In Flame Of Swords by Elwin Fortuna

| | |

In Flame Of Swords

They were surrounded on all sides, cut off from Turgon and Hurin's forces. Ninnachel stood at Fingon's back, the rest of the guard all around them, as Balrogs and Orcs closed in. It had been a long six days, and Ninnachel, trained as they were to endure, was beginning to feel it, an overwhelming exhaustion creeping up on them. Every one of the guards around them looked as exhausted as Ninnachel felt, stained, worn, wounded. Half the company was already lost among the dead, only twelve plus Fingon himself left.

It was hopeless. Death would come for them as sure as anything, and yet Ninnachel could not but hope. They looked skyward, hoping for Eagles, but none appeared. Manwe, on this day, was not listening.

Over the barren sands came a darker figure than the rest, Gothmog, lord of Balrogs, and the Orcs and other Balrogs parted to let him through. Fingon straightened suddenly, and Ninnachel felt a new strength, pulled from the last depths of reserved energy.

This would be all. Here on these sands, far from the green fields of Hithlum, they would die, as sure as the stars shone. Ninnachel, eyes still alert, cast their mind far afield, to where Baindir waited. For a moment, it was almost as though they caught a glimpse of him, gone still while walking in his fields, eyes shaded, looking toward the North.

Love and fear poured from Ninnachel in equal measure and all that emotion, gathered together, went flying to Baindir, a warning, a last message of love, stamped and sealed with all that Ninnachel was.

And then grimness came into Ninnachel's face, and they turned to face their foes, to defend their King, along with the rest of the guard. Their swords, lit with blue flame, danced among their enemies with cold fire, cutting a swathe through the Orcs that surrounded them, so that the foul creatures backed away in fear.

But Gothmog and the other Balrogs were not so easily cowed; one by one each of the guard fell, until at last Ninnachel stood with only one other by Fingon's side. No words were left to speak, as Balrogs advanced on them from all directions.

Ninnachel fought the nearest Balrog with a ferocity they had never felt before, the fierceness that can only come to one who knows they are about to die, and knows only that the manner of their death is now what matters, nothing else. By their side, Fingon was fighting Gothmog himself, holding him back, grim and silent too.

At last with a great cry Ninnachel leapt forward, driving their sword into the breast of the Balrog, and yet it was too late, for even as the stroke fell the Balrog hewed with his dark axe at Ninnachel, all the force of his blow striking Ninnachel in the back so hard that even the strong and fair armour bent and broke. So they perished together, the last of King Fingon's guard with the Balrog they slew. But there was yet Gothmog, fighting Fingon, and there were other Balrogs, and a whip of fire lashed out even as Ninnachel fell, seizing Fingon, holding him.

Ninnachel's eyes followed the banner of the King, blue and silver, with their last sight, as it fell to the ground. And then darkness fell, and they knew no more.

-----

It was as though mists surrounded Ninnachel; for a moment they wondered if it was early summer in the foothills of Ered Withrin, in days long gone by. But the mists did not yield and seemed to be all around, above, below, on every side.

A voice spoke from out of the mist, a voice without breath or feeling, the voice of Mandos. "Ninnachel of the Noldor, dost thou wish to be remade?"

It was a question that hardly needed to be asked. "I do," Ninnachel responded.

There was something of a hesitation, then the voice spoke again. "Your body can be designed according to your own wishes, this time around, if there is aught you wish to change."

It was as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over Ninnachel's head. Doubtless this would be a welcome question for many - they thought, briefly, of Maedhros and his missing hand - but not for Ninnachel.

"I am happiest as I am," they said. "Even the scars, I would keep them. All that I have ever been and done makes me who and what I am, body as well as spirit, and I would not change a thing."

"Nothing at all?"

Ninnachel felt laughter welling up inside them, and had to speak the words that came to mind, to let them out. "Why interfere with perfection?" they said, and the laughter escaped, rolling over them like a wave, until at last they opened their eyes and the mist faded. Light and warmth surrounded them, and beside them sat Baindir, smiling.

"Was Mandos so amusing then, that you laughed?" Baindir said after a moment spent entirely in a sweet kiss of reawakening joy. Ninnachel smiled.

"Tell me, Baindir, if you had the remaking of me, what would you change?"

