Chapter 14 – Kinslayer
They do not call me kinslayer, but there is blood on my hands. An ocean's worth of water cannot wash away the stain. I have tried to forget, tried to leave the dead behind, but their ghosts will never leave me. I can still see their faces. Even now, I hear their screams. They do not call me kinslayer, but it matters little. There is no need. I give myself the title in my thoughts and in my dreams.
Middle Earth
Havens of Sirion
First Age 538
Erestor ran from room to room opening drawers and spilling their contents out upon the floor. He tore his bedroom apart, swearing by all the Valar that he would keep his possessions neatly ordered from this point on, if only he could find what he was looking for. They must have been listening, for in that moment, his eye was caught by a flash of silver from underneath the bed.
There!
Erestor dropped to his knees and pulled a silver case out from under the mattress. He jumped to his feet and ran down the hall hoping he was not too late. He arrived just in time to see his father heading for the door.
"I found them!" Erestor rushed to his father's side and handed him the case.
Thandion opened it, and stowed the elegantly crafted blades while his wife fastened his cloak. Erestor watched his parents, feeling with every breath and movement the tension and fear emanating from their forms. The scouts had raised the alarm less than half an hour ago and word had spread like wildfire through the countryside. The Fëanorions were on the move.
Thandion had returned home at once to retrieve his armor and weapons and to send his loved ones south to the docks. There was only one problem – his son was refusing to obey.
"I want to go with you," Erestor said for what must have been the tenth time since his father returned home.
Thandion shook his head. He was in no mood to continue the argument. "Your desires are irrelevant. You will do as I say."
Anger rose in Erestor. He would not allow his father to ignore his position. Not now. "I am not a coward," he said. Only cowards run from danger, he thought, or so the poets say.
Thandion read in his son's eyes what he had left unspoken. "I never said you were."
"I can fight!" Erestor cried. Had he not been training for this day?
"I know you can," Thandion replied. But it was to defend against Morgoth's creatures – not elves – that he had taught his son to fight. The slaying of kin was another matter entirely. It was a horror not unknown to Thandion, who had marched with the host of Fingolfin when the Noldor fled Aman. When they reached the city of Alqualondë the battle was well under way – Fëanor's doing, and his sons' – and Fingolfin's people rushed to defend them. What fools we were to think them innocent! And now I go to slay those I once fought to protect!
Thandion would spare his child the horror of spilling elven blood. He would send his son away.
"I am not a child," Erestor added boldly, oblivious to his father's thoughts and fears. "The decision is mine to make." And so it was, at one hundred and seventy-four years of age.
Not a child, indeed! Erestor's stubbornness was too much for Thandion to bear at present. Were it not for the fear blossoming in his heart, he might have spoken more kindly to his son, done more to explain the nightmare about to descend upon the people of Sirion, but there was no time. "You are my son," he said, "and the decision has been made. You will go to Balar with your mother."
"Adar."
"Enough!" Thandion shouted.
Erestor withdrew a step on instinct. Thandion had never raised his voice before – not to him, anyway. It was enough to stun Erestor into silence. His father's eyes flashed with anger, and though it was not so, Erestor believed himself to be the cause. He turned away, pained by Thandion's lack of faith in him.
Alassë had remained silent all the while father and son had argued, but now she came to Erestor's side and took up his hand. She understood his desire to prove himself in his father's eyes. She understood, too, Thandion's fear – that he might on this very day lose those most precious to him.
"Erestor," she said softly. "Listen to your father. Come with me." Her eyes pleaded with him to obey.
Erestor saw a great and terrible fear in his mother's eyes and he drew her close, into his arms, as she had done with him so many times before.
Alassë held him fast, and resting her head upon his chest, she whispered, "Please, Erestor, do not abandon me. I could not bear losing you both."
Thandion knew his wife's words had reached their son for he saw Erestor's resolve shatter. He would not abandon his mother to danger. He would take her to safety across the sea.
Thandion approached his wife and son and embraced them awkwardly, as his armor made it difficult to hold them close. He had not wished to part with his son in anger, but there was no time for debate. Thandion released his wife and son and stepped away so he could look Erestor in the eye. "You must go now," he said, meaningfully, "before they cut off the road to the docks."
Erestor, meeting his father's gaze, shook his head in confusion. The docks were in the opposite direction as Eärendil's castle. The Fëanorions were after Lady Elwing, and the Silmaril she wore. What interest could they have in the docks? "Why would they attack the docks?" he asked.
"So none may alert Círdan and Gil-galad," Thandion replied. Not that sending for reinforcements would make a difference. It was many days journey to and from the Isle of Balar. Help would not arrive in time.
"Go now, and watch over your mother," Thandion said to his son. Then he turned to his wife. "I will find you in Balar," he told her.
Alassë's eyes brimmed with tears. "Come back to us," she said.
Thandion took her in his arms once more and held her while she wept. Then he kissed his beloved goodbye.
