By Kielle (kielle@subreality.com)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All are Tolkien's, and I hope this time his shade won't be too pissed at me.
Summary: They say your life flashes before your eyes...
Feedback: Please. You thought I'd say otherwise?
Archival: Absolutely, but please ask me for an HTML copy.
Author's Note: The idea for the format of this one struck me right before bed, and I wrote it piecemeal out of order over the next three days. Strange that it's so short. If you're not familiar with the Silmarillion, Fingon was the father of Gil-Galad (you know, that good-lookin' fella with the spear in the first five minutes of FOTR?), and thus the previous king of the Noldor elves in Middle-Earth.
Helm.
I am alone. How did it come to this? I did not come here alone. And yet there is no one left.
Sword-hand.
I have ever been surrounded by family and kin. I have a brother and a sister. I have a wife, and a son, and a lover. There were times when I have needed to be alone, when I treasured the peace and silence of solitude. This is not one of those times.
Ribs.
I remember Valinor. I remember sneaking out to visit my cousins, before we understood the rift between our fathers. Long before the strife that tore us apart yet bound us irrevocably to the others' fate, I remember being children. Not warriors, not oathbound, not kings. Just children. Just that.
Hip.
I remember splashing and running and climbing. I remember the look on Caranthir's face when Artanis shoved him into mud and held him under with a most un-girl-like ease. I remember teasing my little brother Turgon when Maglor's tales gave him nightmares. I remember my father's arms around me, showing me how to hold a quill and then a sword. I remember Aredhel's shy voice raised in song under the silver light of Telperion when she thought she walked alone.
Knee.
I want to stop remembering there, but I cannot. I remember growing up, and growing apart. I remember vicious lies, and poisonous suspicions, and brother drawing sword against brother. I remember the bewildered horror in my father's eyes at the news of my grandfather's murder. I remember the terrible oaths of vengeance, and the taste of copper in my mouth as I bit my tongue to save myself from my cousins' sworn doom.
Thighbone.
I remember blood spouting from the throat of an old playmate, pooling in white sand at my feet. I remember the far-away glow of burning ships, and the twisted corpses of kin left stuck fast in the pitiless ice. I remember how my blade grated between the bones in Maedhros' wrist; I remember how he screamed every night in his sleep for so long afterwards, clawing and weeping even as I tried to comfort him. I remember the news of Aredhel's death, the knowledge that my lovely sister had died writhing in poisoned agony. I remember how my father rode away with despairing madness in his eyes...and how he never returned.
Spine.
But I can see more than darkness woven through my memories. I see lost kin found, and evil defied by mailclad valor and hidden sanctuaries. I see Malach son of Marach knocked down again and again at sword practice, always rising with a smile and a jest for his elven tutors, and for one brief bright moment I understand why Iluvatar created the Secondborn. I see Maedhros laughing again, despite the shadows in his grey eyes. And I remember looking down into my arms to gaze upon my son Ereinion for the first time.
Shoulder.
All I see now is my banner, the banner of my father and his before. It should be flying high, blue and silver. It is red, now. It should not be. Red is the color of Feanor, and the color of the blood running down my most beloved cousin's face when last I saw him. I hope he still lives. I wish--
Jaw.
...who knew that it would take so long for two Balrogs to hammer one elf to deat...
Skull.