a spot of ink on his
hand, Ruscion did not answer, taking the cautious choice of silence
rather than angering either one of his cousins.�
Maedhros nodded at his silence. �I
am right then. I will stay until my brother returns and while we wait
you and I can discuss trades and training. Himring still lacks a decent
smith and I suspect Caranthir builds his fortune from keeping anything
resembling luxuries to be traded in the north.� He refilled his wine.
�And you can tell me, in private, how I can help my brother.��
~*~**~*~�
The subtle scent of wild onions buried
in coal and roasting venison wafted through the air. Nimloth�s stomach
growled with hunger. Her feet ached with blisters after an entire day
of walking, yet her uncle had shown no signs of slowing. �
Lost in her own misery, she almost
walked into the rump of the shaggy forest pony that carried their provisions
before she realised they had stopped. Belatedly she saw the fire in
front of them and heard the sound{s} of horses moving quietly in the
darkness. Behind her someone murmured a curse.�
Few crossed the plains of Estolad in
these times. Craftsmen and traders used the old road and even then they
travelled with a heavy guard. Away from the road only creatures of the
dark and Noldor roamed, both cruel and dangerous. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she imagined
the horrors that dwelled in the light of the fire. �
Her uncle gestured slowly, sliding
his daggers out of their scabbards. The members of their company drew
closer, nocking arrows and drawing their blades in wary anticipation.�
Quietly they started moving again, closer to the fire and the welcoming
scent of food. �
Her fingers curled tightly around the
hilt of her belt-knife as, holding her breath, she moved with the rest,
envisioning muscular, twisted figures of darkness; half elf - half wolf
, laying in wait, luring them closer.�
The meat hung over the fire, cooked
to a rich brown, and fat made soft hissing noises as it fell down into
the flames.� At the edge of the fire a large pot burbled with boiling
water, else all was quiet.� Deserted blankets and bedrolls lay
spread on the ground and small wooden bowls lay scattered, some filled
with still steaming water, but there was no life moving through this
campsite, no Elves or Orcs getting ready for the night. It was as if
whoever had set this fire had simply disappeared. �
On the far edge of the light something
moved. Something large and dark. Nimloth could feel herself trembling,
her breathing coming in short gasps of fear as she watched the massive
creature come closer, its large feet thumping against the ground. �
A soft whinnying broke the silence
and the heavy thuds became shuffling of hooves as several large, riderless
horses stepped into the light. Her knees felt suddenly weak as she watched
them come closer. Only horses, not goblins. �
Her uncle sheathed one of his daggers,
moving forward to run a hand along the thick neck of the closest horse.
It was a great beast, powerful muscles moving beneath the black coat.
�Noldor,� he said. �I know no others who ride steeds like these.��
�Indeed,� a soft drawl answered
behind them, �and now you can
throw down your weapons.� �
Nimloth turned with a shriek, trying
to see who had spoken.�
Out from the darkness shapes materialised.
Tall Elves in boiled leathers surrounded them with drawn swords.�
Nimloth turned around and around, trying
to see all of the strangers, and suddenly wished they had been Orcs.
Maybe they would not have been so effectively trapped if the ones setting
the trap were half animals; and part of her suspected that the goblins
would have shown them more mercy than these fierce, cruel faced Noldor
would. �
Her uncle watched them carefully, counting
their numbers, before he bent down and laid his knives on the ground.
�We mean no harm,� he said in his soft melodic voice. �We are
Sindar of Doriath travelling to visit kin in Ossiriand.��
The Noldor waited silently while, one
by one, the Sindar placed their weapons on the ground. In the end only
Nimloth still clutched her knife tightly in her hand. �
Their leader smiled sardonically as
he came closer. He was taller than his men, albeit not as tall as her
great-uncle Elu.� Shoulder length hair the colour of a fox�s
coat gleamed warmly in the firelight, a sharp contrast to his cold ice-blue
eyes. �
�Your weapon,� he said, holding
his hand out toward her. �Now.��
She tightened her grip around the hilt
nervously. �You are one of the kinslayers,� she said, willing her
voice not to tremble as she wondered if she could avenge her family�s
betrayal on the far shores.�
�Indeed,� he drawled� in response.
