Crash

Mellow Soulmate AU.  Of the realization and death of Amrod Fëanorion.  Quenya names used (Amrod = Ambarussa, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë).  This is a continuation of the series starting with "Overflow" and continuing on through "Reverie" and "Clarity", ending with this piece.  It is, of course, related to "Cheat" and "Remorseful" amongst others.  Basically the last of the death scenes for the Fëanorions (excluding Fëanor himself).  Takes place in the Havens of Sirion, F.A. 538, during the Third Kinslaying.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: past non-con Amrod x Thranduil

Characters: Amrod, unknown elves (mentions Maedhros, Maglor, Amras, Fëanor and Thranduil)

Warning: non-canon compliant AU, past non-con implied, canon character death, death scene (semi-explicit), mentions blood, violence and murder, possibly insanity and/or delusions, denial

Song: Louder Than Thunder

Words: 1,380
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crash (verb): to break or go to pieces with or as if with violence and noise; to fall, land, or hit with destructive force; to decline suddenly and steeply
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/crash

There was the dream.  And then there was the world.

And between them, Ambarussa knew which one he preferred.  For who would prefer a world where all of their hopes and dreams were crushed, where their future was decimated and where their family plunged headfirst into a downwards spiral of chaos, hate and ill fortune?

It was not exactly a difficult choice.

Part of him had, for the many years of unstable peace, shoved aside all thoughts pertaining to the destruction of all that he cared about and all that he lived for.  Thoughts that led down a path he did not wish to follow and memories he did not wish to unlock for their bitter truth.  Only when his mind was clear of that shadow could he open his eyes and pretend nothing was wrong.

But it had always been there.  Lurking in his peripheral.  That red haze of horror.  Of knowing.

Day by day, the glass window he kept between himself and the world became thinner, grew more transparent.  The moments of stunning and terrible clarity grew stronger and increased in frequency.  Truly, Ambarussa now new exactly what was happening around him nowadays and merely chose to turn his back and ignore the signs.

It was all a matter of choice now.  And cowardice.

Of pretending that nothing was wrong.

Yet he had known from the very beginning--from the moment he had turned his head away from his One and driven the image of that splayed, bloodied form from his mind--that it would not last.  No matter how much he wished otherwise and no matter how much he feared and no matter how much he begged and pleaded silently with a Power far greater than his own, he knew that the delusional dream that served as a thick comforter and cushion protecting his mind--as a shield sturdier than diamond and sharper than a blade--were not real.

His brothers still thought he was hallucinating constantly.  Still thought his mind was broken beyond repair.  And perhaps it was.  But not so much anymore than he did not realize what was taking place around him.  Not so much that he could not hear their raised voices or see their stricken, darkened eyes.  Not so much that he could stay in his complete and utter denial, languishing in blissful ignorance.

Slowly, perception was coming back.  He simply chose to ignore its insistent call in the corner of his head, a nagging little voice that screamed for him to turn his head and look.

He had heard news of the Silmaril in the Havens of Sirion.  He had heard his brothers arguing over an Oath forsworn in his name.  He had heard the planning and the yelling and the crying.

He had heard Nelyafinwë make up his mind and snarl Kanafinwë into silence.

Part of him knew where they were going.  Knew what their purpose was.  Knew that that nightmare from which he so desperately fled was once again encroaching.  But until he stood on the field of battle itself, he could not have remembered for the sake of his own life where it was to which they marched across barren, scorched ruins of a once plentiful land and for what purpose.

Until he looked out over the havens, draped as they were in dollops of sweet sunshine, looking so innocuously peaceful, and thought back to the vivid words in his oldest brother's uncompromising, hoarse voice.  From a distance the white houses and streets looked pearlescent, set in a crown of writhing waves wreathed in light, the people naught but ants scattered across the landscape below.  Yet even from afar he could hear the screams.

Could smell the blood.  And see the red.

And if his feet carried him forward, Ambarussa could never have said, not even later when his existence was pieced back together.  Not even when he had come to accept what his mind now could not even begin to fathom.  One moment he had been at camp, left behind by his worried and paranoid older siblings, and the next he had found himself traversing below, sword-less and shield-less, blind-eyed and quiet-minded.  Holding his breath with the feeling of inertia.  With the feeling of the fall from the heavens.

