Tolkien Fanfiction by Hobbit
Posted: Tue Jun 20, 2017 2:31 am
So now that I've written all of one and a half fanfictions inspired by Tolkien's works, I thought I might as well finally post the one I was talking about in the DDG thread.
I may come back and edit it later: the voice jumps around quite a bit, and there are some places where it moves at the wrong pace, and there is some clumsy wording in a couple of places; but for now, here it is.
WARNING:
I got okayed by Ariel to post this, as long as I included a warning. Because this fanfiction could be rated T for several descriptions of aftermath of battle, including multiple references to blood. So yep. You've been warned.
(Also a warning of my own: it's depressing. Like, the no-happy-ending kind of depressing. So there's that too.)
Blood Tears
A Silmarillion Fanfiction
The Eldar shouldn’t have to say goodbye…but they do anyway.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am aware that I’m rotten at speaking/writing Elvish, but I’ve been wanting for a while to use some of the phrases I do know, and this seemed as good a time as any.)
The sun was gone. In this darkness, so much darker than it ought to be even this late in the evening, the battlefield seemed to be only a rocky plain, the figures lying all about on the ground appearing to be nothing more than stones except for where a glimmer of once-bright armor silently spoke the sad truth.
Nothing moved. The wind was stilled, and the air was heavy. But then there came in the north a dim light, very far away, of scores of torches blinking on the very fringes of the place of battle. The orcs were there, at the command of their master, to clear the field.
Hours later, as the undertaking continued in the north, there slipped onto the southeastern corner of the plain a quiet figure. Cloaked and hooded, hardly visible in the darkness, it began cautiously to make its way across the field, halting now and again to bend and look more closely at one of the fallen shapes on the ground. So as the orcs worked their way slowly south, the solitary figure in the cloak went just as slowly west and slightly north, not without a quick upward glance now and then to mark the progress of the goblins.
Once when the figure stooped to the ground, the hood slipped back, revealing hair that gleamed blood-red even in the distant torchlight. But quickly the elf pulled the hood forward again, hiding in its shadow the face worn with weariness and grief and crossed with scars white against the already-fair skin.
He had heard that the King of the Noldor had fallen after the house of Fëanor had been driven from the field. But he would not rest until he was sure of it, sure without a doubt. So it was that he was here searching among the dead for one he half-hoped he would not find. And as the hours went by and the distance between himself and the orcs narrowed bit by bit, he began to wonder whether he would find what he was seeking.
But even as he was about to turn back, he began to come among the bodies of elves who wore a livery of blue and silver, and he knew he was come near the place and his steps faltered. Sinking to his knees among the slain, with bowed shoulders he covered his eyes with his left hand, and he grieved.
So many of these would yet live had we not been betrayed.
After a time he rose again and continued his silent journey, but as the night grew older and the darkness deepened his task became more difficult. There was no moon, and a darkness was drawn across all the stars save a few which loyally winked and glimmered in the southern sky.
The battle should never have come so far south. We could have had the upper hand, they say, from the very start. But we were delayed, treacherously delayed. And so the field was lost.
And then he saw it: as a sudden movement of air high up in the heavens blew aside a cloud, in the sudden starlight there appeared to his right a section of the field, blackened as if by fire, wholly empty but for a flash of bright mail in the very center. With a muted cry, he stumbled forward and fell to his knees beside the still form on the ground.
“Fingon,” Maedhros whispered, his voice shaking. With his left hand he removed his friend’s silver helm, cloven down the back and covered in blood. Then putting his arm under the limp shoulders, he drew Fingon into his lap and gazed into the quiet face. There was no sign of life—of course not; no one could survive a blow like the one the King had received—and there was no expression in the hint of grey eyes that glinted in the starlight between the nearly-closed lids. “Fingon,” Maedhros whispered again. Clumsily with his right arm he tried to brush some of the blood off of the dead face, but it was dried on too thick for the leather-gauntleted stump to affect it.
“I’m sorry,” Maedhros murmured. “I’m so sorry. I was too late….I was too late.” Shifting Fingon’s weight so as to free his left arm, he touched his friend’s lifeless hand with his fingertips. It was so cold, colder than he had ever felt it. He wondered if it had felt this cold during the long-ago march across the Helcaraxë.
I am so sorry. For that…for this…for everything.
For a long time he sat in silence, his mind in his sorrow as dark as his surroundings.
* * * * *
After a while he slid the blunt end of his right arm under Fingon’s right hand which lay on the breast of the bloodstained surcoat that had once been white.
“Do you remember this?” he whispered. “You saved my life that day, breaking and freeing me in the same moment.” He shut his eyes tight. “I hardly remember any of it. But they told me afterwards all that you did.”
