The taste of sulphur by Harnatano - Lithenna

Chapter 1

Last update: august,28, 2017

Read Chapter 1

He climbed up the stairs, heedless of the voices behind him, heedless of the wound left by the arrow in his thigh, heedless of the many sounds which buzzed in his ears. Far above, the sky was already glimmering with many a star but most of them were hidden, covered by a darkening cloud which seemed to expend its shadow, a heavy and stinky shadow pouring from the North. “My lord!” cried the voices. “you should lie down and rest! – please Lord Curufin.” He could not care less. Even his son’s words, although they still swirled in his mind, would not stop him. “Do not be so inconsiderate father!”

This was not being inconsiderate. On the contrary, thought Curufinwë, this is exactly what consideration is. Or should be.

Step after step, he climbed, and the tower, this tower which had been built under his command on the eastern bank of the Aros, this very tower of which he knew every stone, every arrow slit, every door, every lock and hinge, this tower, on this very night, seemed higher than ever. How many steps? Curufinwë used to know, but now his mind was lost in a dizziness which he did not manage to control. And this was precisely why he still had to climb, to reach this guard room on the top of it.

Where was Turcafinwë? They had parted a few days before, and with his riders Tyelkormo had ridden to Aglon. But no tidings had been sent although he was supposed to keep him informed. It had been agreed; messengers should be constantly trading the roads between the ford and the pass.

As he walked up what seemed to be an endless path to the decisive spot, to the decisive moment, the foul taste of orkish blood rolled in the back of his mouth, and forced him to stop for a little time. He felt sick. His whole body seemed to protest the effort, and it seemed that all that he had been through during the past two days were gathering in his stomach, memories of blood and death and curses piling in the pit of it, and from this pile, bile and gore were gushing. Poisonous assaults of memories and regrets. He had thought he was prepared.

None of them was.

The fit did not last, and soon after he was running up again, discarding the bloody images, vainly trying to ignore the pain of remorse.

How many dead already?

How many more to come?

And still the ominous stench pouring from the North.

It had first struck him at the beginning of the raid, as a foretelling of the blow which was about to fall. And his own hammer would not have fallen with less strength on the anvil. But now, the anvil in question whas that of his fate, of his people’s fate, and he was not holding it.

Sulphur and death. Rotten flesh mixed with the foul odour of the enemy’s acid will.

It had been supposed to be no more than a raid against the fell creatures creeping into Himlad. No more than a hunt, as they often did, when these demons managed to find a way to their land. His thirty riders should have been enough.

 Only he and two of them had returned.

Breathless, Curufinwë kept on climbing, and it is only when he finally reached the top that he realized that his whole thigh was red, blood dripping from the wound at which he dared not look; the best was yet to ignore it, but on the steps beneath him, he had left the mark of his desperate climbing, red footprints still wet and sticky, as reminders imbued with the poison of his shame.

He locked himself in the guard room, and before he allowed himself to rest, he rushed to the northern arrow slit and gazed at the land. Above the mountains, the clouds had darkened and they were now reaching Himlad. It was worse on the east, and from the top of this tower Curufinwë could already see the glimmers of firelights. Should the sun rise again, it would be on the most desperate scene, and somehow Curufinwë hoped that the night would linger, and that the cloud would keep Tilion blind until the end of the tragedy.

His eldarin eyes allowed Curufinwë to notice the presence of shadows on the faraway grass, like ants queuing to grab the scraps of a feast, they were gathering on his lands.

He needed no more hint. He knew.

The siege had been broken.

The hammer had fallen, and the doom of his people would be sealed ere the end of the night.

Swallowing back all curses and regrets, he finally rested against the cold wall, allowing his back to push against the stone and his head to fall back and hit their rough surface. Closed eyes, tensed jaws and stiff muscles, his body was but a jumble of tensions. The flesh was sore, the tendrils were burning and the bones rotten. The long years of fighting, of protesting, of defending and repressing. All of them were now falling upon him like rain suddenly pouring after a long and scalding heat wave. All these years and all these efforts swept off in a few hours.

Desperation. Subjugation. And loss.

There was no tear in Curufinwë’s eyes., his despair could not be expressed by tears, nor by any common way. His body was a rock, his mind was a wall of granite upon which he would carve his own curse, his shame, his folly. And it would stand until the fierce gales of despondency knock it down.

How long will it take now?

And yet, he had expected it. The past years had been rich in warnings, and the ill-omens had increased, sharpening his reason as much as his blade. It was no real surprise.

He had thought himself ready.

How could it be?

"Tears unnumbered ye shall shed…”

A cry broke pass his lips. Repressed for too long, it was not yet full, nor liberating. He was still holding back the essence of his angst, and his tensed body could not give more than a faint groan blocked by a sore throat.

