Rohan, In the shattered Remains of Helms Deep; T.A. 05
There were people here, of that there could be no doubt at least to Gimli's mind. Children, Women, men of Rohan, all placed here in service to their king and all in insurmountable danger. He'd almost left them, almost turned his back because his own people were alive for the most part, injured but alive. And with the ruin of Helms Deep, there was only a small chance that these people that he had known and traded with, as much as that meant in these days of scarcity, were not dead. Why should he risk his life for such a small change as that?
It was a cruel thought, if an entirely practical one; if one went about things from the stance that no one but Gimli could lead his people to the hopeful safety of the city of Edoras, and behind the walls of the Golden Hall. But that simply wasn't true, there were many who knew the way, who could lead his people to safety even better than him. Scouts, rangers, all dwarves who knew their way in the wild and who had a better idea of the surrounding area than Gimli, who was almost always stuck in the caves performing his own duties as their leader. If anything, his presence would distract from the authority of those that knew better than him.
And then, what if there was someone, anyone, man, woman, or child who had survived the collapse of Helms deep – could he just walk away? Knowing in his heart that he would be condemning them to a cruel and all-around pointless death.
No, none of that Gimli could do. So, after a brief discussion with Legolas, their bodyguards and the heads of the different guilds Gimli set off towards Helms Deep, with only a guard and a couple of the younger healers for company. Since the older ones were more needed for the injured they already had. Or at least that had been the plan. But of course, Legolas never did much take to Gimli's plans.
The tall elf was already waiting for the four dwarves by the time they had packed what little supplies they could afford to carry. Gimli didn't want to get into a fight, especially not right now, but as usual Legolas would have his way on everything.
'You did not think I would just let you leave me behind, my love?' Said the elf with an overly smug air for someone carrying a pack the size of a small horse on his back.
'Aye no,' said the once Lord of the Glittering Caves. 'But I did not think you would let us see you so soon. Tell me, Elf, have you grown tired with stealth and duplicity. I thought we would have to pretend you weren't following us for at least half an hour, before you made your grand appearance.'
Legolas did not smile back at him, but rather huffed something that could have been a laugh for someone in a better mood than the son of Thranduil.
'Have you grown tired with honesty? With forthrightness, that you would try and sneak away from me; to avoid the fight you so clearly are asking for and drag these poor dwarves along with you? For shame that you would think I would allow such behaviour from any kin of mine, let alone a husband that I value as much as you.' Said the elf.
Gimli sighed and gestured for the others, for the poor guard and healers caught up in their bickering lords martial sparring, to walk on ahead of them. There was no need to subject more than one to the screams, and tears of the elf. Or for that matter Gimli himself. It was remarkable how quickly the three young dwarves moved, when their lord's words were no longer holding them in place. Ah to be that young again.
It could be said to be a terrible thing to no longer have a body – but if anything, Finwë found it quite freeing. After all, when one was a houseless spirit floating lazily across the breath of one of the mortal lands of men – Finwë was never quite sure which one, but he thought it had a lot of horses in it – no one asked you to rule them. No one asked you to do anything because there was no one around. No father to scowl, no mother to weep, no wife to die, and no son…oh no sons at all.
Part of him knew that he had loved his children, all of them – but right then, all he could think of was the frustration they brought to him. The girls he did not truly remember, so little had their actions mattered or at least troubled him in life. But the boys, oh the boys. Their fights had literally cost him his kingdom and the favour of the Valar. He could not lie to himself now, not in this form, he had always favoured Fëanor above all his other children – such was the power of the flame inside of his eldest, that most of his siblings came off as shallow imitations. Given that line of thought, it was an understandable mistake, but a mistake it had still been and had done no favours for Fëanor. For the child had grown up proud and difficult to control – not bad attributes for an elf in general, but disastrous for the son of the high king of the Noldor. Fingolfin, his second boy, had been similar in temperament at least, to his elder brother – which given his father's neglect, only meant that a confrontation between the two was inevitable. It was why he had been so hard on the child growing up, desperate to curb those flaws that in his eldest he saw only as a personality.
In the end Fëanor had started the argument anyway, so it was all for nought in the long run. And then there was Finarfin, who he had to admit was his least favourite of all his children. So soft, so shy and gentle, even more so than the girls who at least had a bit of Indis' spark and humour to them, even if they did not show it in their father's presence. A weak little thing at birth, and time did not improve him. It was the true joke of the Valar then that after his star Fëanor died, dooming his spawn along with him; and his idiot brother no less a supernova had been destroyed in battle; that weak little welp was the only one left to wear the crown of the Noldor King.