�And if you are thinking to redress justice you are mistaken.�� �
He moved fast, wrapping one of his
large hands around her wrist and bending it backwards until she dropped
the dagger with a gasp.� �Better.��
Her uncle� reached out, pulling
her close. �I would thank you for keeping your hands off my niece,�
he said, his voice frosty. Taking Nimloth�s wrist, he gingerly felt
for damage in muscles and tendons. �You will bruise.� �
�It would be polite,� one of the
dark Noldor interrupted, �for the intruders to introduce themselves
upon meeting Amrod of Estolad.��
Her uncle straightened, making a small,
barely polite bow towards their leader. �I am Daeron of Doriath, kinsman
of Elu Thingol, and this girl is Nimloth, my niece. We are, as previously
stated, travelling to Ossiriand and would be grateful to share your
fire.��
Another of the N}oldor spoke in their
harsh, foreign language, bringing raucous laughter from the other warriors. �
�Silence!� Their leader all but
barked his command.� He fixed his cold stare on Daeron. �Share
our fire until dawn; if you dwell past the first hour of the day you
will swear allegiance to me and mine.� He turned on his heel, walking
over to the horses.�
~*~**~*~�
Uneasy silence hung between them as
the night deepened. The roast venison was grudgingly shared, as were
the sweet apples and the honeyed nuts of Doriath. The Noldor were a
grim lot, quiet and storyless even during a night under the wonders
of the stars, and all attempts at conversation between the two groups
had failed. �
Amrod sat on the far side of the fire,
surrounded by his hunters, yet isolated in his own chilly silence. He
had accepted the apples with no word of thanks and ignored the nuts.
He looked focused, slowly carving elaborate pieces of art from his apple
before popping them in his mouth.�
Nimloth was certain she could see a
cruel smirk each time his teeth crunched into the fruit. He was evil;
she knew this. Her uncle's fingers ran rhythmically through her dark
hair. She wondered who he was trying to reassure, her or himself. Despite
her annoyance at being treated like a child she had to admit that it
worked. She felt safe, even here, surrounded by Noldor and their maybe
most infamous lord. �
�I met you before,� Daeron eventually
said, his mild melodic voice singing as he spoke. �At Mereth Aderthad
when Fingolfin was crowned the King of your people. I had the honour
to sing against your brother.��
Amrod threw the apple into the fire,
the flames hissing furiously as they scorched the sweet flesh. �My
twin, not me,� he replied shortly, burying his dagger deep into the
ground.�
Daeron bent his head in reply. �Of
course. My pardon, you carry a great likeness.��
�Are you always so rude? My great
uncle would have your tongue were you to speak so to us in his halls!�
Nimloth seethed with anger. Not only was he cruel, he also had no manners.�
�That would be why he hides in his
forest, ruled by his witch, rather than meeting the enemy as a man,�
Amrod answered sardonically.�
Nimloth stared at him, her mouth open.
She could not believe he had just said that. Elu Thingol was no coward
nor was Melian a witch! She struggled to find words before she furiously
picked up an apple, throwing it hard at Amrod. He was impossible, and
she hoped the apple would hurt him.�
�Nimloth!� her uncle said, grabbing
her arm. �Apologise. Now. We are guests.� His voice was stern and
unforgiving. �
Amrod deftly caught the apple out of
the air, giving her an icy smile before he bit into it. �Your other
great-uncle learned the price of insolence at Alqualond�, child. Perhaps
his kin needs another lesson.��
Around him the Noldor smiled, the first
sign of amusement she had seen from them all evening. The camp had fallen
quiet now, her own people tense and wary as they eyed the warriors around
them. �
�I have many brothers yet unmarried,�
Amrod continued. �Perhaps an alliance with your craven king will one
day prove of use to us.��
Daeron tugged Nimloth down beside him
again. �We apologise for rudeness,� he said, his voice tense and
coldly polite. �
Amrod merely snorted in reply.�
One of the Noldor refilled their kettle
with water and fresh mint before pushing it back into the fire. Watching
him move, she wondered of he had been there, at Alqualond�. She had
heard the stories of blood and fire and imagined the rivers and lakes
of Doriath red with blood as the trees burned. Glancing at the kettle
Nimloth shifted slowly moved closer. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest
as she found the hidden pouch sown into the hem of her dress. To use
in emergencies only, she had promised.�
She bent down to their own kettle,
pouring the hot refreshing rosehip tea into her mug, fumbling as she
emptied the contents of her pouch into the boiling water beside her.
