Brotherhood, A Story from the Last Alliance:RPG thread

[Daniel Telcontar]

Durelin's post, for Snyd:

"You must realise, none of us have planned to return."

Snyd shivered, roughly swallowing the dried venison he had so greedily grabbed, at the elf's words. There was no fear in his voice, no bitterness, and that was what caused the sickly cold that had ran down his back and his arms. He was sure that he felt the tingling of every hair standing on end. How anyone could be so ready to die was completely unimaginable to Snyd, as he had always valued his life so greatly. Survival had been what he planned his life around. Never had he been cautious, really, but he had also placed his well being above all else many years ago. And it still sat there, of course, governing his actions from the highest seat of his mind.

His mind raced now, fear pounding in his mind. Though his heart had certainly been pounding even before their elven ambushers had made their presence known, this fear was that which overcame a man faced with death. Overcame a man such as Snyd, at least, a man unlike those who sat around him.

Snyd swallowed the venison and choked as it scratched the back of his throat as the dried piece went slowly down. His wild coughing brought a hard slap from Jaheira. When the coughs finally subsided, when Snyd was able to determine that he was all right, he looked at the woman in wonder. He was a man unlike any person who sat around him; he had been mistaken. Jaheira's face was as grimly set as the elf's.

For at least the hundreth time in the past few minutes, Snyd found himself in wonder of people he thought he knew. These people were strangers; he had not traveled with them, fighting for survival, caring not about others, about this much talked about honor. He remembered watching the embrace of Jaheira and Vlad, and so remembered the one evil eye of Vlad staring him down when he sat too near her. He found himself looking for a way out. His eyes swept the surroundings, finding nothing but trees, seemingly filled with elves and men in armour, preparing for war. For war! They had to get out of here. He glanced at Vlad and Jaheira. He had to get out of here.

Snyd sat shivering for another moment, and then reached for more food. With a shaking hand it took him longer than expected to place some in his pockets and belt pouch discreetly. He looked once more to Vlad and Jaheira, and scanned those around him once more for any other familiar face. Finding none, his decision was made. Snyd rose, and staring into the one eye of Vlad, defiantly, holding the man's gaze longer than he had ever found the strength to hold it before, he ran.

"Stop him!" someone yelled, and Snyd pressed harder, then found himself searching for the belt knife they had taken as a hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the ground. Hitting the forest floor, he quickly scrambled away from his pursuer. But as the man rose from his own fall and turned to look down at Snyd, Snyd felt his mind seize again in fear, and so he lay paralyzed for what seemed too long a time for anyone to bear, hearing only his own breathing.

"Let him go," a voice said, calmly and sadly. So calmly that it took Snyd a moment to recognize the voice as belonging to Melost. He now had one thing to thank the elf for. It was unfortunate, and yet fortunate beyond comparison. Those three words became a command that must be obeyed, and immediately Snyd was able to rise only to turn and run, fear driving him with a steeled whip.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Daniel Telcontar's post for Khalad:


The young Númenorean held his left hand lightly on the hilt of his sword as they marched forward, a gesture intended to show how much at ease he was. And in truth it did to those who looked closely, for his hand shook slightly and had he spoken, it would have been in a similar manner. It was not because that they were marching towards a battle; he had fought enough times not to be affected by that anymore.

Nay, it was the knowledge of how close he was now to redemption. He had been promised that if he fought with valour today, he could return to Pelargir with his head held high and without feeling shame. Today was the day when he would forge legends and epic tales, he felt that in his heart. Switching from his left to his right hand upon the sword hilt, he heard the noise of the battle and as they walked up a little hill, the armies came into vision.

Thelian:
The joy that was supposed to follow with such a reunion that Thelian and Melost had experienced, did not linger. Thelian felt now only deep fear of what the battle would bring. So many dark words had been spoken that Thelian had begun to believe them, and a shadow of foreboding was upon him. Everything seemed an ill omen to him, the shrieking of a crow heralding doom in his ears.

His Elven blade was already unsheathed and rested nervously in his hand. Unlike Khalad, Thelian did not hide his anxiety for what the battle would bring. At last his mind found some peace in accepting that they were all in the hands of the Valar. Little could he do to affect what would happen in this epic battle, and he only hoped that his fate would ensure that he remained together with Melost. Narrowing his eyes he saw the fighting armies. The battle had begun.

[Amanaduial the archer]

In the lines of marching elves nestled a few mortal men. Look at one closely: his eyes dark and clear in the shadow of the helmet's tall arch, a plume of new, finely brushed horse hair falling in a dark fountain from the top, proclaiming him as a Captain, although the title was taken from him not long ago. Indeed, all of his armour seems so fine and polished that from afar at first glance, it would seem that it was a new set. But look closer now: nicks and scratches mark it's surface, even a dent here and there. And the man is not young; his armour has seen action before, evidently, and so has the man. As the scratches mark his armour, scars adorn his face and limbs, the most notable being the long white scar across one cheekbone, just underneath his eyes; these dark, almost navy eyes seem young, boyish even, but in them is a sorrow, fresh and clear; his palms are marked with calluses. This man is used to battle.

