Súlimëo Quentar: March Stories by Elleth

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Baptising Fire

During the War of Wrath, the first bearer of Narsil encounters his first enemy.

(Not for the arachnophobic or those disliking self-indulgent headcanon.) A series of drabbles according to Open Office.

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War dictates where they go, these times. The North is not safe, not even remotely, but winter and the wrecking of Beleriand have them writhing in desperate straits, half-starved like dogs, and so they strike for the straightest road to the Amanyar host, to scavenge in their one-time peers' wake. By their path, Himring rises, ruined, in the distance, but gives no appearances of falling.

"You built well," Maglor says, catching sight of his brother's erstwhile fortress, but Maedhros makes no reply in words. His eyes stay shadowed, with a hard edge around his mouth that speaks of a decision.

* * *

They delay. Needlessly, some say – the typical dissenters. If their comments passed unremarked before (by now the remaining Feanorians are nothing if not loyal to a fault), the time is desperate enough to send the loud-mouths away – only foraging, revealed after a heartbeat's horrid pause: Maedhros has a cruel streak – and a kind one, too. The gang of four, remarkable only in how they obey, decides for remembered patches of blackberry bushes, grumbling about the pointlessness of niceties when ordered to make for the keep at nightfall.

"Niceties, perhaps," Maedhros says, impatiently. "But food is hardly pointless."

* * *

Maedhros leads the rest to Himring.

Orcs garrisoned there, the town below is burned. But on the hill, grass grows high within the baileys, and any sign of enemies is decades old. The doors are rusting, still untouched. Perhaps the ghost of Maedhros out of Angband, who killed orcs with tooth and nail, still haunts these halls, protecting them.

No one is surprised to find Maedhros, the real one (and yet the same) still in possession of the keys. He has ever had trouble letting go of anything. They follow in, driving a host of memories like rats before them.

* * *

The young ones only, never having been there, sense adventure. Elros pushes forward with shining eyes, receiving permission to explore as long as he can promise care. Elrond is less eager – until they pass the library.

There is no holding him; he has read most books they still possess thrice over and rejoices in the opportunity. Maglor kindles him a fire for light to read by while Elrond scavenges the shelves. There is no need for a reminder, but Maglor is quick to dispense advice. "Leave the shutters closed, it would do well to keep our presence here unnoticed."

* * *

The rest of them spread out. Some make for the orchards and the granary. Maedhros, who took stock of the storage rooms (for old habits die hard), hefts a wheel of 90-year-old-cheese that is summarily pronounced inedible. The dissenters return with a bony hart, some hands of withered berries, wild onions. They cook broth. The earth shakes twice, the sun sets in the north, or else the land's aflame with war again. Maglor grows quiet, thinking of his wife, who died in such a night. Elrond comes skipping, bringing stacks of books.

Elros found the armoury. He comes bearing swords.
* * *

"Tell us of the swords," begs Elrond, a journal forgotten on his lap. The writing spikes across the page, broken by sketches – bones, wounds, herbs.

"In return for Idhlinn's journal," Maedhros decides, extending his hand. She died at Sirion, and Cuingail, who loved her, unrequited, looks up. He protested leaving the dead weight of her things – so they kept her journals; save this left at Himring when they fled. Elrond surrenders it, and listens.

"Telchar of Nogrod made these swords," Maedhros begins. "One has no name I know of, the other he called Narsil. Will you have them?"

* * *

The notes of protest are muffled only – no one wants to forage at night, even over this strange contradiction – the harmless books forbidden, the swords – possibly - allowed.

"May we, Father?"

Maglor knows a losing battle, nodding swiftly. "Be cautious, honour them, and use them only if you must. Swords are not toys, and they can kill. Now let Maedhros tell your story." He withdraws into thought again.

"Twin swords for twins, and yet both unalike," Maedhros says quietly, earning glances. Most days, his brother is the poet. He deals out the blades: Narsil first, to Elros.

* * *

The moment passes; not profound, not quite. Elrond receives the unnamed sword and goes about deciphering the cirth on pommel and on crossguard. "Telchar forged me under moon and star, in midwinter, north afar." There is a cold glint on the blade, but no name. "I'll leave it, till it earns one," he decides.

Elros, more rash, sits with a nicked finger dripping blood onto his blade. "Narsil is mine now," he declares, inviting frowns.

