Well... I honestly don't really have an explanation for this... It was just this random thought that popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone... And I just started randomly typing... And this was born. Voila. I'm seriously beginning to wonder if I have taken on too much with writing this. Too many feels...
Well, I hope that you like this little piece of angst. Please, enjoy. I own nothing.
The concept of Feärillë belongs to VCalien2015, who has written one of the most wonderful Feänor stories on this website. Please go check her out!
Enjoy. Or not.
I am not afraid. I am too tired to be afraid. I have stopped being fearful ever since this- kinslayer- has lowered the knife that had been held to my neck. I am tired, worn out by the onslaught of emotion and images that have rushed through me and past me, dragging me into their dark, swift, troubled currents.
My thoughts are as scattered as leaves being blown away by the wind; slipping through my mind as quickly as a river does, swollen by the rain of images that have been burned into my mind forever. A rain of blood. A river of darkness. Withered leaves of thought that crumble into ash as soon as I try to touch them.
I am being led through hallway after hallway, being hurriedly pushed along by the darker haired Feänorion that has captured my brother and I. The red haired one- Maedhros, I believe- follows along behind, his steps heavy and long.
The dark haired one says nothing, and I wonder if he can even speak. I do not think he has said a word since- since we were captured. Since he captured us. The word is bitter on my tongue, like salt on a wound.
I do not want to think about it. It is too close; the grief is too near for me to think about it. I cannot bring myself to think on it too long, for fear that I shall forever loose myself in the dangerously swirling, eddying whirlpools of guilt and grief.
I did not even realize that we had been pushed into a room until I registered that my legs had stopped moving, and that no hand clutched my shoulder any longer. Elrond's hand clutched mine tightly, and I looked up.
I think I forgot how to breathe.
The two elves who we were now captives to were greeting an elleth sitting on a chair by a window. She turned her head and stood immediately, walking towards the two brothers and standing in front of them. Despite that her face was pinched and her hands pale and clasped in front of her as though in an agony of pain, her beauty was not to be denied.
The Silmaril had always been something common to me, a bright, beautiful thing that had sat on my mother's throat and brought her beauty to light. Something that was merely there, something to look at and admire but think nothing too much of. But now, I feel differently.
This elleth- she made me feel as though I were looking at something hallow, something to be looked upon and admired as more than just an ornament. She reminded me of what a living Silmaril might have been. Her hair was a Silmaril, the light of the jewel that had once sat on my mother's neck tumbling down her shoulders in straight locks. Her eyes were green, and her skin pale. Her face had the angles of the Feänorions.
"Well?" Her voice trembled and cracked.
Maedhros looked down. "I'm sorry, Feärillë. We failed." Was his answer, curt and filled with darkness. I tried not to shiver. Elrond's hand tightened painfully. Maglor's hands were trembling.
"I told you not to." The words came out in a rush, as though she couldn't help herself. "I told you not to do this- to leave Sirion alone- to stay here." She snapped, her voice shaking, wavering like a leaf about to fall from a tree, laden with dew. "And you had to go, despite my words, and kill every last elf you could possibly find if I don't miss my guess." Her words were acidic.
Maedhros sighed, running a hand through his hair, as red as flame, as red as a sunset- as red as freshly spilt blood. "I'm sorry, Feärillë." He said, sounding frustrated. "But you need them to regain your strength. We told you we'd try this last time and then give up." He pleaded, as though to make her understand, to forgive him.
I looked hesitantly to the elleth. Her chin quivered. "I don't care about the Silmarils! I don't care if I need them! I need you more than I could possibly ever need those pieces of cursed glass! Do you not care that you have a Silmaril right in front of you? Living, breathing, needing you?" She sank into the chair, rocking back and forth, weeping.
"Every death on account of me, on account of them, weakens me further. If you truly loved me, you would have stopped long ago." Her voice was weak and wearied. Maglor went to her, drawing his arms around her shoulders.
I felt Elrond stiffen next to me. That's what she was? A living, breathing Silmaril?
"I'm sorry, my sister. Forgive me. We will stop this time, just as we promised." His voice was rough and thick, sounding as though his tongue were too big for his mouth. "I'm sorry. I- I brought the sons of Eärendil..." He offered weakly, while Maedhros stood by the fire, his hand clasped behind his back tightly as Maglor told her the story.
He frightened me. The way his hand had been spattered with blood, the way his hair seemed to be soaked in it, the absence of his right hand. His temper brewing under the surface of his white skin, making me feel as though if I touched him it would burn me. The way his green eyes were dark and snapping with something that vaguely reminded me of jaws and teeth, white and black and red and hideous.
