The Bitter Rain
Apr. 2nd, 2004 10:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanithryudoFor the "Drunk in the Rain" Challenge from ![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
cashew. It's also posted to breakfast_nook.
Title: The Bitter Rain
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Earendil
Genre: Angst
Summary: The last remaining sons of Feanor witness the first advent of Earendil.
Notes: I wanted to include the Peredhel kids in the fic too, but they were too traumatised and shy, and refused to cooperate. *sigh* Such reluctant muses.
Word count: 400
"A new star rises in the West!"
The message had seemed innocuous when Maedhros first heard it, but now despair and anger threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at the radiant addition to the evening sky.
No eye that has beheld the glory of the Silmaril could mistake that light.
There was movement further down near the beach where lay the camp of the sons of Feanor. Reluctantly tearing his eyes from the heavens, Maedhros stared at the familiar figure.
Maglor?
He quickly made his way down the seashore. The wind brought the ocean spray drizzling through the air, as if a light shower of grey rain that matched his grey mood. Maglor stood amidst the spray and the crests, a wineskin held limply in his hand as he stared off into the West.
"Brother..." Maedhros trailed off. Words seemed inadequate to describe the depths of his feeling.
But Maglor, ever the bard, suffered no lack in eloquence. "The Silmaril hangs in the sky for all. It is beyond our reach now. Elwing and the Valar have made a far wiser choice for that accursed gem."
Maedhros winced at the bitterness of his tone. The words hurt more for that they were truth.
"Where does that leave us?" Maglor continued. "Our hands stained with blood of our kin. Our hearts torn by the results of our sins. Our hands pinioned by the Oath--Why Father?!!" His voice raised into a scream as he railed against the sea and the sky. Elven grace deserted him, and he stumbled and fell to his knees. The wind howled against his salt-soaked hair and the tide slapped against him in reproach.
"Why did you make us swear that thrice-cursed Oath?! All for what?! For what did we rape Aqualonde and sack Doriath and burn Sirion?! For what did our brethren fall one by one until only two of seven remain?! Oh, that Morgoth should laugh at the folly of the Noldor, of the sons of Feanor!"
As Maglor continued to scream and rant, Maedhros finally found his voice. "Brother, you are drunk."
Maglor's cries died off suddenly and he slumped, defeated and drenched. "I am drunk on my sorrow and my despair," Maglor whispered sadly.
Maedhros remained silent as he stood vigil over his brother, guarding the broken sobs. Above, the purifying light of the Silmaril cast a cold brilliance over them both.
cashew. It's also posted to breakfast_nook.Title: The Bitter Rain
Fandom: Silmarillion
Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Earendil
Genre: Angst
Summary: The last remaining sons of Feanor witness the first advent of Earendil.
Notes: I wanted to include the Peredhel kids in the fic too, but they were too traumatised and shy, and refused to cooperate. *sigh* Such reluctant muses.
Word count: 400
"A new star rises in the West!"
The message had seemed innocuous when Maedhros first heard it, but now despair and anger threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at the radiant addition to the evening sky.
No eye that has beheld the glory of the Silmaril could mistake that light.
There was movement further down near the beach where lay the camp of the sons of Feanor. Reluctantly tearing his eyes from the heavens, Maedhros stared at the familiar figure.
Maglor?
He quickly made his way down the seashore. The wind brought the ocean spray drizzling through the air, as if a light shower of grey rain that matched his grey mood. Maglor stood amidst the spray and the crests, a wineskin held limply in his hand as he stared off into the West.
"Brother..." Maedhros trailed off. Words seemed inadequate to describe the depths of his feeling.
But Maglor, ever the bard, suffered no lack in eloquence. "The Silmaril hangs in the sky for all. It is beyond our reach now. Elwing and the Valar have made a far wiser choice for that accursed gem."
Maedhros winced at the bitterness of his tone. The words hurt more for that they were truth.
"Where does that leave us?" Maglor continued. "Our hands stained with blood of our kin. Our hearts torn by the results of our sins. Our hands pinioned by the Oath--Why Father?!!" His voice raised into a scream as he railed against the sea and the sky. Elven grace deserted him, and he stumbled and fell to his knees. The wind howled against his salt-soaked hair and the tide slapped against him in reproach.
"Why did you make us swear that thrice-cursed Oath?! All for what?! For what did we rape Aqualonde and sack Doriath and burn Sirion?! For what did our brethren fall one by one until only two of seven remain?! Oh, that Morgoth should laugh at the folly of the Noldor, of the sons of Feanor!"
As Maglor continued to scream and rant, Maedhros finally found his voice. "Brother, you are drunk."
Maglor's cries died off suddenly and he slumped, defeated and drenched. "I am drunk on my sorrow and my despair," Maglor whispered sadly.
Maedhros remained silent as he stood vigil over his brother, guarding the broken sobs. Above, the purifying light of the Silmaril cast a cold brilliance over them both.