A single tear coursed down each side of Maedhros’s face. Holding Fingon closer to himself and stroking the dark hair stiff with dried blood, he looked up at the sky. The stars in the south still glinted, flashing brighter yet through his tears.
“See, Fingon,” he said softly. “There is no moon tonight. It’s as it was long ago, when we’d first left Valinor, before the Sun and the Moon. Although…” he faltered, “that was before we left you…alone. In the cold.” He drew his right arm across his eyes to brush away the tears, the pattern on the gauntlet rough against his skin. “I don’t want to leave you alone again, Fingon.” He looked again at the torches in the distance. They were nearer now than they had been, and he wondered vaguely how long he had sat there. He knew why the orcs were there and what they were doing, and he wept again at the thought of his friend being thrown carelessly onto a pile with the others—elves, men, dwarves, and orcs alike—to be burned.
The eagles had come before at the need of the house of Fingolfin, more than once. Maedhros therefore cried aloud despairingly among his tears for Thorondor, the lord of eagles, to come and bear them away as he had so long ago when it had been Fingon seeking for Maedhros. But either Thorondor never heard, or else he would not answer to the voice of a son of Fëanor, for there was no response other than a sudden clamor of orc-cries to the north. A small number of them had come closer without Maedhros noticing, and they had heard his cry. Now there was no hope. He would be fortunate to make it away himself, and it would be certainly impossible if he was encumbered by the body of his friend. But he lingered just a moment longer, holding Fingon’s broken right hand in his own left.
“Mauya nin avánië, melda tár [I must go, beloved king],” he whispered in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor. Then gently letting Fingon down onto the ground, he stood up. With a sudden resolution, he lifted the blood-soaked blue and silver banner of Fingon from where it lay crumpled on the ground and cast it around his own shoulders over his cloak: whether in defiance of the orcs or in memory of his friend, he knew not. Then with quick, silent steps he left, his face to the mountains where his people were scattered. Behind him he heard the shouts of the orcs. He broke into a run—stumbling now and again, but even so he easily outdistanced them so that they soon left off the chase and he slowed to a walk. Only once did he turn and look back, whispering softly:
“A lorë [Sleep], my friend. Ánin apensë [Forgive me]. ”
(And yes, the drawing is backwards. The angle and the fact that his back is turned got me messed up when I was drawing the reference picture, and I forgot to mirror it back again...I'll probably flip it later so that it's correct.)
I may come back and edit it later: the voice jumps around quite a bit, and there are some places where it moves at the wrong pace, and there is some clumsy wording in a couple of places; but for now, here it is.
WARNING:
I got okayed by Ariel to post this, as long as I included a warning. Because this fanfiction could be rated T for several descriptions of aftermath of battle, including multiple references to blood. So yep. You've been warned.
(Also a warning of my own: it's depressing. Like, the no-happy-ending kind of depressing. So there's that too.)
Blood Tears
A Silmarillion Fanfiction
The Eldar shouldn’t have to say goodbye…but they do anyway.
(AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am aware that I’m rotten at speaking/writing Elvish, but I’ve been wanting for a while to use some of the phrases I do know, and this seemed as good a time as any.)
The sun was gone. In this darkness, so much darker than it ought to be even this late in the evening, the battlefield seemed to be only a rocky plain, the figures lying all about on the ground appearing to be nothing more than stones except for where a glimmer of once-bright armor silently spoke the sad truth.
Nothing moved. The wind was stilled, and the air was heavy. But then there came in the north a dim light, very far away, of scores of torches blinking on the very fringes of the place of battle. The orcs were there, at the command of their master, to clear the field.
Hours later, as the undertaking continued in the north, there slipped onto the southeastern corner of the plain a quiet figure. Cloaked and hooded, hardly visible in the darkness, it began cautiously to make its way across the field, halting now and again to bend and look more closely at one of the fallen shapes on the ground. So as the orcs worked their way slowly south, the solitary figure in the cloak went just as slowly west and slightly north, not without a quick upward glance now and then to mark the progress of the goblins.
Once when the figure stooped to the ground, the hood slipped back, revealing hair that gleamed blood-red even in the distant torchlight. But quickly the elf pulled the hood forward again, hiding in its shadow the face worn with weariness and grief and crossed with scars white against the already-fair skin.
He had heard that the King of the Noldor had fallen after the house of Fëanor had been driven from the field. But he would not rest until he was sure of it, sure without a doubt. So it was that he was here searching among the dead for one he half-hoped he would not find. And as the hours went by and the distance between himself and the orcs narrowed bit by bit, he began to wonder whether he would find what he was seeking.
