IMPORTANT NOTE: If anyone actually reads this daily, this is for you. I will be on vacation for the next two weeks. I will still be writing a story everyday. However, if no story appears on any given day, it means that I have no access to a decent internet connection and thus did not have the opportunity to post. Just thought I'd let you all know. I will be repeating this message at the beginning of every story for a while, so if you've just read it, you can skip it wherever else it shows up. If you don't care, skip anyway.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: Amrod x Thranduil
Characters: Amrod, Thranduil, Maglor, Maedhros, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, random Doriath elves (mentions Amras, Arien, Alqualondë elves and Nerdanel)
Warning: extremely AU, non-con, mass murder, lots and lots of blood, mental breakdowns, insanity, PTSD, (possibly) accidental filicide, possible coercion
Song: Anthem of the Angels
Words: 1,603
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overflow (verb): to cover with or as if with water; inundate; to flow over the brim of; to flow over bounds
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/overflow
They marched on Menegroth in the morning with Arien glaring down upon their backs.
And Ambarussa was terrified.
He could not claim or pretend to understand why Nelyafinwë was so steadfastly, fanatically committed to this assault. Could not understand why Turkafinwë licked his lips in anticipation of delight at the thought of spilling innocent blood. Could not understand why Morifinwë looked so horribly relieved. Not when all he could think about was before.
Hardly more than a child had he and his twin been when the Noldor had ravaged Alqualondë. When he had been blooded with the deaths of elven kin. His first kill had lain limply in a crimson puddle, unmoving and pale, and he had been unable to do more than stare. "I am proud of you," his father had said, but Ambarussa just felt disgusted with himself.
He remembered being sickened to the core. Remembered seeing the horrifying glow of his twin's eyes as they filled with the urge to flee, to betray, to return home to their mother's soothing embrace and days of ignorance in bliss. Remembered lying down to sleep on the far shores with whimpers and sobs ringing in his ears and awakening to screams and flames in the night.
No good came of such endeavors.
And he was sick. Sick of war and sick of destruction and sick of violence. Too many times had his blade seen and brought death down upon the heads of his foes--evil and innocent alike--and with each stroke it destroyed a bit more of its wielder. Left the nauseating feeling in Ambarussa's gut more unbearable and the clenching of his lungs more suffocating.
Yet here he was, following Nelyafinwë into battle. Into slaughter. Without hesitation or defiance.
And it was all he could do not to turn tail and run like a coward. Because no matter how much his older brothers wanted the Silmaril back in their possession, it meant nothing to Ambarussa. It didn't mean more than their ideals and it didn't mean more than their lives. It was a worthless rock that did nothing but get people killed everywhere it went. Like a curse disguised in great beauty and purity but tainted by the touch of shadow.
He just wanted to go home and leave these people in peace.
But he would not. Not with Turkafinwë's calculating gaze settled between his shoulders and Nelyafinwë's tall form leading the way. He was trapped between them, two walls of iron will and determination to carry out this atrocity.
"Are you prepared?" Nelyafinwë asked him.
He lied and replied "yes".
When they plunged inside and first blood was drawn, Ambarussa gagged. Before him, Nelyafinwë killed without hesitation, but swiftly and with as little effort as possible. A quick decapitation. A slit throat. A stab to the heart. But Turkafinwë took his time, Curufinwë at his side, nicking opponents until they stumbled and fell to the floor like animals, crawling through their blood and the blood of their families to escape their tormentors. And there was laughter from the silver-haired demon that had possessed the man Ambarussa had once loved, mirrored by the sadistic amusement in the eyes of the dark-haired man Ambarussa had once finger-painted with in their father's study.
It was all wrong. So wrong. Yet when an enemy stepped before him, blade raised in assault, Ambarussa did not even blink. He simply cut the man down. And the woman and child he protected.
Red, red, red, everywhere he looked, overflowing with fear. Inside and out. And black at the corners of his vision. Screams became muted, ringing as distant bells heralding doom and misfortune. Until even that faded, and there was naught but sensation and a blur of color.
Until he couldn't even have remembered his own name. Until he remembered nothing at all.
Reflex and instinct. And numbness. And blackness.
And relief.
---
He couldn't have said how much time passed. Only that he blinked and before him there was no longer a flood of screaming and fleeing people with terrified eyes scrambling over prone, mutilated bodies. Beneath his knees there was cushioning softness and his body hummed with bubbling warmth instead of the cold, dull ache he associated with the after-battle fatigue.
Groaning, he pushed himself upwards on trembling arms, found his clothing rumpled and his hair in disarray. Blinking, he beheld at first only white and stone--the wall and sheets... on a bed...
And bare skin. Bare skin streaked in blood. Red instead of black. And he remembered.
