Story: Mercy

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Title: Mercy
Rating: Teens

Warning: Some people may find the subject disturbing or even offensive.  The reasoning behind it was that Elves from Valinor who know they will be resurrected (such as those from the Host at the end of the Silmarillion) are likely to have a somewhat different attitude to death from that of mortals, or even that of  the exiled Noldor and the Elves who had never left Middle-earth.

Summary:  A snippet, composed as the opener to a longer story about Elrond which may not get written.  As the whole thing may never see the light of day I thought I'd post this opener to mark Elrond month.  Set during the cleaning up after the destruction of Angband.

Elrond laid the head down gently.  He could sense the fëa already weakening, the draught perhaps had been only half needed.  There was relief in the clear eyes, but no fear.  The Elf was a Vanyar, confident that Mandos would be no more than a necessary interlude, time spent in healing before the return to home and kindred.  It was an assurance he had seen before in elves from the Valinor host; and with it an eagerness to lay down life he had not known in his youth, nor more recently in the Edain who followed Elros.  There too the draught had sometimes been needed, but it was not taken so readily, or with such lack of regret.

He put down the cup and took the uninjured hand in a light, firm grasp.  It had been ill luck this, with the true fighting ended, a half-grown fire-drake surprised in one of the deepest pits. The burns down the left side were ugly, the eye was blinded and the arm irreparably withered; but the wounds would not have been mortal.  To die and be made anew, or to live until the end of Arda with the scars, such was the choice, and he had not been surprised by the sureness with which the draught was asked for.  Healers were cautious with such requests, Elrond the more so for not being of Valinor, but the certainty had been absolute and the mind quite clear.  The Vanyar were seldom hesitant.

The eyes were resting on him, fainter now, but truly seeing for the first time, instead of simply gazing on a healer.  “Very young,” the strange Elf murmured.

Elrond was accustomed to that, caught oddly as he was between two worlds.  Young indeed in elven terms, but long matured for a child of men, and still not truly either, although he already knew his choice.  “Old enough,” he said gently in Quenya, but was not certain if the words were heard, for the eyes were beginning to fade.  A few minutes more and he laid down the hand and placed his fingers lightly against the still brow.

“Speed now to the Halls, and may Namo receive you.”  Even the Dispossessed had never let passing go unmarked.  Perhaps they were not the right words for a Vanyar, but there would be others soon, to receive the remains.  The Vanyar burned their dead, although not on pyres as the Easterlings did.  A Vanyar funeral was a brief blaze of white summoned flame, and then nothing remaining but fine ash.

The second injured Elf was resting comfortably.  This one’s burns were much less severe, after satisfying himself there was no need for further measures at present Elrond was content to leave him in Bereth’s care.  She had no Quenya, but there would certainly be a healer from the Elf-host soon.  After a few words to her Elrond donned the quiver and light pack he had discarded earlier, picked up his bow, and set off to find his brother.