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Jun. 2nd, 2006 05:21 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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silwritersguildTitle: Words
Author: Aramel
Rating: G (more-or-less)
Summary: Maglor in Doriath. Angsty, character death. Inspired by the word of the day for June 1, I think.
He remembers the words.
He remembers the young king, such a one as might have been his own child (had he a child), glaring at him in offended hurt, speaking in the slightly archaic way the Doriathrim used. You would never have dared come when Melian was here, and Luthien, stormy petrels that you are; cowards!
He remembers Tyelcormo's answering challenge, the bizarre speed with which it was over-- nobody could ever match him with a sword except for Maitimo-- a woman's scream, the sickening sound of an avenging shaft as it fells his brother from some unseen place, the scamper of a girl-child grasping the jewel their fates were bound to. He remembers her words.
Monsters! I have your jewel; you will never regain it while I live!
Such a fragile little thing; he has his bow bent and the arrow nocked already. It would have been so easy to loose. But they do not kill children. They never kill children. Tyelcormo is in Maitimo's arms, his eyes hazy with pain; Carnistir and Atarinke and Ambarussa fighting somewhere else. Nimloth is trembling, and she has a knife in hand. Elwing, run! she breathes, and throws herself at his eldest brother.
She is laughable against Maitimo, a woman never trained wielding a kitchen knife against the greatest swordsman the Noldor ever had. Maitimo drops his sword and grabs her with his left hand, trapping her, and she does the unexpected; helpless in Maitimo's grasp, she turns the point of her knife and throws herself onto it. The girl-child cries out in horror.
His arrow trembles on the string. He holds. Tyelcormo's breathing has grown ragged. There will be tears later; he is no stranger to mourning for a brother lost. The girl backs away, fear written large in her eyes, the Silmaril in her hands, staring at the point of his shaft. He turns away from her and looses the arrow, which strikes and sticks into the throne of Doriath by pure chance, to kneel by Tyelcormo. He hears her flee.
Tyelcormo's eyes are closed. Is it done? he croaks, barely audible, and Maitimo, unable to tell him the truth, whispers Yes.
He remembers the words.
Author: Aramel
Rating: G (more-or-less)
Summary: Maglor in Doriath. Angsty, character death. Inspired by the word of the day for June 1, I think.
He remembers the words.
He remembers the young king, such a one as might have been his own child (had he a child), glaring at him in offended hurt, speaking in the slightly archaic way the Doriathrim used. You would never have dared come when Melian was here, and Luthien, stormy petrels that you are; cowards!
He remembers Tyelcormo's answering challenge, the bizarre speed with which it was over-- nobody could ever match him with a sword except for Maitimo-- a woman's scream, the sickening sound of an avenging shaft as it fells his brother from some unseen place, the scamper of a girl-child grasping the jewel their fates were bound to. He remembers her words.
Monsters! I have your jewel; you will never regain it while I live!
Such a fragile little thing; he has his bow bent and the arrow nocked already. It would have been so easy to loose. But they do not kill children. They never kill children. Tyelcormo is in Maitimo's arms, his eyes hazy with pain; Carnistir and Atarinke and Ambarussa fighting somewhere else. Nimloth is trembling, and she has a knife in hand. Elwing, run! she breathes, and throws herself at his eldest brother.
She is laughable against Maitimo, a woman never trained wielding a kitchen knife against the greatest swordsman the Noldor ever had. Maitimo drops his sword and grabs her with his left hand, trapping her, and she does the unexpected; helpless in Maitimo's grasp, she turns the point of her knife and throws herself onto it. The girl-child cries out in horror.
His arrow trembles on the string. He holds. Tyelcormo's breathing has grown ragged. There will be tears later; he is no stranger to mourning for a brother lost. The girl backs away, fear written large in her eyes, the Silmaril in her hands, staring at the point of his shaft. He turns away from her and looses the arrow, which strikes and sticks into the throne of Doriath by pure chance, to kneel by Tyelcormo. He hears her flee.
Tyelcormo's eyes are closed. Is it done? he croaks, barely audible, and Maitimo, unable to tell him the truth, whispers Yes.
He remembers the words.
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Date: 2006-06-02 02:08 pm (UTC)