Sacrifice

Non-canon compliant AU.  The death of Finrod Felagund.  Quenya names used (Finrod = Artafindë, Celegorm = Turkafinwë, Curufin = Curufinwë, Maglor = Kanafinwë, Maedhros = Nelyafinwë).  This is related especially to "Accent" and "Echo".  And--guess what!--I changed canon.  Yes, I know Finrod speaks to Beren when he dies.  But if you're mortally wounded and dying, you don't say stupid things like "And now I'm dying and won't ever be seen again!  Fare thee well random mortal!".  It felt long-winded, stupid and fake to me.  So I ignored it.  Also, I know it only says "a wolf came for Beren", but it didn't fit my mental image, so there are extra people.  And really, did you think Sauron wouldn't have tickets for the front row?  Takes place in the pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth in the First Age, obviously.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion

Pairings: none explicitly mentioned (b/g canon mostly)

Characters: Finrod, Beren, random orcs and wolves, Sauron (mentions the ten companions who died first, Celegorm, Curufin, Maglor and Maedhros)

Warning: non-canon compliant, canon character death, blood and gore, violent death scene, possible mental breakdown, I blame this on Attack on Titan; I'm always in the mood for killing someone in a story after watching that LOL

Song: Vogel im Käfig

Words: 1,535
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sacrifice (noun): destruction or surrender of something for the sake of something else; something given up or lost: loss
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/sacrifice

It wasn't really that he knew the boy or that he loved him enough to die to save him.

"Only two are left behind." That voice.  Their captor and tormentor.  Golden hair and the appearance of an elf, spectacular and lovely but corrupt in the eyes.  Eyes that flashed scarlet and were veined with cruel fire and sadistic glee. "Bring the boy forth.  Let us see if losing his last companion loosens our guest's valiant tongue."

It was not that he hated his cousin either.  No resentment did he feel toward they who had betrayed his love and friendship.

"Valar... Valar help us..."

Beside him, Beren was weeping hysterically, struggling audibly to be free of his bonds.  Knowing what was coming, the young human was panicking, breath coming fast and heavy.  He knew he was about to die.  That they were going to take him away...

That they were going to feed him to the wolves.  That he was going to be consumed alive.  That his innards would be ripped asunder and devoured before his eyes.  That the pain of his limbs being bitten off one by one would be excruciating. That no one would be coming to rescue him, and he would die the same horrifying death as had the ten companions who had been dragged away in silent dignity before him.

But this boy was no silent and poised warrior.  No man ready to sacrifice his life.  Beren had only been ready to start, and his bravery was little more than the puffed up feathers of a male bird before a female companion.  Until he faced the true possibility of death, the boy had been all bluster and loudness and recklessness, never having seen the truth of sick and twisted evil gorging itself upon the most heinous of atrocities, the sight of the dead rotting indecently, the indiscriminate splatter of blood across the ground and the tangle of gore upon his feet.

It was not even pity.

After only a few days in this torture chamber with no sight for stimulation and only the sound and smell of death and rot as company, Beren was facing a reality he had not been ready for.

This was his quest, and worse enemies would he face before the end than the Lieutenant of Angband and his faithful pack of werewolf soldiers.  And yet, as the orcs pulled him down, Beren was pleading and sobbing like a child, fear bringing him to the borders of sanity.  Struggling and clawing for survival, he bargained and promised and begged, dragging his feet audibly upon filthy stone.

"Please, please, I am not ready to die!  Please, someone, help me!  Help me!"

More than anything, it was a matter of honor.  Of swearing an Oath and keeping it no matter the circumstances.  Of doing what was right in one's eyes at the cost of one's self--at the cost of one's body and sanity and future.

And he did not think he had ever understood his cousins more.  Understood Turkafinwë's madness or Curufinwë's cruelty or Kanafinwë's regret or Nelyafinwë's coldness.

Artafindë could not bring himself to remain idle.

But how he found the strength to wrench his iron shackles from the stone walls, he would never know and could never remember.  It was not magic or words of Power that brought the undeniable and superhuman strength to his exhausted and starved muscles when they flexed and ripped from strain.  That allowed him to ignore the blood leaking hotly down his suspended arms where the manacles bit their iron teeth into his wrists and sent flashes of pain screaming through his nervous system.

