Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion or The Unfinished Tales
Pairings: none
Characters: Ilession (OMC), Valthoron (OMC), Oropher (mentions Gil-Galad, Erestor, Fëanor and Sauron)
Warning: non-canon compliant AU, OMC-oriented, major character death, references (very vague) to torture, semi-graphic violence and bloodshed, PTSD, espionage
Song: Take Me Away
Words: 2,008
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aloof (adjective): removed or distant either physically or emotionally
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/aloof?show=0&t=1376269294
Fighting on the front lines had never been one of Ilession's favorite chores. Before or after he had become a servant of the Dark Lord.
Well he remembered the days of old in the First Age, but those days he had been slaying orcs and demons only. Splattering their black blood across the earth until they feared to step within range of his long sword and savage fists, knowing that he would neither hesitate nor flinch at the idea of dismemberment or disembowelment. That he would rend them apart with the same vicious fire and hunger that they tore apart their own prey. Ilession had never been queasy, and he had never been particularly merciful either.
But it was not the same. Under the Dark Lord, it was not orcs that he slayed as he ravaged the field of battle, slaughtering all in his path, but elves. His kith and kin, bright-eyed, fierce and full of brilliant life, fighting back against the tyrant trying to crush their world beneath his heel with admirable courage.
Here, Ilession could not afford mercy. No matter how much it hurt (buried very deep down, so deep that he barely felt the twinge each time his blade struck down friend rather than foe), no matter how much the guilt burned (only when he was alone and well away from iridescent, dangerous eyes full of condemnation and sadistic glee), no matter how much he regretted (and those who believed he never did were fools full of their own ignorance), he simply could not allow those flimsy weaknesses to distract him from his goal.
Because if he was caught saving an enemy, he was as good as dead. And his job was to stay alive and keep intact the flow of vital information to the High King's armies. Such as the information advising Ereinion to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike this advancing force rather than leaping forward early on to be cornered, cut off and picked off bit by bit..
Why the elven kin had struck so soon, he did not understand. Ereinion would not have been so cruel as to send them to their deaths, no matter how convenient of a distraction their failed, hopeless onslaught might provide, no matter how much the dark past of the Sindar and Noldor sat heavy between their peoples, and therefore Ilession balked at believing it was intentional. Still, it left few options for his forces but to march forth and rend them apart without hesitation.
No mercy or kindness. These warriors were, until he departed the field of battle, his enemy.
He had to remain aloof. Detached. Had to remember that they were of no importance, no matter their rank or race or kinship. If he crossed the path of the king, he would kill even Ereinion to keep safe his secret and, hopefully, give his allies a way to defeat this nauseating Dark Lord and his pure, flawless adamantine cruelty.
It was difficult. He would not lie and say he felt no regret. But now was not the time.
He swept forth instead, a tourbillion of malice and ferocity, burning through the near-helpless, poorly-armored woodland folk without even trying, felling left and right with frightening ease. Why were these warriors, many of them never having experienced the full-out chaos of true battle and frozen in a shock of horror and primal fear, even here? Why would their ruler bring them here to be slaughtered?
But then, while Oropher might be a skilled leader, he was also a prideful man and king. And pride was the first stepping stone paving the path to utter ruin.
Still, it was wasteful and disappointing to see the wideness of glazed, terrified eyes just before he cut down their bodies and watched those little lights go out. Watched them fall limp at his feet and bleed an ocean of red to combat the thick layer of black and innards already crusting the rocky slopes. It was a shame. They had not stood a trifling chance.
Even the most skilled of warriors would have difficulty defeating an experienced Fëanorion, an elf who had spent his entire life indulging in the rush and peril of true battle and the glory of the kill.
Even Oropher would have difficulty.
And, when Ilession finally found the king amongst his most skilled and courageous warriors, he did not doubt the identity of this vision. The fierce blue eyes and the stubborn set of the jaw. The pure fearlessness of a warrior who had seen battle many times and let himself flow into instinct, body flexing with swift and deadly grace. It was pure luck that the king was turned the other way, that he did not even see the dark phantom falling down upon him until it was too late to counter.
Until Ilession's sword was buried deep into the shoulder, easily cracking bone and slicing through veins, spilling and spilling and spilling forth blood until the proud ruler crumpled. Standing over the fallen body of his foe, he watched as the king struggled for breath, one hand falling limp from trauma of the pain and cut nerves and the other releasing its knife to clamp over the wound, to attempt to stifle the flow of life-giving scarlet.
To no avail. Impassively, Ilession observed the struggling ruler. Knew he could not merely leave the king alive. Knew that he needed to see the ceasing of that jerking body and the darkening of still bright and defiant eyes.
He raised his sword at the ready.
And was attacked. By nothing more than a child with the fiercest vibrant red curls and wide, glistening blue eyes. Oropher's eyes. And Fëanor's fire.
So shocking was the sight that he almost hesitated. Had those eyes been gray or green rather than blue, he thought he might have been looking upon one of his uncles in their youth, untried and barely blooded on the battlefield for the very first time. There was the cleft of the chin and the sleek, sharp bone structure half-hidden beneath tangled and dirtied hair. And then there was the fire, the burning fury and wildness inherent in all of his grandsire's blood.
This boy did not even look like a sinda. He looked every inch a noldo. Kin.
