How can you see into my eyes like open doors
Leading you down into my core
Where I've become so numb without a soul
My spirit sleeping somewhere cold
Until you find it there and lead it back home
Wake me up inside
Wake me up inside
Call my name and save me from the dark
Bid my blood to run before I come undone
Save me from the nothing I've become.
-- "Bring Me to Life," Evanescence
Beleriand was ablaze with the glory of their arms, for the host of the Valar were arrayed
in forms young and fair and terrible and the mountains rang beneath their feet.
-- J.R.R.T, "The Silmarillion"
[The newly-formed northeastern shore of the Great Sea, Year 587 of the Sun, later called the twilight of the First Age]
The cool, crisp sting of the wind flutters my loosely braided hair, brings tears to my eyes, yet they are also tears of pain of the heart as well. This place reminds me of my home, the home of my childhood, those carefree days the likes of which I shall naught see again. Now fair Arvernien lies beneath the waves, to live on only in wistful memory and bittersweet song.
A child I was, 'tho at the time I denied it staunchly, when the mighty Host of the West arrived upon our fair shores, the haunting horns of Fionwe summoning all the faithful to join the forces of Light. Maedhros and Maglor, those who raised me with tenderness and care despite the dubious origin of our bond, had resisted the call at first, much to the anger of my brother. Little did he understand the reason for their reticence, as did I, but in his impatience and the long-smoldering anger which the years since our mother's loss had only flamed, he had taken his leave of our camp, stealing away into the night while others slept. Long had I mourned his absence, fearing that I would never see him again. But more do I now mourn his presence, as I now know he is brother to me in blood only, not in action nor heart.
Long were the nights between my brother's leaving and our joining of the battle, yet swiftly flew the years of the war's long reign. In that time I grew into the fullness of my strength, my aim ever more sure, my eye for strategy ever more keen. Forty long cycles of Anor's seasons passed in the world, and still the battle raged. Northward we drove, each forward step hard-won, the once-green fields and forests now darkened with the cruel stain of blood.
Then, one dawn blessed with the setting of Ithil's full face safely in the west, I first laid eyes upon the cursed fortress, my mind forever burned with the image of the trifold stone peaks of the Enemy's black home. Maedhros' face grew pale for the passage of a fleeting moment, 'tho he knew not that I had noticed. But none could blame him for succumbing to rightful fear at the sight of his one-time prison. His freedom had been dearly paid with the price of his right hand, severed from his wrist in his rescue.
What did I leave behind in those dire, dark lands?
I close my eyes and I can still see the terrible tableau of the Dagor Delothrin, when the Evil One loosed upon the world his flying dragons, blotting out Anor's face with the horrifying span of their wings. Ancalagon the Black drove us back, many an elf finding passage to Mandos' Halls in his swift, sharp jaws.
Cries of fear and pain still ring through my ears, the memories of that hopeless day as fresh and close as this very morn. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, like a choking cloak which rose stinging bile into my throat more than once. Those with sense fled before the fire-spewing beasts of the air, those of us foolhardy enough to remain expecting to not live to see the next morn.
Then he came, shining as a white flame, the Silmaril he bore a beacon of hope in the battlefield's sea of despair. Earendil, my sire, long lost and never before seen by mine eyes save as a gleaming star in the distant vaults of the starry sky, sailing his mighty jewel-draped ship down from the heady heights of heaven, flew with the Eagles of Manwe, his faithful troops, by his side.
The fiery battle lasted the full measure of the day, and on through the night, and ere Anor rose again in the east my sire and his feathered host finally won the field, and Ancalagon the Black was thrown from the sky by my father's hand. The beast broke the towers of his master in his fall, and all the remainder of his winged brethren were slain or scattered to the eastern corners of the world.
Fionwe bade the Eagles to lead us East, away from the stench and smoke of the battle, while he and the Valar completed their victory. We camped in the foothills of the Ered Luin and gazed West in wonder, the earth shaking beneath our very feet as Fionwe and Tulkas wrestled with Morgoth in his own dungeons. Rivers were wrenched from their courses, mountains fell, the ground opened up and swallowed those monsters which Orome himself did not hunt down. I sometimes wonder why I was not swallowed up as well. Am I not an unnatural beast, neither Edain nor Eldar?
So it is that now I stand by this newborn shore, my feet the first to kick up the soft, shifting powder of the untouched sand. Once this was a plain where we wandered, far inland from the sound of the sea and the call of Lord Ulmo which is said to haunt our blood.
The blood of the First born - I have no right to count myself among their number. Yet did not my father find himself a slave to the song of the waves, as had his father before him? I, too, feel its lure, soft and sensual, thrumming through my curiously mixed blood.
So peaceful it is, when compared to the heat of battle which flowed through my veins, sustaining me these last long years. It seems a comforting lullaby of another age, one more innocent, before the world was changed forever by the force of that last battle.
Together we wait here by the sea, the host of Valinor, and those few faithful of Middle-earth who survived the slaughter, awaiting the arrival of survivors from what islands remain in shifting of the lands and sea. Yet not all those who survived those long, dark, hopeless years join us here in the joys of victory.
