CHAPTER XX


Tyelpe—

The Three were completed, and hidden in a deep vault somewhere in his chamber. It would be of use, soon, he knew. Perhaps it could even redeem him from what he had done to Nestadren of Rhaendach. Perhaps, he thought, he was no better than his father, no matter how many times he told himself otherwise.

Look at this world. It's made of bits and pieces of things, like a massive shattered mirror. Sometimes you might depict yourself as more virtuous than them all—no, I wouldn't do that; no, I am not that person. But when you look inside, all you see is your face in the mirror. Maybe at first you wouldn't recognize that they were your own eyes because you thought of yourself to be better. But that mask on your face is only an illusion, and mirrors do not fall into the snares of illusions.

What makes up this mirror is all the different people in this world. They are held together by frangible threads that threaten to snap at the first hint of strife—therefore some have tried to glue these shattered pieces back together to form a gangly thing. And why are these threads so frangible, you might ask? Because we have been taught that way since the very beginning.

People say that you always become your parents in the end. It is because they are the ones who were there ever since the first day you opened your eyes, the first time you spoke, the first time you stood. And whether you loved them or not, you would remember them, and be influenced by them, whoever they were. When you are a child, you know nothing. All you know is what they do, and who they are. Thus the cycle goes on and on and the world is left to the ruins of minds, of hearts, of people.

Look at your eyes. Do they say these words tell true? Then let that mask, that illusion, crumble away and look at yourself, truly, genuinely, in that shattered mirror. The mirror will not mend, no, but it is beautiful that way—don't you think? You can only be beautiful after you've been broken.

Tyelpe knew his crimes, he knew his deeds, and he knew now he could not trust Annatar. The past had to be put behind, though their memories remembered. This was something new, a new illusion he knew he had to paint for Annatar to be content, for his schemes to be revealed. Thus that day, he colored a certain mask upon himself that he knew would please Annatar. What surprised him was that Annatar did indeed fall for this slight ploy of his; he had not expected himself to be so wily.

The winter wind blew his face raw that night as he thought about all these things, and he knew there was more to come.


Glorfindel—

The other night it snowed again and covered the stain where the ground had been watered with the ellon's blood. Upon brushing against his fëa, he realized that he was of kin to Hith, a brother most likely; he was very young. Another child of Sauron. . .it was an odd thought. Glorfindel wondered if he had killed the ellon; the wound was deep and likely fatal. The ellon is Hith's brother, he told himself. You killed her brother.

Yes, he had gone back for the word. Like the fool, like the craven he was, he had gone back for the sword, though some might say it required bravery. Perhaps that was so, but it was still a craven's sort of bravery. He was afraid to face Hith lest she was there, waiting for him, to kill him for what he'd done. She was not there, however, nor anywhere near, and he was not sure whether that brought him ease or not.

There was something prowling in the shadows that was not eluded—not until it was too late. The eerie silence in the forest grew too much just as he sensed something, turned, and staggered as an arrow protruded from his thigh. He grunted and drew his sword, his blood dripping onto the snow, knuckles white on the hilt. Yet he could see no one—the trees were tall and dense, a perfect site for an ambush. He cursed as an arrow hit him in the shoulder, then again as a circle of Easterlings enclosed around him.

However skilled a fighter someone could be, they could not overcome fifty men coming at them at once. Though he managed to kill five and injure a few others, his wounds weighed him down. They dealt him more blows until he fell to his knees, disarmed, blood running out of a gash on his cheek. Easterlings. They were Easterlings.

A pommel hit him on the back of his head and he fell.


Hrysívë—

For an entire day, darkness engulfed me. I could see nothing, feel nothing but coldness, hear nothing but the sound of water dripping somewhere. Closing my eyes was the same as opening them, so I kept them closed, my lids weighing me down with fatigue. My wings were nailed to the stone and my wrists and ankles chained to the walls, yet I scarcely felt it. All I felt was the sardonic humor that kept swimming back into my head. Funny to end up back here again, after all the work you've done. Seems I'll never get anywhere in this very amusing cycle.

Then at last the visitor I had awaited came. A glaring beam of light shot into the room as the door opened and revealed Khamûl's shadow walking through. I furrowed my brow, squinting my eyes at the painful light even as the door closed, revealing Khamûl holding a lantern before him. I was expecting him to be victorious—at least look it—but all I saw was an angry young man bent upon revenge. He looked tired more than anything, much less threatening now that he wasn't holding himself up to present to the court.

"Do the fetters bother you, Your Highness?" Khamûl hung the lantern up and approached me.

"What bothers me is that my hair is itching my neck," I said. "Mind tying it back for me?"

Khamûl ignored that. "You chose this. You could have killed the guards before they clamped those chains on your but you did not."

He wanted to know why, but I would not give him the satisfaction of an answer so easily. "I did. Lord Khamûl, I thank you for granting me this. . .realization."

He suffered himself to inquire. "What is this realization you speak of?"

"My lord, I am sure you have more interesting questions than that of my own self beliefs. Why don't you go ahead and continue the interrogation on the case?"

"There is no case," Khamûl hissed. "It has been decided."

"Oh, good," I said. "I wouldn't want you to worry."

He slapped me full in the face. "Mind your words, Your Highness."

I bored my eyes into his, undaunted by the threats. "I'll be sure to."

Face flushed with anger, he turned away, chest heaving. "I'm sure you would like to know if your brother still lives."

I said nothing.

"What would you pay to know the answer?" he said softly.

"Death is not the same for us as is for you. I do not fear death, as one twice dead, and neither does he."

