The Final Battle. 14/? : Unnumbered Tears, Reprise
Title: The Final Battle, part 14 : Unnumbered Tears, Reprise
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Aredhel, Fingon, Galadriel
Fanfic 100 Prompt: 051. Water.
Word Count: 1291
Rating: General
Summary: Aredhel eventually emerges after the Battle of Fire and Water, but a new enigma is coming forth.
Author's Notes: Part of a Work in Progress based on the Dagor Dagorath prophecy. I own nothing.
She was dreaming. Again, and again. There was pain. She felt as though half her body was on fire. There were voices. There were touches. Somewhere, beyond her own ability to respond, she knew there was someone. The voice called. The voice tugged at her, as if demanding her attention, it was a scream, full of desperation, full of anguish, full of horror. In her mind's eye, she could almost see him. She reached, she called back, sometimes she clawed at the air, as if trying to tear the fabric of reality.
Sometimes, all she could hear was the quiet sound of childlike sobs that could only be a grown man's. Then, she cried.
There were times where she opened her eyes to find gray eyes, just like hers, full of worry and sorrow. But she closed her eyes again, retreating in an oblivion that at least allowed her not to suffer.
Sometimes, she spoke. Aredhel called his name, repeatedly, because she knew he could hear her.
“Tyelkormo, don't cry, please, you're breaking my heart when you sob like that.” She would reach into the empty air, as if trying to free him from whatever kept him captive, and sometimes, careful hands would try to restrain her and she would tear free, attempt to flail them off, until sleep took her again.
It was as though the world of the living no longer beckoned her, and she had already set foot in Mandos.
The transition was brutal.
A sudden intake of air bag entered her lungs, uninvited. And suddenly, a pair of hands seized her face, and gray eyes she knew well delved hers.
“Ireth, Ireth, to you hear me, do you know me?” Fingon's voice was urgent, pleading, demanding. Her voice caught in her throat and she found that it was dry, aching and unresponsive. She nodded.
The relief in her brother's eyes was great, and she felt tears stinging her eyes. It took a moment before she could form words again and another before she could articulate them. When she did, there were only two of them.
“How long?” Fingon told her then that it had been weeks since the attack. They had been lucky. As the dragon of Morgoth had risen, so had Ulmo. The wrath of the sea had extinguished the fire before it got to the hull of the ship and it had also drenched Aredhel as she had caught fire. She was burned, she could feel it, but the worst of it had been prevented because her exposure had been very short. Unfortunately, her exposure to water have been longer. For a while, the white lady of the Noldor had been thought lost, but her brother had refused to abandon the search, stubbornly. They had found her drifting on a girder with all hope was lost.
He looked pained, and she worried that there was more. With her eyes, who could speak louder than her voice, she demanded he tell her what had come to pass, and reluctantly, he did. Their younger brother had been lost once more. Her grief was unending.
She could not speak, only look at him with utter sadness, and though her arms were still blistered from the flame of Udun, she opened them for him. Fingon allowed himself to sink in his sister's arms, and they shed tears together, that were, Aredhel decided bitterly, unnumbered. Yet this time, they had left Valinor with the Valar's permission, and yet Arakano once more paid the price of his family's bravery.
For a moment, she allowed herself to remember how he was the one whose silence was the most soothing, how he was the one who had never held anything against her for more than half a day, and she cried, wishing she'd been taken in his stead.
She cried herself to sleep, not daring to ask for more news. Thus the remainder of the traverse was spent, and it was put to the protection of the Valar that there were no further incursions from the Army of Morgoth. It took Aredhel another week to come out on the bridge, to stare at the endless night. Something in her had changed, though. She stared into the darkness without fear, despite the lingering kisses of Dragon Breath on her arms and torso, on her cheek. She found herself staring with fascination, as if there was a memory in the back of her mind that lingered, there, waiting to be unearthed.
Yet nothing came forth, nothing to reveal to her the key to a new and strange enigma which she could not yet even name. It was there, waiting to be identified, but not certain and not clear, not even known or showing the shade of its silhouette. Just a teasing mystery in the afterthought of her bruised heart.
