Do not own Silmarillion.
His mouth tasted like blood sneaking down his throat and hardened resolve sinking into his skin. The stone was cold along the ridges of his taut shoulders. His muscles were tight, so much so that he was shaking, and were visible through his skin.
"You test my patience, Umbarto."
"Isn't that what I always do?" he hissed out through the pulsing pain of the blood trickling down from the shallow wound on his side.
"Yes." It was said in such annoyance that the elf couldn't help but smirk. "Sometimes I wonder if the wrong son of Fëanor was left on those ships." His breath caught. What did that mean? "I wonder if Amras was the one asleep if he had been abandoned on the first ship, to burn and die a horrible death, condemned by his own father… I wonder if your little brother would have screamed for me."
That was a line Raiqifëa wasn't allowed to cross. Amrod could weather the pain and taunts in silence; he could bear to hear his mother-name on his torturer's breath; he could even accept the quiet version of his brother-in-law, the soft, pained one, that he hid beneath his armor and his façade, that came out in times when he felt most vulnerable. But the moment he mentioned his brothers… the moment he threatened them… that was when something in Fëanor's son broken.
The cuff clinked against its links as his hand flew forward, fingers barred in a menacing way. And then he felt his captor's skin on his palm, and his head snap back.
There was a small cut on Raiqifëa's cheek, whether from the chain or one of his nails—one of the nails that hadn't been torn from his fingers—he didn't know.
But Sauron's son lifted a hand to his face, and gently looked at the drop of blood collected on his palm.
He laughed, "Even chained to the wall and bleeding and in pain and anger and fear, you are still every bit as feral as your father and the rest of his oath-cursed sons." Amrod snarled, but his torturer was out of his reach.
"Do not speak of them."
"You're right; we shouldn't speak ill of the dead." His breath sputtered out from his lungs.
"…what…" His torturer tilted his head to the side.
"You didn't hear? Amras is dead, Umbarto. Your brother's blood lies spilled with an arrow to his side. They say that the Ambarussa were the youngest of Fëanor's sons, and they were the first to fall. Your brothers have abandoned you, Umbarto."
"No," he hissed through his clenched teeth, "They just think me dead." Raiqifëa threw back his head and laughed.
"Is that what you like to believe? Then why did they not check the ship you were sleeping in? Why did they not search for your body among the wreckage or the waves? Face it, Amrod, your brothers care naught for you. They have left you for dead."
"That's not true…" he whispered pitifully, "they wouldn't…"
"Oh, but they would, Umbarto. And, unlike your little hanno, no one will be here to avenge you." He saw the dagger in his side before he felt it. And, when he gasped, it was more from the suddenness of the pain than the intensity of it.
That was when he realized he couldn't breathe. There was a quickness, a shortness, each intake of air different and more stifled from the last.
"Why, I do believe I've pierced your lung." He felt Raiqifëa's form loom over him. "I have. And you know better than to remove that knife, lest the blood fill your lungs." He turned to go. "Don't worry. I'll send for my sister… when I see her next."
And then his tormentor was gone.
But Amrod had seen in Raiqifëa's eyes that he was absolutely terrified. Their relationship was like a sibling rivalry gone wrong and blown completely out of proportion. His quest to make him scream was more like a game to them than anything, a quest to see who would break first. But, he did truly care for Fëanor's son; you could tell in certain moments. Like how when he discovered—completely on accident—that Amrod and Míryaruinë were married. He had been truly joyful. Or, when he had to come to his brother-in-law, twice in the past, divested of his armor and dressed in a loose tunic instead, and they simply spoke. Of pain. Of heartbreak. Of loneliness and fear. In those moments, Amrod could see Raiqifëa's soul, fighting to break free. And he prayed to Eru that his brother-in-law would find solace from his torment. That he would one day realize that the name Aratanárë fit him better now than Raiqifëa ever would.
And, with that in mind, Fëanor's son knew that as soon as Sauron's son had closed the door, he had gone running through the shadows of his cursed home to find his sister, not just 'when he saw her next'. He had seen the genuine fear in his eyes. But Amrod also knew that Míryaruinë was unlikely to get here before his lungs filled with blood and he drowned on dry land.
His hand shook, unable to be steadied, the fingers of his left limb refused to curl around the handle. His breath was fast, not only because of his lungs but because he was bracing like a dog would before a blow. And then his knuckles tightened around the leather grip and the steel came loose from his flesh with a quick tug that ended with a sickening squelch.
It clattered to the floor, slipping from his blood-slicked, limb fingers. The stab oozed red and his breath caught when he saw it. The liquid spilled out to the floor and he watched almost hypnotically, mesmerized. But then he roughly shook his head, and inspected the wound again, this time with a healer's eye, one that had been perfected in Angband.