I remember the reunion of the forces of light, First born and Second, Moriquendi and Calaquendi, Valar and Eagles. Joyous were the songs that rang out in the camps, verses composed to memorialize the selfless sacrifices of many. Dark and terrible and beyond my power to describe or forget was Morgoth, even in his defeat, his crown beaten into a tight collar around his neck. Ever shall I remember the coldness of his eyes as he stared at me, the son of his defeater, before he was cast beyond the Door of Night by the Valar's might.
No less terrible in its own way was the collected might of Valinor. The flame-drenched eyes of the Lords of the West reflected the light of the Trees, it is said. I know not the source of their fire, but I surely felt the heat of their curious stare. I also recall the wondrous beauty of the Silmarils recovered from the Black One's crown. I knew in an instant the reason for my foster fathers' long-sworn vows, to recover the craftwork of their sire at all cost. I also understand well their reticence to follow the edict of Fionwe, to return to the West and stand in judgment of the Valar. What wrath awaited them, what true chance for peace and absolution?
Nay, instead they followed the folly of their hearts, unknown to me yet not unexpected. They stole back the sacred Silmarils from Fionwe's guard, yet found not the joy of victory. Each found only pain and madness, and are lost to me forever, one entombed in the fires of the earth into which he leapt, the other wandering along unseen shores, never to live amongst his kin again.
Yes, here I stand, alone among the mightiest host ever assembled in Arda, bereft of my homeland, the parents of my birth and those of my fostering, alone save for my brother, who is but a stranger to me, and I to him. The joyous memories of our innocent younger years are as distant as the Blessed Lands, neither to be visited in future years.
A cry rings out, catching my attention. I lift my eyes to the horizon and catch sight of a ship, gleaming white in the brilliancy of Anor's midday rays. I feel myself smile, despite the weight of my heart. A familiar face I spy, standing on the swan-shaped bow. Cirdan, distant kin and childhood hero, his hair as silver as Ithil's glow, just as I remember.
I feel a presence behind me, the sound of breath and soft footsteps. I know it is my brother, even before he uneasily stands by my side. We exchange a brief glance but no words. None are necessary and none would be sufficient. He is arrayed in the manner of men, and I in the manner of elfkind, as befits the choices of our hearts; yet are we not both and neither all the same?
So close, but yet so far, as if the mighty waters themselves separated us, we stare toward the long-missed ship, last seen when we were young and innocent and brothers in more than name. Lo, the shipwright spies us, he smiles in kind. He recognizes us, despite the passage of years.
An unfamiliar form walks to Cirdan's side, not as tall yet surely as regal. Nay, more so he is, his dark hair flying in the breeze, fluttering like a banner. "So there is our king," I hear my brother scornfully whisper. "Where was he when we needed him?"
I feel the protective loyalty of youth instantly bring a retort to my lips. "Where he should have been - protecting the majority of our people."
"Which people... whose people?"
I have no reply for my brother, and none for myself. The agony of my own heart was evident in his voice.
I stare harder at the approaching ship, concentrating on my first sight of the king I had never known yet had longed to meet. Disappointment was not to be my burden. Dressed in the finery of the high court, he cut a noble figure, the diamonds in his circlet crown shimmering like the Lady's heavenly handiwork.
Closer still the ship serenely sailed, and keener still grew my first vision of my king. Moriquendi he was by birth, yet there burned the unmistakable flame of the Lachen in his eyes. Ai, I am burned by it, my blood grows warmer, I feel the tingle in my flesh I had long forgotten could exist. I feel - I feel! Without thinking, I step closer to the water, drawn like a moth to his flame. He holds my gaze and I see the color rise in his cheeks as I feel it likewise rise in mine. He raises a hand to grasp the side of the ship's graceful swan-neck bow, his fingers aimlessly stroking along the smooth wood in a most sensuous way. I curl my fingers into the palms of my hands lest they rise toward him on their own.
The ship comes to a gentle rest in the shallow shoals of the lapping waves, and a joyous throng of Eldar run out to meet it, yet I find I cannot move. I am mesmerized, frozen in the chains of his gaze, yet I am its most grateful prisoner. A waft of wind rises up, blowing the King's night-hued mane before his face. He reaches up and gently brushes the veil aside and I am lost in the simplicity and sincerity of that motion. Might that I be worthy to brush the offending intruder from your face, Fin-raun lachen. Ai, why am I tormented so by what I can never have? Why must I finally find a reason to continue in a hope that will only bring me the pain of disappointment?
As Tilion is ever drawn to Arien's golden flame, so am I caught in web of your radiance. You have bid my blood to run like the Great River itself, and I am helpless to resist. By the Valar, may the Lady save me from the folly of my heart, as I am found only to be lost again.
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The Folly of Starlight 23. Bid My Blood To Run by AC
Story notes: Series: Folly of Starlight; prequel to "Kilmessi," companion piece to "A Maze of Games".
Thanks to Emma for the beta job.
Comments are always cherished.
The Folly of Starlight series.
Chapter end notes: There is one set of notes for this story and the next two. They are posted at http://www.ithilas.com/fos/notes.html.