If Finwë could have done so he would have laughed, but such things were beyond him now – besides there were much more interesting things to think of in this land of flesh and blood. For instance, the Elf and the Dwarf, bickering just out of sight of Finwë's ghostly eyes. Now that was much more interesting.
'Must we speak of this again, Legolas, I feel like we've had this argument a hundred times this year alone.' Said the child of Aulë, his voice a low and pleasant rumble against the ear.
'That we have my love, that we have." Said the surprisingly sharp voice of the elf. No, Finwë did not like his voice, but then he had always been partial to those with a lower octave range. Why both of his wives had had surprisingly low voices for females, and all of his lovers and mistresses over the years had been of the same disposition.
'And we will have it a hundred times more if that is what it takes to get it through that thick dwarf skull of yours that you have to stop doing this.'
The dwarf in question scowled and tried to walk past the whiny sounding elf and step deep into the broken remains of Finwë's new domain. But the elf, being somewhat taller than his argument partner, grabbed him and pulled him back before Finwë could so much as get a proper glance at his face. Or at least so he assumed from the sound of boots scraping backwards and feet stumbling in step that followed suit. Then there was a brief sound of a tussle.
Suddenly they were out in the light, the sharp jagged holes in the structure's ceiling, letting in the moonlight. From his position in the shadow, he could just make out the pair as the two stopped, in one of the pools of moonlight, apparently to bicker some more.
Highlighted as they were, Finwë at last could make out every feature, every muscle, every twitch of a hair that the arguing lovers displayed. The elf thin and with the kind of feeble jaw, Finwë remembered some of the Sindar who ended up in the halls of Mandos sporting. All around, Finwë found him an unappealing specimen of the elven race. No, it was his fighting partner that really caught the attention of the former Noldor King. In his life, oh so many centuries, ages, and lifetimes ago, Finwë had not been well acquainted with the creations of Aulë during his first stint in Middle Earth. He was aware, more than some of his more…bloodthirsty kin, that the elves, whatever form or creed they took were not the only creatures to live in middle-earth. There was always talk of something else, other worlds, other people who were as unlike him as the stars were unlike the earth. Many had had that feeling, and many had assumed it ended with the discovery and subsequent civilising of the Ents. But Finwë has always felt there was more, but then they had met the Valar, and Finwë had led his people across the ocean, and home to that great and ever living country, so that had put an end to the questions of the others.
What did others matter, many of his kind, and even Finwë himself on occasion, had thought. Even if they did exist, which there was no proof of, they had not been invited to the blessed realm. They had not been sought out by the powers of that land, because clearly even if they did exist, they were not worthy. Finwë had died before the Noldor had returned to this Middle-Earth, so he'd never seen a dwarf for himself. Though he'd heard many of the more gruesome tales of them from the spirits in Mandos who had. And he had to say, going on those tales alone, he would have never guessed that this was a dwarf in front of him at all.
It was a comely, if alien creature this dwarf. Finwë had no word to describe what he assumed was hair growing out of its chin, for Finwë had only ever really met elves and the occasional Valor and they did not do that. At least they hadn't the last time he'd encountered them. Still, it suited him well, this dwarf. He had a long, but thick nose and eyes the colour of the earth. A short body, made stouter through the bulge of muscle beneath his strangely made armour. And his voice was very deep indeed; Finwë recalled he had once had a captain of the guard with such a deep voice. If memory served, the captain had rejected Finwë's advances – though not because the king had been married (to Indis at the time) but because the Guard was more interested in Finwë's daughter (he didn't care to remember which one). He'd banished them both from his court when the two had eloped in the middle of the night. And made sure to keep the incident out of the history books, and the songs. Though that was true of most of his indiscretions.
He'd been enjoying the freedom of being a houseless spirit, but he had to say, looking upon this dwarf, with flaming red hair and a voice as deep as the great pit in Mandos, he did wish to have a body again. If only for one hour more.
'You throw yourself into danger, the thick of a falling rock pile, and you don't even seem to care that this kind of thing could get you killed one day.' The elf to his credit sounded genuinely concerned for the dwarf. Who he was screaming at, for quite some time if Finwë was any judge in the matter– which to be fair as a houseless, wandering spirit, he probably wasn't.
