The Small and Secret Things by Dawn Felagund

*Persuasion in Three Drops

Morgoth attempts to persuade Maedhros into encouraging his brothers' surrender. Please be forewarned that this piece contains torture and violence, nothing graphic, but possibly bothersome to some readers.

This piece is a drabunculus. As far as I know, I invented the drabunculus form; at the very least, I invented the name drabunculus. Drabunculus is like homunculus: It is a single drabble with drabbles inside of it. In this particular piece, each number of the count (One, Two, Three) marks the start of a new drabble, a new introspection from Nelyo. The "container" of these three drabbles is also a drabble, bringing the word count for the piece to exactly 400 words.

It's not a particularly easy form to write, and I always swear that each drabunculus will be my last. But the form seemed well suited for this particular piece, so I brought it out again.

This is going to be the last, though. ;)

Yanked up by his hair, Nelyo tries to draw a desperate breath but only gags.

Water plinks from the stalactite.

One.

It remains a possibility, bringing his brothers to the gates of Angband. Not to save him, of course, but what he could impart--in secret, naturally--might spell Morgoth's undoing. He sees them coming as he had done, ready to fall on knees. Eyes lowered. Submissive. Swords sheathed at the back, out of sight.

It could be Morgoth's undoing.

And where he was naïve, they are now wiser. He has been here for ten years by the marks inside his cell. Ten years of starvation, whipping. Face submerged in this brackish pool until he was sure he would die.

"You know the routine," comes a cold voice behind him.

A drop quavers from the stalactite.

Two.

Not even possible, he thinks. Advisable.

The water is webbed with spit and snot, for he is never resigned to drowning, even when forced underwater, hands bound, by Morgoth's strongest captain.

He imagines the white flag against the star-studded sky. Macalaurë's damp eyes, lowered in shame, and Morgoth's captain--this wretched beast that holds Nelyo now, counting drops from the stalactite, three until he is submerged again--with a dagger slipped inside his ribcage, piercing his wizened heart.

A battle cry drowning for once the tormented screams within Angband.

Yes, he thinks, the final droplet awaiting its fall. Advisable.

"This could end."

Nelyo sees in the periphery of his vision a parchment, awaiting his signature. Bringing his brothers to surrender.

Three.

But there is another thing, a vision unbidden that dampens hope. He sees his brothers inside the fortress. He has "escaped" enough times to know that enchantments confound its labyrinthine hallways. He hears their hopeless cries swallowed by the hungry black rock.

And Macalaurë, his brother, made to watch, to agree to some other indignity else another blade will be placed in his brother's body. Which one? Telvo, probably, Macalaurë's favorite. Nelyo is dead. Telvo's death will be slow, Morgoth promises. Like Nelyo's. Trailing an icy blade along the trembling inside of Telvo's thigh, a cold voice reminding Macalaurë,

"Only you can end it. Only the king."

There is water his lungs yet. He chokes upon the words he wishes to say.

The parchment, too large in the edge of his sight, awaiting signature.

"No."

The roar of water fills his ears.

Chapter End Notes

Today's Word:

brackish BRAK-ish, adjective:

1. Somewhat salty.
2. Distasteful; unpalatable.

Brackish derives from Dutch brak, "salty." It is especially used to describe a mixture of seawater and fresh water.