Bad choices
Who: Aredhel, Eol. By mention, Celegorm, Fingon, Argon, Galadriel, Turgon and Maeglin.
Fandom: Silmarillion
Word count: 1485
Rating: PG-16 for evocation of violence
Associated fanfic100 prompt: 086. Choices.
Dedicated to meemsers , minviendha with love.
She left Himlad with tears in her eyes. It had been hard for her, to decide, to leave Gondolin, to seek Celegorm out. Hard for her to accept that her secret lover was, at least indirectly, an accomplice to the death of her little brother. Arakàno. Sweet and secret, broody but true. Argon. Her joy whom she told all, who told her all. Ireth went without thinking about such things, or rather, with the need to speak to him, to hear an explanation. She went with the irrepressible desire to be told what had happened, and why.
The words at the gate were harsh, in Sindar, even if the warden did not mean them to be so.
“He is not here, lady.”
“Not here? Where is Tyelkormo Turcafinwë, lord of Himlad. They said he ruled this place, is it not so?”
“So it is, Lady, but he has gone to Thargelion, to hunt with this brother, Caranthir.”
“So I will await, then,” she said, frustrated and yet still hopeful.
She crossed the gate and hopped down from her horse, white flows of silken and silver-treaded material waving around her like the arms of Ulmò.
“Who are you, Lady?” asked the steward, a stout Sindarin elf who almost scowled at her for being Noldor, and yet could not help but be reverent in front of her beauty.
“Aredhel Ar-Feinel,” she replied, proud and regal in her bearing, princess from head to to.
“Come, then, and rest, until our lord comes.”
She went, and rested. She waited. The season was long and the leaves of autumn colored the path. She thought of her brothers, of Turukàno and his glorious city of Gondolin, of the sweat, blood and tears he put in his secret abode, and she regretted, deep in her heart, leaving him. Had she betrayed her brothers? Her father? Was the High King’s daughter betraying her family, by loving Tyelkormo, Son of Faenor? Findekàno thought so, she knew. Findekàno the stout, the brave, the constant. Her serious older brother. She loved him, though she found hard to tell him so. This was when fear shook her, took her. What if her brothers went to war, again, and died? What if her father died before she could say goodbye?
Her wait had been long enough. The autumn leaves had been replaced by white paths of snow. He will not come, now, she thought. He will remain with Moryo, perhaps even another year. Perhaps someone told him that I was here, and he waits for me to leave. She cried, alone, looking out the window at white Beleriand, torn in her need and her loyalties.
She left.
One morning, without thinking, she left. The hooves of her horse were drumming soft notes on the path that led to the forest. Drum, drum, drum, clipetty clop, and passing over a river, crossing a pass, she went, back to Gondolin, back to her brother. Perhaps she was really seeking home, times of innocence where love and loyalty were not in conflict. Perhaps she was crying as she crossed into Nan Elmoth. She was lost. Lost in her body, lost in her soul, lost in her path.
The man came. Lurking at first in the shadows, observing. She was a lone woman. It would be so easy to take her down, he thought. Aredhel’s horse fretted. She readied her bow, making a sound of soothing for her mare. Female, so she was, but not harmless. Like her illicit beloved, Ar-Feinel was a hunter, accomplished, her hand on her bow was assured.
“Teli-ai?” Who comes?
She was listening, alert, focused for the preemptive strike.
“Please don’t shoot,” came the voice, sweet and soothing. “I mean you no harm.”
“Then show yourself,” she replied, harshly. “Show yourself now, before you die like venison on a stake.”
He showed himself.
He was not Celegorm the Fair. He was dark-haired, smaller than any Noldorin she had known. Sindarin. His hands were up in the air in a sign of peace.
“Who are you? Why are you lurking in the shadows and following me?” Her tone was harsh, murderous.
“I am the lord of these woods,” he said, calmly. “And you are trespassing, Lady. Put down your weapons, I will not harm you.”
“I only wish to return home. I will not hunt your beasts, I will not settle. I shall pass and begone, and you will never have known I was here.”
“You will pass and be gone, but I know already that you are here,” he replied quietly. “It is late, come and be rested in my home this night. Tomorrow, you will leave again.”
She looked at him, defiantly, dubiously. She had not the talent to see in men`s heart as Artanis did - and for perhaps the first time, Aredhel found herself wishing for the counsel of her annoying little cousin.
“And if I refuse your hospitality?”
“Then I will be forever wounded, beautiful lady,” he replied with a charming smile.
She was tired, she did not know better. She went.
His name was Eol, and he ruled Nan Elmoth as a solitary vigil. He had been there since before the Noldor had come to Beleriand. He did not make any mention of his family, or of his lineage. His home was small, but cozy. He took the horse away, to bring her to the stables, leaving her alone in the humble surroundings.
She walked around, finding him so disarming in the poverty and solitude in which he lived. He came back, and offered her food and shelter this night. She ate, gratefully, the sober broth and bread. She drank carefully the thimble of wine he offered her. Her body swooned. “I think I might go to bed,” she murmured sleepily.