Thee Dwarf in question, after having been yelled at for what felt like an eternity and a half to Finwë, finally snapped and roared back.
'Oh, for Mahal's sake, Legolas, I'm a leader! The needs of my people have to come first before anything, otherwise what is the point? I may as well be Gimli the minor, Gimli the blacksmith, Gimli the sellsword, if all I'm going to do is think of my own safety above all else? If that's all you want me to be, then twould be better I'd have stayed Gimli the fool, Gimli the oaf, Gimli the comic relief and bowed my bumbling head as the more noble of my friends and kin walked by. Is that all you want of me, Legolas? Then aye, I would give you that Gimli if I could, for I would give you my heart, my mind, and my very soul if I could but I can't. For he is dead, he died when the first stone of my domain was placed.'
There was a harsh slap that caught even the mighty Finwë by surprise. Who would have ever thought that that weedy stick of an elf would have the strength of arm to bowl that fine dwarf over, just with the weight of his blow? And yet it was true, for the dwarf – Gimli – lay sprawled on the ground clutching his jaw.
And that was the moment when the elf began to speak again, low this time – like a roar of thunder too far in the distance to mark danger, but coming, coming ever closer to where you stood on the hill.
'Getting yourself killed Gimli, will not help your people, it will not help me, and it will not help all the hundreds of other living people who love and need you to stay alive. So don't you dare, throw that away, throw all our love away and stand there telling me you're doing it for our own good. Don't you dare do that to me again, Gimli son of Gloin. Don't you fucking dare.'
The elf's screams petered out, until only the sound of heavy breathing was left between the two. And then in a voice cracked with pain the elf said.
'For Manwe's sake, Gimli, your life has saved so much more people than your death ever could.'
A strange thing to say indeed especially in the presence, whether unknowingly or not, of a ghost. The dwarf didn't seem to enjoy it either, for he went all red, making his face turn the same colour as the hair on his chin.
'Well, it didn't save them?!'
The weight of the words said were somewhat lost on the wandering spirit of Finwë, since he did not have any context for them. Perhaps they would also be lost on the reader, if it were not for Legolas shocked, pain filled expression as it stared on his heavy breathing husband.
'Gimli…' said the son of Thranduil. 'The Gamgees death…'
'Aye, it was no one's fault but the wind and the sand, but we did'na find the bodies did we Legolas, we stopped before that. We did'na even try. No, no that's true, you tried, you tried so hard, but I stopped you Legolas. I always stop you even in my nightmares.'
There was no answer that the elf could give to this it would seem, for all he did in reply was fall to his knees, take the dwarf into his arms, as they both began to cry. What a strange thing to do, Finwë had never hugged any of his lovers, he hadn't even hugged his baby son when his mother refused to come back from the halls of Mandos. Perhaps if he had, all the terrible things that had happened since then might not have happened at all.
Caught in this contemplative mood of his, Finwë might have stayed there, just staring at the dwarf and the elf until the building crumbled away into nothing but dust. But this was not that world, and this was not that story, and Fëanor would never stay silent for that long.
'Father, come away – we need not disturb them in their grief.'
Finwë spinned on his heels, or whatever the non-corporeal ghost version of spinning on your heels was, and beheld the creature that had spoken with the voice of his first and favourite son. It was not an elf, of that fact we must make clear to you now, if we have neglected too before. The creature was too wrinkled to ever be an elf, with a long thatch of white hair sprouting from its face. But unlike the dwarf's face hair this was not a comely thing to look upon. It was snarled with bits of tree and bush, and other fouler things that Finwë did not wish to think about. It's head on the other hand was entirely without hair – something that would never have happened to an elf. Its body was covered from view by a long and badly stained robe that perhaps once had been blue, and it stank. It stank of the battlefield, of bodies lying on the ground ready to be picked over by a passing bird; it stank of their excrement, it stank of their urine, it stank of their death.
One would assume that as a bodyless ghost Finwë would have been unable to smell anything at all, but that was how bad the creature stank. But honestly, he could have ignored all that; the face, the hair, the smell…if it hadn't been for the eyes of the creature.
They were green and wild.
They were the eyes of the truly mad.
And they were the eyes of his son.
