The Coming Flood by Luxa

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Chapter 1

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She did not put on shoes before she stepped out her front door. The sky was dark, the clouds bloated with rain as the downpour continued. The raindrops came down so fast and thick that they hurt as they hit Amarië’s arms and legs. The water soaked her dress and soon her hair was dripping, her eyes fluttering shut for seconds at a time as she braved the skies. She needed to see it for herself. She needed to witness this; nothing would stop her from doing this one thing.

“I didn’t know if you would come.”

The words were spoken so softly Amarië had to strain to hear them.

“Elenwë,” she said, the word choking out of her throat. “Are we the only ones?”

“The rest are in the procession,” she said. “That, or the rain has driven them in.”

“I don’t think it’s the rain,” Amarië said softly. It wasn’t like there were many left.

They held hands as they walked to the road. They had found comfort in each other in the long years of nothing but empty houses. At first waking up with another in her bed was all she wanted, but things had changed. She could not lose Elenwë the way she had lost her first other half.

The rain splashed with every step, running down the path and into the drains on the side of the road, curving around her feet with grace only to disappear into the sewers. Amarië’s fingers gripped Elenwë’s palm tightly as they approached the side of the street.

“They’ve confirmed his death?” asked Elenwë. Amarië wondered if she spoke so quietly all the time because she wanted to or she was afraid they would hear.

The battles had gone on for so long. The Host of Fëanor had never made it off their little isle of paradise. Now they knew none of them ever would, not with the Valar crushing any attempt into fine dust.

“He died early,” she said flatly. “Bravely. He fought many hounds of Oromë in single combat. Findaráto will be remembered.”

“He escaped the worst of it, then,” Elenwë replied, eyes trained on the entrance to their street, the looming mansions their only company. The great empty marble buildings only served to remind them of what they had lost when Fëanor had rebelled and the Valar had revealed themselves.

“I’m sorry,” said Amarië, because what else could you say to someone whose husband and daughter had not escaped the worst of it?

Elenwë looked like she was going to say something, her mouth parted as she hesitated, when the horns blew. The procession was beginning.

The first black car to turn onto their street was Eönwë’s. One of his hands was on the wheel, one on the horn he had grown so skilled in. Tulkas strode next to him, eyes roving, fists clenched. There was no merriment on his ruddy cheeks, no laughter, only a quiet fury. He was not here to mourn.

Following Eönwë’s car were the hearses. Dozens of them, all packed into a single line as Eönwë led them. Amarië watched, face expressionless, and wondered which of the coffins held Findaráto’s mangled corpse within.

“Why did he have to do it?” she whispered, a warm wind failing to blow her sodden dress in even the smallest way. “Why did Fëanor have to make all the good in the world go away?”

“He didn’t do it,” came the reply. “All he wanted to do is leave. The ugliness in this world did not come from him.”

“If he hadn’t tried to leave, we would still think the world of them,” she said. “We would live in peace and things would be okay.”

“It is not that he tried to leave,” said Elenwë. “It is that they tried to stop him.”

Amarië didn’t respond. Elenwë was right, even if her chest ached.

Elenwë had tried to fight in the beginning, had stockpiled as many weapons as her husband, had said her goodbyes in the night like so many. She had been nearly killed (shot in the chest, her clothes stained with so much blood Amarië had thought there was no hope) in the first fight, and it was Amarië who had nursed her back to health, hid any evidence of her involvement. And when she had recovered, there was nothing left.

So many of these corpses, these people they had once known and loved and laughed with, had all died years ago now, why force a procession on them? Why drag their bodies into coffins as though the Valar respected the fallen?

They stood and watched for hours, the rain never letting up for a moment, and she had her answer. There was a break in the identical hearses, of body after body of people she had known and loved and mourned. She heard Elenwë inhale sharply when she saw it.

It was a badly altered parade float, hastily draped with black sheets and being pulled by Nessa in a muted gray truck (Nessa no longer danced, not ever, and Amarië would wonder at that if she cared). But it was not the driver or the float that drew her interest, it was the people standing on it.

