Authors note: When I started writing this chapter, it refused to be written, but coming back to it, everyone is much more cooperative! I feel mean killing Amrod and Amras today, having just read Ithilwen's story were they're portrayed as cute, innocent toddlers. But the Silmarils changed the best of people…
There shall probably be an epilogue, when I get around to it! In the mean time, feel free to read and maybe review?
To Find and to Lose
'This is not what I thought I would find.' It was hard for Nimrandin to hide his disappointment.
A faint smell of burning filled the air. A puff of smoke, silvery grey yet ethereal and ghostly, was visible between the trees, rising into the sky, then dissipating, and the three companions made their way towards its origin. In the clearing stood a house. Or rather, a house had stood there, for it was but black walls, and crumbled ruins. Household possessions were strewn about the place, indicating the owners had not time to put together their belongings, and had fled hurriedly-or had perished there.
'What disaster has struck here?'
'We must hurry,' Sirros repeated, 'we cannot linger, it is dangerous.'
'Tell us what you know of this,' ordered Nimrandin.
'Nay, you shall see for yourselves soon enough,' and Sirros laughed nastily, 'Come, I will lead the way.'
'Are we to follow?' whispered Annael to Nimrandin.
'Aye, we have no choice I fear,' his companion replied, uneasily.
***
As they drew closer to the sea, faint cries reached their ears. Sounds of a distant battle perhaps.
'The road ends here, my friends.' Sirros stopped abruptly.
'What mean you?' cried Annael. 'There is still a way to go!'
'No. My journey ends here. Fare thee well Nimrandin.' Sirros' voice held a touch of irony, as he turned and walked away, without looking back.
The two elves were in a state of confusion. Rather than call back their friend, who had disappeared, they walked onwards-and fell on the battle.
Shouts and screams echoed around them. But it was no ordinary skirmish. Elves were slaying elves, for the third time in the history of Arda. Swords crashed against swords, in almighty sounds of steel. Swords were penetrating flesh, Swords were mortally wounding. Arrows were flying through the air, with a rush of wind, sometimes on target, sometimes not. Elves were fleeing in all directions in panic, but where were they to go?
Nimrandin was filled with desperation at this terrible scene. Indeed he had heard, somewhat distantly, of great battles throughout the history of Middle Earth. But this, this was ten times worse. Never, in all his young, naïve years, had he imagined battles to be of this nature. This was not heroic, nor was it glorious. Instead, young or old, innocent, or less innocent elves were cruelly being slain, at the touch of a bow, or at the hands of steel, for what purposes he knew not. Oh! Why had he not stayed in Ossiriand? The gentle, quiet and reclusive life had not been that bad. But he had left, and there was no time for further thoughts, as he would surely be slain too.
En elf came at him with a dagger, so mechanically reaching for his sword, he pushed him off. But he could not bring himself to puncture the body. He hoped he had not mortally wounded him, for he had no notion of who he was, or what the fighting was for. All he could think of was his quest for Elwing. He withdrew from the battle scenes of devastation, and made his way towards the sea. But he had not left all battles behind him. On the harbour, he saw a Nis, who was manning her sword so adroitly he could not but admire her. Slowly he approached. She was alone, casting a vulnerable figure. The grey-blue waves crashed in a symphony of noise and her white, pale form contrasted so vividly with it.
'Elwing?' It was but feeble hope.
The elf turned briefly in his direction. Her eyes, supposedly mirrors of her fëa, were filled with a deep sadness. Silver rivers were trickling down her cheeks.
'Yes, that is I. What seek you, traveller?'
'I have a personal matter to discuss with one who bares your name.'
'Indeed.' Elwing looked strangely at this queer elf, cloaked all in green.
Nimrandin looked back into her eyes, so similar in colour to his own. The same shade of brown, and the same almond shape. But those eyes were filled with a wild fear.
'History is repeating itself,' she murmured sadly.
Nimrandin had no time to question her last remark further for the spell was broken abruptly, as two elves, their fair faces distorted in fury-or was it pain? – with weapons poised were making for Elwing. Brandishing his sword yet again, Nimrandin barred their way, allowing Elwing free passage to escape.
'Namaarië, fair stranger,' Elwing whispered taking to her heels and running into the distance.
'Nimrandin! Take heed!' Annael cried, running to his companion's side. He had followed Nimrandin since he had left the battle, and had witnessed his meeting with Elwing. The scene had touched him, and he thought it unwise to intervene and had remained in the shadows.