The first sight of the bodies was enough.  Enough to send him spinning violently through that fragile glass of denial, spilling him out into the cruel world unprotected and disoriented.

Remembering.  For every broken form upon the ground, draped in bloodstained flaxen hair and adorned with sightless gems for eyes, he saw another in their place.  Felt his gut churn with heat and nausea until it seemed his organs tried to crawl up out of his throat and abandon his shipwrecked, quaking mortal cage.  Felt his eyes widen and sting with the tears that he had never allowed to fall, their gaze enraptured at the carnage and gore.

He had not come to fight.  Only to see.  Only to break his reverie.

Only to crash back to earth.  And shatter.

And shattered it had, that dream.  Into a million inconceivably tiny pieces.  Even had he swept them all up and gathered them into a pile--like the jigsaw puzzles he remembered from his childhood--it would have taken millennia to piece them all back into one, and still they would be cracked and splintered.

It was just too much.  All the blood and death and fear.  All the disappointment.

Standing there, he knew that this world could never be fixed or redeemed.  The image of his One lying dead would never vanish.  The memories of his father's remorseless, empty eyes would not cease to pierce.  And all the lives he had speared upon the end of his sword and spear would never be revived.  Home was behind, the burnt bridge collapsed.  Damnation lay ahead, a mere stepping stone forward and he would fall and fall and fall.

The world was real.  The dream was fantasy.

And he could pretend no longer.

Did not have the right to such selfishness.

Sickened, he imagined he would have fled back to the safety of camp had any sense been left in his brain.  But Ambarussa could not move from where he stood on the fringe of battle, unprotected and shaking.  Could not run away, for his muscles pulled taut and his spirit vibrated in expectation.

He did not see the blow that sent him down, and for that he was glad.  The redhead felt only pain, piercing deeply into his side, and then into his spine, and then his chest.  It was as though his legs ceased to exist, uprooting his balance until he tipped into the grass.  He landed with a thud, clenching his teeth and relishing the pain, pain, pain ravaging his body into convulsions.  Blood bubbled up his throat, filling his mouth and choking back the cry that wished to escape his lungs at the agony.

Blinked his hazy eyes until one of the many bodies came into view.  A face splashed in blood, made unrecognizable, pale hair spread as a halo in the scarlet grass.  And it was all he could do to see again his greatest sin.  All he could do to stare wide-eyed, unable to focus enough to see if... if...

If they looked the same.  Maybe it was just the shade of the hair.

But he would have liked to know if the stranger had blue eyes.

And even as his body went limp, his attacker struck again with the vicious precision of a snake.  And this time, they did not miss the vital hit.  A mortal wound.  The blade slid into the back of his neck, and Ambarussa had but a moment of biting cold and flashing white--a moment of despairing and a moment of guilt--before he slid into blackness.

Wondering if this was the Void.  Wondering if the other side waited with only eternal torment to offer as a steadfast companion of the Dispossessed.

And he smiled, though no lips existed to twist.  Because it was nothing less than he deserved.
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Because it was just convenient, and I've been waiting too long to write Amrod's death scene.  I knew he had to die in the Third Kinslaying, but he's never mentioned at all, nor are the circumstances of his demise, so I took some artistic liberties.  I wouldn't say that he's completely cured or anything, of course, but nevertheless there it is.  This was actually somewhat confusing more me to write, and I'm not sure I like it, but it can be edited later anyway.

As for the song, Louder Than Thunder (yes, from The Devil Wears Prada) has always been an old favorite of mine, though I couldn't tell you why.  It's just unique and I love something about the harmony and the lyrics and the presentation of the entire song so much that it just captures me, if you know what I mean.  You can see it's influences in the piece easily if you look, especially with the last line.  I just could not help myself.  As for the video, if you're not into FFXIII you won't get it at all, but I liked the sound quality on the video better than the generic one you find when you just look the song up with the album cover as background.  (It was horrid quality and made me cringe.)

That is pretty much it for today.  Happy reading :3.