Lone Hunter Cries Beneath the Moon
-sigh- Angst once again. –sigh- Set immediately after the Noldor parted in Hithlum, before Dagor Aglareb. Because I know that a bond between twins is far stronger than a bond between brothers. Also, I am aware that the wolf could've scented him earlier--much much earlier. But for story purposes the wolf has been made rather ignorant.
Onónya = my twin
ΩΩΩΩΩ
The last rays of Anar shone through the leaves of the trees in Southern Beleriand. The golden light dappled the lonely, rarely-trodden earth. Beneath the great oaks and firs, animals fit for game were scurrying about on the dirt, pausing only to scent the air. Their little paws hardly made a sound. Whiskers twitched. Ears pricked. The air was filled with beautiful birdsong. Feathered friends of various shapes and sizes chirped merrily in the stiff, brown branches. Unknown to them, a great gray figure sat near to one of the sycamores. In the shadows, bright eyes glinted with hunger. The birds sang on. Claws were unsheathed. Muscles tensed.
It happened in a flash.
The lovely songbird broke the melody with a fearful screech, then disappeared in a flurry of feathers and claws. Its partner darted out of the tree, launching itself high and out of sight. The wolf fell back to the ground, prey between its huge, gray paws. It took ravenous gulps of the bird, and when it had finished, all that remained was a patch of red on the ground, the bloody beak, and bones. The birdsong so rudely disrupted was resumed, and none of the birds present took notice of what had just happened. The only one that did had gone away.
Now the wolf padded to a clean stream in the forest. It poured out of a dark hole in between two rocks. The carnivore then proceeded to washing its bloody paws in the fresh water. Downstream, the rushing current was tinged with red.
Now another hunter was lurking there in the woods. It peered around the forest, searching. It had heard the sudden breach in the birdsongs. It knew that something had happened somewhere. Fair hands gripped a beautiful green bow, arrow already set in the string. Bright gray eyes scanned the woods. Copper hair turned to fire when struck by sunlight.
This was, of course, none other than Amrod son of Fëanor, or rather Ambarussa Pityafinwë Fëanorion.
He crept stealthily along the shadow of the trees, longbow in hand, hunting knife in a long, and finely designed, dark brown sheath on his back. Twilight was gathering, and he knew he must get back soon. He knew… It was knowledge, but it was not an intention. He continued. Soon he spotted the patch of blood that practically destroyed the beauty of the wood. He knew at once it was a wolf.
He had no intention of killing it, really—he knew it was natural, that it was just the food chain. His longbow was there only because he needed to be alert all the time, especially since he was rather insecure. He stopped, catching his breath. The wolf was there, pacing in the glade. The dying sunlight did nothing to its sleek gray coat. Then, as fast as could've been possible, Anar went down.
Amrod hid in the darkness, watching the wolf. It climbed up to a rocky outcrop, anticipating Isil. Minutes passed, and Amrod thought of what he was doing here out alone with a wolf. He thought of the wolves he had seen in Valinor, in Aman, before Melkor's evils. He thought about him and Amras hunting together. He thought about Amras. Then, his thoughts slipped away to the burning of the ships at Losgar.
He remembered the waters reflecting the naked blaze. Large tongues of bright orange and yellow and tiny blue flames had flickered towards the sky, outshining the stars of Varda. He remembered the insanely satisfied expression of Fëanor as he burned all the beautiful swan-ships down. A voice floated into his head.
"Onónya, Ambarussa. I cannot sleep here, the discomfort is too great."
He had nodded sleepily then. Now he could see that he could have prevented things so terrible from happening. The next morning, they had gathered—but only six out of the seven sons of Fëanor appeared. A shiver had shot down his spine, and he knew that the colour had drained out of his face. "Did you not then rouse Ambarussa my brother whom you called Ambarto? He would not come ashore to sleep," he had said. Then they were all aware of the terrible truth—Amras: Umbarto (as it was, not Ambarto) Telufinwë had gone into the foremost of the swan-ships, shocked by Fëanor's fell deeds and wishing to return home.
"That ship I destroyed first," Fëanor had said.
"Then rightly you gave the name to the youngest of your children," he remembered himself saying, "and Umbarto, the Fated, was its true form. Fell and fey you are become."
His heart throbbed, beating wildly in his chest. Time had flown since he first started his painful reverie. The wolf was still at the outcrop. But now Isil was well-nigh glittering in the dark sky. The wolf threw its head back, and howled to the moon. It was a sorrowful howl, a blend of pain and anguish in the note. Amrod waited a long time, watching, just watching, wondering why it seemed so sad. Eventually it ceased. The wolf padded down, eyes alert and darting around the area.
Amrod was a hunter, and he knew the ways of the animals, even if it was only Celegorm who could speak to them. He was well hidden from the wolf's view. But wolves have a very keen sense of smell. It snarled, padding in the direction of where Amrod was hiding. He bent his bow, no hesitation now, when it came to safety matters. It leapt.
It fell to the ground as fast as it had pounced. Amrod thought it a pity to have killed the animal, but it was a matter of his life or the wolf's. Once again his thoughts flew to the first time he had taken down a wolf. Amras had been there—it was a joint victory. Ambarussa, not Ambarto, not Umbarto, pulling the arrow out from the freshly-slain wolf. Once again, ache for the loss of his twin tore at his weary heart. He sank to the ground, doing the same with the animal he'd just killed. His hands reminded him of his twin—they were identical, augh! Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he tensed, snapping the arrow cleanly in half.
He'd have to get over it sometime, he knew—but not today.