Then began a vicious fight, whence could only be two victors. But these elves were strong, and a light was in their eyes a likeness to which Nimrandin could not compare, for it was the light of the Two Trees. Nonetheless, he had trained in sword fight. This was to his advantage for the elf clearly judging him by appearances thought him less than capable. They circled one another, until suddenly the elf threw himself on Nimrandin. They rolled in the dirt. Nimrandin was getting weak; his muscles were sore and burning. He had no practise of elf against elf warfare, though evidently his opponent had.
'How dare you let her get away!' Amras, for it was indeed Amras, youngest son of Fëanor, hissed.
'What does she possess that you must so have?' Nimrandin gasped. Amras was pressing hard against Nimrandin's chest, quenching the air from his body.
'No matter that concerns you, wood elf,' Sneered Amras, 'if you be even an elf, and not some half breed escaped thrall?'
That was enough for Nimrandin; in a sudden spurt of energy he threw off Amras, who fell backwards. He heard the crack as the elf's head hit the floor. His body fell still, so Nimrandin bent down; for Amras' eyes were closed, to judge the extent of the injuries he had inflicted. But those eyes opened, and two hands snaked around Nimrandin's neck, and tightened. He began to choke, and gasping for breath tried to fight those fingers off, but in vain for the grip was like a vice. At last, he managed to free his sword and plunge it into Amras' chest. At once the hands went limp, and disengaging himself, Nimrandin, looking at his bloody sword was horrified. In its dull gleam he could see his blurry self; ashen face, and a nasty purple welts around his neck, where hands had gripped, just moments before. Blood was also smeared on his forehead, and hands. He stared at them, unblinking. He was stained with the blood of the Eldar. Suddenly, a force took over him, and he maniacally wiped himself on his grubby cloak.
'The stains are not coming off! Annael, help me! I truly do have blood on my hands. I am stained for life.'
'Come, Nimrandin, the fight is not over yet.' Gently, but sternly Annael awoke his friend from this reverie. He too had fought, and Amrod, twin brother of Amras, lay equally immobile, his spirit having departed with that of his brother. Inseparable they were in life, and their spirits could finally join hands and sit in the halls of Mandos together. The oath was no longer upon them. But for others it still was a lead weight, and Nimrandin and Annael pursued the cries and shouts that still ringed the air, and threw themselves back into battle, which waged on.
Elves fell left and right, but Nimrandin ploughed onwards, oblivious. He had overcome his terror of war, and the pile of bodies touched him but from far away. He knew only that he was fighting for Elwing, wherever she may be now, and had joined himself, along with Annael, to the remnants of the people of Doriath and Gondolin, who were now but few.
'So we meet again, fair wanderer!' A voice, cold but dripping with contempt, spoke in Nimrandin's back.
The latter spun around.
'Sirros!' Should he be relieved or horrified?
'Indeed, I have the pleasure of your company again. Come now, I challenge you to a duel.'
'Surely you are not siding with the kin slayers, that be the sons of Fëanor?' Annael stood in front of Nimrandin, protecting, screening him from mayhap a sudden outburst of violence.
'Stand aside Annael. This quarrel shall be fought between Nimrandin and I.' Sirros unsheathed his sword, which glittered menacingly.
In a moment Nimrandin had done likewise. All he could see was Sirros, and Sirros' sword. The world around him dimmed and blurred, the screams became but a low, steady murmur. He did not know if he could overcome Sirros, even slay him, but he knew one of them had to die before the battle could be won, or lost.
A gleam in Sirros' eyes indicated he would not have mercy. Lightning flashed, and in that instant, in that strange white world, he appeared so great, so strong and powerful, his silhouette boldly painted on the harsh landscape, that Nimrandin faltered. Gripping his sword tightly, his knuckles turning white, and keeping his gaze on Sirros' every movement, he sprang forward. Metal clashed against metal, ringing dully. Sirros took a few steps back, and Nimrandin, sensing his advantage stabbed outwards. Sirros however, was deft and light of feet, and managed to ward off the sword.
'Come now, thrall, is that the best you can offer?' He taunted.
A white fury came over Nimrandin.
'I have just been called that by someone, and they lay slain on the harbour. Care to join him?'
Sirros paled, and the evil grin that had spread over his face vanished. Was this bluff, or did Nimrandin speak truthfully?