That is all that Finwë could think of as the creature approached him with its gnarled hands stretched out in front of it. And we would encourage the reader to focus on this as well. Don't think about the dead of the Rohirians that once called this place home, none could have survived both the collapse of Helms Deep and the arrival of Fëanor. Anyway, with what was to come they were the lucky ones. They had escaped. Don't think about the smell that interrupted Gimli and Legolas' tearful moment of finally expressed grief. Don't think about how it overwhelmed them to such a degree that they did not go and investigate it. It was a relief really, because if they had Fëanor surely would have killed them too. For they were the living and Fëanor has no use for the living, only their bodies.
Middle-Earth, Drúadan Forest: F.O. 06
There had been too much death for the forest to contain anymore – you could hear it in the cry of the wind, the creak of the old oaks when a hunting party would wander past. The trees no longer welcomed the bodies buried at their roots, for soon they would out crowd them. And you could not burn bodies so soon after the dry season, the whole forest would go up with them.
And yet for the Woses and Hobbits of Dimond's clan there had been so much death, so many of them lost to the quaking of the earth, and the floods and all manner of terrible things that had come for them once the cage of the Dunlanders had been broken.
They had looked like men from a distance, broken, torn men, but men none the less – with their women and children in tow. They looked terrified, running from the sounds of horses and men's voices raised in anger and hatred. Her Grandfather, in one of his more lucid moments had warned the others that surely there must be a good reason for the Riders of Rohan to be chasing these people. That was what he always said, there was either a good reason why they did the things they did, or they were being misled. They were not evil, so surely the things they did could not be from such evil intent.
And yet the men of Rohan were not wise, even if they were not evil – and memorires of being hunted down, of hiding their children's screams, of being shot with arrow and spear alike by these so-called noble men, were too recent in the minds of the Woses.
They pitied these people and so they helped them.
They helped them hide, and welcomed them into their homes.
But it had been a trick, a lie to get past the sacred barrier of the home hearth of the tribe. They were not men, or any of the other free races of Middle-Earth, they were not even Orcs or Goblins. For to be so would have been something that drew breath, and these creatures were beyond that. They were beyond the living, for they were the dead – and as all good folk know, the dead will not suffer the living.
They had not revealed themselves immediately of course, they had just seemed like strange people, who smelled a bit. But clearly, they had been running for their lives so long, there was no time for them to wash – even if there had been any streams left in which to do so.
Her grandfather hadn't liked it, had argued, much as he could now in his advanced age, that they should throw these strange men out and banish them from the protection of their village. Before the men had arrived many, Dimond included had agreed with him out of simple loyalty if nothing else - but now they were here and it was harder to turn away real flesh and blood souls than it was, to abstract invaders.
Her grandfather had died of a heart-attack, not seconds after he was out voted. He died in her arms. That had been terrible, perhaps one of the worst experiences of her life – however what had happened next, had been much worse for everyone else.
There had been another earth quake, that split the ground and wrenched much of the trees from the earth. Rocks, and huts and bodies of those that had not been quick enough to escape the falling rocks and trees and huts littered the ground now. The line of the village's hearth had been broken, that magic threshold that kept the village warm, and safe, even at the height of the Rohan Riders butchery. Their home was gone and their forest…was barely a forest at all. Many of the trees had been lost to the fires of the first few months after the fall of the Dunlander's cage, and then there had been the flooding which had never really touched the village – as high as it was – but had devastated the lower forest. Surprisingly knocking over as many trees as the earthquakes that were soon to follow.
So, grandfather dead, village destroyed, much of her people gone with them to the great wonder of the afterlife, without so much as a Ganyman to sing them the way. It wasn't really a problem for the Woses of the tribe, since they were men and thus possessing the simplicity of the gift of the second born, to die and for their spirits to go beyond the known world. Hobbits on the other hand were not related to the second born, despite what the misinformed might tell you – they were of another make entirely, and without the skill of a Ganyman's hand their death would not be so peaceful.
But it couldn't be helped, for the last of the tribe's Ganymen, an old hobbit of Shire stock had been the first among them to be killed by the earth shaking. And thus, the bodies, and the spirits of the uncared-for dead had to be left behind. Otherwise, there would simply be more bodies to not get a funeral. Or that was what her mother had said anyway when Dimond had confronted her about it.
