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chronicles-of-tirion · 7 years

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Unbreakable

“You are smaller than I remember,” Arasilmë said, his strong arms wrapped both around and underneath the slender elda he had braced up against a marble wall, much in the same way a mother or caregiver would hold a child. “Did Námo rob your body of all that muscle when he remade you? That was cruel of him.”

A lie. The entire thing had been a lie, a farce created to keep him busy long enough to seduce his hot-headed charge past the point of reason. A lie that he'd made love to as though it had been truth, a lie that he'd shared things, intimate things with, because he believed without a shadow of a doubt that it was real and that the Valar had sent him back. But the truth... the reality was loathsome, and crueler than anything he'd ever known.

“I...” the other started quiet, soft, “there was much damage done from... from...” Aurë bit his bottom lip, “from what had happened, that it's been hard for me to do many of the things that I once took joy in doing.” Arasilmë watched him as he visibly cringed at the mere mention of his experience at the hand of Melkor and his foul servant, Sauron. In all honesty, the redheaded first born didn't want him to talk about it, to talk about it or remember it; as far as he was concerned, he wanted to put it as far behind the both of them as he could.

He could not see well through the black silken scarf he'd had Nerdanel tie around his eyes, but that was entirely the point: he didn't want to see. He didn't want to see the monster that wore the face of his dead mate, the mate he sometimes cried himself to sleep pining for and grasping at the shredded wisps of what remained of his ruined bond; the mate whose name he found himself screaming as he wrenched himself from a nightmare covered in sweat. He didn't want to watch or see himself kill that mate again, even though he knew this monster was not his mate. He didn't want to see it, because he knew that if he did, he couldn't make himself do it. All men were sometimes forced to do things that they didn't want to in the name of love, and in the name of love, he'd kill the monster that wore his beloved's face and save his stupid ward from an even worse fate.

“I'm small, because I'm afraid...” he said quieter still. Not Aurë. “I'm small, because I am uncomfortable in my own skin...” Lies. “I'm small, because the only thing that I have lived for, is finding you so that we could be together again.”

“Lies!” Arasilmë snarled, pointing his sword in the direction of the creature, the monster, that wore the face of his beloved and most precious person of all. “Everything that you said to me, every admission, every profession, everything that you said to me is a farce!”

The silver-haired elda standing beside the first-born's hot-headed charge, Fëanor, sat up and blinked, fainting confusion at the sudden outburst. Fëanor was just as equally confused, and somewhat annoyed that Arasilmë had come storming into his chambers brandishing a sword at his new friend. “What are you doing, Arasilmë?” he asked, brushing sweat away from his forehead.

“That is not who you think he is,” Arasilmë snarled, stepping ever farther into the room. Fëanor was certain that his general and long-time friend had to have a sixth sense of some kind, because he was entirely blind and seemed to know exactly where he was going anyway.

“Oh really?” he asked, jeering slightly, because Arasilmë had obviously lost his marbles somewhere in between last night and that morning. “If he's not one of my new councilors, and your previously dead mate, then who is he?” Violence was not something tolerated in the great city of Tirion, especially not violence against other eldar, and his mad general was brandishing a very sharp sword at an elda he was fairly certain had no idea how to hold a blade or if he did, couldn't, without having a panic attack. Aurë was so much better with words than weapons. However, that was to be expected, considering Mahtan had forged Arasilmë the first sword in existence.

“My great enemy,” the redhead answered. He whipped out a set of small daggers and flicked them, fast and hard at the smaller, silver-haired elda, the sharpened blades sliding through skin and hair like a hot knife into butter. The warrior winced, trembling, pausing, hesitating at the screams of pain from his foe a foe whose voice identical down to pitch and inflection to that of his dead mate's. But this one wasn't Aurë. Aurë was strong. Aurë was powerful. Aurë was great. Aurë was not so small and so frightened, he was not a mouse. He was a lion. A great and mighty warrior and this farce had gone on long enough. “Scream. Holler. Cry. My Aurë does none of these things. My Aurë would never allow such a thing to conquer him and make him so low.” Out of his pocket, he pulled a round ball filled with a dark red liquid. Aurë's light blue eyes widened and Fëanor's narrowed. What was this?

“Arasilmë...-?” The redhead hefted the ball and then whipped it at the smaller, slender elda. Arasilmë had legitimately gone insane. It was not something that he hadn't expected, in all honesty, with his father being so lax and unobservant lately due to being so hung-up on his whore of a bride, of course he'd let his general slowly lose his mind... but enough for murder?