Eöl’s smile was not quite a smirk. “Then sleep, beautiful Aredhel, and be rested.” And so he took her to his cot, and she lay, inanimate in unnatural sleep.
When she awoke, she was not sure what had happened, or how long had passed. He was there again.
“Good morning, my love,” he said with tenderness. “Have you well rested?”
“My love, sir?” she gasped in shock. “How very familiar of you, when you’ve only ever been my host for a night.”
“You speak nonsense again, my wife,” he said sedately. “We have been living here a long time together.”
“We have?” She stood, frustratedly. “Let me see to my horse, and be gone. You speak nonsense.”
“Go see for yourself,” he replied calmly. “There is no horse here.”
She went, and cried bitterly, pooled on the stable floor when she saw indeed that her horse was nowhere to be seen. She would not go back inside the house, and so she stayed in the hay, wiping sour tears off her face.
“Come now, it is late, my wife,” he said calmly, if firmly. “I have made dinner for us, but tomorrow, you must work again. Your laziness is unbearable.”
He grasped her arm, firmly, to tug her back inside.
“I am not your wife, let me go!” She resisted, tugged back, but his hand took a hold on her hair and he took her inside, crying in pain and protesting, her arm bruised from his grip.
He threw her on the cot. “I hate you, I am not your wife!” He did the deed. “Let me go, my brothers will kill you for this!” She lay there, crying, silently begging them all to come for her, to save her. All of her brothers, her cousins, all the men she loved and trusted, and now this, pain, unbearable, between her thighs, and the blood, staining her white dress. She begged Arakàno to come take her, if he could.
Eventually, she fell asleep in her tears.
Months passed. Then years. Ëol demanded his due every day. She gave it without emotion, without pleasure, hating him every single moment of the day, of the night, hating his touches on her skin, his kisses, his voice, his smirk of pride when he returned from hunting. Hating the Sindarin language which she was forced to speak constantly. Hating the woods. Hating the soil. Hating sex, yet submitted to his will.
From seeing him and only him, she began to relate to Eöl. To hate him less, to want his company. Solitude took a hold on her, and she forgot who she was, the White Lady of the Noldor, in love with Celegorm, expected in Gondolin. She became Aredhel, Eöl’s submitted, obedient wife. Ireth slowly died to be replaced by another, soulless and joyless, barely an animation of the shell she occupied.
One day she fell with child. Lòmion. Maeglin. Her baby. He did not seem to care. In secret, she taught the child to speak Quenya. In secret, she started remembering who she was. In secret, she was born again.
It would soon be time to leave.
Fandom: Silmarillion
Word count: 1485
Rating: PG-16 for evocation of violence
Associated fanfic100 prompt: 086. Choices.
Dedicated to meemsers , minviendha with love.
She left Himlad with tears in her eyes. It had been hard for her, to decide, to leave Gondolin, to seek Celegorm out. Hard for her to accept that her secret lover was, at least indirectly, an accomplice to the death of her little brother. Arakàno. Sweet and secret, broody but true. Argon. Her joy whom she told all, who told her all. Ireth went without thinking about such things, or rather, with the need to speak to him, to hear an explanation. She went with the irrepressible desire to be told what had happened, and why.
The words at the gate were harsh, in Sindar, even if the warden did not mean them to be so.
“He is not here, lady.”
“Not here? Where is Tyelkormo Turcafinwë, lord of Himlad. They said he ruled this place, is it not so?”
“So it is, Lady, but he has gone to Thargelion, to hunt with this brother, Caranthir.”
“So I will await, then,” she said, frustrated and yet still hopeful.
She crossed the gate and hopped down from her horse, white flows of silken and silver-treaded material waving around her like the arms of Ulmò.
“Who are you, Lady?” asked the steward, a stout Sindarin elf who almost scowled at her for being Noldor, and yet could not help but be reverent in front of her beauty.
“Aredhel Ar-Feinel,” she replied, proud and regal in her bearing, princess from head to to.
“Come, then, and rest, until our lord comes.”
She went, and rested. She waited. The season was long and the leaves of autumn colored the path. She thought of her brothers, of Turukàno and his glorious city of Gondolin, of the sweat, blood and tears he put in his secret abode, and she regretted, deep in her heart, leaving him. Had she betrayed her brothers? Her father? Was the High King’s daughter betraying her family, by loving Tyelkormo, Son of Faenor? Findekàno thought so, she knew. Findekàno the stout, the brave, the constant. Her serious older brother. She loved him, though she found hard to tell him so. This was when fear shook her, took her. What if her brothers went to war, again, and died? What if her father died before she could say goodbye?
Her wait had been long enough. The autumn leaves had been replaced by white paths of snow. He will not come, now, she thought. He will remain with Moryo, perhaps even another year. Perhaps someone told him that I was here, and he waits for me to leave. She cried, alone, looking out the window at white Beleriand, torn in her need and her loyalties.
She left.