"Remember Gurthang," Asgarvain cautions. She goes on to speak of Túrin's black sword that slew its masters – twice. "Do not invite your Narsil's malice."

* * *

All tales told, all cautioned and decided – and in rare shelter, sated on thin broth – they go to sleep. All save the young ones, seeking ways to lie with the new sheaths in comfort. These are the first blades they own (though not the first they used) and they are to keep them at all times.

The next day, bleary, they strike north again, across Himlad that is torn and Aglon that is levelled. It is difficult to find their bearings, in the distance rolls the sea. And ere they are aware, the maze of once-Gorgoroth snares them.

* * *

There are strange airs that make them weary. Darkness, fog and shadows dog them, never quite grasp, but pass right through them with cold shudders. Unreal clouds loom over their heads, eyes are wide with remembered terrors. Elros thinks he hears his mother cry, a distant echo as nurse Meleth rushes them away. They rest early – needs must, though things click and skitter, shadows move of own accord. They can't lift their leaden limbs much longer.

Elrond, groping for courage, says to his brother: "Remember, Beren crossed this land once, and though he never told the tale, he lived."

* * *

Elros draws comfort from his brother's words, and sleep (or what passes for it in this land, for all that dream do toss and turn) eludes him entirely. He walks past the guards, who nod on first watch. Perhaps to numb terror, all three stink of miruvor; a pilfered flask in Caunaras' hand bears Himring's emblem.

At Elros' hip, his sword shines a pale red: In wonder he unsheathes Narsil, and only then notices the stifling darkness all about him – he's strayed to far, can't see a thing. Some web of shadow has him beating blindly at the air.

* * *

From outside he hears cries, too late – he can't break through, there's stench that chokes him – sharp like onions, but fouler, the pungence of decaying meat, of writhing things in shadows, under leaves, many-legged and deadly, intent on making his life their feast.

"No," says he, barely breathing, lifting Narsil – and remembers lessons, of all things in poetics; kennings for swords involving fire, flames, and light - Narsil flickers red. Something shifts above him, like a great vaulted roof, but pocked, alive, and creasing – and eight legs like pillars, or a cage. Ungoliant, he thinks, near-despairing.

* * *

No – did she not devour herself, so it's said? Some weaker spawn, but deadly still. His eyes swim and he stumbles – there's ground beneath his cheek, feet kick the air, he's already fallen. The sword still burns, a pale brand, fingers close back about it, the pricked one smarts, the wound re-opens, drops roll down the blade again.

And Elros understands: This sword will rejoice in blood, shear through foes, and this is not the greatest darkness it will face – and master, too. Fangs scissor, grasp, the spider has a head – he stings – and swoons.

* * *

Morning is dawning purple at the edges like a bruise, and light is a reluctant thing. They all cluster around Elros, journals open, seeking cures for spider-venoms, and Cuingail shakes his head. There's nothing there.

"We can but hope he wakes," they say to Elrond and to Maglor, holding each other as Fëanor did with his sons, a habit that hardly went acknowledged. Elrond tells the story of Lúthien recalling Beren to her side, and with the midday sun burning a hole into the clouds, Elros wakes, blearily, recalling very little. Narsil is put into his hand, and he smiles.

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Chapter End Notes

On the kennings of swords related to fire: This is a double pun, at least sort of. Tolkien originally intended Anduril (which just is Narsil reforged, after all) to be named Branding, after the poetic brand, an archaic term for sword, but with obviously fiery connotations and etymology. It also seemed fitting to translate, considering that most Elven swords seem to display a certain capacity for glowiness.

My headcanon is, of course, that Narsil used to be Elros' sword. I mean... how does a sword by a dwarf-smith who had dealings with the Fëanorians come into Elendil's possession? This is one possible way. And it's also a nice explanation why Elrond sheltered the shards, other than as an heirloom of Elendil's house.

Written for the following prompts:

B7: Artifacts: Narsil; Evil, Villains and Monsters: Shelob

N33: Artifacts: Gurthang; Here we come A-Caroling: "You would even say it glows..."; Economy: Infrastructure; Food and Drink: Miruvor; Four Words: gang, remarkable, blackberry, nicety; Smells: Onion

N31: Fëanátics: Fëanor hugged his kids; Horror: Darkness, fog and shadows; TV Tropes: Royals who actually do something; Waters: Clouds

I21: Colours: Purple; Genre1: Thriller; Smells: Meat