'What speak you of?' He feigned ignorance and disinterest.
'I am sure you are more able than I to answer. What tales have you told the sons of Fëanor? Surely you have not regaled them with words of my prowess on the battlefield, nor of my skills in stealth and secrecy?' He let out a cold, fake laugh.
'Indeed no.' Sirros grated his teeth.
'Well what then?' Nimrandin seemed genuinely interested, but his tones of underlying merriment irritated Sirros.
'Enough!' He roared. 'I came to challenge you to a duel, not to exchange frivolities.' And his sword whipped to and fro, slicing through Nimrandin's cheek. The scar would stay with him for evermore.
'Have it your way!'
Nimrandin thought, I offered him a way out, he declined to take it. May the best swordsman win.
At that moment the Heavens opened, icy rain fell heavily on the two opponents, obscuring their vision. Nimrandin swiped quickly at his eyes, pearls of translucent water dripping slowly from his head down his neck. He wanted this to be over, for either Sirros to be dead by his sword-he shuddered-or for him to be slain, as a martyr of war. Forgetting his previous teachings, he barged into Sirros, head butting him in the stomach, who was indeed taken by surprise and winded. Grappling with each other, unable to see much past the ends of their noses, their own battle waged on. Then finally Nimrandin was on top, and pinned down Sirros' shoulders.
'Slay me then!' He spat. 'Mandos will have little mercy for slayers of friends.'
'I think you turned from that path long ago, Sirros. Since when are friends in league with Kinslayers? For if you join yourself to them, in my eyes you become won of them.'
Sirros was writhing, unable to bare the torment. He could not come to look Nimrandin in the face, so ashamed and resentful he was. In his heart there was but hatred, all love had been feigned since that fateful night when he had met the sons of Fëanor by the encampment, and been ensnared by them. Until now, he did not realise they had used him purely for their own benefits, to get to their beloved trinkets, thinking that as he was companion to one seeking Elwing somehow he would be connected with the Silmarils. They had promised him glory, and if he succeeded in bringing him the jewel, they were willing to share it with him. How naïve he had been, in the face of the mighty Noldor! He but a meagre green elf, never been to the Blessed Land, never looked upon the Two Trees. Aye, he had trees, plenty of trees in his land of the seven rivers, he thought bitterly. Better he be slain by a friend, or as close to a friend as possible, rather than abase himself daily to the Eldar.
'Sirros! I asked if you had any last request?'
'What can I request now?' It was his turn to laugh coldly. 'Send my spirit to Mandos, come do not delay, fell creature.' Oh, he had not meant those last words! How he wished it had not slipped his mouth like that. If only he had salvaged his friendship just before he died, it could have been his last request that they part as amicably as were possible, but that was impossible now. Nimrandin had granted him a favour by asking if he requested anything. At present, at that last insult, his body had stiffened, and his face had grown darker.
'You have made it so Sirros. Farewell.'
It was quick and painless. Sirros' fëa fled in shame to Mandos, where he sits-far away from the sons of Fëanor who are already there-awaiting Nimrandin.
Hope seemed to abandon Nimrandin there, if ever it had been present. As Annael approached, he thought both his companions were dead; for Sirros was lying on the ground, blood seeping from his mouth, but Nimrandin lay slumped on top, blood visible around his stomach. Gently he lifted his friend's corpse away and laid him on the ground. Then he saw that in fact Nimrandin was not greatly injured for the blood on his stomach was that of Sirros: the hilt of a dagger, sparkling maliciously, visibly protruding his chest.
He wept then. He wept for Sirros, even though their partings words were anything but amicable, but he had greater wisdom that his friend perceived and he knew that Sirros was yet another tragic victim of the dreaded Silmarils, and had fallen under their curse. He wept for Nimrandin, though he was not dead, for having no other choice but to kill his fellow companion. He draped his cloak over Sirros, and wrapped Nimrandin tightly in his own. The latter was breathing quietly; only sleep could mend the physical side of his injuries. Annael sat down by the two motionless bodies, and overwhelmed by grief, he knew no more.
But neither Nimrandin nor Annael perished then, for though the ships of Círdan and Gil-Galad arrived too late to help the people of Sirion, those that remained, and they were but few, joined with the Shipwright and the Elven King and went to the isle of Balar, and that was indeed where the two companions awoke, after their heavy, grief ridden sleep.