Helevorn by grey_gazania

Helevorn

Read Helevorn

The moment Caranthir had seen Maedhros’ map of East Beleriand, he had known why his eldest brother was sending him to Thargelion. It was a banishment of sorts; save for Ossiriand to the south, where their youngest brothers would be safer and of better use, Thargelion was the furthest from Dorthonion, and thus the furthest from Angrod and Aegnor.

Caranthir knew it was his own fault for lashing out at Angrod during that ill-fated council meeting, though he was too proud to ever admit it aloud. He’d made a mess of things, and Maedhros’ rebuke, though firm, hadn’t been enough to salvage the situation. But it was just so difficult to stay calm around Finarfin’s children -- all of them, really, but Angrod in particular. Being in a room with him was like being pummeled by something sharp and hard, like the hailstones that sometimes fell in Mithrim’s chill northern winters, and Caranthir could stand it for only so long.

You don’t understand, he wanted to say to Maedhros. I didn’t ask to be this way. I didn’t ask to feel what everyone around me feels. If I could change it, don’t you think I would? But he held his tongue. His brother had enough things to worry about, and Caranthir couldn’t help feeling guilty that he had added yet more weight to Maedhros’ burdens. So he accepted Thargelion without complaint. At least the place had a lake, which was more than could be said for any of his brothers’ lands.

Though Caranthir loved to swim, he’d never cared for the ocean. It was too salty, too gritty, too abrasive, and the violence of the sea during their voyage in the stolen swanships still haunted him. He’d been certain that he would be shipwrecked and drowned in the briny depths, as had happened to so many of his father’s followers. Even now, he half wondered if Uinen might rise against Fëanor’s sons in wrath once more if they ventured to the coast.

But Helevorn was utterly unlike the ocean. Though strong winds could raise swells on its surface, when the air was calm, the lake was as smooth and still as the glass for which it was named. And though it was dark and deep -- so deep that he’d run out of rope on his first attempt to measure it -- the water was pleasingly cool and clear. Floating on his back, hearing nothing but the peeping of the sandpipers and the plaintive call of the nearby loons, he finally felt at peace.

Now his lake is dead. Some foul concoction of Morgoth’s has turned the water murky and acidic. The weeds have withered, and putrid fish and the feathered carcasses of birds bob on the surface, floating between patches of burning oil. His fortress on Mount Rerir, too, is in flames, but his eyes sting more for the loss of Helevorn.

It’s the smoke, he tells himself, though he knows it’s a lie. It’s just the smoke irritating your eyes.

Blinking away the tears, he turns his horse to the south. There is no one left to wait for. Everyone who could escape Morgoth’s deadly host has already fled, making their way to Ossiriand with all haste. Only Caranthir and his rear guard remain.

“Move out,” he orders, his voice rough from the smoke. “There’s nothing more we can do here.”

He leads his soldiers in their retreat, and he doesn’t look back.

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Chapter End Notes

Written for the March 28th B2MeM prompt: fouled water.