Oh where is the sun by AdmirableMonster

Oh where is the sun

Lilóteo is waiting to die.  Well, technically he’s waiting to be tortured and then die, which is worse.  He has seen what becomes of the sacrifices in the Black Temple, beneath the terribly skillful hands of its High Priest.

The High Priest could have been a surgeon, Lilóteo thinks wearily.  Perhaps, in another life, he was.  It would explain the miraculous steadiness of those hands; it would explain the way he never reacts to the sounds of pain or the more grotesque ways bodies move and secrete and expel under extremis.

There is a small window in the stone wall, and he can peer out of it if he stands on the tips of his toes and wraps his hands around the old bars, slick with some gelatinous lichen or plant matter.  From here, he can see the darkening of the sky above the steel warships clustering in the harbor.  They will sail, soon, but Lilóteo finds it likely he will be dead before they reach their destination.  Probably for the best.  If Valinor even exists, it’s unlikely to take kindly to an invasion.  Either the Empire will fall, or—possibly worse, he thinks clinically—it will not fall.  He should never have bent his formidable mind towards helping it.  This is, perhaps, the justest reward he could be receiving.

“Hello,” says a young voice behind him, and he turns in confusion to see a small girl standing just in front of the sturdy, locked door. Her straight white tunic is unmarked by dirt or mud, and he feels a chill run down his spine as he realizes that the rich red embroidery running along its base is a pattern he has not seen since he left the enclave.

“How did you get in here?” he asks her, though he already suspects that he is feverish.  He has a dry cough that has been worsening for several days, and his lungs have never been strong.

She shrugs.  “I don’t seem to have much trouble getting in anywhere,” she says, almost apologetically.  “I just came because—well, you seemed sad.”

He chokes out a half laugh.  “I guess that’s a way to put it.”  In case she’s not a figment of his imagination, he adds, “You should leave.  This isn’t a good place for a child.”

“I don’t think it’s a good place for anyone.”  She walks easily across the room, and he notes that her feet leave no marks on the wet stone, but he feels her small hand when she places it on his arm.  “Except maybe the spiders.  Look!”  He follows her pointing finger up to the corner of the cell, where a large spider is sitting in its web.  He has been avoiding it: it is nearly the size of his palm, yellow and black striped with an abdomen marked with a bloody scarlet.  “She won’t hurt you,” the girl says.  “Some things that look like spiders can be cruel, but the real spiders don’t like them very much, I think.”

He feels obscurely guilty as the girl slips her hand into his. “You really need to leave,” he says, roughly.  To his shock, he feels tears gathering in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.  “Whoever you are, you’re not a spider.  You need to get out of here.”

“Anthus,” she says, gently, and he startles, not quite pulling back. He has not heard that name in many years.

“Do I know you?”

“I know you.”  She smiles.  “You’re no wickeder than the real spiders, Anthus.  I don’t think you should be telling yourself that you are.”

“I helped that empire,” he coughs out bitterly.  “I built them weapons and healed the wounds of their soldiers.  They build their metal and steel upon the bones of my ancestors.  And, fuck, as much as I’ve never really fit in with the people who birthed me, they don’t deserve that.”

“I forgive you,” the little girl says, and he flinches as if he’s touched a hot coal.  “I think that’s easier for me these days, though.  Especially when it’s someone who tries his best?”

“I don’t,” he mutters.  “I can’t.  I—”

“I have a secret to tell you,” whispers the little girl, giggling in a way that seems kind and not cruel, though her dark eyes seem old and hollow in her young face.  “You are not going to die today.”

“What.”

“It’s not going to be pleasant.  I won’t lie to you, I wouldn’t have liked it if people had lied to me about it either.  It’s going to be really awful.  But you’re not going to die.”

There is a darkness hanging about her—not an evil darkness, merely a shadow, a strange absence of light.  He wonders how his mind has conjured up such a peculiarly non-threatening kind of feverish aberration.  He laughs, short and rough.

“I’m not here for you,” she says.  “And I don’t think the person I am here for is going to come with me yet.  It would be better if he did, but it would be hard because of how he’s made, and he’s hurting very badly.  But I came because I want him to have the choice anyway.”

“Who…?” He means to ask who she is, but the question hangs unfinished in the air between them.

“His name was Mairon, once.” 

The Admirable One, in the banned language of the Elves.  Another man who has left behind his name, then, and perhaps his truth.  Lilóteo shudders violently, and all of a sudden, he cannot keep to his feet, and he sinks down with a groan, his head spinning.

“You’re going to be all right,” she whispers, and he feels the scratch  of little feet touching his head, strangely not disquieting.  “See, she’ll watch over you until they take you, because I have to go.  You can be brave.”

It’s not a question.  It’s a statement spoken with such childish faith that he finds himself believing it as a matter of course.  For just one small moment, in between the twisting fear, he finds himself hoping.

When he opens his eyes, the girl is gone.