He wished he could think of his father, of what his father would do, but thinking about Fëanor now was more than he could do. It was not only shame, not only the impossibility to live up to his memory. There was also a veil, woven by blood and futile attempts, by foolish hopes and shadows, which prevented him from reaching the tokens of his father’s memory. The heirlooms remained hidden to him.

Suddenly the door opened and Tyelperinquar’s tall frame appeared before him. “We received tidings from the Pass.” He said, barely noticing his father’s poor state. “Tyelkormo’s messenger reports that the siege is broken, thousands of orcs are forcing their way into Himlad!”

“I know.”

It is only when he heard his father’s voice that Tyelperinquar understood. “Oh, father…” He murmured, stepping closer, one hand carefully reaching out as to prevent any outburst.

“No.” Said Curufinwë, and the word, and the tone of the voice forced Tyelperinquar to stop. His father stared at the stretched-out hand, still hanging in the air between the two of them; a call, an offer, which he was not yet ready to respond to. “I seek neither your pity, nor your commiseration.”

Tyelperinquar did not blink, nor did he removed his hand which was still hanging in suspension, immobile and stiff, determined and yet not threatening. “I offer you no pity, father.” Tyelperinquar’s voice was as stern as his father’s. “But what do you think of solace?”

Curufinwë beheld his son’s eyes, the strength of them, the purity of their power, and he surrendered. His head dropped, his body fell limp, and slipped on the cold floor. In this very moment, Tyelperinquar quickly stepped closer and before Curufinwë’s body reached the floor, his son’s hands were on his shoulders. “You’re wounded. If you want to protect Himlad, you must accept to be cared for. If only for a little time.”

“There is no time.”

“With all due respect, father, shut up.” And before Curufinwë could react, Tyelperinquar was drawing from a purse all that his father’s wound required. Compresses, bandages, a flask of fresh water, needles and threads. The wound looked bad, but Tyelperinquar was hopeful and he promised a quick remission. The bitterness in Curufinwë’s heart broke out through a few acerbic chuckles, to which his son responded with a severe look. “Please, father, I perceive your acrimony, but we must not fall into this trap – this is exactly what the enemy wants, is it not? We must not give up.”

“Who said I intended to give up?”

Once the wound was cleaned and the stitches done, Tyelperinquar’s face relaxed, and the smile which he gave to his father was beaming with a gentle composure. Despite the tumult which was awaiting them, despite the shadow which was slowly creeping toward the tower, and the many threats which they had to face, he seemed calm, so calm that Curufinwë found himself confused and speechless.

“If you have not given, up, father, why would you linger here, sitting in the dark while your troops fight for you outside?”

Still speechless, Curufinwë realised that he could not answer the question. What had driven him up there was the urge to witness, to see, and to ponder the dramatic situation. But the reality of it had struck him with so much intensity that his fit had quickly turned into a despaired hysteria, an overwhelming force filling him with this cursed shame, with untameable fears, and unconsciously he had let the shadow reach his own heart. Hence the lethargy, the incoherent paralysis which had kept him locked in this room while they were all counting on him.

“Father… do you remember what you told me ere we came to Himlad? When fear and terror had their claws on me?”

He remembered, but he did not reply, locked in his shameful silence.

“You told me that hope was not only our main duty, but also our best weapon. And I shall never forget it.” With these words, Tyelperinquar stood up and grabbed his father’s arm to help him get on his feet. Curufinwë followed and much to his surprise, this simple movement seemed to pull him away from the gloomy fog in which he had been tarrying. Tyelperinquar took this opportunity to put a hand on his father’s back, dragging him closer and keeping him there for a little time. Curufinwë first marveled at the strength of his son, which had so greatly increased during the past years, and which he had barely noticed. Then, it was the intensity of the embrace which surprised him; it lasted long enough for him to feel that the bound between them had not broken, and through this intimate moment, through this precious exchange of affection and trust, it seemed to him that his mind, his sanity, which had remained with the dead riders left on the battlefield, was slowly returning to him. His power grew anew, afresh, sparks of genuine hope kindled by the breath of his son, determination and a decisive force triggered off by his son’s heartbeats. And when, after a few seconds only, Tyelperinquar pulled away, his father gripped his arm to keep him close a little bit longer.

They both knew it was the calm before the storm, but they also knew that beyond the door, darkness awaited them. What would befall them, they ignored, but they both acknowledged two things; the first one was that this moment could be the last one they spent together, alive, in Himlad. The second one was that there was no horror, no threat, no dark power which would ever break the thread of love between the father and the son. And if they both needed each other and relied on each other, it was precisely to challenge the doom which lay before them.