A Momentary Pause in the Act of Death by grey_gazania

It wasn't supposed to end like this. Crumpled on the cold stone of Menegroth, now stained and sticky with blood, his blood, so much blood. No Silmaril to be found, and every breath sending stabbing pains through his chest and gut and oh Atar, Atar I'm sorry; we've failed you.

"Curvo?"

Gentle hands, warm hands, one at his back and one on his hair, and the hiss of breath drawn in through clenched teeth when Makalaurë saw the slash across his torso. Soft voice, not suited to Kanafinwë – "I'm here, brother. Shh."

"Cold." Mumbling, lightheaded and thirsty, he closed his eyes to block the light – had it grown harsher, colder, brighter? This was wrong; they'd lost the stone (oh, Atar), and fear threaded its way through the pain as he shivered. The Void was waiting, cold and black and empty; he clutched weakly at his brother, trying to focus on his words, but all was fog and meaningless sounds and shallow, painful breaths. The cold snaked up his body, tugging him relentlessly toward the Dark, until the only warmth in the world was Makalaurë's hands. A breath, and another, and another, and even that faded; he could fight the cold no longer, and fell limp and still against his brother as it claimed him.

Makalaurë wiped futilely at his tears, cradled his little brother against his chest, and went to lay him with the others.

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