Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: none
Characters: Gwindor, Gelmir, Morgoth's Captain (mentions Eru, the Valar, Morgoth and Fingon)
Warning: canon-compliant, canon character death, war, allusions to torture, mentions rape, fairly explicit dismemberment and decapitation, fantasizing about torture/murder
Song: Jane's Lament
Words: 1,303
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powerless (adjective): devoid of strength or resources; lacking the authority or capacity to act
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/powerless
At first, he did not even recognize the ragged elven thrall.
Tall and thin to the bone, in nothing but a dirty loincloth, the poor creature looked more like an emaciated, aged human than an elf. Shoulders hunched inwards, muscles quivering in terror, and eye sockets empty with blood smeared down gaunt cheeks, those were the first things Gwindor noted. In his heart, rage was kindled on behalf of his kin; to see anyone brought so low as such made his stomach clench and his blood boil with need to rend and tear!
Where he stood out-looking from the fortress, Gwindor leaned over the edge, his palms scraping painfully upon stone as he clutched the topmost ledge of the outer wall.
They dragged the thrall by his shackles--his wrists were weeping scarlet at the sharpened cuffs and his throat was bruised from maltreatment--and threw him forward like a child's doll. The stranger tumbled down as a limp thing, crying at the impact with jagged rock that sliced open elbows and knees without mercy.
A hand curled sharply in mane that might once have been pale and glossy, beautiful and full with health, but was now shorn, thin and dirty, the wispy white of an old man's hair. Backwards it pulled the thrall's head, wrenching a half-formed scream from the blinded, terrified captive, bearing that visage to the pale-faced elves gazing out over the wall in horrified shock--Gwindor amongst them, shaking and feeling ill to his core.
"Take a good look," the filthy creature of darkness snarled up at them, face twisted into a parody of a grin, twisted and contorted as though it had been melted by blazing heat and left deformed. It roughly shook its clenched fist, rattling the confused thrall, who whimpered pathetically in pain and fear. "Take a look at your kinsman, elves of Nargothrond!"
Nargothrond? But I do not recognize...
Gwindor's throat swelled shut, his eyes widening until whites blazed about hazel irises. He looked. He looked.
And saw.
Saw familiar grins as phantom shadows in the falling light of day. Felt powerful hands clutch at his forearms in greeting. Remembered cheerful kisses pressed to his cheeks and a broad hand ruffling his hair from above. Recalled the comforting scent of home, warm, freshly baked bread and the metallic tang of weaponry.
In that face, he beheld a mask, overlapping the monstrous, gaunt, tormented creature kneeling and shaking before their inspection with familiarity so incisive it seemed as shards of glass unto Gwindor's throbbing heart.
"Gelmir..." His voice cracked sharply.
Sightless though he was, the thrall jerked as though he had heard the call upon the wind, as though he had been struck by a barbed whip of lightning.
His brother. Oh Valar, his beloved brother, his beloved dead older brother... Dead, he was supposed to be dead! His suffering was supposed to be over!
And panic. Writhing downwards into his limbs, whipping his heartbeat into a frenzied gallop. But his legs were inlaid to the stone. For the life of him--for the life of his brother, Eru forgive him!--he could not move. Could not breathe. Could not think.
Impotent with horror, he could only watch.
"We have many more such at home," the orc told them, and the others laughed amongst themselves, their gestures too obscene for Gwindor to dare comprehend. "But you must make haste if you would find them," the enemy continued, "For we shall deal with them all when we return even so..."
A blade was unsheathed. Gwindor shook at the ringing vibrations cutting the air. Gelmir below him keened low in his throat, struggling weakly, knowing intuitively the fate that was crouching in the darkness, ready to leap upon his helpless form.
Equally powerless the brothers stood. But rather than cleaving off the thrall's head, the servant of Morgoth did much worse. Grasping the manacles arms, it pulled them taut and outstretched before the elf, pressed with breaking force to stone, and raised its blade overhead. With a sickening crunch, it came down and buried into rock, serrated edges fileting clean through muscle and bone, removing both arms above the elbow in one fell stroke.