Feärillë turned to us, her light green eyes filmed with wetness taking us in for the first time. I looked down, not wanting to see the hatred that would undoubtedly fill her eyes at the sight of us, a reminder of her brothers' failures and shortcomings. Elrond's hand was clammy and cold against mine.
Then a moment later, I heard the rustle of cloth, and a gown appeared in front of me on the floor. Feärillë knelt, and then there was a gentle sigh. "I'm sorry." Her voice, soft and worn, like the texture of a surf-smoothed rock on the seashores of my once-home, swept into my ears.
"I'm sorry for my brothers. If they only would have listened-" she stopped. "I'm sorry. My name is Feärillë. Please, will you look at me?" It was a question, asked quietly and gently. I peeked over at Elrond, who met my eyes. Together, we looked up.
Her eyes were pools of seawater and seaweed, salty and bitter and wet. The smile on her face was exhausted. "What are your names?" She queried.
Elrond didn't answer. My mouth opened. "Elros." I whispered, my throat scratching. Feärillë stood, moving over to a table and pouring a glass of water. She came back and knelt once more, handing it to me after taking a sip herself. My hand reached out for it, my fingers curling stiffly against it. I was afraid that my fingers would break. My skin brushed hers briefly, and I felt warmth shoot through my fingers from hers. I drank gratefully, handing the cup to my brother.
He took it and drank too, as Feärillë watched us both. "Elrond." My brother whispered, his voice sounding tired and vaguely terrified.
Feärillë gently reached out, slowly and carefully, and took the glass from his fingers. "Thank you, Elros, Elrond. Come, sit." She said, standing and motioning to the single bed in the room. "Sleep, if you wish. No harm shall come to you here, and you must be tired." She offered. I was sleepy and tired, and the bed was welcoming, the furs warm and comforting.
Elrond slept beside me, his presence a comfort. I fell asleep, too tired to think any further and make any coherent thought.
It didn't surprise me that the nightmares wouldn't leave me alone.
I watched as the two fell asleep, curled into each other. Maedhros stood by the fireplace, his jaw ticking as the only indication of his feelings. I watched as my sister moved over to the two half elves, tucking a fur around them and smoothing a hand over their brows.
Her movements captured me as they always did, the way her hair swirled around her small, thin frame as she moved. Her lithe fingers, pale and weak, fluttering over their hair. Her gown, not being able to hide her shrunken frame, pooled on the floor, and her face was pasty and lacked luster.
It had been our last chance. Our last possible chance to get one Silmaril. Just one. It was all we needed, just one to restore the health of our sister, the living, breathing Silmaril. Just a touch, and she would be well again. And we had failed. Truly, everything we touched was cursed if we could not even be granted one Silmaril, not even for the sake of our sister.
I watched as she moved towards us, her face wan and movements tired. I was tired, too. Tired of war. Tired of the never-ending, ever-driving oath. Tired of bearing the brunt of trying to keep my brother from going insane in battle and trying to keep my sister from becoming too ill.
She reached me, and held out her arms. I allowed myself to fall into them, burying my face into her neck, allowing myself to weep. The guilt plagued me. The guilt that, after all I had done, I could still find enough selfishness in me to cling to her. That she didn't burn me as she should. That she still loved me, for all that we had never listened to her protests to leave her as she was.
Her arms wrapped around me, and I pushed myself into her touch, feeling like a child. "Káno." She whispered, her voice as soft as the winds through the trees. "Why do you weep, Káno?" She murmured. I do not answer, and she says nothing more. She knows the answer. "I love you, Káno." She says, and the utter sincerity in her voice makes me shudder.
I don't want her to love me, but neither do I think I would be able to bear it if she hated me. I am despicable. But she loves me still, clinging to me in desperation, because she needs me. She still wants me.
"Feärillë." I say dazedly, not able to think of anything else. My feelings have long since numbed, and I can feel nothing but a dull ache in my chest.
"Hush, Káno." Feärillë replies, and then I feel myself being eased onto a chair. I refuse to let go of her, instead dragging her closer with a whimper. She cannot leave me. Not now, not when I need her to keep me still breathing. She represents all of what I have gone through during these never-ending years. If she deserts me, I have nothing left.
"Káno, let me go to Nelyo." She says, and then her lips are against my cheek. Her fingers drag through my hair gently, lovingly. I reluctantly let her go, and watch as she moves to comfort my brother- our brother.
