50 Prompts: AU Silmarillion by Urloth

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Prompt: Tears (OC. Melkor. Elu. Luthien. Beren. Dior. Elwing. Manwe.)

Summary: Sobbing.

Warnings: Horror.

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Sobbing.

Melkor stirred restlessly from his pained sleep and stared at where his constant guest always stood right by his bed, leaning over him and nothing else.

Three eyes blinked unsynchronised and randomly, never closing at the same time, one always open and always watching him.

Blink…blink…………blink….blink, blink, blink….blink…blink,blink…………………blink…..

It was nothing more than an outline made of twisted gold and silver light, and those eyes…and the sobbing.

He could not banish the apparition, it had no form, or at least a form even he could not touch; hands sliding through it like it were vapour to a Man. Doing this had left the skin of his hands burning, and the wounds on them broken open anew. He had given up after a century, and had become quite used to ignoring it

“Shut up,” he snapped and rolled over again, seeking the rest his guest constantly denied him.

-

Sobbing.

Carcharoth howled and screamed but nothing displaced the rider upon his back. 

Hands that burned through his fur and into his skin gripped tighter. He screamed again and wished for human throat to sob as well for the pain inside and out was too much. Far too much.

He heard the howling of a Wolf-Hound hunting, and ran towards it.

-

Sobbing.

Elu could not rid himself of the vision he constantly glimpsed from the corner of his eye. Lingering behind pillars, or at the opposite end of a hallway to him. A distant glimpse in a mirror but gone when he rechecked.

Now though it was closer, lingering just to his right and he could see a faint impression of cheeks. cut deep and bleeding, and three eye shapes in a triangular formation, the top most one but an outline.

“Now see here, we are due our righ-”

"Shut up," he snapped trying to get a closer look at it and that was when the first axe gorged on his flesh

-

Sobbing.

Beren cracked open his eyes.

“Luthien,” he whispered, stiffening at what he saw, “Luthien wake up! Luthien! It is by our bed!!!”

The thing had been a presence in their house, drifting through the shadows and disappearing into hedgerows, not answering any voice or reacting to Luthien’s magic.

Luthien stirred and groaned, and he felt her entire body stiffen and knew the sharp cut off of her breath had stifled a scream.

There was a face, it might have been lovely, but it was covered in deep gauging wounds that dripped red all down a trembling chin, and two eyes of glowing silver and gold peered at them whilst a eye shaped wound dribbled gorey red down between the unmarred two.

“It has a face,” Luthien said and as if acknowledging it the creature’s sobbing picked up.

How it sobbed.

Desperate, hurt, lonely, angry sobbing.

Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing and in its hand it held the dagger Beren had taken from Curufin, the edges covered in blood.

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Sobbing.

Dior stirred from where he’d fallen asleep at his desk, the aged missive from the sons of Fëanor before him as it had been sitting there upon his desk for however many months since it arrived.

Sobbing right by his ear.

And arms tight around his neck, and a weight upon his back, and as he stared at the missive, a drop of blood fell upon the line where Maedhros began to lay out the actions he and his brothers would take if Dior did not respond.

The chill from Winter crept through the window which had been left half open. When had he opened it? He had not, he saw the bloody handprint on the latch, and the dribbling trails of blood on the snow that had been pushed inside as a body had slithered through the impossibly small opening.

The sobbing continued, and the letter became quite blood-splattered the longer he stared at it, too afraid to move and see what it was that embracing him from behind as Nimloth sometimes did.

-

Sobbing.

Elwing fled.

It was chasing her! It was chasing her! She ran, heedless of the destruction around her, and as she felt burning fingertips brush her nape she dove into the ocean, leaving the nightmare that had tormented her since childhood to stand on the cliff and watch usessly.

Sobbing all the while.

-

Sobbing.

Who entered the palace of Manwë?

Who cried with such hopeless pain.

He did not often indulge his raiment, but the Lord of Arda had taken a quick rest beneath the eaves of one of the pines that grew gnarled and twisted in knots in his garden. There was movement near him, and he felt a hand skim up his thigh.

He opened his eyes to stare into three gaping eyesockets, one dribbling constant brine scented tears, one twisted into a burn scar and the third empty, so empty that the wind seemed to catch on it’s ragged scarred edges, creating a howling moaning noise that sank into the skin and buzzed.

“Who art thou?” he asked, drawing himself away from the apparition but it only crawled closer; shuffling on it’s knees.

He looked beyond the striations of scars across the face and saw the visage of one long gone.

“Whatever it is thou wants Fëanáro,” he said, wondering how this one had slipped from the void when even Melkor could do no such thing, “it will not be given to thee.”

No response.

He reached out and his hands stung.

The creature sobbed and he reassessed whether it was the wandering, escaped fëa of the damned son of Finwë. The Finwion would never have cried such when one might have seen him. No, he would not have allowed this ragged mewling like a infant abandoned to escape him.

“What art thou? Speak creature!” he commanded, enforcing his words with the Power of authority given to him by Father.

Opening its face like a rotted bloody wound from ear to ear it smiled at him and began to laugh.