Mourning, at least, was a business that was not new to her, and she set to it with a dedication that was unsurprising. She would have cut her hair, but it was already cropped as short as it could be, a short fuzz of a thing, shorter than a newborn's hair, coarser, as well.
Leaning lightly on the railing, she thought of her son, eyes still staring at the darkness. Where was her Lomion? Had he found a new breath ? She supposed so. She had not asked anyone what had become of him after her passing, not even Turukano, for reasons that she could not quite communicate to herself. It might have been fear, but she dared not even admit that to her own musings. No, no, it was not, and she decided that when she saw her brother, she would ask him. Not Findekano, no, Turukano, who was with the Edain, somewhere on the earth they had yet to broach. She could wait until then.
A soft noise disturbed her in her meditation, and she turned to find her cousin Artanis looking at her, calmly.
“Artanis,” the greeting was quiet, courteous, polite, almost cold in her care.
“Irisse,” the cousin replied, gently enough. “Have you no questions to ask me?”
She shook her head, hoping the conversation could be averted. Alas, Galadriel insisted.
“There is aught I would ask,” she said, gently enough. Aredhel nodded, quietly. “I would like to know of your dreams, Ireth.”
Aredhel closed her eyes, then. She had not wanted to speak of them. They were too vivid, too real, to saddening. There was enough to mourn about, without thinking on the fate of their lost cousins. Too much had come to pass, for her to consider the dreams in a light other than that of the fevers the dragons might have caused her. She blamed the water and the fire for her nights, and she would leave it at that, if she could.
“There is nothing to say of my dreams, Artanis,” she replied, quietly, firmly. “They are fever dreams, and mean nothing. I do not have your gift.”
Galadriel examined her, a moment, not quite frowning, but something passed in her eyes that Aredhel could not exactly name. She inclined her head, but something about her pose made Aredhel think perhaps her cousin was not going to give up so easily.
It was merely a pause in what she assumed would be a long series of arguments, she mused as the Lady of Lorien left her to her dark waking dreams.
What Aredhel could not quite bring herself to admit to anyone save herself was that part of her was starting to look forward to the moments where the world of sleep became as tangible as reality itself.
And perhaps she even had an excellent reason for that.
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Aredhel, Fingon, Galadriel
Fanfic 100 Prompt: 051. Water.
Word Count: 1291
Rating: General
Summary: Aredhel eventually emerges after the Battle of Fire and Water, but a new enigma is coming forth.
Author's Notes: Part of a Work in Progress based on the Dagor Dagorath prophecy. I own nothing.
She was dreaming. Again, and again. There was pain. She felt as though half her body was on fire. There were voices. There were touches. Somewhere, beyond her own ability to respond, she knew there was someone. The voice called. The voice tugged at her, as if demanding her attention, it was a scream, full of desperation, full of anguish, full of horror. In her mind's eye, she could almost see him. She reached, she called back, sometimes she clawed at the air, as if trying to tear the fabric of reality.
Sometimes, all she could hear was the quiet sound of childlike sobs that could only be a grown man's. Then, she cried.
There were times where she opened her eyes to find gray eyes, just like hers, full of worry and sorrow. But she closed her eyes again, retreating in an oblivion that at least allowed her not to suffer.
Sometimes, she spoke. Aredhel called his name, repeatedly, because she knew he could hear her.
“Tyelkormo, don't cry, please, you're breaking my heart when you sob like that.” She would reach into the empty air, as if trying to free him from whatever kept him captive, and sometimes, careful hands would try to restrain her and she would tear free, attempt to flail them off, until sleep took her again.
It was as though the world of the living no longer beckoned her, and she had already set foot in Mandos.
The transition was brutal.
A sudden intake of air bag entered her lungs, uninvited. And suddenly, a pair of hands seized her face, and gray eyes she knew well delved hers.
“Ireth, Ireth, to you hear me, do you know me?” Fingon's voice was urgent, pleading, demanding. Her voice caught in her throat and she found that it was dry, aching and unresponsive. She nodded.
The relief in her brother's eyes was great, and she felt tears stinging her eyes. It took a moment before she could form words again and another before she could articulate them. When she did, there were only two of them.