“Survivors,” said Elenwë, voice cracking halfway through the word. She reached out and gripped Amarië’s forearm so tightly the blood flow would be cut off soon.

They were at the other end of the street. They did not run to meet the float, but waited, eyes trained on the two figures. If it were Artanis she didn’t know what she would do (they’d said she’d escaped, she’d made it out when so few had, fire in her eyes after the death of a man she’d loved).

It wasn’t Artanis.

“Sing,” came a command from out of sight, and one of the figures lifted their bowed head and began to belt out a haunting tune, their lungs powerful enough that they drowned out the rain. The sound chilled Amarië more than any storm clouds ever could. She knew that voice, had been to every concert he’d ever performed, had cheered and applauded with everyone else at the genius of the second son of Fëanor.

“Oh, Macalaurë,” she murmured. “What have they done to you?”

He sang of his pain, of the loss of his brothers, of running and hiding for decades in derelict buildings and shootouts in the wild. He sang of betrayal and loss and fear, of huddling in the cold from the ones you’d thought to be your protectors, of the sin of being a Noldo in dark days. It was his masterpiece, she knew, and that hurt.

The procession was now close enough that they could see the other Elf on the float. He was kneeling, eyes trained on the ground. She could see the matted red hair even from a distance.

“No,” Elenwë whispered. “Have they no kindness? Was it all a lie? Always?”

They had captured Maitimo early on, plastering posters of his torments around the cities to remind them why they should never attempt a rebellion; it backfired on them when he was saved by poor, valiant Findekáno (he had paid dearly for that action, Amarië knew). Months of propaganda rendered useless, or worse, showing those not fighting that there was hope.

As Amarië watched Maitimo struggling against the chains with broken keening cries, she knew that that was not true. There was no hope.

The float was nearing them now. Macalaurë was still singing, wasting no energy by looking over at them. Maitimo raised his gaze to meet their eyes. Their minds connected, if only for a moment, and the overwhelming pain she met there threatened to topple her. It was as if his very core was screaming for mercy.

He said something, and while they were too far to hear what he said, they could read his lips. Please, he begged, his faced scarred, hand missing, chains chafing. Please, help us.

He looked away then. Amarië lifted a shaking hand to her face to cover her mouth only to find her face streaked with tears. He needed them. They both needed Amarië and Elenwë, the last two, the watchers, the mourners of a fallen people (not fallen but crushed under an unforgiving heel).

The float was soon out of sight. Macalaurë’s haunting song continued and her tears kept falling.

The song only stopped when the head of the Valar appeared. Amarië’s hand found Elenwë’s and they gripped each other in fear, Amarië’s heart racing.

Manwë still wore the blues and grays of the winds, still carried his scepter, but he no longer walked with his wife. When Varda had rebelled her husband of all eternity had given her the kindness of a private execution.

His grey eyes watched them as he led the back of the procession, eagles screeching as they circled him from far above. Her eyes were drawn to the white crown he wore, the Silmarils shining from three perfectly carved slots as though they were meant to sit on that head. He did not speak a word to them as he passed, no words of praise or hate, nothing, leaving behind a sense of unease and the sight of the great gems burned into their minds.

Elenwë turned Amarië’s head towards her, wiping the tears off her face.

“It’s raining,” she whispered. “There’s no point.”

Elenwë leaned down and pressed her lips to Amarië’s. It was familiar. It hurt. It was hard to turn away from the street, but they did it.

“We have to help them,” said Amarië.

“And how do we do that?” said Elenwë, who sounded so tired, as if she knew the inevitable was finally here, like she could see her own death in her future. Perhaps she could.

They walked towards the mansion they pretended they didn’t share and Amarië said in a whisper (but it didn’t feel like one, it felt like she was screaming it to the clouded sky), “We find Moringotto.”

The rain didn’t stop for days, but that was okay. Perhaps the coming flood would wash the Valars’ sins away.