Or rather what she had said was slightly closer to…
'I am Chief now daughter, and the good of the living must come before the good of the dead. You will learn this too one day, when you are chief.'
We could go into how much this thought filled Dimond Took with dread, but honestly, we really don't have time, not with what's coming next.
And as if it wasn't already a sick joke - it was at that moment when the tribe were at their weakest, when they had fled from the only home many of the younger members had ever known; did the strangers strike. Those bizarre, pale, people, with hollow, glassy eyes and mouths covered with dried blood – revealed themselves as the monsters, they in hindsight so obviously were.
They came for them at night, crawling on the ground, their stench now so over powering that there was no mistaking it anymore, the stench of rotting, the stench of blood, the stench of death.
We could talk of the battle that took place there, of the victories that were won and the lives that were lost, but honestly there's no evidence that it was anything of great renown. People died, the dead were slain – or at least the vessels they inhabited were – and once again everything got just a little bit worse. Now there were even less of them, and the forest – what little of it remained – was too dangerous to make a settlement in anymore. They would have to leave, wander out into the great unknown and make a new home for their tribe. Though exactly where that home was a matter of great debate.
They would have to leave, of that there was no argument at least. But while Dimond's mother, and father – though as merely the new chief's consort he got less of a say in where they would finally end up – thought they should try and make the transition as smooth as possible for the people of the tribe. This did not mean settling at the closest location, with all the destruction and the historical jumpiness of the Rohan people, especially when it came to the Woses, that would have been absurd. No, it meant a journey to find a forest like their own, to find a forest as old, and as secret, to find a forest in which Woses and hobbit alike could call home. Of course Rohan being a land of grass plains, there was really only one other forest to choose from. Fangorn. Which to be fair would certainly hide them, even better than their last home.
But it wasn't the place that called to Dimond; it wasn't the stories of Fangorn which she craved, which had rocked her to sleep at night, or the rolling hills, and brilliant blue skies of Fangorn that had raced through her dreams.
No that was a far merrier place indeed.
A far more Tookish place.
Rohan, Edoras (what little is left of it now); F.O.06
The Fool stood by his king and did not speak, he had done enough speaking in all his years of life, to allow a little silence to fill the void in this one. Besides what more was there to say, he'd given speeches enough to this one king to last his whole…quite substantial life ten times over. Hopefully, sometimes it was easy when you were as untethered by the confines of time as the Fool was, to forget which moment of your life you were currently in. Sometimes his mind was sharp and here in land of Rohan, when all they called him was a fool for they had forgotten his true name. However sometimes he was back, in an earlier age of Middle-Earth when the men of the sea first settled on these shores, he had been but a child then. Still depended on his mother and her elven lover for his safety. But it was a dangerous world back then, still was technically, it was just the faces of the danger had shifted.
Though, the Fool conceded, not as great a shift as it had in years past. The men of the sea were still a danger, surely even a real fool could tell that. Look at the way they rode up here, behind their king. He'd call them carrion birds, if he did not have such a respect for those needed scavengers. These were not birds, these were men, and men were supposed to have a higher purpose than simply the eating of flesh – but clearly whatever that purpose was had been tossed aside in Gondor.
He could smell it on them – standing here at the top of the steps which led to the Golden Hall, he could smell the stench of decaying flesh. It was rotten and foul, it made his ancient stomach contract, and threatened to make him heave, and perhaps if he had still been of mortal stock, he would have even been sick. But he wasn't, and so he had the strength – just about anyway – to stand there as the king of the sea men, dismounted his pretty white horse and strode up those steps like he already owned the damn place. Which, considering everything that had happened since the walls of the Dunland cage had come down, was not as impressive a feat as one might have expected.
The Fool looked at the Sea king then, as only a fool can and tried to picture the land he would rule after the talking was all over. The man was tall, as all men of the sea were, but not so tall that it hurt the fool's neck – hobbit stock as he was – to look upon his face. He had not a proper beard, but rather a scruff around the chin. His eyes were a deep, and unsettling grey – and he did not smile as most men, or elves, or dwarves and hobbits and goblins did. But rather it was similar to the smile that a Warg might give to its prey, it was a smile of a predator coming in for the kill. Which did not speak highly to the chances of whoever was on the receiving end of such a smile…which was, oh yes, Rohan.
Oh dear, what a pity, and he had so enjoyed his time here.