“How long?” Fingon told her then that it had been weeks since the attack. They had been lucky. As the dragon of Morgoth had risen, so had Ulmo. The wrath of the sea had extinguished the fire before it got to the hull of the ship and it had also drenched Aredhel as she had caught fire. She was burned, she could feel it, but the worst of it had been prevented because her exposure had been very short. Unfortunately, her exposure to water have been longer. For a while, the white lady of the Noldor had been thought lost, but her brother had refused to abandon the search, stubbornly. They had found her drifting on a girder with all hope was lost.
He looked pained, and she worried that there was more. With her eyes, who could speak louder than her voice, she demanded he tell her what had come to pass, and reluctantly, he did. Their younger brother had been lost once more. Her grief was unending.
She could not speak, only look at him with utter sadness, and though her arms were still blistered from the flame of Udun, she opened them for him. Fingon allowed himself to sink in his sister's arms, and they shed tears together, that were, Aredhel decided bitterly, unnumbered. Yet this time, they had left Valinor with the Valar's permission, and yet Arakano once more paid the price of his family's bravery.
For a moment, she allowed herself to remember how he was the one whose silence was the most soothing, how he was the one who had never held anything against her for more than half a day, and she cried, wishing she'd been taken in his stead.
She cried herself to sleep, not daring to ask for more news. Thus the remainder of the traverse was spent, and it was put to the protection of the Valar that there were no further incursions from the Army of Morgoth. It took Aredhel another week to come out on the bridge, to stare at the endless night. Something in her had changed, though. She stared into the darkness without fear, despite the lingering kisses of Dragon Breath on her arms and torso, on her cheek. She found herself staring with fascination, as if there was a memory in the back of her mind that lingered, there, waiting to be unearthed.
Yet nothing came forth, nothing to reveal to her the key to a new and strange enigma which she could not yet even name. It was there, waiting to be identified, but not certain and not clear, not even known or showing the shade of its silhouette. Just a teasing mystery in the afterthought of her bruised heart.
Mourning, at least, was a business that was not new to her, and she set to it with a dedication that was unsurprising. She would have cut her hair, but it was already cropped as short as it could be, a short fuzz of a thing, shorter than a newborn's hair, coarser, as well.
Leaning lightly on the railing, she thought of her son, eyes still staring at the darkness. Where was her Lomion? Had he found a new breath ? She supposed so. She had not asked anyone what had become of him after her passing, not even Turukano, for reasons that she could not quite communicate to herself. It might have been fear, but she dared not even admit that to her own musings. No, no, it was not, and she decided that when she saw her brother, she would ask him. Not Findekano, no, Turukano, who was with the Edain, somewhere on the earth they had yet to broach. She could wait until then.
A soft noise disturbed her in her meditation, and she turned to find her cousin Artanis looking at her, calmly.
“Artanis,” the greeting was quiet, courteous, polite, almost cold in her care.
“Irisse,” the cousin replied, gently enough. “Have you no questions to ask me?”
She shook her head, hoping the conversation could be averted. Alas, Galadriel insisted.
“There is aught I would ask,” she said, gently enough. Aredhel nodded, quietly. “I would like to know of your dreams, Ireth.”
Aredhel closed her eyes, then. She had not wanted to speak of them. They were too vivid, too real, to saddening. There was enough to mourn about, without thinking on the fate of their lost cousins. Too much had come to pass, for her to consider the dreams in a light other than that of the fevers the dragons might have caused her. She blamed the water and the fire for her nights, and she would leave it at that, if she could.
“There is nothing to say of my dreams, Artanis,” she replied, quietly, firmly. “They are fever dreams, and mean nothing. I do not have your gift.”
Galadriel examined her, a moment, not quite frowning, but something passed in her eyes that Aredhel could not exactly name. She inclined her head, but something about her pose made Aredhel think perhaps her cousin was not going to give up so easily.
It was merely a pause in what she assumed would be a long series of arguments, she mused as the Lady of Lorien left her to her dark waking dreams.
What Aredhel could not quite bring herself to admit to anyone save herself was that part of her was starting to look forward to the moments where the world of sleep became as tangible as reality itself.
And perhaps she even had an excellent reason for that.