Disclaimer: Tolkien owns the Silmarillion.
Pairings: Turgon x Elenwë
Characters: Turgon, Fingolfin, Idril (mentions of Elenwë, the Teleri, the Fëanorions and Morgoth)
Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, mentions of murder
Song: Musique pour la Tristesse de Xion
Words: 886
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tight (adjective): allowing little or no room for free motion or movement; strongly fixed or held: secure; characterized by firmness or strictness in control or application or in attention to details
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/tight
She is gone.
For the longest time, he could not bear to even move. The bite of ice and snow on his numb fingers disappeared. The entire universe had stilled, and nothing remained except the darkness opening up before him, the jagged walls dropping down into frigid water and an icy grave below. The cold burning his face vanished; the screaming of the wind in his ears was silenced. Nothing could reach him except the crimson stains in the ice below, the clouds of red spreading out through the water, slowly fading away into nothingness.
There would be no body and no burial. She was just... gone.
As if she had never existed.
At first he did not register the hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him away from the chilling sight, nor the familiar embrace that wrapped around his shoulders, safe and warm. The white landscape disappeared from his vision, blocked out by a soft shoulder padded with thick furs. A steady heartbeat and deep, soothing breaths drowning out the ringing that had overtaken all his other senses.
"Hush," that voice rasped against his cheek. "Hush, yonya, hush..." Fingers carded through his hair, stroking over his scalp in a slow rhythm, a rhythm ingrained into his very being. Atar. As he became more aware, he could hear an awful keening noise in the distance, resonating with his soul, realized that it was not someone mourning far away at all. It was coming from him. Thick and heavy in his throat, burning and aching, sobs rocking his entire body as his fingers made to clutch at the form cradling him in strong arms.
A chin settled atop his head. "Hush, hínya, hush..." His atar was with him, holding him as he had when Turukáno was a young child, crooning, singing softly into the endless stretches of icy wasteland until the younger elf could almost forget all about the hellish land that they were traversing, and about the abyss that had swallowed up his One and carried her away.
Caged tightly in visceral comfort, he fell into the warm darkness, a lullaby as old as the earth hovering just beyond the edge of consciousness, welcoming him into the world of the starry sky and the still, cool water in the warm night.
Welcoming him into her arms.
---
Losing loved ones was not easy. It hurt worse than any wound to cutting word he could remember. Turukáno had never known such heartbreak before. Bereft, he felt a hole where his beloved was supposed to be, her warmth soothing him, balancing the hereditary fury and pride that burned hot beneath his skin. Without her cool presence, soft as a breeze brushing over the vastness of his soul, something was just missing.
He now knew how the families of those elves who had died at the hands of his kin must feel, what the wives and children must have felt when their fathers and sons and brothers had never returned home from the bloody shadow that had fallen over all of Valinor in the Black Enemy's wake.
It was as if his entire world had been ripped apart.
"Atar?"
The voice was soft, barely more than a breath. He turned away from where he stared in the distance, into nothing but white ground and black sky as far as the eye could see, and instead faced the young woman, barely grown into adulthood, still so naive with such large eyes.
Sad eyes. A lump formed in his throat. He had lost his wife, but his daughter--their daughter--had lost her mother as well. Her blue eyes--her mother's eyes--were ringed in red, tears frozen and clinging to dark golden lashes like tiny crystals, glistening little lights in the blackness. The pain that lined her features seemed to take away the last vestiges of innocence from her glowing face.
What he wouldn't give to make that hurt go away! Was it not his job to protect her from the pain and hurts of the world?
Had he not failed her? Failed as a father and a protector?
His arms opened without thought, and she came to him, pressing up against his chest, resting on his shoulder, her arms wrapping around him as if he were the foundation that would hold her feet to the earth. As he laid his hands on her back, traced the heaving line of her spine and took a deep, soothing breath against her golden curls, some of the emptiness filled also with a small amount of hope and happiness, of comfort. His child. His sweet daughter. Yenya.
Without realizing it, he squeezed her into a tight, warm embrace and ignored the wet warmth on his own cheeks and the budding despair in his heart. She was safe, his Itarillë, and if he could make her even a bit happier then that was enough for him. Her light would not be lost in this darkness.
And as long as he held tightly onto that light, that hope, he could continue on.
Survive. Breathe. Live.
For her. For them both. Elenwë and Itarillë.
"Hush, hínya, hush..."
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I was feeling down today. That's my explanation for this. And I'm listening to sad music right now. It's even in the title, I swear! Musique pour la Tristesse de Xion from Kingdom Hearts Piano Collections: Field and Battle by Yoko Shimomura. Absolutely gorgeous. I used to be able to play this one, too, but I've not practiced it in more than a year. I shall have to work on it again, especially since my motor control has increased significantly since the start of college.
Anyway, this idea came to me very randomly while thinking during Japanese (should have been concentrating on the conjugation of i and na adjectives), and then it stuck. Turgon is one of my favorites, even though he can be a bit more than a bit of a bitch sometimes. In some ways he reminds me a bit of Elrond (who, I should add, is his descendant). Also, Gandalf's sword Glamdring, it belonged to Turgon first, just in case anyone reading this didn't know. Turgon was the King of Gondolin to whom Elrond referred to in The Hobbit (movie and book).
Picture of Idril: Idril in the Mountains by *Venlian on dA. She looks young. In my opinion she doesn't look young enough to be the elven equivalent of a seven-year-old, but maybe that's just me. In any case, new art that is very pretty <3.
Also, Quenya vocab time!
my child: hína + -nya = hínya
my son: yondo + -nya = yonya
my daughter: yendë + -nya = yenya
father: atar
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