Maedhros did not truly listen to what the people around him were saying, he hadn't for…years now. It was simply not worth the time, he knew already what they would tell him. For he had heard it a hundred, no a thousand times before. It didn't matter what mouth the words were coming from they will always be the same. You have to listen, your majesty. The kingdom needs you. It was absurd, to think that any son of Fëanor could be needed. Needed for what? To burn ships? To start wars over jewellery? To tear out the throats of the men in front of him, and drink their blood as if it were wine?
Oh dear, that was a bad thought wasn't? He'd been having a lot of those lately; to be fair he'd often had a lot of those, but these were different. His old bad thoughts, the ones that made him think about pushing his brothers down that hill when they had been children, or stomping on a puppy's tail, were not the same as this…this craving. In the past they had just been thoughts, horrible, sometimes violently conniving thoughts, but nothing more than that, It wasn't this…this hunger. He didn't just think, or imagine, or feel the blood of Gondor's representatives slipping down his throat…he wanted it.
He needed it.
He…he…he…had to stop…had to, he could make himself stop. He didn't need a drink of blood, if he had another drink of wine. Yes, yes, that was the way he had done it before, it had so far worked and he'd been doing it for years now, since he came back and that was…well, no time at all for a living elf, but time enough indeed for one in the body of a man. Plus it had the added effect of changing his stink, when all someone could smell on you was the drink or the wine or the ale, then they wouldn't notice the odour of rot under it all.
The voice of the Gondor king broke through the fog of the lesser king's despair, and for the first time since the death of Théoden all those…ages…years…hours ago, Maedhros sat up and listened to the words that were actually being spoken to him.
'Please my friend, I beg of you will you not do this? For the good of your people, if not for yourself? The people of Rohan must be made whole and I can give them that, and all I need from you is a single answer, just a single word my friend, and I can make all of it stop.'
It was a surprisingly moving speech considering how simple it was, it would have been nice, Maedhros considered then if he had actually listened to the first part of it and understood what the Morgoth the king of Gondor was even talking about. Oh well, he'd bungled his way through the first part of his rule, he might as well bungle through the next part too.
'So, what do you say my friend, is it a yes, or is it a no?'
They were just words, and words in a vacuum don't mean much of anything at all. They certainly didn't mean much of anything to Maedhros, and so he picked one at random.
'Yes.'
It could have gone the other way, he could have just as easily have said no and understood as much as it would mean for the future of Rohan. But he didn't, he said yes and now they must all live with the consequences. Well…maybe live is not the correct word.
Rohan was dead…technically speaking. Oh, that did not mean that there weren't still people of Rohan heritage, and Rohan culture living in it, but Rohan the kingdom, Rohan the separate part of land from Gondor was gone. The king had said yes, and now there was no king anymore, for there was no crown of Rohan anymore. For there was no Rohan anymore, for Rohan was dead.
The people that had once – and sometimes still did – call themselves the Rohan, now lived on a simple, if somewhat larger than usual, province of the kingdom of Gondor. Apparently, there had been some argument on whether or not it could be considered a province of Gondor or Arnor, seeing as Aragorn was technically the king of both. In the end it had been decided that Gondor should take the former kingdom under its wing, not for any deep and meaningful reason but simply because…well it was slightly closer, and besides the land had been Gondor before, made sense that it should be Gondor again.
They'd almost offered Maedhros the position of steward, but then looking at the half-starved drunken shell that he had become most agreed that perhaps it would be better to give such a position to another man. Hopefully it would not be Eomer, Eomer did not work well under others – but it was no longer his place to say. It was no longer his place to do anything at all.
So, he had left while they had been arguing over semantics, it had seemed the sensible thing to do. He hadn't even brought anything to sustain him, no food, no warmth, not even a mug of wine. He didn't expect to survive long, first chance he got he would throw this body off the next cliff face. That should kill him just enough to get free of that body, then well then nothing would matter anymore.
He had picked a direction at random and just started walking. That had been three sunrises ago. He didn't even feel tired.
He didn't feel anything at all.
So, no change there.
Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, he told himself, there had to be a cliff around here somewhere.
Hmm…that was funny…where had the ground gone?
There was the smell of something foul in the air, something rotten and all Maedhros wanted to do was close his eyes again, and fall back into oblivion. But the smell, aye, the smell was too strong for that. If he did not move now than that smell would drown him, and although he sought to end this body, not like that. It would be the worst way to go, and he was too much of a coward for that.