It had only barely pierced the fringes of his lung and would probably heal by itself—the real problem was making sure he didn't bleed out until then. His mind froze with a single realization. He was going to have to do one of two things—cauterize it or stitch it. Considering he didn't have an open flame the first option was impossible. He also didn't have a needle—Amrod's eyes happened to glance at the shimmer of the blade, glistening with blood. At the thinness of it, the almost… unnatural slenderness. The way he could easily break off the tip with a few well-placed pounds of a rock.
His mind recoiled from the thought but then… what else was he to do? He was going to die in about two minutes, two-and-a-half at most. The chance of Raiqifëa finding and bringing Míryaruinë to him with enough time to let her help? The chance of that happening was slim. Very slim.
So his hand trembled its way to grip the blade once more, lay it down between his knee and a stone beside it, and lift a shaking rock. And then bring it down. Again and again and again. Until he felt the steel splinter. And then crack. And then break.
The two pieces feel cleanly into his palm, the shards of glass-like metal scattering on the floor. The blade was even still pointed on the end, though it had two edges now, instead of just one. But what he was really looking at was the tip. It was wide, enough to make him nervous, but his other option was death. And he had come too far to die now.
He pulled with shaking fingers at the frayed threads of his sleeves, watching them unravel, and shivering as his skin was exposed to the cold air. Then he twined that around the steel point. He stared at it for a moment, before forcing himself to look down at his torso and level the sharp metal to his skin. He took a breath, the heaviness in his lungs reminding him why he had to do this and stabbed it into his skin. His eyes squinted; his breath caught, stuttering, but he moved his fingers through his flesh, positioning the steel so that it weaved a line through his skin. He looped it over the wound, then back into himself, hissing. It was a small injury, only three stitches needed, and, when he was finished, he let his blood-stained fingers fall to the floor, the tip dangling from the thread. His breath evened, and he gave a soft sigh of relief. He was no longer bleeding, and the hole in his lung was tiny enough that it would close on its own. He was going to live.
But then he glanced at the blade, the blade still sporting a jagged sharpness all around. And an idea burned in his mind. He was in pain, yes, in utter agony, and he was covered in his own blood. But, then again, when was he not? And was he ever going to get a second chance?
His hand scooped the dagger from the floor, pricking his fingers on the shards of metal all around it.
His legs lifted themselves painfully from the ground, the soles of his feet digging into the stone with a sharp intensity.
And his gaze held the handle of the door, the way it wasn't locked or bolted, the way that Raiqifëa had left it cracked in his hurry.
Amrod took a step forward, his weight feeling alien on his hips. He stumbled to the threshold and then glanced into the hall. It was—thank the Valar—empty. He breathed out a sigh and forced his gait to steady. His eyes flashed.
If he was going to get out of here, it wasn't going to be by limping.
Amrod had no idea how to navigate Angband, not the first clue. His entire sense of direction in that dark hell was simple: hear something, go the other way. He thought that perhaps Eru was finally smiling down at him for, after about an hour, he opened a door and burst unto the bottom of one of the spires.
The sun was shining down on his head.
And, oh Valar, the sun, it was gorgeous, perfectly placed.
Until the light truly sunk in and he recoiled, like one of the orcs, from its sheer brightness.
It was then that he noticed the pale color of his skin.
It was then that he realized his eyes must have been a milky white for all his time in darkness.
It was also then that he realized there were weathered stone steps leading down the tower and… out of the tower. He leaned over the edge and checked. Yes. He grinned from the absurdity of it. An unguarded exit out of Angband was right at his feet. And then he turned his gaze up, lifting a hand to block the light, and saw, beyond the wall… tents.
Waving the banner of Finwë and Fëanor from their flag posts.
Tears came to his eyes and, this time, it had nothing to do with the sun.
Fëanor.
His brothers were here.
His feet stumbled down the stone, unable to resume the steadiness they'd held earlier. He knew that there was a siege going on. No one had told him that it contained his brothers. Or any of his family, really. He never thought he was going to be able to just walk out and see his six—five brothers again. Five. He reminded himself sadly. Five, because Amras was gone. He slipped through a hole in the wall and gazed with sorrow at the dead bodies that lined the field of Angband's foreground. So much death. The corpses were strewn over the burned grass, so similar to the Teleri that Alqualondë appeared in his head, and he flinched.
"May you find peace in Mandos Halls, my kin," he murmured to the wind, unsure if he was speaking to the dead Noldor in front of him, or the fallen Teleri, cut down in the city, so long ago.
Thankfully, the camp was not far, for he believed that, unsurprisingly, one of his haphazardly made and rushed stitches had torn, if the blood trickling down his torso was any indication.