The moment that the ball smashed into the cheek of his friend, Fëanor shook himself out of the shock of the entire situation, remembered that he had a sword and drew it. “Arasilmë, stop-!” Aurë's eyes swirled from a frightened liquid blue to an angry molten golden colour. Elven eyes did not do that. “What... what's going on here...?” he asked, dropping his sword slightly, frightfully confused.

“They're golden aren't they, Fëanáro?” Arasilmë asked.

Fëanor hesitated a moment, then replied, “yes... they are.” However, the silver-haired individual standing in front of them had not changed form, the only thing that was unlike what had been was the sizzling flesh of his cheek and the golden eyes laden with pain and anger, wrath. “But... he still looks like Aurë...”

“Which is why I'm not removing this until I'm done...” Fëanor looked at Arasilmë and then at Melkor, because that's who he was, Melkor.

“Arasilmë, stop.”

“WHAT!?” Fëanor was certain that he'd never heard his general yell so loud in his entire life and with so much hatred and anger in that voice. “There is no stop. That is my enemy. My GREAT enemy, and I will never stop until he's dead!”

“But he hasn't done anything to hurt anyone! We just talk! All he does is talk to me!” That wasn't all he did, but that wasn't something he was about to tell Arasilmë at this moment. “Don't answer violence with violence, you're not making the situation any better. The Valar wouldn't have allotted for his release if he meant any harm.”

“The Valar are fucking morons, every last one of them, especially Súlimo. That bastard is far too forgiving and far too in love with the idea that his brother will eventually bury the hatchet and return to the form he originally had. You don't steal mothers, brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, husbands and mates and turn them into monsters if you have any intention of returning. Get out of my way, Fëanáro.” Fëanor turned his attention toward Melkor who was now looking slightly less like Aurë: angrier and brandishing a weapon of his own.

“Do not speak of my brother in such a way,” he snarled. “You know nothing of the Valar.”

“I know enough,” Arasilmë answered. “I know enough about you to know about them.” Arasilmë had never had a high opinion of the Valar. “How dare you wear the face of my love. How dare you farther dishonor him and dishonor my memory of him.”

“I only wanted to talk to your ward,” he said. “He has the potential to be so great, having such a powerful aura and energy already.”

Arasilmë had had enough talking, enough of Melkor's lies and untruths. Whipping his sword around, he charged, slamming the point of his sword right through the other's chest with surprising accuracy for one lacking sight a the moment. When he felt his blade hit the marble wall behind him, he smirked and twisted the blade inside of him, before yanking it out.

“I planned... for this... you know... you finding out... it was me all along...” he whispered breathless into the other's ear, smiling, though Arasilmë couldn't see it and blood dripping from his lips. “You know... even if you die, you'll never meet him in Mandos. I destroyed his soul and devoured it, consuming the energy for myself. There is nothing left of him for you to meet in Mandos.” He smiled then, the illusion he had cast crumbling to dust.

Fëanor didn't speak to Arasilmë. The other's face was as hard as stone, lacking any and all emotion. He'd never seen him this way before. The only thing that he could do was to watch him leave, and hope that he came back.

~*~

Arasilmë stood near the rail of Tirion's balcony, his bedroom in shambles, property destroyed beyond repair. “Do not do this... You cannot return from this...” The female voice whispered closely, even though there was no one near, no one close.

The redhead released a quiet sigh, breathing in the scent of the wind, the coming rain on the air. “That's the point, isn't it?” he replied. “That there is no point. All of these imbeciles see the beauty and serenity of this place and think that there can be no darkness here, that there is nothing to fear anymore. There is darkness everywhere, and just because you claim you can protect us from it, doesn't actually mean that you can.” He whipped out his sword, special and custom made only for him by the one person he had assumed understood the direness of the situation.

Apparently not. “But this is not your destiny! You are not bound by any destiny laid out by anyone. Silmë, you cannot return from this! My child of the stars, do not do this...” She beseeched him, the only one of them that he ever cared to listen to still, the only one that hadn't ever betrayed him with false promises and lies.

He looked down at his right hand, at the scar across it that had been carved into his flesh before the creation of the first sword, jagged and messy, and all that remained of that which he had loved more than anything on this forsaken piece of rock. He took his sword and sliced right through it, in the opposite direction. “There's nothing for me in Mandos... and the only thing here for me is him. So be it. I, Arasilmë Angael, swear on the existence of my soul, created by Eru Ilúvatar that I will rend Melkor, the Dark One, from existence in such a way that there will be nothing left of him...” He took his sword and sheathed it, then turned away. “Or me, but ancient stardust.”

#Arasilme Lossemire #Arasilme Angael #Arasilme #Silmarillion AU #Chronicles of Tirion #Melkor #Feanor #fanfic

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