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eachdraidh2014-09-30 08:41 pm
silmarils) wrote in eachdraidh2014-09-30 08:41 pm
audio; forward-dated to post-feast
[ his arrival hadn't been graceful by any stretch of the imagination. in fact, mostly it had been a blur. his first conscious memories are of fire, burning alive as the silmaril sears through his hand and the flames take him. smoke lingers in the air around him, and there are voices, and the flames are gone and he is still here--
he doesn't remember, exactly, what had happened after that, but the beautiful rooms he's been given are destroyed, and his throat is raw, the echo of a shriek still caught there, and his only good hand burns and burns. he can't do this, can't do this, can't do this can't do this can't can't can't can'tcan'tcan't--
time. moments or hours or years, who is he to tell? these are not the halls, he knows, he's been denied even death. and there is laughter, soft, sly, purring at his ear. that voice will ever be with him, spreading its rot through his veins, flexing its claws against his heart-- until poison pumps through it, until it's darkness alone sustaining him. that voice, which had spoken to him when he'd lain shattered and barely comprehending.
kinslayer, it murmurs, and a void opens beneath maedhros, and he cannot remember-- kinslayer, what hast thou wrought for thyself? these are the fruits of thy labour. a deathless existence, an oath forever unfulfilled. family slain, people scattered, a legacy of destruction.
he grasps for something, anything, struggling through the mire of his mind: his hand clenches, fresh pain drowning out the whisper. he is in unfamiliar rooms, an unfamiliar place, and there had been creatures, strange creatures, and--
--and?
feverish eyes land on the locket, discarded and opened at his feet. speak, he remembers. speak, and he might be heard. but is there anyone, anyone at all, that he would wish to speak to?
if this is where the cursed sons of feanor are taken when denied death, then-- ]
I-- [ the voice is a harsh croak, as if its owner's throat has been stripped raw by screaming. even so.. even so, there may be something familiar in it. maedhros takes a trembling breath through his nose, curled and shaking, scorched and bleeding hand curled almost white-knuckled around the locket. but even so, there's only his voice to judge. ] --I seek the sons of Feanor, should they be here.
[ with a quiet snap, he shuts the locket and ends the message. ]
he doesn't remember, exactly, what had happened after that, but the beautiful rooms he's been given are destroyed, and his throat is raw, the echo of a shriek still caught there, and his only good hand burns and burns. he can't do this, can't do this, can't do this can't do this can't can't can't can'tcan'tcan't--
time. moments or hours or years, who is he to tell? these are not the halls, he knows, he's been denied even death. and there is laughter, soft, sly, purring at his ear. that voice will ever be with him, spreading its rot through his veins, flexing its claws against his heart-- until poison pumps through it, until it's darkness alone sustaining him. that voice, which had spoken to him when he'd lain shattered and barely comprehending.
kinslayer, it murmurs, and a void opens beneath maedhros, and he cannot remember-- kinslayer, what hast thou wrought for thyself? these are the fruits of thy labour. a deathless existence, an oath forever unfulfilled. family slain, people scattered, a legacy of destruction.
he grasps for something, anything, struggling through the mire of his mind: his hand clenches, fresh pain drowning out the whisper. he is in unfamiliar rooms, an unfamiliar place, and there had been creatures, strange creatures, and--
--and?
feverish eyes land on the locket, discarded and opened at his feet. speak, he remembers. speak, and he might be heard. but is there anyone, anyone at all, that he would wish to speak to?
if this is where the cursed sons of feanor are taken when denied death, then-- ]
I-- [ the voice is a harsh croak, as if its owner's throat has been stripped raw by screaming. even so.. even so, there may be something familiar in it. maedhros takes a trembling breath through his nose, curled and shaking, scorched and bleeding hand curled almost white-knuckled around the locket. but even so, there's only his voice to judge. ] --I seek the sons of Feanor, should they be here.
[ with a quiet snap, he shuts the locket and ends the message. ]
no subject
[ the information earns a musing noise, though. ] Thank you, I will remember that. I do not intend to stay here long, though. I have fought wars enough, and have no desire to fight someone else's.
voice to video;
Should we ever run into each other, or if you need a wizard's help, just ask.
video;
.. he has no desire to show his own face, but.. it would be polite, and this young human has been kind and informative.
he takes another moment to recall how to turn on the image, and eventually his own is revealed. pale and scarred, he's nevertheless still surprisingly lovely, with a shock of scarlet hair tumbled in unraveling braids around his face. his expression, though, is stony and unreadable, but he offers a small nod to acknowledge harry. ]
I will do so. Thank you. [ the image flicks back off, then, less shy than overaware of the state he's in. ] .. Wizard, though.. [ he's not positive of the translation, but that seems familiar. ]
video;
[ Harry doesn't know this, but it might be the same bloody cloak that was hung as a victory trophy in Caer Glaem. ]
voice;
voice;