Wings
1. Wings
The Sirion was burning. Flames flickered and danced through the small settlement of refuges, the mirror effect of the rushing waters making it seem as if the river itself was on fire. The flames roared through every building, and none was safe. Screams echoed and rang throughout the whole region. Screams of terror, hatred, and insanity. And through the middle of it all strode the proud sons of Feanor, faces fevered with the killing they did that day, and with the flames of their oath in their eyes to match the ravaging of the town. There were four of them, silent and deadly with bloodied swords readied in their hands. Elves through themselves desperately into the path, and were cut down just as silently. The numbers of those who resisted were dwindling. The Elf women with small children gathered them and ran, stricken to the quick by this second destruction of their homeland. They had already seen too much war. Their husbands, sons, and brothers either fought on or went down, under the blade of a kinsman.
In the farthest house, where the fighting and the flames had yet to reach, a mother cradled her young sons, fists clenched and tear-stained face buried in their hair. A small body of guards surrounded their lady, faces sad and grim in the wavering light of the fire, the stars, and the jewel that shimmered on her breast. The shouting from outside increased, and the nearest house went up in flames. The lady raised her head, eyes fierce and haunted. She no longer seemed to see her surroundings, not even the elflings as she withdrew her arms and they cried out to her.
The lady straightened, standing tall and proud and ghostly, her blue gown in tatters and the light of the Silmaril throwing her face into sharp relief. The guards bowed as a group, awe reflected in their eyes. She took one step forward, and then another, and the group parted against their will, drawn away from their lady even as their hearts guessed at her purpose and ached to stop. Her children lay forgotten on the floor, bodies pressed together and trembling, wide blue eyes confused and frightened. One of the twins tried to pull away, tears forming in his eyes. But the elder held him back, gaze dimmed in understanding. He knew what she did, but he did not know why. And he wanted to go to her as badly as his twin. But something unknown held him back, comforted him.
The lady passed through the guards, coming to the door and opening it with a small gesture. She emerged into the street, calm and glowing with unearthly light. She walked down the short slope to the edge of the harbor, and turned on the pier. Above her, the city was lost. On the ridge appeared four wraith-like figures, outlined in red and made all the more fearsome for it. Two of the four broke away with a cry upon sighting her, but they were met by the guards leaving her house. They were cut down, though only one of the guards was alive at the end of it. The lady watched without reaction, and the last of her elves turned an agonized look to her, mouthing the words to flee, to run before they caught her and what they desired above all else. Then his pleading stopped, as a spear thudded through him and he fell to the mud.
Then the elf that had thrown the spear looked up to her, his hands covered in the blood of kin and his face filled with pain. Pain, and also a great longing. Two small shapes hurtled into him from behind, the twins dragging the spear away from his suddenly nerveless fingers in an instinctive fight for their mother’s life.
“Maglor! What are you doing? Get her, don’t you see what-“ His words were cut of by a long sigh from the lady. She stepped backwards, spread her arms, closed her eyes, and flew into the taking waters of the harbor, and was gone from Middle Earth forever. Her last words carried across the air in the stunned silence that followed, the fighting done and the small group still alive on the pier in shock.
“Be well, my sons.” Elwing’s whispered plea sounded loudest in the ears of the twins, still grasping Maglor’s spear and now in his arms, the older elf seemingly in as much shock as they. Then he closed his eyes and began to sing, rich voice throbbing with an emotion that threatened to bring all to their knees. Once again, all the death had been for naught, and still he was bound by his oath. Maedhros knelt, put his arms around his brother and the frightened, wavering Peredhil. He bowed his head and the four wept together, each for their own loses, and the elflings not quite understanding theirs yet.
In the farthest house, where the fighting and the flames had yet to reach, a mother cradled her young sons, fists clenched and tear-stained face buried in their hair. A small body of guards surrounded their lady, faces sad and grim in the wavering light of the fire, the stars, and the jewel that shimmered on her breast. The shouting from outside increased, and the nearest house went up in flames. The lady raised her head, eyes fierce and haunted. She no longer seemed to see her surroundings, not even the elflings as she withdrew her arms and they cried out to her.
The lady straightened, standing tall and proud and ghostly, her blue gown in tatters and the light of the Silmaril throwing her face into sharp relief. The guards bowed as a group, awe reflected in their eyes. She took one step forward, and then another, and the group parted against their will, drawn away from their lady even as their hearts guessed at her purpose and ached to stop. Her children lay forgotten on the floor, bodies pressed together and trembling, wide blue eyes confused and frightened. One of the twins tried to pull away, tears forming in his eyes. But the elder held him back, gaze dimmed in understanding. He knew what she did, but he did not know why. And he wanted to go to her as badly as his twin. But something unknown held him back, comforted him.
The lady passed through the guards, coming to the door and opening it with a small gesture. She emerged into the street, calm and glowing with unearthly light. She walked down the short slope to the edge of the harbor, and turned on the pier. Above her, the city was lost. On the ridge appeared four wraith-like figures, outlined in red and made all the more fearsome for it. Two of the four broke away with a cry upon sighting her, but they were met by the guards leaving her house. They were cut down, though only one of the guards was alive at the end of it. The lady watched without reaction, and the last of her elves turned an agonized look to her, mouthing the words to flee, to run before they caught her and what they desired above all else. Then his pleading stopped, as a spear thudded through him and he fell to the mud.
Then the elf that had thrown the spear looked up to her, his hands covered in the blood of kin and his face filled with pain. Pain, and also a great longing. Two small shapes hurtled into him from behind, the twins dragging the spear away from his suddenly nerveless fingers in an instinctive fight for their mother’s life.
“Maglor! What are you doing? Get her, don’t you see what-“ His words were cut of by a long sigh from the lady. She stepped backwards, spread her arms, closed her eyes, and flew into the taking waters of the harbor, and was gone from Middle Earth forever. Her last words carried across the air in the stunned silence that followed, the fighting done and the small group still alive on the pier in shock.
“Be well, my sons.” Elwing’s whispered plea sounded loudest in the ears of the twins, still grasping Maglor’s spear and now in his arms, the older elf seemingly in as much shock as they. Then he closed his eyes and began to sing, rich voice throbbing with an emotion that threatened to bring all to their knees. Once again, all the death had been for naught, and still he was bound by his oath. Maedhros knelt, put his arms around his brother and the frightened, wavering Peredhil. He bowed his head and the four wept together, each for their own loses, and the elflings not quite understanding theirs yet.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