The docks were many miles south of Eärendil's fortress. The road was packed with elves fleeing the city and surrounding countryside – mostly ellith and young children, but also warriors sent to protect them, for Thandion had been correct. Fëanorion forces were sent south to cut off the road to the docks, but Erestor, his mother and many elves from the outlying villages reached the ships before the approaching army could block their path. The rest were not so lucky. The mass of refugees dwindled behind them and the very last brought word of enemy forces encircling the city.
The first elf Erestor met when they reached the docks was Hebion, a close friend of his father. He and the other warriors helped the sailors load the ships. Once full, the ships set sail down the river, leaving danger and destruction and loved ones behind. A day or more it would take to reach the island if the winds were with them, and the fleeing masses wasted no time.
Alassë stood aside, waiting for her son to join her. He had gone off to assist Hebion and the others prepare the ships. When the last of the ships began loading Erestor came to his mother. He took her arm. He led her to the ship and boarded with her, before turning back to the dock.
"Erestor!" Alassë grabbed his arm, seeing in her son's eyes his intention to remain behind. "Where are you going?"
"I am returning with Hebion and the others," Erestor replied.
Alassë shook her head, her grip on his arm tightening. "Your father…"
"I know what he said," Erestor replied, "but you will be safe now."
"He wants you to be safe!" Alassë cried. "Why do you think he sent you with me?" She could not stop the tears from falling.
"I know, but I have to go back. I have to help him." Erestor hugged his mother for what he knew might be the last time. Her tears soaked his collar. "I love you," he whispered, and kissed her. Then he turned and leapt from the ship deck to the dock. He heard his mother cry out to him, but he did not look back.
Hebion gathered the warriors to him. Most were quite young, a century or two old with a few border skirmishes behind them. Only a handful had experienced this type of battle before – in Doriath or Valinor. Those needed no warning. But the young ones … Hebion had no words for the horrors they were about to face. He needed to find them. He could not lead these children back to the city without a word or two of … something.
His eyes fell on Erestor. He had seen Thandion's son spar before. The young one was skilled, very skilled, but would he waver when faced with this new enemy? Hebion needed to prepare him, to prepare them all for what was to come.
"You are not ready for this battle," he said to Erestor and the young ellyn at his side.
Their faces fell. A low grumbling, the beginnings of protests were silenced by Hebion's hand.
"You have learnt the art of sword and bow, but this day…" He shook his head. "No amount of training could have prepared you for this day." His eyes swept from one ellon to the next, imploring them to hear his words. Their attention captured, he drew his sword and advanced on Erestor. He pointed the tip of the blade at the young one's heart. "Remember, when you take down an enemy you must be sure he will not rise again."
Erestor swallowed hard – and nodded.
Hebion's focus shifted to the next ellon. He was a bit older than Erestor, but of no greater experience or skill. "We die as easily as Morgoth's beasts," Hebion said to him. "The throat. The heart. The stomach." He slashed at each in turn. "No elf can fight with his organs spilled upon the ground."
This one quavered but a moment.
Hebion lowered his sword and turned. He met a third ellon's eyes and held them. "If you survive this battle, you will relive it again – in waking dreams and nightmares. It will haunt you all the days of your life."
The ellon's gaze fell to the grass beneath his feet. He breathed deeply, once, twice, and looked up again.
Hebion noted the effect his words had on the young ones' faces. They were ashen, pale – the faces of the innocent. And Hebion longed for them to remain so. "None will think ill of you, if you choose to stand aside," he told them.
"But we will think ill of ourselves," Erestor whispered. His words echoed the thoughts of the rest.
A long silence followed this speech and Hebion waited. He waited for decisions to be made, for uncertainty to pass. And it did. The young ones stood firm. They had chosen their paths and he would not try to dissuade them. He only prayed that the Valar would be merciful, and watch over them all.
"Well then, if you are certain …" He pulled a map from his pocket. "… then gather round."
They did not take the road back to the city. Instead Hebion led them east and then northward through the woods so that they might approach the gates of the city from behind enemy lines. They could see smoke rising in the distance, even through the shadow of the trees. It did not bode well for the fate of the city.
They knew they had followed the right course when they came upon the first fruits of the siege – bodies of the dead – strewn across the forest floor. Erestor had seen death before, but never so much of it at once. And on those few occasions, the dead were always accompanied by three times as many orcs. But the elves that lay broken and twisted on the forest floor were not felled by servants of Morgoth. Two of the dead wore armor of an unfamiliar design. Their breastplates bore the crest of the House of Fëanor. And for the briefest of moments Erestor was gladdened to see it, to know that his kinsman had taken these murderers with them to their graves. Guilt rose in him for feeding such thoughts, and he tried to banish them, but they could not be so easily dismissed.
They moved on, leaving the dead behind with a prayer and a promise to return for them. They tread silently amid the trees, more cautious now than before and they arrived near to the gates amid confusion. Hebion's warriors came upon their own forces, not those of the enemy as they had expected. Sirion's defenders now fought to enter the city. The Fëanorion forces were already inside. There was only a moment's pause before Hebion drew his sword and plunged into the fray and the others followed him.