Emergencies. There would never be another Alqualond�.�
~*~**~*~ �
Lost in thought, he stared into the
fire. The lingering stench of roast venison turned his stomach. The
Sindar had finally fallen quiet and rolled up in their blankets. Ambarussa
had loved nights like this, when the stars at the edge of what had then
seemed like the entire world were large and almost seemed close enough
to touch. Wrapping his hands tighter around the cup of mint tea, he
tried to force the memories back. Ambarussa was gone, his body burned
with wood and cloth and riches they had deemed unnecessary. Yet again
he struggled to remember, to know. Who had carried the torch that left
nothing of Ambarussa to be found - their father, one of his brothers,
himself? The only one innocent of his death was Maedhros. �
The sound of retching brought him back
to the present. Turning to see from whom the sound came made the world
spin. Grasping his dagger, he struggled to pull it out of the unyielding
earth.�
Around him the Sindar slept peacefully.
Only the girl sat up, watching them with her bright eyes and smug smile.
His men lay around the fire, some wrapped up in their blankets, others
slumped on the ground. Faron was no more than a few steps away, struggling
to vomit before he too collapsed on the ground.�
�Treachery!� he croaked, feeling
the weakness spread through him. �We have been�betrayed�� And
the world went dark.�
~*~**~*~�
Daeron sat up quickly as Amrod fell
to the ground, his half-slumber broken by sudden alarm. Most of his
people lay sleeping in their bedrolls and blankets but Nimloth was still
awake, watching the Noldor with shining eyes.�
A few of the Noldor lay in their own
blankets but most had slumped where they sat, and some had crawled towards
the small river at the bottom of the encampment. Amrod lay dangerously
close to the fire, his left hand only inches from the flames, his right
hand still wrapped around the dagger in the ground.�
Cursing, he flew up from his own blankets,
pulling Amrod away from the danger of the flames. �
�Awake!� he called, allowing his
voice to ring loudly in the night. �I need all hands. Care for the
sick.� �
Around him the Sindar woke, confused
and tired as they sat up, rubbing sleep out of their eyes. None of the
Noldor stirred.�
Striding over across to Nimloth, he
grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her up to face him. �What did
you give them?� he asked, his voice tense.�
Nimloth bit her lip, looking like a
sulking child of five. �I do not know what you mean,� she started.�
He shook her. �Answer me, child,
what did you give them? I do not have time to deal with your temper
or injured pride at this moment!��
Nimloth pushed her bottom lip out further.
�I do not know. Aunt Melian gave it to me.� �
Daeron gave her a disgusted look. �Sit
down where I can keep an eye on you.��
The Sindar worked tirelessly, their
eyes turned away from Nimloth. Water was boiled, then cooled and carefully
trickled into the mouths of the living, who had been laid by the fire
for warmth. The longer they worked the further the line of the dead
stretched until, by dawn, only a handful of the Noldor still lived,
and none of them either strong or conscious. The rest had been lost
to seizures or slipped into the long sleep, never having woken.�
Straighening Daeron gathered his hair
in a tight braid. �Return to Doriath,� he said shortly to his company.
�Keep Nimloth under a close eye and leave what supplies you can spare.
I do not know how long you have before anyone comes looking for them.��
Nimloth stared at him. �You must
come,� she said. �They will kill you if they find you here.��
Daeron met her eyes squarely. �I
am staying here and caring for those who are still alive. Perhaps, if
I can save even Amrod it will spare Doriath from the wrath of his brothers.��
�Let them come,� she replied sullenly.
�No one can enter Doriath unbidden.� �
�Trees still burn and rivers can
be poisoned. I have no wish to see the sons of F�anor turn their attentions
from the north.� He sighed. �He was
seeking to provoke you, Nimloth;
his amusement was less at the death of our kin and more at your reaction.