So, he let his eyes remain open and slowly, ever so slowly, he unfurled into a sitting position. The people around the fire didn't look at him, this was good, it made it all the easier for him to slip away, and finish his deadly task. He didn't know why it didn't work last time, that fall should have at the very least broken every bone in his mortal body. And yet as he pushed himself slowly up and out of the bedroll, he had found himself in, he didn't even hurt.
It was madness, but then maybe madness was all he could expect of life. Whatever that word meant anymore. He did not stop to look at whoever had saved him, it did not matter, it wasn't as if they had done him any favour by doing so. He simply stood up and ran, ran back into the darkness of the night.
He would have run then, run as far as his non aching legs would take him, run past that, until his whole body gave out and shut down. Well, as much as an unnaturally reanimated corpse with the ancient spirit of a long dead elf shoved in could break down. It was a mad hope, not exactly a well thought out plan.
Yes, he would have run all that way and far beyond it, if he hadn't tripped over the broken remains of his own body right then. Perhaps someone of a saner disposition might not have stopped, at this body that wore the dead face of the former king of Rohan. Perhaps they would not have taken the time to look at the body at all, but then Maedhros has never been entirely sane, not by his own people's standards at least. And he could not look away, not from the face that he had worn for all this time, longer than he had bothered to count and there it was lying on the ground, dead as it should have always been.
And if it was there…then where was he?
In his horror, in his stupor he had not noticed that the people around the fire had stood up, had moved beyond it until one of their hands landed hard on his shoulder. And a voice, a voice so familiar to him it actually made him ache said the name, the word he had not heard out loud for 7,000 years if not longer – math had never been his strong point.
'Maedhros, you've come home to us at last. Don't leave us again, my son.'
Father.
The creature with its weathered claw upon his shoulder did not look like his father, but it was. Maedhros could not explain how he knew it, he just did. This was his father, the elf, the fiend he had been sent here to retrieve. A mission that he was certain absolutely none of his brothers had intended to even try and complete. Why would they, it wasn't as if Manwë had any power that could make them do it, not once they were over here, safe in their stolen bodies.
Or maybe he could, maybe this had all been his will, and Maedhros' misery was only the result of having defied it. Whatever the case his father was here, happy, and laughing; and sure he may wear the face of a decaying old man but only a glance in his eyes told the undead king that his father was whole for the first time since the Silmarils had been stolen by Morgoth all those ages ago.
And as he was led back to the fire and introduced to the new forms of his paternal grandparents, Maedhros felt a lightening to his spirit that he hadn't before. He felt, well happy was not the word, for while in this form he could never be truly happy, but it was as close to it as he could ever come.
Perhaps things were not so terrible after all, perhaps…perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps this was not a punishment at all, but rather a second chance, though he supposed a second chance at what really deepened on your own priorities.
'Oh Maedhros, how long have I been searching for you, my so…'
And then like a dog on the scent of some new kind of game, Fëanor's head whipped round to the side. His long and broken nose pointed high towards the East and he smiled. Wide, and pointed, and unsettling. It was the kind of smile you didn't see on heroes of legend.
'Yes,' said the old man, who surely couldn't be his father at all.
'I think it's time we got the whole family back together, don't you?'
The question had not been directed at Maedhros.
Fëanor had heard the noise before, had heard it for years now – but inside the cage of Mab it had been muted. Nothing more but a dull pecking on the inside of his head; and yet now that he was out, now that he was relatively free it was all he heard.
At first, he thought it was the sound of the birds; or the people screaming but no, it was beyond that, beyond any mortal sound. It was like a shining note in his ear, one that would never end because it was eternal. Eternal in the true kind of way, the kind of way that not even a sword would strike down.
This was the sound of a Silmaril. He heard it in the belly of that giant turtle, heard in Mab's pathetic little keep. Although to be fair there was something different about this sound, it was deeper, much less like crashing of musical waves against his skull. This was the breaking of the earth; this was the sound of rocks against his ribcage. That didn't make sense, but then much of the world did not make sense anymore, why should this be any different?
He had found his mother, he had found his father, he had found his second favourite son – and soon the others would follow, as they always did behind Maedhros. It was time to search for his stolen children, and the finest and most beautiful of his creations.
And the song, the song of the Silmaril – well, that was calling him East.