But even as he was about to turn back, he began to come among the bodies of elves who wore a livery of blue and silver, and he knew he was come near the place and his steps faltered. Sinking to his knees among the slain, with bowed shoulders he covered his eyes with his left hand, and he grieved.
So many of these would yet live had we not been betrayed.
After a time he rose again and continued his silent journey, but as the night grew older and the darkness deepened his task became more difficult. There was no moon, and a darkness was drawn across all the stars save a few which loyally winked and glimmered in the southern sky.
The battle should never have come so far south. We could have had the upper hand, they say, from the very start. But we were delayed, treacherously delayed. And so the field was lost.
And then he saw it: as a sudden movement of air high up in the heavens blew aside a cloud, in the sudden starlight there appeared to his right a section of the field, blackened as if by fire, wholly empty but for a flash of bright mail in the very center. With a muted cry, he stumbled forward and fell to his knees beside the still form on the ground.
“Fingon,” Maedhros whispered, his voice shaking. With his left hand he removed his friend’s silver helm, cloven down the back and covered in blood. Then putting his arm under the limp shoulders, he drew Fingon into his lap and gazed into the quiet face. There was no sign of life—of course not; no one could survive a blow like the one the King had received—and there was no expression in the hint of grey eyes that glinted in the starlight between the nearly-closed lids. “Fingon,” Maedhros whispered again. Clumsily with his right arm he tried to brush some of the blood off of the dead face, but it was dried on too thick for the leather-gauntleted stump to affect it.
“I’m sorry,” Maedhros murmured. “I’m so sorry. I was too late….I was too late.” Shifting Fingon’s weight so as to free his left arm, he touched his friend’s lifeless hand with his fingertips. It was so cold, colder than he had ever felt it. He wondered if it had felt this cold during the long-ago march across the Helcaraxë.
I am so sorry. For that…for this…for everything.
For a long time he sat in silence, his mind in his sorrow as dark as his surroundings.
* * * * *
After a while he slid the blunt end of his right arm under Fingon’s right hand which lay on the breast of the bloodstained surcoat that had once been white.
“Do you remember this?” he whispered. “You saved my life that day, breaking and freeing me in the same moment.” He shut his eyes tight. “I hardly remember any of it. But they told me afterwards all that you did.”
A single tear coursed down each side of Maedhros’s face. Holding Fingon closer to himself and stroking the dark hair stiff with dried blood, he looked up at the sky. The stars in the south still glinted, flashing brighter yet through his tears.
“See, Fingon,” he said softly. “There is no moon tonight. It’s as it was long ago, when we’d first left Valinor, before the Sun and the Moon. Although…” he faltered, “that was before we left you…alone. In the cold.” He drew his right arm across his eyes to brush away the tears, the pattern on the gauntlet rough against his skin. “I don’t want to leave you alone again, Fingon.” He looked again at the torches in the distance. They were nearer now than they had been, and he wondered vaguely how long he had sat there. He knew why the orcs were there and what they were doing, and he wept again at the thought of his friend being thrown carelessly onto a pile with the others—elves, men, dwarves, and orcs alike—to be burned.
The eagles had come before at the need of the house of Fingolfin, more than once. Maedhros therefore cried aloud despairingly among his tears for Thorondor, the lord of eagles, to come and bear them away as he had so long ago when it had been Fingon seeking for Maedhros. But either Thorondor never heard, or else he would not answer to the voice of a son of Fëanor, for there was no response other than a sudden clamor of orc-cries to the north. A small number of them had come closer without Maedhros noticing, and they had heard his cry. Now there was no hope. He would be fortunate to make it away himself, and it would be certainly impossible if he was encumbered by the body of his friend. But he lingered just a moment longer, holding Fingon’s broken right hand in his own left.
“Mauya nin avánië, melda tár [I must go, beloved king],” he whispered in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor. Then gently letting Fingon down onto the ground, he stood up. With a sudden resolution, he lifted the blood-soaked blue and silver banner of Fingon from where it lay crumpled on the ground and cast it around his own shoulders over his cloak: whether in defiance of the orcs or in memory of his friend, he knew not. Then with quick, silent steps he left, his face to the mountains where his people were scattered. Behind him he heard the shouts of the orcs. He broke into a run—stumbling now and again, but even so he easily outdistanced them so that they soon left off the chase and he slowed to a walk. Only once did he turn and look back, whispering softly:
“A lorë [Sleep], my friend. Ánin apensë [Forgive me]. ”
(And yes, the drawing is backwards. The angle and the fact that his back is turned got me messed up when I was drawing the reference picture, and I forgot to mirror it back again...I'll probably flip it later so that it's correct.)