I know you are angry, that you were scared, but this... How does one
kinslaying justify another? Elu will decide what to do with you.�
He turned away again, grabbing their own kettle on his way to the small
river. They would need more clean water if any were to survive. He wondered
if Nimloth had fully understood what she had wrought, if she had realised
what would happen if Amrod was to die here, poisoned at the hands of
Sindar from Doriath.�
When he returned they had already departed,
the pony left behind for faster travel. He watched them for a minute
before placing the kettle on the fire. It would be a long, hard fight
to keep the remaining Noldor breathing and to bury the dead.�
When the water had boiled he again
trickled the liquid into the mouths of the unconscious, rubbing their
throats to force them to swallow. He wrapped them in warm blankets,
removing soiled clothes and washing them as well as he could. It was
hard work and before the sun had reached its zenith yet another had
fallen prey to the poison. His entire body ached from lack of sleep
and lifting bodies and he still had not managed to start burying the
dead.�
Making a decision as the night once
more started to fall, he hunted for firewood. He would send them back
to the earth in the old way, on a pyre, sending their spirits back to
the west and their judgement.� It was close to midnight again when
the pyre was finally burning and the stench of scorched flesh choked
the air.�
A retching cough alerted him that someone
had woken.�
Amrod lay on his side, his knees pulled
up against his chest as he tried to vomit. �
Daeron sat down, wrapping an arm around
his shoulders, easing him up. �You need something to drink,� he
said softly. �Take it easy.��
�Have you seen Ambarussa, Atar? I
cannot find him.� Amrod's voice was faint and his eyes glossy and
lost in something only he could see. The retching grew worse as he started
to struggle against Daeron. �Ambarussa!� His tormented scream tore
through the night.�
Daeron held him closer, rocking him
slightly as he would soothe a small child and sang, one of the few lullabies
he knew of the old language, close enough to Quenya to soothe the struggling
Noldo.�
He sang as the night deepened further,
only pausing to change the blankets around his patients and to force
some water down their parched throats. He wondered if the sons of F�anor
had a stronger constitution than most or if Amrod had simply ingested
less of the poison that was slowly killing the others.�
During the days that followed his charges
grew weaker and, one by one, they succumbed until only Amrod remained.
Night after night he built a pyre to burn the dead and every night Amrod
woke, raving and feverish, lost in whatever nightmare trapped him. And
slowly he started to puzzle out an idea of what haunted his only living
patient.�
A week had passed when Daeron woke
to find Amrod looking at him, his gaunt face carefully devoid of emotions.�
�You poisoned us. Why are you still
here?� His voice was faint and raw.�
Daeron shook his head as he sat. �I
did not, nor would I have had the poison been in my possession. I am�
wise enough to see the difference between teasing a spoiled child and
true cruelty. My niece overreacted and she will be severely punished.��
Amrod pushed himself up to sit. �The
others?��
�I saw it safest to send my own people
away on the night it happened. Of yours I am afraid only you remain.��
�They were good men,� he said quietly.
�They had followed me a long time.��
Daeron moved around the small fire,
lifting Amrod to lean against him as he held a goblet of broth to his
lips. �I am sure they were.� �
Amrod kept his mouth closed, trying
to pull away from the soup.�
�Do not be ridiculous. Had I wanted
you dead I would not have stayed to nurse you back to health this past
week,� Daeron said impatiently. �Drink.��
A few more moments of hesitation passed
before Amrod closed his eyes, carefully sipping the warm liquid. �Thank
you.� �
Daeron smiled slightly. �You are
welcome. Now rest.��
Tiredly Amrod closed his eyes and fell
asleep again, curling up like a small child.�
With a tenderness that surprised himself,
Daeron smoothed the blankets over Amrod and left him to sleep.�
The days that followed continued according
to the same pattern. Amrod had brief moments of consciousness but conversation�
was sparse and each day he still tried to refuse the� nourishing
broth that Daeron offered. It became a routine, the token protest, the
impatient denial of poisonous intentions, the veiled and fading distrust
between Sinda and Noldo. They spoke of nothing save the repeated words
of the established argument. Daeron stayed closer to the fire again,
giving up hunting and making the broth from the wild herbs and vegetables
that he could find, and slowly Amrod's protests lessened.�
�Why did you stay?��
Daeron looked up from the vegetable
stew he was making and smiled slightly. �I do not support death or
suffering. I could help, so I stayed.��
Amrod was looking at the small piece
of wood he was carving. �Most of your people would not have.��
�No,� Daeron admitted. �Not after
Alqualond�, but I remember the suffering of the long journey and I
remember Finw�. The need to care for the injured or dying was established
then. You needed me, that was enough.��
�Did you bury them?� �
Daeron shook his head. �There were
too many for me to bury them and still look after you. I set a pyre,
as in the old days.��
Amrod shuddered, looking paler. �You
burned them?��
�I did. Every night I built a pyre...
