The Mercy of the Fallen by AdmirableMonster

The Mercy of the Fallen

The sound of blood striking the floor is far louder than it ought to be, and steady, like the pound of one of Curufin’s hammers in the forge.  (Not their father’s—not anymore, or ever again.) Why is Celegorm’s hand shaking?  He has done worse deeds than this, surely, and will again. 

The light trembles in those dim twilight eyes that have never seen a light greater than the Sun, but Dior grasps the blade of the sword that Celegorm has driven into his side.  More blood wells up around it.  “Kinslayer,” he snarls, and he looks like Makalaurë in Valinor, young and furious (so young it makes Celegorm’s heart twist and stop, though a vicious voice whispers inside him that this is no child, it is a half-Man monster.)

“In the name of my forebears, I curse thee!” howls Dior, coughing up bloody spume.  “I call on my mother’s mother Melian to bind thee to the forests of this world forevermore, to never again set foot on the shores of the land that birthed thee, to wander tormented without respite—” He gasps and chokes, “—f-forever.  By the power of my blood on thy blade, butcher.”

Celegorm laughs in his face, but the laughter is cut off as pain twists through him, through his spine and through his forehead.  Dior clenches his hand around the sword in a tight little spasm, and all of Celegorm’s muscles judder in answer.  His neck arches backwards, and then, with a sickening little squelching noise, it lengthens, his bones all rearranging.  His face bulges out strangely, and he cries out as an immense pressure crushes his hands and feet.  It feels as if a terrible giant is molding his body as if it were clay.  His feet and hands thin and lengthen obscenely, even as their digits are violently crushed together, and he falls forward.

He tries to scream, but it comes out as something like a hoarse barking cry, and his suddenly too-thin hands shudder like sticks beneath him.

“Die, monster,” Dior tells him, gurgling up blood, and he draws the sword out of his own body.  Celegorm looks up and sees it flash.

* * *

The Moon rises late that night, its cool white light illuminating the slaughtered bodies of the casualties of the kinslaying at Doriath.  The corpse of Doriath’s young king lies on its back, arms spread wide, his dark blood hidden in the leaves and earth all around him.  At his side lies the broken body of a small golden doe.

As soon as the silver moonlight glistens on the ugly gash across its throat, the flesh about the wound writhes and steams and begins to draw slowly together.  It does not knit cleanly, and a raised white scar appears in the wake of the Moon’s touch.  After a few minutes, the doe blinks its eyes and moves its legs feebly.  It makes a small noise of pain.

A shimmering column of white motes seems to coalesce at its side into a slim white form.  The person who runs white furred hands across the shuddering side of the little deer is no Elf—their long, soft white ears blend into their long white hair, and their round pink eyes—glittering in the depths with Treelight—rest above a nose too flat and soft to be an Elvish one.

“It has been a long time since last we met, Celegorm the Fair and Cruel,” says the being softly.  

The deer shies backwards, but it cannot quite seem to get its legs under itself to stand.

“Calm yourself, foolish one,” chides the moonlit apparition.  “I am not trying to harm you, but to help you.”

The hind heaves and succeeds this time at pushing its torso up off the ground.  It pants with effort and opens its mouth as if to speak, but the only thing that comes out is a plaintive bleating noise.

“Who am I, you ask? I am only Lopoldetal, a spirit.  I can do nothing to remove the curse of Melian that lies upon you—she is far more powerful than I am, and a just punishment would not be mine to gainsay, even were I the most puissant soul in Arda.” They sigh and give him a faint smile.  “Perhaps you will learn something from the experience.  Who can say? I cannot change your fate, any more than you could change mine as I lay bleeding on your kinsman’s arrow—” they put out their hands, cupped beneath the moonlight, and a silver liquid pools between them.  “—but I can offer you a bit of mercy, as you did for me that day.”

A confused, inquiring noise.

“If you will take it, I will give you the gift of your own form back—only once in a year, and only to perform a deed thoroughly unselfish, but it is more of a gift than you would have otherwise.  What do you say?”

The ears of the doe flick back for a moment, but it bows its head and steps forward with an irritable little shake of its head.  It dips its head and begins to drink the proffered liquid.

“See that you use it well,” Lopoldetal tells it.

The deer sneezes scornfully, spattering drops of silver across the ground.

“No,” murmurs Lopoldetal, as their form fades back into shimmering moonlight.  “Of course I do not expect any thanks.  After all, I am only a little rabbit.”