But this battle will be like none Arthain has ever fought before. This battle will be the last, he knows it in his head and in his heart, yet he shows no fear - his hands still, his eyes calm, his voice, as he calls to the soldiers behind him, steady. He is hundreds of years younger than some of these soldiers, and his reputation does not stand clear, and never will whilst he lives...yet they will follow everything he says.

The elven troops, along with the few men in their midst, drew close to the others who have just arrived, the mortal troops of Elendil. Arthain took a deep breath, barely listening to Elrond as he began to speak, concentrating on his thoughts...his memories...the things that will get him through this final battle.

"Are you ready, Arthain?" Melost's voice was barely a murmer as he spoke to his friend. The elven captain looked every inch the nobility that ran in his veins: he seemed to glow with the light of the firstborn. As Elrond finished, he nodded brusquely to each of the captains, Arthain being one of them: the man had been returned to the status he had worked for, for this battle. Little did Gil-Galad know, the man did not expect to have to use it for any other. The captain turned to face the troops behind him and shot out a few short, quick orders in elvish.

Melost glanced at him, then did the same to the troops he was to command. Beside each of them stood Dorlas and Thelian, side by side, ready, like the two old friends, to fight to the death. The entire battle field seemed to bristle with tension and fear...and yet in that small patch, it seemed eerily calm.

"Steady..." Arthain commanded, reverting to the Common Tongue as arrows shot over their heads. "Steady..."

All waited for him to give the word. The man turned to his oldest, dearest friend and grasped Melost's hand, holding his eyes. "Aye, Mellon. Beside you, I could never be more ready." He smiled briefly, squeezing the other's hand, then whipped around, drawing his broadsword in one fluid motion and brandishing it in the air.

"For Arda!" He bellowed, then tore forward.

The battle had begun.

[Cuthalion]

Gil-galad, Elendil...they shone like stars, like white foam on a cresting wave, they flung themselves against the walls of the on-rushing enemy and for a time, they prevailed. Then, like the cliff upon which all waves break asunder, there stood Sauron. Before him went shadow and fear, fighting for him with far better result than any army. Men fled from his presence, leaving only the Elves to stand agianst him, smouldering with their ancient hatred for both he and his Master...

While the Elves valiantly fought this most accursed evil, Melost and Arthain were fighting side by side, along with Dorlas and Thelian. The Elves all along the battlefield shone with the living flame that dwelt in all of them and the Men near them took heart and took up the battle-cries of their king. The comrades stood back to back and their sword-arms rose and fell together to create an impenetrable wall of protection and death. The sun rose to her zenith, then began the long descent. Dorlas fell, Khalad fell, embraced at last by the death that would cleanse his soul. Thelian and Arthain cried out in anger and grief as Dorlas met his end on the end of an orc's pike. Thelian slashed through the wood and gutted the foul creature all in one smooth movement. With tears of rage and loss shining in his eyes, he threw a last despairing look at Melost, then gave himself to the battle rage within him. He was not seen alive again.


After what seemed like ages, the battle where they fought seemed to ebb, just as Melost felt Arthain faltering at his back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Melost slipped a blood soaked arm under Arthain's and helped him to a spot of ground less gore-covered than the rest and let him collapse. Melost looked around to make sure their absence was not going to cause more difficulty for the soldiers still fighting, then went down on one knee beside Arthain. Slow tears trickled down the man's cheek as he thought of Dorlas, of the youth that would now not grow into a man. He looked up into the eyes of Melost, then leaned against him. "Is this worth it? What if we save Middle Earth and there are none left to see it?" Melost embraced his friend. "I grieve for us both, Arthain. Our friends and kin are falling like the leaves of autumn, yet still those that remain hold strong." He glanced down and noticed that Arthain had a wound in his left leg. "When did this happen?" he asked, his voice tight as he ripped cloth from his sweat-stained undershirt. He tied it tightly over the wound as Arthain laughed drily. "Thank you, mellon! You have saved me to fight just that much longer." Melost looked at him in all seriousness. "You have no understanding of the words you have just uttered."

From afar off, there came the sound of great mourning. "The Kings have fallen!" Melost sprang to his feet with a cry of disbelief and Arthain scrambled to his feet. "No...no...not Gil-galad..." Melost knew then that his fate was sealed. He looked and saw the minions of evil rejoicing all along the line and he snarled, his hand gripping his sword until the knuckles were white. Then he saw him, an archer hidden in the rocks nearby, his bow drawn, arrow about to be loosed. Without a thought Melost thrust Arthain behind him and took the arrow in the chest, it was followed by a crossbow bolt in his right shoulder. He stood still as the pain flared, then died, then he began to advance.

This is what it is to die...I think of you now...now that I can finally allow myself. I see you as I first saw you. hair gleaming in the sun, a sight more beautiful than all the jewels of Feanor's crafting. beautiful...and forever beyond my reach now. I will die and you will never know how I loved you. With an otherworldly calm, Melost strode into the line. He had saved Arthain, he had taken the arrows meant for him and now there nothing left to do but die. He was soon obliged, for as he hewed down enemy upon enemy, he felt his life ebbing, his rhythm slower now. Then a faint voice that called his name over and over. He glanced up and saw there a man of enormous height. In his hand was a mace, which Melost tried to deflect as it came at him, with agonising slowness. His sword arm was shattered as the massive blow landed and the return swing crushed in his side. He fell screaming.

"Melost, Melost..." Is it raining? Is it night? Who are you that calls my name? Mandos?" Arthain held Melost's broken body in his arms as he lay wandering. "Sauron is gone, Melost...we have won, he is gone..." His voice broke, what did it matter now. His best friend was dying, slowly drowning in his own blood and there was nothing he could do. A man ran up and and crouched next to them, handed them a waterskin and ran on. A few drops of water Arthain trickled over Melost's lips, then gasped as he saw his tongue slide out to lick at them weakly. "Melost?" Sightless eyes sought his own. "Arthain?" he rasped, then began to cough. Arthain held him as tightly as he dared, knowing the pain he must be experiencing. "Shhhh, no words..." Melost shook his head. "Arthain...I...know what you have hidden from me. I know that you got her with child. I...I want you to go to her. Tell her..." He coughed again, this time bright blood followed. "I love her...as I love you...Mandos calls to me, yet still I wish to remain. Here...withyou..." He raised his hand to Arthain's face and felt there the tears that flowed unchecked. A tear slid down his own cheek even as the final darkness took him and he slipped away. Arthain bowed his head and sobbed as he sat there on the battlefield, rocking the body that no longer held his friend.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“No, Melost. Anwanelme..." the name no longer seemed as sour in his mouth. "Anwanelme...she loved you." Arthain's words were desperate as he tried to call back his friend. "She always loved you, more than you could ever know. She was always faithful to you in her heart, never attempted anything else.”

Melost held Arthain’s gaze skeptically, but
Arthain felt no shame in such a lie. Holding the dying elf’s gaze, he nodded. “ I swear it.”

Melost’s breath was coming in short gasps now as he struggled to speak, one hand clutching his side. "Arthain...I...know what you have hidden from me. I know that you got her with child. I...I want you to go to her. Tell her..." As Melost broke off, Arthain felt his heart racked with each cough. "Tell her that I love her...as I love you...Mandos calls to me, yet still I wish to remain. Here...with you..."

Arthain did not reply immediately, staring into his friend's eyes as they closed again, and another weak cough escaped the elf's lips. He clung to his friend almost desperately, trying to hold on to Melost's life... Tears flowed freely down his cheeks now, and he gave a small, silent sob.

For his heart was breaking.

“And you…you will see the one you love most in the world die in your arms…” Melost’s curse came back to Arthain and he let out a gasp of pain. Once more Melost raised a hand to quiet him and Arthain grasped it tightly, although the elf had now closed his eyes.

"I am sorry, Melost,” he whispered, the tears spilling over onto his scarred face. “I am so sorry...please...don't..."

But the elf was past replying. Silently, Arthain wept for his friend, isolated on the battlefield as he rocked backwards and forwards, holding in his arms the dead body of the elf who he had loved more dearly as a friend than any other. The curse was fulfilled. The rain that fell more heavily now, drenching Arthain, was unheeded as he rocked slowly, his mouth moving silently, his curly hair, now his helmet was off, plastered to his forehead, tears mixing with rainwater, the bitter taste of salt, despair and irony on his tongue.

Tenderly pushing the damp, stray strands of hair from Melost's eyes and forehead, he leant forward and kissed the elf's forehead. Then, with a shaking voice, he began to sing, a sorrowful, despairing Lay, a last goodbye to the elf he had loved more than life itself.

Saer nîr nîn, a saer guren nîn
Neithannen, awarthannen.
Onen galu si, themais vyrn o Námo
Be sedich.
Gurth, achas vornwain lîn le govad
A chuil nîn.
Na vedui, onech cuil lîn.
Erio! Dartho echui!
Gwend anveleg, cuil velleg
Únad anvell.
Nallad, le tirin
Ului.
Mudas rainc nîn gerir si
Gallen nâr chelch.
Faer nîn nalla o le
Úaglennen.
Anirnen gwend lîn
Lû erui vell
Le gweriannen, le dengin
Gurth anglenna
Cuil lîn, ras vrui
Tar a lim
Nîn esta, nîn bartha aphado
Gosto ului!
Pado erin Othlonn Annui
Mellon vuin
I arad vedui túliel ammen
Si, i vethed.