The first elf Erestor faced could have been a blood cousin. He was young as well, with hair as dark and skin as pale. But unlike Erestor, this ellon's eyes showed no fear, no hesitation. He swung at Erestor's throat with mortal precision and Erestor, by luck or instinct, countered. It took only a few seconds for Erestor to realize he would win the fight, for his skill was greater than his opponent's. He took the elf down with a cut to his leg. It was not a mortal wound and as he fell the ellon swung his blade wildly, catching Erestor across the chest with a light graze. He hissed in pain and surprise and with a booted foot kicked his enemy in the head, knocking him out. Another enemy fell upon him, and yet another. Erestor did what he could to spare their lives, despite Hebion's warning. Be sure they cannot rise again, he had said, not be sure to kill them.
Erestor and his comrades inched their way closer to the heart of the battle as one by one their enemies fell. It was when Erestor was within sight of the gate that he marked a familiar face. Thandion's armor would have shone in the sunlight, were it not for the blood and filth that marred its surface. Erestor fought hard to reach his father's side but there was too much distance between them.
Suddenly, a voice cried out above the din. "They have the Lady's sons! Stop them!"
But it was too late. A band of warriors on horseback charged through the gate. No archer dared fire on them for fear of hitting the children. And for that same reason, no swordsman would strike at the Fëanorions who bore Elrond and Elros away. The company rode down the elves who stood in their path, both friend and foe alike. And when the dark rider holding Elros passed, he brought his sword down on Thandion, cleaving the weak space of his armor between his shoulder and his neck.
"No!" Erestor shouted as he watched his father crumple to the ground. Without thought for Elros's safety, he drew a dagger and threw it at the ellon who carried him away. The knife struck the warrior's shoulder, causing him to drop his sword.
One of his companions shouted, "Maglor!"
But the rider had already recovered. He tore the blade from his armor as he spurred his horse onward. The Fëanorions broke free of the fray, their guards following a few paces behind, and they rode swiftly out of sight.
Erestor could do nothing to stop them. But as he stood there watching his father's murderer vanish into the wood his shock and anger transformed into hate. It wormed its way into his heart, burning away any last trace of fear and compassion. Only one thought echoed in his mind. They will pay. And they did. He cut their warriors down, one by one, on his way to his father's side. No maiming, no mercy – death was what he gave them. He repeated Hebion's words again and again under his breath. The throat. The heart. The stomach. He cut them down, and they would never rise again.
When he reached Thandion's side, Erestor fell to his knees. "Father!" he cried, and lifted Thandion into his arms. But his father was gone. His wide, lifeless eyes stared into nothingness and Erestor closed them. He sat there for a time, thinking he should cry. Yes, tears in this moment would be fitting. But none came, for he felt nothing as he sat holding his father's corpse, nothing at all. And after what might have been an eternity, but was in truth mere moments, Erestor lifted his gaze from his father's face. With a blank expression he watched the Fëanorion forces retreat into the woods. The sounds of swords clashing faded into memory. It was over. There was nothing left to fight for.
Erestor laid his father down upon the ground. He did not pick up his sword when he stood, nor did he enter the fortress gate. He headed for the river. His only thought was to reach the water, to wash the blood off his face and hands. He did not spare the dead and dying a single glance. He reached the river and found the banks and the water by its shores littered with the bodies of the dead. He knelt at the river's edge, seeing in its reflection a sight more terrible than any he had witnessed this day. Who was this ellon who stared back at him, this creature drenched in blood, with cold, unfeeling eyes?
It cannot be me.
Erestor stared into the water, unmoving, and there he might have remained until his soul broke loose of its shackles and was freed from the world. He might have faded right there by the river, if a cry had not moved him first. It was not the noise of the dying, for he had long before blocked that out. It was the sound of a child wailing, coming from somewhere nearby.
Erestor tore his gaze from the river and swept it across the sands, seeking its source – a small out building a hundred or so feet away. He rose from the sand, and upon reaching the door, he looked inside.
"Nana!" the child wailed over its mother's corpse.
Erestor had not known an elf could make such a terrible sound. Its screams touched his soul, bringing him back to life. He took a step inside, but his appearance frightened the child even more. He crawled away from Erestor, screaming as he did. Erestor could only imagine the horrifying vision he was to the frightened boy.
He dropped to his knees, so that he might speak to the babe on even ground. "Hush," he said. "I will not hurt you. You are safe now."
The child stopped its screaming, recognizing in Erestor's voice the truth of it, but he continued to cry.
Erestor inched closer and reached out his hands – slowly – and drew the child against his chest. He rocked the boy and hummed a little tune so he would know he was safe. With his free hand, Erestor pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around the boy like a blanket, covering his face, shielding him from the horrors of the battle and from Erestor's own blood-splattered face.
He lifted the tiny bundle into his arms, all the while whispering, "Just close your eyes. Close your eyes."
Would that Erestor could do the same.
A/N: I'm dedicating this story to my mother-in-law who died of leukemia on 1/4/09. May she continue to be an inspiration to me in all things.