And he was weeping. Weeping and terrified and fighting on pure instinct, his lack of experience all too blatant. Perhaps it was the eyes--they were the wrong color, but by the Valar! how they did remind him of his younger brother!--that brought about the whimsical fancy, the all-too-personal weakness, but he did not slash apart the young elf as he so easily might have, instead throwing him down into the mud. Crushing the sword arm beneath his heel until the bones shattered. Watching as the little one choked on a scream, shocked and hazy eyes darting around as a terrified prey animal searching for the predator stalking at its back.
So very young. So very innocent and naïve in that endearing and heartrending manner that invoked only the instinct to protect. To save.
"Stay down," he snarled. It was against the rules. It was too close. But he did not want to have the memory of silencing those pleading sobs. Of watching the light leave those eyes. And thinking of Erestor beneath another merciless foe's sword, crying and shivering and falling still in death.
Of the nightmares that would follow.
Of Erestor and his pretty face shining with tears, streaking through the layers of grime and gore as he looked up at Ilession's blank and unforgiving features wrought of iron and stone. Of Erestor pinned down like a bug beneath his firm foot, crying and squirming instinctually, fighting the incoming death. Of Erestor's lyrical voice rising in terror, breaking as he lifted his sword and brought it down to release a fountain of the blood of kin upon the land...
He could not kill that inexperienced child.
But it was still foolish to turn his back on even said inexperienced child, to attempt to ignore the young warrior. He should have known that the fire would burn hot, writhing under the skin, for the same flame ate away at his insides and surged through his veins. The same determination and stubbornness and pride.
The same visceral fury that brought the young warrior, armed only with his left side knife, back to shaking legs, still streaked in mud and unidentifiable filth. Screaming and crying all at once as he threw himself into hopeless battle. This time, Ilession did not hesitate.
Did not even blink as he smashed the hilt of his sword into the boy's head--thankfully not hard enough to shatter bone and spill brains--and sent the child back down to the earth, limp and trembling. Dazed and most probably concussed. Ilession needed only look down for a moment at that shivering, mud-slicked form to know that the redheaded spirit of fire was not getting back up without help.
"I told you to stay down," he snarled, voice low and venomous. For he could not pretend to kill the foolish martyr a third time should the boy still attempt to rise. Even his supposed allies--the filthy, monstrous and stupid orcs under his command--were not so dense as to believe in luck and coincidence over treason of the elven-kind.
"Please, no..." In his peripheral, he heard the whimpered plea. Ignored it.
Shoving aside all concern--all brotherly instinct and remorse--from his mind, he turned back to his prey. To the king whose light was fading fast, whose fingers could not staunch the heavy flow of blood joining all the other thousands of gallons in sacrilegious sacrifice.
To the blue eyes that stared upwards into the shadows of his helm. Eyes that, while they were dark with ash and pain, still seemed to pale in realization. In knowledge. And disgusting gratitude.
Oropher knew that he was going to die beneath the shadow's blade. But he also knew that Ilession had been unable to uphold his façade of aloof cruelty. Had not been able to kill the young warrior--the prince. For that alone, the king needed to die.
Without so much as a twitch or a frown, Ilession pressed his heel down on the pale, fragile throat of his prey and threw down his weight, watching the form bend grotesquely. The crack of a broken neck echoed in his ears. When he pulled away his foot, there was beneath him the pale sinda and his twisted body, head and neck turned at an impossible, sickening angle. Dead and still.
And the child was still crying. Still mouthing "no" over and over and shaking his head and trying to move to help his already vanquished kin. But he managed only to shudder and twitch even with all the strength that remained and all the heat that flourished.
Had he been able, Ilession would have felt sorry for the boy. Would have tried to comfort the distraught child who had just watched his family die. For he knew the pain of sundering and death--of watching those you cared about fall. But Ilession could not afford any more weakness this day. Could not afford to let himself become even more attached for the boy who looked like close kin but could only have been a dangerous fluke. Could not afford the association between sniveling little un-blooded and sobbing Sindarin children and his own sweet and kind-hearted baby brother.
He needed to be aloof and cold. He was a warrior and a traitor and a kinslayer. A torturer and a murderer. And, until the day his master was lying in ruins and fading away into dusk, that was all he ever would be.
When he walked away to the symphony of heartbroken cries ringing shrilly in his ears, he did not dare turn around and glance at the boy. He did not dare to look back.
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Forgive me, dear readers. I could not help myself. It had to be done. I have fallen in love with all of my original characters. Besides, I've had this meeting in my head for ages. For some reason it's just really tempting to make these two cross paths without even realizing who the other is. Call it dramatic irony if thou wilt!
I really need to write something nice about both Valthoron and Ilession sometime. All of their pieces are so tragic and angsty. They need some love. Maybe something cute from childhood? Well, in any case, there you have it--the end of Oropher. Completely canon, mind you. Of course, I can't say much about the truth of the spying, but Gil-Galad would have had a reason he did not want to rush to attack immediately, so it was a convenient plot point to take advantage of.
The song for today is Take Me Away performed by Globus. The first time I heard this song, I absolutely hated it. But it grew on me. A lot. And even if the lyrics don't make sense (you can barely tell what they're saying in some places, but oh well--though, personally, I think some of the lyrics do make sense in a sad sort of way), I still liked the song and the atmosphere and the epic awesomeness, so there you have it. Enjoy! <3
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