The King Thrall by Gabriel

Chapter 1

This was beta’d by the lovely Narya.

There was a chill to the brisk sea breeze that gusted in off the Belegaer, playfully lifting Eärwen’s silver hair and blowing it across her face. The day had a heaviness to it like some impending doom lay just around the corner. She shivered involuntarily, she wasn’t sure whether it was from the breeze or from the feeling hanging in the air, like a thick choking mist. She stood with anticipation looking north at the roiling cloud-clad sky and watching what was left of the Noldorin, Falathrim, and Human host that had stormed Morgoth’s fortress, with fierce resolve, a year ago, slowly filter into the encampment. 

She watched as healers rushed forward to aid those injured and to whisk them off to the Healing pavilions. Many of the elves, men and women trudging back into the encampment, looked decidedly older than when they had left. Some had this mien about them of someone who had been to hell and back and were forever changed. 

Eärwen scanned the remains of the host with an expression of utter anguish. So few had returned. Of course she had expected casualties, but this was so disheartening. Her beloved husband had been at the fore-front of that host, when they had set forth for Angband, along with High King Gil-galad, and Lords Celebrimbor, Cirdan, Celeborn and very many more Maiar and Valar. Now a ripple of fear threatened to steal what little joy she had at their return, wondering if her husband was among the dead. 

She spotted a human woman with her arm heavily bandaged and her complexion ashen and rushed forward to catch her before she crumpled to the ground. The young woman gave her a ghost of a smile, “Thank you, my lady,” she managed feebly. 

“It’s the least I can do, my dear,” Eärwen replied, patting her hand and returning her smile with a hopeful one of her own before the woman was guided into the capable hands of an elven healer. 

Then she spotted him, their eyes met across the encampment. Her heart leaped, but her joy at seeing him alive was short-lived as she noticed how tired and drawn his features were. His sky blue eyes, which were normally dancing with light, were clouded with sorrow. His magnificent face was smeared with soot and black blood and his gold leonine maine looked brown with filth. All she wanted was to embrace him, to feel the strength of his body against hers and to banish 
the despair from his eyes, but all this, she knew, would have to wait as she realised he and Gil-galad were half dragging some poor soul between them, who could barely stand. He was emaciated and hunched over, his clothing in tatters, his skin marked with scars and blackened with filth and his long black hair with streaks of silver, hung limply about his face and shoulders. She couldn’t help but stare. Must be one of the thralls, she surmised, her features softening with compassion.

The elf suddenly faltered, seeming to trip on something invisible, his legs giving way under him and he crumpled like a stack of sticks, to the ground, dragging the two kings with him.

There was a cry from somewhere behind her and Anairë tore past. 

Eärwen stared after her friend, a pinch between her brow. What on Arda! She watched her sister in law and friend drop to her knees before the elf who was in a heap on the ground and realisation suddenly dawned. Earwën’s hand shot to her mouth and she gasped in shock and grief. It cannot be. Nolofinwë? Nolofinwë was alive!?

Her gaze shot to Arafinwë who was staring at her and although his expression appeared impassive she could tell he was just as anguished as she felt. There was something else in her husband’s eyes. Something that sparked and smouldered, and with every moment gathered strength and intensity. Arafinwë wasn’t one to become angered easily, unlike Feanáro. But when he was, it was an anger that could burn anything in its path, and this appeared to be one of those times.

Her husband reached and pressed a comforting hand to Anairë’s shoulder, squeezing it in quiet strength and support, as healers rushed forward to aid them. Eärwen too seemed to find her legs and dashed forward, the initial shock spurring her into action. 

Anairë’s hands were shaking and her eyes were burgeoning with tears, as she cupped her husband’s face. She smoothed her thumbs over his gaunt cheeks, as if to attempt to wipe away the effects his imprisonment had inflicted upon them.

Eärwen too was on her knees and slipping a consoling arm about her friend’s shoulders. Then something brilliant captured her gaze and she glanced up at a group of Maiar striding towards them their armor gleamed with that otherworldly look to it. There was another between them, a prisoner being escorted, chained by links of light. He caught her eye and smiled conceitedly as they passed.

Arafinwë moved then, giving over his brother’s well being to another and straightening, then striding forward, lips pressed together in a scowl, determination on his face, his jaw working. His hand moved with lightning speed to the hilt of his sword and the shrill shring of metal on metal rang through the air as he drew it from its scabbard. Light danced along the razor sharp edge as he pressed the tip of it against Morgoth’s lieutenant’s throat. 

A cry went up. Maiar stepped in front of him and elves moved swiftly surrounding Arafinwë, their swords trained on the Maiar, protecting and aiding their King. But the King didn’t care. He wanted to wipe the smug look off Mairon’s face, for the murder of his father and one brother, the imprisonment and torture of another and all the unnecessary and violent deaths of his sons, so very many nephews, and not forgetting his people, whether directly or indirectly.

Eönwë, with his immense mahogany coloured wings, the arches of which towered above his head and the tips of which dragged upon the ground, laid a firm, but reassuring hand on the king’s arm. “It is in hand, Arafinwë,” he said quietly, yet pointedly. But the king ignored him, instead adding more pressure to the point of his sword watching a rivulet of blood dribble down Mairon’s picture perfect neck. The Maia stared back at him expressionless yet eyes glittering a challenge. 

“No, my lord!” Arafinwë turned at the hand on his shoulder and Gil-galad standing a few paces away, looking every bit like his grandfather, which made the king’s heart stutter in his chest.
“Let him go, my lord. Enough blood has been spilt on his account.” As hard as it was to hear, Arafinwë knew he was right. He sighed resignedly, slowly dragging his gaze away from Gil-galad and back to Mairon and narrowing his gaze to run a critical eye over the Maia. After a moment Arafinwë steadily lowered his sword, allowing the Maiar to continue on, with the two High King’s standing together observing them as they disappeared beyond the pavilions.

Arafinwë turned back with concern, to his brother who was being carefully lifted to his feet and shuffled by one of his own men and a healer toward the healing rooms. He glanced back at his wife as she was helping Anairë to rise and a wordless understanding passed between them. There was nothing to say. Only when their duties were fulfilled would they have time for each other. He nodded imperceptibly in acknowledgement and strode off.