Whispering Winds

******
Ten days after Caranthir’s return the dawn was especially
red, a preamble to the bloody day that was to follow. They gathered under their
banners, their father’s flying foremost, gathering the followers of the Star
of Fëanor to march for his cause. The words of Celegorm still rang in their
ears.
 The Silmaril is ours. These Moriquendi have no right
to withhold it from us. Who is Dior to touch the Silmaril? His is nothing, a
nobody, a creature that is neither of the first born nor of the second.
Will we tolerate him to sully the Silmaril with his presence?
 All save Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir had screamed
‘no’ to his question. Maglor had not been moved even by Fëanor’s famous speech
in newly darkened Tirion; he was not about to be moved by Celegorm. Caranthir
was just beyond caring and Maedhros had felt nothing since the death of Fingon.
 Long did the girdle of Melian the Maia hold us back
from claiming what is ours; but she is gone to lick her wounds at the feet of
the Valar and Doriath lies open for us. Let us take the opportunity fate has
provided. Let us reclaim the glory of the Noldor.
 So they strapped on their armour, unsheathed their weapons
and began their march on Doriath. Soon, too soon, they came upon the green woods,
but recently the scene of the first war of elves and dwarves.
 Let there be no doubt; the Silmaril will be ours,
Celegorm said.
 But let us remember we are Elves not orcs. Let us
spill no unnecessary blood.
 That was all Maglor added; and to this they had agreed,
especially the Ambarussa. After all, all they wanted was the Silmaril. 
***
“Elwing come here,” called Dior  over the din of battle as the army of the
Sons of Fëanor edged ever closer to the heart of Menegroth. “Here, take this,”
he said as he put the Nauglamír set with the Silmaril on her neck. “My dear
daughter, never let this jewel fall into the hands
of the Sons of Fëanor, for if that where to happen than their blood lust will
be rewarded and their victory complete. Do you understand?” he asked.
 She nodded, “Yes father, I will not fail.”
 “Good,” he whispered as he wrapped a thick cloak around
her, hiding the light of the Silmaril as best he could.
 Swiftly he carried her through the halls of Menegroth,
to a hidden passage built when some foresight of doom had come upon Melian.
There he found Celeborn, arranging the flight of all those who could not fight.
“Take her and go,” he said to Celeborn.
 “I do not wish to abandon Doriath!” cried Celeborn.
 “They will need your wisdom and strength both, if they
are to make it to some safe heaven,” said Dior. “If those who remain cannot
save Doriath, then all who flee with you will be its only survivors.”
 A look of great sadness washed over him, but he nodded
as he took the precious bundle. “What of Nimloth and your sons?” he wondered.
 “I will find them and send them down after you with
all else I can gather,” Dior told him, “but do not tarry. They are close, too
close.” With that he was gone. Celeborn did not linger a moment longer than
Dior had, but it was not till he reached the unbroken dark of the escape passage
that he noticed the light filtering through even the thick weaving of the blanket.
 “My father told me to guard it,” Elwing explained, “and
I will do so with my life.” Her conviction disturbed Celeborn more than anything.
 ***
“Where is the Silmaril?” demanded Curufin of Nimloth as she
stood defiantly in front of her sons, a naked blade gleaming in her hand. Celegorm
loomed behind his brother, a savage smirk pasted on his fair face. A hoard of
elves, the Sindar guards who had stood with Nimloth and the Noldor guards who
had come down with them, were dead at his feet.
 “I know not,” she said truthfully, “nor would I tell
you.”
 “Than you are useless to me,” replied Curufin and in
one devastating blow he sliced her from head to foot, the sword she had attempted
to parry his blow with cloven in two. If the elves did not sing the praise of
Curufin’s greatest creations, it was because his greatest creations were all
swords that had feasted on the blood of elves.
 “Nana!” screamed the twin sons of Dior as they gather
around the cloven body of their mother. A strangled cry came from the doorway;
Curufin and Celegorm turned to find themselves face to face with Dior and knew
they were looking upon the face of their own death.