That gave him the courage to rip the attackers from Beren even as he was being led outside into the dim light.  To bash their heads against the wall again and again in a savage tide of fury until their brains were splattered smears upon stone and their bodies were at the feet of the panting, filthy and stricken elf.  Yet no time was there to think of how wrong it was that his body cried out for more, that the animalistic rage snarling through his veins demanded more blood upon his fingers and upon his flesh and upon his tongue to sate its wild inferno of twisted hunger.

Demanded that he never back down.  That he rip his enemies apart.

Artafindë always kept his promises.  And, in the end, Barahir had saved his life.  Saved it, so that in the distant future--far beyond the time he had passed beyond the edges of the world--his only son might live another day.

It was outside the cell that the werewolf awaited.  The creature lunged first for the young human, and Artafindë put himself between them, a shield of flesh and blood.  Did not feel the pounding in his throat of one who feared for his life, of one who was desperately trying to live.  Rather, he felt the calmness of a man surrendered to the knowledge that he was about to die.

The elf grasped at those salivating jaws with his bare hands and ignored how his blood spurted across his face when the long, sharp fangs cut open his skin and sank down to the bone in vicious bites.  Tangled his hands in matted fur and threw himself upon the beast like a predatory creature of pure instinct without intellect or logic, going for the throat heedless of his own safety and survival.

Heedless of the tear of his leg being ripped clean off by that heavy jaw, his own fingers clawed at the eyes of his opponent until they bled and were popped free.  Heedless of claws raking gashes up and down his naked body, he was all too focused on wrapping his arms about the vulnerable neck and squeezing until his opponent wheezed from lack of air.  Heedless of that maw closing upon his torso the squeezing until his chest collapsed and blood flooded his lungs, he buried his teeth beneath layers of thick fur like a beast until he hit bone.

Heedless of all pain and fear, there was no message in his brain except the one that told him to kill.

That told him to bite until his teeth slid deeper than bone and the shards of vertebrae shattering cut open his lips and the inside of his mouth like knives.  That told him to shake his head back and forth so that his teeth tore violently into the tender softness below.  And beneath him the wolf squealed and collapsed, lower body cut off from the head as the spinal cord severed, lungs paralyzed and heart frozen as the electrical impulses directing their steady rhythm ceased.

Away from it, Artafindë rolled as the jaw released his limp form.  And it was only upon the cold ground then, in darkness and filth and his own growing pool of blood and spilled entrails, that the prince felt pain.

Slowly, the dying screams of the wolf tapered away as it suffocated.  But he did not look to see its corpse but a few feet away.  Instead, he lay and gasped for breath that would not come, unable to move as the rage and adrenaline receded back into the dark side of his spirit from whence they had come.

His promise was kept, and that was all that mattered.  It was not about Beren or about his cousins or about anyone else.  Not really.

It was a sacrifice for what he believed was the right path.  A sacrifice all his companions before him had made, but which the youngest member of their band of exiles had not the strength to face in his lust for life.

Luckily, the price had been bartered ahead of time...

"F-Finrod..."

Beren was beside him, kneeling and distraught.  A wide-eyed child if ever there was one.  No doubt he had seen horror and death, but Artafindë doubted he had seen anything like this.

Unable to speak, he could only offer a bloody smile up at the young man.

"Don't... don't die.  Please, don't die."  Don't leave me alone!

But Artafindë knew he was dying and could not be saved.  The pain was numbing and the cold of deadness spreading up from his toes as everything began to shut down.  There could not have been much blood left for his failing heart to pump, and even if there had been, his intestines had been severed and his ribs crushed, slicing apart his lungs and arteries.  No breath could be taken even to murmur.

Shocked eyes were watching him, even as the buzzing grayness washed over his senses.  Even as he fell limp with satisfaction blooming in his chest, overwhelming even the pain.

Not for a moment did he regret his sacrifice.

Your fate awaits, Beren son of Barahir.  Let not this price have been paid in vain.  Let not your future slip from between your fingers out of impotent fear.

Let your life be worth more than my own.  Make it count.  Be strong.  And be happy.

Not even when finally he died.