Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or the Lord of the Rings
Pairings: none
Characters: Gil-Galad, Maedhros (mentions nameless elves, Sáriel (OFC) and Fingon)
Warning: canon compliant AU, OFC mentioned, war, torture, mutilation and such all implied, idolization, slight hints of precognition
Song: The Awakening
Words: 1,161
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
emulate (verb): to strive to equal or excel; to equal or approach equality with
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/emulate?show=0&t=1374082818
Only once had Ereinion ever actually seen his father's best friend and brother in all but blood. Despite being an extremely young child at the time, he still remembered it with the utmost clarity and awe. Still recalled how overcome with that idolized image he had been all his life.
His first sight of Nelyafinwë Fëanárion would be forever imprinted upon his mind.
The very young prince had been searching for his father on that day--his father who had conveniently vanished from his offices, probably in an attempt to escape the drowning tide of paperwork and meetings required of the king. And, of course, the grumbling councilors hadn't told him anything in their mad dash to recover their sovereign, and his mother was busy and didn't seem concerned by the disappearance, so it had been left to the very young prince to track down his wayward sire.
When he finally found the king, it was upon the practice field. And, blade-to-blade with his father had been the tallest man little Ereinion had ever seen.
Hair that blazed with a golden veil in the light of Arien was left loose, its flaming curls reaching out as red-hot brands towards the enemy, catching all eyes. Still, Ereinion could recall the clang and hiss of swords meeting and grinding between the two experienced warriors when they clashed. Could recall the wide grin on his father's face as sparks rained down about their spinning forms.
But more than anything, he had noticed the opponent with the red hair--noticed how he breathed and moved.
It wasn't as if the prince, young as he had been, had never seen sparring before. Many times, he had watched his father honing his battle skills against the guards and the sentries, crossing many blades in the late afternoon heat with a wild laugh upon his lips.
Never had he seen anyone move the way Nelyafinwë moved. Not even the most experienced captains and generals. Not even his own father.
Perfect poise resonated through the long-limbed form. Each twist and turn and dart was perfectly executed to even and deep breaths, perfectly under control without wasting energy or movement. Beyond that, though, it had been beautiful to watch how muscles flexed beneath a thin tunic, how incredibly stable and balanced every inch seemed. And it was more graceful than any of the courtly dancing Ereinion witnessed at the balls and dinners his parents forced him to attend where men swirled around women in smothering skirts in large and dizzying circles.
This was streamlined and elegant without flamboyant spins and overdramatic flourishes. Even a child could recognize the mastery with which the redheaded man wielded a sword--left-handed. Taking heavy blows weighed down with the strength of two arms and not even flinching or trembling in fatigue.
Ereinion had been entranced.
But it was more so than that. Even after the fight had ended and the opponents laughed and embraced as old friends, it was seeing the eyes of the audience and how they followed the man as he crossed the field in broad strides, brushing his wild hair away from his face. It was the respect and admiration that seemed to trail after him. Wide gazes filled with wonder and appreciation even through the intimidation any warrior would feel at witnessing such prowess in the art of killing.
Even hundreds--thousands--of years later, Ereinion still remembered how those awed gazes would follow that tall, lithe form across that field. How they idolized the man for his masterful skill despite the poor reputation of the Fëanárioni.
And young Ereinion had been amongst the many soldiers--young greenhorns and experienced veterans--who strived to emulate that liquid perfection of the dance of death in those old days of war and strife tearing the land apart.
It was that single, engrained image which urged him to scratch and claw his way up the ranks even when he was a beginner with a clumsy sword arm and floundering muscles that could barely heft the weight of his blade. It was those even breaths perfectly matched to sharp, aerodynamic strikes that held him still when he meditated for hours upon hours to hone concentration and soothe his body into relaxation. It was that movement of muscle and bone and flesh melded as one with a sword which prompted endless days spent sweating beneath the hot sun, repeating and repeating and repeating steps and rhythms and forms beneath the eyes of his teachers.
It was that one image that drove him forward, and Ereinion laughed to himself when he thought of what others might say if they knew the truth.
For he--the High King of all the Noldor--was now the adored man who was followed by awed and respectful gazes whenever he cleared the field of battle in an unforgettable dance of man and spear or sparred in the late afternoon sun with his comrades until he was layered in sweat. It was he who--as they watched him breathe and twirl Aeglos with exact, minimalized grace and perfect balance of partnership--those young and inexperienced soldiers looked up to in wonder. His elegance that they emulated so religiously.
And he couldn't help his wondering with innate curiosity--if he would be so idolized had these men and women known that it was a Fëanárion whose image was the unattainable goal toward which their leader strived.
But then he would shake his head and chortle--and remind himself that Nelyafinwë Fëanárion might be a cold-blooded murderer, but he would always be hailed one of the most prolific warriors and generals to ever grace the face of Arda. His skills were earned through sweat and blood and hours upon hours of picking himself back up off the ground. After all, he had been dragged from the very depths of hell on earth, nearly dead and openly mutilated, and still never surrendered. Never gave in. Never gave up.
Few could Ereinion recall throughout all of history who had faced such atrocity and could have withstood such trial and obstacles, still reaching greatness and mastery at the end of their journey.
And that was an example in which the High King thought there could be no shame in emulating. It was quite worthy of such honor and dedication.
No, it was not an image Ereinion would ever forget. He would carry it to the end of his days, and he could only hope that he lived up to the same standards as his predecessor. Could only hope that, one day, it was his prowess sung into history and his image that spurred even one young, yet nameless warrior into the vestiges of legend.
Were that a reality, he thought he could face the end without fear and die happily on the field of battle, as he always knew was his fate.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This prompt gave me a headache. Originally I wasn't actually planning to write this about Gil. He's a character that I've barely touched on at all the entire time I've been writing these prompts because I've never been that interested in him, but I thought I would try something new. I had planned to write this from either Elrond or Elros' POVs about either Maedhros or Maglor, but then I changed my mind when I couldn't decide and it worked out fine in the end.
Yay for characterization! Gil-Galad is no longer a completely two-dimensional character. And forgive his little bit of arrogance here and there. We all have those moments, so you can't really sue the characters for honesty in portraying their perception of themselves. I actually find such little quirks to be fascinating.
Today's song is The Awakening by Chris Haigh. It starts out a little soft but nice and clear--I, however, really appreciate the climax of this song. I don't know why, but it just pleases me to no end, so I chose it for this prompt simply for that reason. It's just so pretty. (And yes, it's the part with all that piano in it--I can't help my own vices.) Halfway through today I found my song for Friday, though, so I've been very distracted, which is why this took so long to finish. I can't very well write it to a song reserved for two days from now, can I?
Happy reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment