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Osse's post - Carthor: Finis
The screech of wood wrenched Carthor violently from sleep. The white light that had spilled through the windows was gone, replaced by a quelling grey darkness. Carthor stood, and peered out of the window above his grey-clad head. The sun outside was hidden behind angry masses of black cloud. Riding down on the howling north wind came swords of sleeting rain. The ship lurched sideways, as if Ossë himself had thrust it away. Carthor was thrown bodily across the deck, sliding against the grey wall of the cabin. Great waves beat against the glass windows, like savage hounds bashing at the door of cot, their braying voices rising in tumult.
The elven ship was dashed time and again by the great waves, bounding like a wayward pup from one iron embrace to another. The north wind screamed, whistling through the ship’s ragged rigging like a wraith. Suddenly, from the north, came a wave, greater and more towering than any other. The grey ship was sucked up its towering side, and lingered at its point for what seemed an eternity. The great wave surged forward, carrying the elven ship like an autumn leaf. White ice rose to greet the wave, and the water beat upon the grey ship. As Aulë’s hammer smites his great anvil, Cirdan’s ship smote against the hard surface of the ice tower.
Icy water rushed into Carthor’s screaming mouth, running in torrents into his bellowing lungs. Darkness engulfed him as he somersaulted through the watery void. He could feel wood falling around him, sweeping down in lazy arcs. His mouth opened, gasping for breath. Salt water rolled, like thundering horses, down his throat. His mind was burning with a soft light as images of faces and people mingled with the darkness. Carthor tumbled through the icy water, like the disjointed thoughts tumbling through his starved mind. Carthor could see it himself: a great candle, burning, giving off a soft yellow light. The wick hovered above the pools of hot wax below, dancing, loitering. Carthor stared at the candle, watching, waiting for the moment, waiting for the wick to finally reach its end: it had been burning low for a long time.
The flame flickered, before burning brighter, as if in defiance. Carthor stared. The wick licked the pool of wax, its flame teetering. Time seemed to slow, the flame stood still and erect. It hissed, sighing, released at last. And was gone.
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