He imagined Gelmir screamed, but Gwindor could hear naught above the ringing in his ears as he watched blood spurt forth in a tide, its copper scent so strong that it hit him as a cliff's face. His knees weakened beneath him.
And then it moved to a leg, forcing the bony limb out at an angle bent wrong and had it pinned in place so that it might be plucked as the leg of a bug. Bile hit the back of Gwindor's throat as the shrill shrieking in the air; others beside him covered their ears or wept bitterly, knowing they could only sit and watch and wait for their king's word...
But then it mercilessly hewed off the last limb above the knee, and the thrall squirmed and thrashed as a beast wracked with torment, pleading in garbled tongue as his lifeblood leaked out and out and out as a river down between sharp stones, as he was unable to move, to flee, to fight, to do anything but lie before his tormentor and wait for the end to come. The orc pressed a foot onto the elf's bowed back and shoved him down into stone so he writhed as a speared fish on land for the amusement and jeering of the enemy's troops.
With a grin that belonged on the wicked visage of Morgoth himself, the orc finally dealt the last blow, cleaving head from shoulders. Gray encroached upon Gwindor's vision; his head went light and fuzzy, his world spinning.
His brother was supposed to be...
Many more at home...
Dead, dead, dead, dead...
Blood leaking over stone, dripping, its thick scent swallowing him in a blanket of death.
And Gwindor felt rage swirl into the jittery lightness of his suddenly freed arms and legs. Hot and uncontrollable fury and terror flooding through him for every ounce of crimson spilled before his eyes. Acid burning his lungs out of oxygen, needles stabbing poison into his heart, claws twisting his ribs and ripping his organs. He knew he screamed, knew obscenities burst from his lips, felt hands holding him back as he raged and raged and wept and wept...
He had stood by and watched his brother die. Never had he felt so helpless, so useless and wretched and traitorous...
We shall deal with them when we return even so...
More comrades captured? More elven thralls enslaved and tortured and blinded? More frightened souls lying beneath their tormentors to be raped and pillaged and murdered for sport?
Gwindor had been powerless, but he would be powerless no more!
"Wait, my lord! The King said--"
"Fuck the King and his orders!" the impassioned Lord of Nargothrond cried, throwing aside all who dared step in his way. "All of like mind, make ready. I will not see those demons live to breathe another sunrise!"
He would ride out. And he would make them sorry.
He would give them a taste of their own medicine. And when he watched them writhe on the ground, pinned beneath his spear, watched them slowly succumb to the leaking acid of their stomach or the sluggish bleeding of their intestines into the black earth, he would laugh as one possessed and revel in bringing his enemy low. Perhaps he would even gauge out their eyes and watch the black blood smear down their cheeks.
Perhaps then the guilt rising as a tight knot in the back of his throat would unravel. Perhaps, then, he would not hate himself for standing aside and doing nothing.
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Until about an hour ago I had no idea what I was even going to write for this prompt. And then I was thinking and thinking and somehow Gwindor popped into my mind as I was mentally checking off elves in Nargothrond. And then I was thinking about Gwindor some more and someone arrived at the Fifth Battle and poor Gelmir. Thus, this was created.
Written to the song Jane's Lament by Kim Planert (from Castle), which I accidently found (as I do most of my songs) whilst sifting through YouTube videos this evening. It's absolutely gorgeous and I just had to use it. Besides, it reminds me of stillness in time with only your heartbeat ringing in your ears, and I thusly found it appropriate for this prompt. That, and it's just awesome, and I am a proponent of awesome music.
Also, I have artwork for this prompt. I should say that it is a little bloody and might be a tad disturbing if you aren't into hewn limbs. But it's amazing nonetheless, and I care not about gore so long as its artistry is up to scratch: Gelmir's death by ~Righon on dA.
Cheers.
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