***
Celeborn was the last to emerge from the tunnel.  “Keep moving!” he cried to
those who were lingering near the entrance. “We do not want to alert the bastard
Fëanorian.”
 “Too late.” Celeborn froze;
slowly he turned to find Caranthir emerging from the nearby bushes, his sword
casually resting on his shoulder. His face was a blank mask of one ready to
die; he was completely and utterly alone. “I had a secret passage built into
my castle in Dol Caranthir as well,” he said by way
of explanation. “It seems a Noldo and a Sinda do not think very differently
after all.”
 “You are very cocky to come alone,” observed Celeborn
as he put Elwing down and pulled out his axe.
 Caranthir smiled a cocky, arrogant smile that grated
on Celeborn’s nerves, “You, I can take down in my sleep. Lucky for you I am
willing to spare you if you give me the Silmaril.”
 “What makes you think I have it?” demanded Celeborn.
 Caranthir laughed and fixed his eyes upon Elwing. “This
close to it, I can sense it.”
 “Run,” said Celeborn to Elwing before he attacked.
***
Celeborn was stronger, Caranthir was more agile; and they were both very, very
skilled in their respective weapons. Axe and sword clashed over and over, neither
getting the advantage they sought; in the end it was luck that decided the battle.
Celeborn stepped on a loose rock and lost his balance momentarily; it was all
that Caranthir needed. He brought the hilt of his sword down hard upon the side
of Celeborn’s neck, knocking him out. 
“There, Ninglorrîn… Maglor,” he said, “no unnecessary blood
spilt.” Then he turned his thought upon Elwing and took off after her.
Elwing ran as swiftly as her little feet would take her. Her
mortal blood had ensured that she was larger than elf children were wont to
be at her age, but she was nowhere near the girth of a mortal child. But no
child, mortal or elven could have escaped the swift-footed Caranthir. All to soon Elwing found the tall, fell frame of Caranthir looming
over her.
“Give me the jewel, little one.”
Elwing shock her head vigorously. “My father told me to protect
it and protect it I will, even with my last breath.”
Caranthir opened his mouth to say something, but what he had
planned would forever be unknown for in that moment he felt it; the death of
his brothers. First it was Curufin, but moments later it was Celegorm’s fëa
that he felt flee from marred Endor. Then he heard Maedhros’s voice, screaming
in pain and anguish in his head, “Kill them, kill them
all! Avenge the spilt blood of my brothers.”
 Caranthir turned cold, dead eyes towards the slowly
backing form of Elwing. “So be it.” He raised his sword to deliver what would
undoubtedly be a fatal blow.
“CARANTHIR!”
He turned to the source of the voice; a sharp jab of pain,
and he looked down to find an arrow through his heart. Stunned he looked towards
the archer.
“I am sorry,” came the soft reply to his questioning look,
“but I could not let you slay her.”
So it was that he saw her last, the same way he had seen her
first; through a haze of pain and weariness. He collapsed into her arms as she
came forward, numb with pain and poison.
“I am sorry,” whispered Ninglorrîn, “I am so sorry.”
“Thank you,” said Elwing to her, “thank you, very much.”
“Go, little one, and join the others,” Ninglorrîn told her,
“I wish to remain with him.” Elwing did not understand what was going on but
she did what she was told.
Caranthir felt his chest constrict; it was getting so hard
to breath. A multitude of emotions flew through his mind, strangely enough only
one dominated a strange, black sense of humour.
Slowly, painfully, he wheezed out, “Now… we are… even my love.”
Ninglorrîn said nothing, only held him close, feeling the
bit of life free from his body. She held his body close, till it disintegrated
in her arms, as elvish bodies are wont to do soon after the fëa flees the hroä.
******
Translations:
Fea = soul
Hroa = body
Author’s notes: Big thanks to Andreth for beta reading. Yes elvish bodies do disintegrate
really, really fast. I am not making this up, it’s
from History of Middle-earth: People of Middle-earth. Here is what is actually
said,
"The flesh of Dwarves is reported to have been far
slower to decay or become corrupted than that of Men. (Elvish bodies robbed
of their spirit quickly disintegrated and vanished.)"
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