A battle seemed to have been fought recently if the bodies and the screams and the dashing of healers was any indication. But that meant that he could slip through unnoticed, covered in blood though he was, for he could walk on his own and had no visible wounds. No one even glanced twice at him, despite the blood-hue of his hair. They probably thought it was stained, herealized, from either my own or my brethren's.
The camp, when he reached it, was in an uproar, everyone had somewhere to go and someone to tend to. But he had his sights set on one place in particular.
The tent at the top of a large hill, near the middle of thelaager, that bore the standard of Fëanor at its top. The leader's tent. And where he knew he would find his brothers.
"My lord!" A healer gasped from beside him and he faltered when he realized that she was talking to him. It had been so long since he had been called that title in a sincere tone of voice, one that wasn't just trying to mock him or bring about memories of his old life that he didn't know how to respond. "You're brothers worried for you, my lord." He paused, stricken. They were… worried about him? Then why didn't they come to find him? And why was this maiden taking it in such stride? "They were afraid that you had fallen." He gave a thin grin. They had thought he was dead. But then it fell. No, they were afraid that he was dead. That meant they knew he was alive and had done nothing. "They're waiting for you in the main tent." Amrod knew that, but he still nodded gratefully and limped along.
The healer, on the other hand, turned the corner and went a bit further before running into someone.
"My apologies, my lord—" she hurriedly began, brushing the dust off herself before she looked and… met the face of the person she had just talked to?
"It's alright, my lady." Amras smiled at her, "Is my horse in the stables?" She nodded dumbly and he thanked her with a gesture before setting off. She just blinked.
…How?
But Amrod, on the other side of the camp, was frozen in fear. He stood, rooted to the ground like a statue. He could barely breathe. The sons of Fëanor were behind this thin wall of cloth, behind this tiny border. Just a slip of fabric to separate him from his family that he hadn't seen in over a hundred years. It seemed unreal. It seemed impossible. And yet… here he was. The guards on either side were staring at the motionless elf as though he were insane, but he was in too much ecstasy—and pain— to care. It sunk in.
He was free.
And he was about to see his brothers.
But only if he would this courage—and the strength—to brush this aside and take a step inside and they would see him. He bit his bottom lip. Did he have the drive to face them? Could he bear to see the masked horror on their faces from his scars or his hand and the absolute disgust in their eyes?
Amrod's gaze hardened. But how could he not? With everything he had been through, with the record he held, with the way that he had bit his tongue and refused to give this smallest whimper or the weakest scream, could he back down now? How could he face himself, knowing that it hadn't been torture nor darkness nor starvation that broke him, but his own unjustified fears?
He took a breath, let it cling to his lungs and felt the cold air shiver down his spine before he lifted up his head and took a staggering step inside, the curtain washing over him.
Light glowed from a lamp like the sun outside, and he flinched slightly as the flame flickered. Amrod forced himself to breathe. To look up.
To meet their eyes.
Maitimo, whose name no longer fit his form, was leaning over a table, long ruby hair a waterfall down his scarred back.
Makalaurë had his boots kicked up one of the other chairs as he leaned back in another, idly fiddling with his harp strings to a tuneless melody.
Tyelkormo was sharpening one of his silver daggers, fingers stained with black orcish blood and boots slick with mud.
Carnistir was beside Maitimo at the map, his fingers clicking along the rim of the table.
Curufinwë, his face pulled down in his ever-permanent scowl, was ramrod straight with his arms crossed behind his back, staring into nothing.
Amras, of course, was not there, for he was gone.
They barely glanced at him as he entered the room. Only Tyelkormo did, and it was for no more than an instant.
"Oh, great, you're alive," he remarked with his famous cynicism. The words stung into Amrod with their careless tone. They really don't care… He thought mournfully.
"Maitimo…" he barely choked out, hoping that his ever-present, ever-caring brother would at least give him a word of joy. Could they not see that he had missed them? Were they so blind to his pain?
But that name did more than get the attention of Fëanor's first son. Everyone lurched to stare at him, and Makalaurë even sent him a glare.
"What did you just call me?" his brother growled, and he faltered.
"…Maitimo?"
"You would dare—" His breath caught as his eyes landed on the scars on Amrod's face, the scars that never adorned Amras'. And they were healed over, too old to be from the battle that just ended. He stared for just a moment, and Amrod gave a hesitant smile. "Amrod?" he murmured out in shock, in disbelief.
Makalaurë shot to his feet, the harp tumbling from his fingers and to the ground.
"What?" he choked out.
A splash of blood slipped down his leg and onto the floor. They stared at it.
"Amrod…" Maitimo graced a hand over his cheek and he leaned into the touch.
Then he fainted.
Tell me what you think, please!