And he stared. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he looked into the most beautiful face he had ever seen, eyes of chipped turquoise and hair woven from the most delicate silk, spread across the bed in waves. A creature to be worshipped. A phantom lingering in daydreams come to life and flesh.
But the body wasn't moving.
As his vision blurred and his body shot backwards, hitting the floor hard and leaving behind heavy, deep bruises, it didn't even twitch. It was dead. Dead. Splayed wide open, ravished and dead. A corpse. Painted like a grotesque work of artwork on a formerly pristine sheet of paper.
And Ambarussa knew--even though he could not remember the screams or the fighting or the horrendous actions afterwards--knew that he was the artist. His hands, which had been tangled in that veil of shimmering hair, were also sticky with drying blood. It was everywhere. On his skin and his clothes and in his hair.
He couldn't look anymore. The cold wall bit at his shoulders as he rocked. His hands covered his eyes, but could not chase away the image of that pretty young elf still as stone.
What have I-- What have I done?
Horror and illness building and building, and he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe.
Couldn't do anything but retch until his stomach ached and his throat burned and his eyes blurred with tears against his palms. In the distance, he could still hear the screams, the cries and pleas for mercy that he had wanted so much to vanish. The shrieks of death throes brought by blade or arrow or perhaps something worse. And he wondered what Nelyafinwë would think if he saw this. If he would be proud.
Wondered if it made him a weak-willed child that he looked at what his hands had wrought and hadn't the strength to pull himself upwards. Hadn't the strength to do any more than weep and wish he had never departed his mother's bosom. Like a child. Like a coward.
"Pityo?"
The call was far away at first. Distant and echoing on stone. He did not even turn to look. Not even when Kanafinwë appeared before him, face streaked with blood and eyes wide with despair. Cold hands clasped his trembling digits, holding his hands away from his face. Exposing him to the light and the shame and the crushing guilt flecked with falling rubies. It took too long for him to register pain. To register the bloody trenches cut deep into his cheeks and brows and the corresponding red buried deep beneath his own fingernails.
"Pityo. Pityo, look at me." He did, but he wasn't seeing. There was a streak of red on his brother's cheek, dripping down to his throat. So very red. "Pityo!"
Overflowing red everywhere. On white skin. In silvered hair. Pooling between soft thighs. All over his hands and all over his naked skin. On his sword and beneath his nails and soaked through his boots. Rivers and rivers with nowhere to go, washing over him in a hot wave of rotten iron stench. The odor of death and sin.
And the terror was still there, no longer held back by the blackness. Kanafinwë pulled him upwards but his legs refused to work, his muscles as inconsistent as water. His eyes refused to open to see and his hands covered his ears so he needn't hear.
It didn't matter that his brother blocked the red-on-white canvas with his body. It didn't matter that he held forth his hands as a flimsy shield against reality. He could still see it. Would never be rid of it.
Long since had his childhood innocence been destroyed. But this had taken away the rest. No solace could there be in life or in death for someone--something--like him. Dead upon the floors and dead upon the stairs and dead upon soft white beds with pale faces twisted in terror and agony. And rivers and rivers of blood and pain.
And he couldn't do it anymore. The tidal wave went over his head and he was drowning.
And the turquoise eyes that he saw his dreams--that kept him afloat in the fearful darkness of hopeless war and beneath his brother's insane gaze promising suffering--were now dull and lifeless. By his hands. By his failure and his wickedness.
"Please, Pityo, speak to me..."
But his mouth would not work. His lips would not part. And no words came to his mind that could explain or could comfort or could rationalize. Just the same images again and again. And the touch of death creeping as a stalker at his heels. But he hadn't the strength to care. Hadn't the strength to stand up and fight.
He hadn't even the strength to weep. Just sank further and further beneath the glowing crimson surface, watching the light overhead slowly going out.
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I actually had trouble writing this. I'm never sure how much detail to go into. It seems cheap if it's too gory and shit. Anyway, I needed to write this from Amrod's POV (sans the actual deed) because I don't actually see him as the type to just randomly rape someone for fun or enjoyment. Celegorm, I can see murdering for shits and giggles, but even he wouldn't go around raping anyone. I, admittedly, haven't done enough character development for Amrod, but he has always come across to me as the self-sacrificing, slightly more responsible older twin to his younger, less responsible, free-spirited younger brother.
This will probably not be the end of Amrod's story. But this is sort of almost the beginning of his arc, if you get my drift. And, for the most part, I am satisfied with it.
Was written to Anthem of the Angels by Breaking Benjamin. My sister was playing songs on her iPod using my stereo system and BAM! this comes on and I was like "This is the song I am writing my story to today". She gave me a really funny look, that little brat. Nonetheless, I thought the desolation seemed through. I didn't want anything to heavy or too fast-paced, nor did I want something too weepy. It needed a hard edge and a ballad-like sadness, and this hit the spot.
Thus this story came into existence. Enjoy.
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