"Then what do you fear, Your Highness? Are you so arrogant as to say you are daunted by nothing? Though you say this, I know you care for your brother. Your words do not fall upon a deaf mind. There is fear hidden beneath your eyes, your mask of indifference." He laughed a crazed laugh. "If you wish to continue the interrogation, then yes, I will continue. What tale would you like me to spin? Who was the one that stabbed him?"

"The tale you spun said that it was my doing," I said. "Do you regret that now?"

"His half-dead Highness will scarcely believe that, don't you think?" Khamûl mused. "I assume he still has eyes."

"He was before a Lord of Gondolin. Happy now?"

He smiled. "Very. You have confirmed my suspicions."

"With those words, you have aroused my own. It was you who drove him in our direction, was it not?"

"Ah, clever, aren't you? I did not know who he was, but I was willing to take a chance. There was one thing I knew about him for sure—he was one of your kind, sent by the High King of the Noldor to piece together the clues. That much told me that he would likely attack when he saw you. However, this played all too much in my favor. He knew you, but not Atharys, and he happened to come in just the right time for—" He snapped his fingers, the crisp sound echoing off the walls. "—it to happen. I am all too fortunate today. Either way, if he killed Atharys or you or both, or if you overcame him and either killed him or took him prisoner, it would be to my benefit."

I was silent.

"Do you feel you have nothing to lose, Your Highness?" Khamûl scanned the wounds on my body. "I am sorry if the guards have treated you poorly."

"I did not feel it."

"You let them." He pressed on. "I want to know why."

Because I realized that no one would ever love me no matter what I did, though I never expected them to in the first place. Emotions were odd, silly things that made the slightest bit of sense. Seeing, knowing that Glorfindel was alive again brought something different into me, something old and full of melancholy. Seeing, knowing that he had nearly killed Atharys twisted that.

"Answer me," he hissed.

I raised my head. "I am sorry about your father, Khamûl."

His face froze in a mixture of fugitive visions and feelings, anger and fear tangled into a disconcerted knot. His eyes widened; he had not thought that I would have dared to bring it up, however much of a monster I had become after changing into Hrysívë. But these words—he had not expected them to sound so genuine. Then the expression faded and transformed into cold hardness.

He turned away. "Release her."

The guards strode into the chamber, silver swords glinting in their hands. When they moved not to strike off my chains but rather pointed their blades to the bone that connected my wings to my back, something different leaked into my eyes.

"What are you doing?" Even now my voice trembled. I was tired, and I wondered why had I ever begun this in the first place.

"Freeing you, Your Highness." There was no satisfaction in his eyes as he gave a sharp nod to the guards.

Blinding pain knifed through my body as they drove the points of their blades into my wings, blood spurting from the soft flesh. Khamûl spoke an order, the voice low and guttural, a forced voice, and the swords went down again, hacking, sawing—

Someone was screaming, a distant sound, though vaguely I knew it was myself. It hurt my ears. Never before had I felt such unbearable pain, and though my eyes were open, I could see nothing; all I could see was pain. There was so much red.


Atharys—

Atharys woke to a throbbing in his head and a burning numbness in his body, though he didn't know how he could be burning and numb at the same time. A handmaid was trying to feed him some kind of milk, but he thought it bitter and pushed it away even as pain shot up his body. He struggled to remember who he was and what he happened, and for a moment he panicked, thinking that he had been kidnapped before he came to his senses.

The bowl of bitter milk had spilled upon the ground, and the handmaid was busy cleaning up the mess. Atharys struggled to raised his head as he tried to glance around the room.

"Where is Hrysívë?" he demanded of the girl.

She jumped. "I do not know, Your Highness."

Atharys saw her look away. "You lie."

"Your Highness—"

His brow was burning. "Where is Hrysívë?"

"She—she is not here, Your Highness."

"Where?" he said again.

"Her Highness was—" The handmaid was shaking. "Her Highness was accused of treason and taken to the dungeons."

"She was. . .what?" Atharys sunk back into the pillows, lightheaded.

"Ah, don't say too much now, little one." Khamûl prowled into the chamber as if he had been standing there the entire time, watching from the shadows. "I would like to tell the story for myself. Go now, and leave us."

The handmaid bowed, tripping on her skirt, and fled from the rom.

"What have you done?" Atharys could scarcely see, much less think straight.

Khamûl turned to Atharys, his eyes narrowing. "I have brought justice to the court," he said. "It is not your place to question. Do excuse me, Your Highness, but you do not know what secrets have been kept from you. You do not know what actually happened."

"Then tell me."

The Grand Chieftain of the Wainriders smiled. "I have questioned Princess Hrysívë on her actions, privately. She has admitted to once knowing the man who attacked and wounded you."

"I knew that already." And I also know you are trying to set us against each other.

"Ah. I had to make certain," Khamûl said. "And do you know who the man is?"

"Not the slightest."

"Then I suppose you must know." Khamûl paced around the bed once to emphasize the intensity of his words. "His name is Glorfindel, former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin."

The revelation of his return from Mandos sparked through Atharys's mind, and Khamûl chuckled at his expression.

"Can you not see now? Your sister, the Princess Hrysívë, has plotted against you. She had the Noldo attempt to mortally wound you because she needed to eliminate everyone in the way of her getting the throne of Morinórë. Initially she had planned to accuse me of doing so, but I figured out her plan first and testified to the court. I know you may not believe this story, but think about it—as she ever truly been on your side? Needless to say, she wants the destruction of her father's work. You are part of that work, don't you know?"

Atharys had no words to say. He wanted to tell him that he was a lying bastard, he wanted to believe Hrysívë's good will toward him. You can change someone's name, change their appearance, but you cannot change their heart.

"Be a good prince now, and drink this." Khamûl held the cup to his lips. Atharys tried to push it away, but a bright whiteness flared in his eyes and exploded into a thousand splatters of red, then faded into darkness.


A/n: Damn...this is messy