I don't want her to leave. We love our sister. Even to the point where we have killed for her. And I wonder, is it truly love, then, or is it obsession?
I watched as Feärillë settled the twins in her bed and then moved to comfort Káno. Maglor watched her, as always, with his usual glazed look, bewitched by her hypnotic movements. She was dangerous. She was beautiful. She was the living, breathing, most precious Silmaril. She was our sister.
I clenched my one hand, and I could feel my jaw ticking in anger. We failed. I couldn't believe that we had failed. I was tired of watching them slip through my grasp, again and again and again, mocking me, mocking us.
I continued to watch as Maglor allowed himself to fall into Feärillë's arms, crying quiet tears of pain. His hands grasped her, desperately clutching her to himself. Like father used to with the Silmarils. Pawing, clutching, grappling, desperate, needy. My eyes darkened, fraught with anger for failing them both.
I was the elder brother. I was supposed to take care of them. And here I was, standing here, in failure, once again. I couldn't protect any of my brothers. Káno was all I had left. My plucked, broken songbird, his only song now that of bleeding wings, beating futilely against the bars of the cage of a black Oath.
My sister, weak, translucent, fading- all because I had insisted on pushing, desperate to get just one Silmaril to restore her. And instead, I had merely weakened her further. If I had held the Silmaril, I wonder, would I have been able to stand it? The burning that would obviously happen, for my hand that was so bloodstained?
Káno sinks into a chair, refusing the let go of Feärillë. She mothers him, hugging him, loving him, as a sister should. My eyes close in weariness from maintaining my anger. She should not have cause to love us. But she needs us.
"Káno, let me go to Nelyo." Her voice, quiet and soft, makes me open my eyes and glance back to see that he lets go of her reluctantly, his dark eyes pinning her with a hungry gaze, pleading for more of her caring, reassuring touch.
Arms wrap around my waist. A head buries into my chest. Out of instinct, my own arms wrap around her, and I bend to bury my head in her hair. Her bright, glimmering hair. Soft and delicate, like strands of silk easily snapped.
"Feärillë. I have blood on my garment." I tell her, but I cannot bring myself to move my head or my arms.
"I do not care, Nelyo." Is her weary answer. "I am too tired to care anymore." She sighs, and a hand brushes through my hair. Her fingers are like twigs, brittle and thin, and I am afraid that my hair will break them in pieces, leaving the bloody remnants behind in my already-red tresses.
"I'm sorry. I failed." Was the only thing I could say, utterly worn out by the past years of sorrow and grief. Of torment and suffering.
"You always failed, every time you went out and left me alone, behind, with no support." Was her blunt, unrelenting answer. "The oath failed me from the very start. Please, Nelyo, stay, this time. I need you here. Káno needs you here." She begs, and her lips, warm and soft, press against my scarred, stained cheek. A tear slips down my cheek at the warmth, soothing and comforting.
"I'm tired, Feärillë. So very, very tired." I reply, voice thick. "Is this what father meant by freedom? Is this what he meant by rebellion? Is this the life he wanted his sons to have?" I wanted to know. I needed to know. "I don't want this life, Feärillë." I whispered, pleading for her to understand. "I never wanted it. If this is what freedom is... Even rebellion, even freedom, is chained." I whispered.
She says nothing, her fingers still moving through my hair, sweeping down my back, the twigs of her hands moving across my face in pleasing friction. They are warm on my skin, smudging dampness on them like fresh ink on a piece of white parchment, marring the surface.
"Don't cry, Nelyo." Her voice whispers softly in my ear. "When you cry, you leave us."
The truth in her simple sentence strikes my heart like a dagger. New drops of pain wrung from the depths of my feä splatter onto her slender fingers, as hot as newly-spilt blood. I am surprised that they are not red as well, judging by the pain that wells as they fall.
"I'm sorry. I won't leave again." I promise brokenly. I don't know how I can possibly promise anything anymore. They are like my life, broken and scattered in pieces all around me, unrepairable and useless. But she nuzzles my cheek gently.
"I'm glad, Nelyo." She answers simply, and a silence settled, thick and quiet.
All of us loved her, more than words can say. But we loved her for who she was, not her beauty. We love what she represents. Family. Good times. We have killed for her, we have died for her. Needlessly.
And I wonder, can this truly be love? Or is this obsession, the same obsession that our father carried with him to his cairn?
Was- is- she really deserving- of all that we did?