One morning, without thinking, she left. The hooves of her horse were drumming soft notes on the path that led to the forest. Drum, drum, drum, clipetty clop, and passing over a river, crossing a pass, she went, back to Gondolin, back to her brother. Perhaps she was really seeking home, times of innocence where love and loyalty were not in conflict. Perhaps she was crying as she crossed into Nan Elmoth. She was lost. Lost in her body, lost in her soul, lost in her path.
The man came. Lurking at first in the shadows, observing. She was a lone woman. It would be so easy to take her down, he thought. Aredhel’s horse fretted. She readied her bow, making a sound of soothing for her mare. Female, so she was, but not harmless. Like her illicit beloved, Ar-Feinel was a hunter, accomplished, her hand on her bow was assured.
“Teli-ai?” Who comes?
She was listening, alert, focused for the preemptive strike.
“Please don’t shoot,” came the voice, sweet and soothing. “I mean you no harm.”
“Then show yourself,” she replied, harshly. “Show yourself now, before you die like venison on a stake.”
He showed himself.
He was not Celegorm the Fair. He was dark-haired, smaller than any Noldorin she had known. Sindarin. His hands were up in the air in a sign of peace.
“Who are you? Why are you lurking in the shadows and following me?” Her tone was harsh, murderous.
“I am the lord of these woods,” he said, calmly. “And you are trespassing, Lady. Put down your weapons, I will not harm you.”
“I only wish to return home. I will not hunt your beasts, I will not settle. I shall pass and begone, and you will never have known I was here.”
“You will pass and be gone, but I know already that you are here,” he replied quietly. “It is late, come and be rested in my home this night. Tomorrow, you will leave again.”
She looked at him, defiantly, dubiously. She had not the talent to see in men`s heart as Artanis did - and for perhaps the first time, Aredhel found herself wishing for the counsel of her annoying little cousin.
“And if I refuse your hospitality?”
“Then I will be forever wounded, beautiful lady,” he replied with a charming smile.
She was tired, she did not know better. She went.
His name was Eol, and he ruled Nan Elmoth as a solitary vigil. He had been there since before the Noldor had come to Beleriand. He did not make any mention of his family, or of his lineage. His home was small, but cozy. He took the horse away, to bring her to the stables, leaving her alone in the humble surroundings.
She walked around, finding him so disarming in the poverty and solitude in which he lived. He came back, and offered her food and shelter this night. She ate, gratefully, the sober broth and bread. She drank carefully the thimble of wine he offered her. Her body swooned. “I think I might go to bed,” she murmured sleepily.
Eöl’s smile was not quite a smirk. “Then sleep, beautiful Aredhel, and be rested.” And so he took her to his cot, and she lay, inanimate in unnatural sleep.
When she awoke, she was not sure what had happened, or how long had passed. He was there again.
“Good morning, my love,” he said with tenderness. “Have you well rested?”
“My love, sir?” she gasped in shock. “How very familiar of you, when you’ve only ever been my host for a night.”
“You speak nonsense again, my wife,” he said sedately. “We have been living here a long time together.”
“We have?” She stood, frustratedly. “Let me see to my horse, and be gone. You speak nonsense.”
“Go see for yourself,” he replied calmly. “There is no horse here.”
She went, and cried bitterly, pooled on the stable floor when she saw indeed that her horse was nowhere to be seen. She would not go back inside the house, and so she stayed in the hay, wiping sour tears off her face.
“Come now, it is late, my wife,” he said calmly, if firmly. “I have made dinner for us, but tomorrow, you must work again. Your laziness is unbearable.”
He grasped her arm, firmly, to tug her back inside.
“I am not your wife, let me go!” She resisted, tugged back, but his hand took a hold on her hair and he took her inside, crying in pain and protesting, her arm bruised from his grip.
He threw her on the cot. “I hate you, I am not your wife!” He did the deed. “Let me go, my brothers will kill you for this!” She lay there, crying, silently begging them all to come for her, to save her. All of her brothers, her cousins, all the men she loved and trusted, and now this, pain, unbearable, between her thighs, and the blood, staining her white dress. She begged Arakàno to come take her, if he could.
Eventually, she fell asleep in her tears.
Months passed. Then years. Ëol demanded his due every day. She gave it without emotion, without pleasure, hating him every single moment of the day, of the night, hating his touches on her skin, his kisses, his voice, his smirk of pride when he returned from hunting. Hating the Sindarin language which she was forced to speak constantly. Hating the woods. Hating the soil. Hating sex, yet submitted to his will.
From seeing him and only him, she began to relate to Eöl. To hate him less, to want his company. Solitude took a hold on her, and she forgot who she was, the White Lady of the Noldor, in love with Celegorm, expected in Gondolin. She became Aredhel, Eöl’s submitted, obedient wife. Ireth slowly died to be replaced by another, soulless and joyless, barely an animation of the shell she occupied.
One day she fell with child. Lòmion. Maeglin. Her baby. He did not seem to care. In secret, she taught the child to speak Quenya. In secret, she started remembering who she was. In secret, she was born again.
It would soon be time to leave.