It was Baindir's turn to laugh, and bending down, he took Ninnachel's hand in his own, raising it to his lips, kissing each new-made finger. "Not one single thing, Ninnia."

Ninnachel gave him a slow smile. "Good answer."

-----

For all that nothing had been changed, Ninnachel found that remaking took some getting used to. For a while they were content to lie quietly with Baindir nearby, not thinking for a little while of what would have occurred as time passed. They were lying on a bed, naked but covered with a warm fleecy blanket, and the room was dimly lit, though it seemed bright after the darkness and mist. The room was small, and there appeared to be a window above the bed that Ninnachel could not quite see out of yet, but could see the waving shadows of leaves and branches on the opposite wall.

But at last the memories could no longer be denied. "What became of you, my dear, after the battle?" Ninnachel said. "Did you hear me cry out to you?"

"I did," Baindir said. "And so I was warned, and I was ready. It was well that you thought of warning me, for otherwise I surely would have been captured. Hithlum was overrun soon, but I evaded all, made my way through Nevrast and down the line of the coast to the Falas. There I was received warmly by Gil-galad, though the news I brought was grim indeed. And there I turned my hand from farming to ship-building." Ninnachel smiled, taking his hand, tracing the new calluses, in different places.

Baindir sighed. "Alas, beloved, the Falas was not safe enough, and the next year it was attacked and overcome, but I managed to escape, as by lucky chance I was on board ship when the attack came. We fled to the Isle of Balar, and there I remained."

"What of Ereinion?"

"He too, was safe, and we built a refuge on that island, and many came to us. We even had word from Gondolin, and I spent time working on seven ships that Turgon wished to send as messengers into the West. But they never came back, and all were lost, save only one - but it was years before I heard of that once more."

Baindir spoke on, telling the story of the fall of Gondolin and the War of Wrath, and Ninnachel lay listening, watching the play of light and shadow in the room, gently tensing and relaxing the muscles of their body, testing that they were as remembered. Sensation and feeling came back slowly, but surely, and with it came back fire and desire, sparking down their skin, warming them all through. Ninnachel held Baindir's hand carefully, and even this simple touch was now made all of sweet fire, sweeping through them.

"How long have you been without me?" Ninnachael asked at last, when Baindir paused.

"Nearly two hundred years," Baindir replied with a sigh and a look of adoration.

"And here, in this room, are we truly alone?" Ninnachel said, a small mischievous smile playing about their lips.

"Yes, we are," Baindir said. "You are given the time you need to come back into yourself, and I was told that this might take some hours. But you woke only moments after I came in."

Ninnachel laughed softly. "So here I am, and here you are, and we have been apart for far too long, so the only question that remains is: why are you still wearing clothes?"

------

Some while later, Ninnachel sat looking out of the window, wrapped in the blanket, Baindir lying next to them on the bed, thoroughly worn out. The window showed a vision of trees waving in the breeze, and beyond, a wide golden plain, faint blue hills far away, and beyond that the setting sun, lighting up the sky with red and gold. In the distance a lake shone, reflecting the colours of the clouds.

"It reminds me of Lake Mithrim," Ninnachel said, turning back to Baindir. "Our first meeting, when I was grieving the loss of my sister on the Ice, exhausted and weary, and you stood there by the shore at sunset, the light of it caught in your hair. My heart went out of me then."

"I remember," Baindir said. "We could not speak each other's tongue at first, but I could not turn away from the light in your eyes." He smiled, tracing a scar on Ninnachel's shoulder with one hand. "And then we taught each other our languages, and we've been teaching each other about our tongues ever since."

Ninnachel shot him a grin. "I recall that the first phrase I taught you in Quenya was Vanifinde, nai puksengwe! Let no one ever say I am not straightforward, beloved."

"No one would ever dare, Ninnia," Baindir laughed.

Ninnachel looked out the window for another long moment. "I am ready," they said at last. "Take me back out into the world, beloved."

Chapter End Notes

Vanifinde, nai puksengwe? means 'Nice hair, wanna fuck?' (lit. 'fair-hair, wish fuck-we?') Surely the Elvish equivalent of 'nice boots, wanna fuck'?

Table of Contents | Leave a Comment