The Book of Short Tales by Lyra

*B2MEM '11 - March 11th - Seven Sacrifices

Written for the B2MeM challenge for Himring: Write a story or poem or create artwork where characters make sacrifices in order to achieve their goals.

Maedhros sees his life flash before his eyes. Seven drabbles (as counted by Open Office Writer) on the sacrifices demanded by the quest for the Silmarils.

*This chapter rated "Adult" for mature themes, mention of violence, torture and suicide.

Seven Sacrifices

The first thing he sacrificed was his bright-eyed idealism, the conviction that they could do no wrong, inspired by passion and following the relentless beacon of their leader. It bled, fell, died on the lamp-lit quays of Alqualondë, drowned in the blood-choked waters, sizzled and burned with the ships in Losgar.
His inability to influence what was happening; his refusal to comply. The look of disbelieving shock, then of betrayal, in his father's eyes; the same look he imagined, across the churning sea, on Findekáno's face.
Still, they marched on, lest their deeds turn meaningless. What else could they do?

*

The second thing he sacrificed was the faith in his invulnerability, the innocent belief that he could not possibly come to harm, armour-protected and driven by a righteous Oath. It starved on the dark and hostile shore, bled and burned as his father died, suffered and screamed in the dungeons of Angamando.
His helplessness in the face of nature and death and torment; his refusal to accept defeat. The ceaseless agony as the years crawled by, his brothers' inability to save him; the vain hopes, the curses, the prayers for death.
Still, he hung on. What else could he do?

*

The third thing he sacrificed was his pride, the stubborn insistence that he needed no help, was self-sufficient, dignified, in control. It was torn by nightmares and overpowering memory, sabotaged by his wrecked body; it wept in Findekáno's arms and cowered while he yelled his suffering, his helpless fury at his brothers, at the walls, at the unhearing Valar.
The horror and pain as Findekáno cut his flesh, the tedious process of recovery, the black fear that he would never feel useful again, the self-pity. Finally, the small joys when strength and competence and self-control returned.
And he lived on.

*

The fourth thing he sacrificed was his birthright, the leadership of the Noldor, a matter of such contention and animosity. It was drowned in the sour wine of Hisilomë, strangled in the embraces of his cousins, stamped down in dance, exchanged for forgiveness.
The joyful look in Nolofinwë's eyes, the dissolution of hostility; the vague surprise how easy he found it to let go of the crown, for all his brothers' angry protests. His priorities were clear: He had never sworn to be king.
Their people reunited, their battle-strength tripled, the next campaign a grand success: So they fought on.

*

The fifth thing he sacrificed was his impatience, the desire to reach the end of the quest, to lead a life self-determined and ungoverned by threats or oaths. It was worn down by regular attacks on his lands and by periods of semi-peace, silenced by the clash of sword on sword or hammer upon anvil.
The turn of season after season after season, meaningless arguments and celebrations, the various small victories and defeats, the stroke of dispossession; the tears spilt as his uncle died, cousins, brothers, and still no end in sight.
He moved on. What else could he do?

*

The sixth thing he sacrificed was the last claim to decency, the naïve conviction that Alqualondë had been a unique occurence, a lapse that couldn't – wouldn't – recur. It drowned in streams of blood spilt in Doriath, at the Havens of Sirion; died alongside Elvish warriors, craftsmen, merchants, children.
The disbelief at what he was doing; the shock of betrayal, the self-hate at the mere sight of the dark-haired twins, his last followers' unease. Eönwë's unease, even. The empty promises: There could be no forgiveness now. He would not forgive himself.
For the last time, he had gone on.

*

The scenes flash before his eyes as he falls, half his mind turned to the past and half to the unavoidable present. The fall seems to stretch endlessly, offering time aplenty to review his life while the Silmaril scorches him, while vapours and wind make his eyes water. There is time to regret abandoning Macalaurë. There is time for elation at this final sacrifice. There may be no forgiveness, but there will be an end. Maybe punishment; maybe rest; maybe nothing. And the Oath is fulfilled.
The chasm gapes, the flames swallow him; and he must go on no longer.