and every night you screamed in your sleep.� Daeron gave Amrod a penetrating
look.�
Amrod froze, his entire body tensing,
seeking the strength to spring at Daeron. �What do y0u mean?� His
voice was cold and distant. �
�You had... nightmares... during
the nights when I burned the dead. I know enough Quenya to understand
the things you said...and screamed...during those nights. Your twin,
he burned at Losgar, did he not, when your father set fire to the ships
stolen from my kin?��
Closing his eyes, Amrod nodded. �A
cousin and I act his part in public now. We paid for those ships with
more blood then we took at Alqualond�. Uinen's wrath took many and
the ice took its toll on my uncle's people. My brother too, fell to
the curse of the ships.��
Daeron's voice was quiet. �I remember
my uncle well. I am glad you paid for what you took, but I regret every
life lost all the same. Your twin, he was gentler than you? Or is that
an invention of latter times?��
Amrod's voice softened. �He was livelier,
more passionate, but his temper was calmer and he was a fairer man then
I. I do my best, when I have to, to try to find him within me, but I
lack the love for life that made him special.��
Daeron rested a hand lightly on Amrod's
shoulder. �The twin I met at Mereth Aderthad was special as well.
Do not keep others so much at a distance; you miss out not only on friends
but also other possibilities. Your brothers are marrying one by one;
will you be the only one unwed?��
�I will not wed.� Amrod's voice
was quiet as he looked into the fire. �I am half a man, with no patience
for female softness or wiles. I will fight and hunt and die.� He looked
at Daeron. �Are you wed? You never mention a wife or child.��
Wry amusement fleeted over Daeron's
face. �No, I am not wed. I have...unnatural desires towards men...
Maybe that is my reason for not judging others.� �
Amrod gave him an uneasy look, shifting
slightly further away, and once more silence stretched between them. �
~*~**~*~�
Slowly, Amrod grew stronger of body
again, putting more and more distance between himself and Daeron as
he started walking around the camp and eventually hunting. Nearly a
month had passed since the poisoning and the wary friendship they had
started to build had been pushed back behind polite walls. Daeron often
regretted his honesty that had to all appearances lost him what may
have been a great and unusual friendship.�
They spoke little as Amrod gathered
the supplies he would need for the journey back to his own keep.�
Daeron woke one morning, finding the
fire quenched and the camp empty. He ran a hand through his hair as
he sat up. The group of horses had gone and so had the swords and bows
that the fallen Noldor had left behind them. The shaggy Sindarin pony
was happily munching away on the long grass, no longer needing to share
its feeding ground.�
With an odd, hollow feeling aching
in his throat Daeron packed up what few supplies he still had and shouldered
his pack. His time in Estolad was over with no words of thanks or farewells.
Looking out over the plain, he started walking, the pony trailing behind
him. Doriath was no more than two days' walk.�
He had not come far when he saw the
rider approaching in the distance. The large, roan horse flew across
the grass, his rider moving with him in a powerful display of strength.
Admiring the horse and man, he stopped and waited.�
The sun shone on the the russet hair
as Amrod reined his horse in, only inches away, looking down at his
saviour. �
Daeron smiled, pushing the silver hair
of� Elw�'s house out of his eyes.�
�You are not the only one,� Amrod
said, his voice rough. �Unnatural desires run among the Noldor as
well as the Sindar.� Leaning down until he looked as if he might almost
overbalance from the horse, he brushed his lips against Daeron's. �We
will meet again, Daeron of Doriath.� Straightening gracefully, he
whirled his horse around and began his journey home.�
Daeron watched as Amrod disappeared
into the distance. �Until next time, son of F�anor,� he whispered
to himself as he started walking again. �Until next time.��
The End